The incident room buzzed with the shrill ringing of umpteen telephones permeating the very matter inside Wendy's brain. She found she couldn't even handle simple maths. She was sure there were six glasses of wine in the average bottle. Four times six is twenty-four. Or is it? Let's just say it is. Twenty-four divided by three is eight. Fuck. Eight glasses of wine each. No wonder I've got a hangover. Wait, maybe I've done the maths wrong.
‘Seventeen hundred quid's worth of bloody jewellery!’ Culverhouse screamed.
Umpteen shrieking phones or one shrieking Culverhouse? It was a tough choice.
‘Sorry, guv?’
‘That's SOCO's take on what that Bryant bird was wearing when she kicked the bucket. Necklaces, rings and bracelets worth seventeen hundred quid. That begs two questions, Knight. Number one, why the sodding hell didn't the daft bugger nick it? Number two, where in the name of all that is holy did a part-time shop assistant get the cash to buy seventeen hundred quid's worth of jewellery?’
‘I don't know,’ Wendy replied. ‘They might have been presents.’
‘Who from, the Sultan of sodding Brunei? No, Knight, there's more to this girl than meets the eye and I'm going to find out what it is.’
With Culverhouse having a bee in his bonnet and being determined to act on it, Wendy decided she’d try and spend the rest of the day catching up on the paperwork related to the case. Each hour, the pile of papers on her desk grew. Logs of phone calls from cranks who’d rung in with their latest theory on who’d done it, records of local vagrants who’d turned up at the station and admitted to the murders to get a warm bed for the night; they were all there. A complete waste of everybody’s time, but everything had to be logged and filed, just in case.
The only thing that kept her sane throughout the day was the thought that she’d be spending that night at Robert’s.
Wendy shrieked with delight as the sun rose on Mildenheath the next morning. The sofa springs heaved underneath her as she thrust her pelvis back and forth. It felt amazing. Warm and soft, just divine. Robert grinned at Wendy as he held the two warm, juicy buns in his hands.
‘Hot cross bun?’ he said.
‘Ooh, yes please. I was just thinking how soft and bouncy your sofa is while you were in the kitchen. I must get a new one myself.’
‘It's very comfortable. In fact, I'll let you in on a little secret. I bought the softest and most comfortable sofa in the shop because I knew I'd keep falling asleep in it and then could justify buying myself a dedicated reading chair,’ he said, pointing to the reclining leather armchair in the corner of the room.
‘Why did you need to justify it to yourself?’
‘Ah, lack of willpower, I guess.’
‘I noticed you have a lot of books. You read much?’ Wendy asked.
‘As much as I can. The pen is mightier than the sword, as they say.’
‘Indeed. I guess we should think ourselves lucky that the serial killer isn't killing people with pens,’ Wendy joked.
‘He used a sword?’
‘Well, no, a knife, but you get the point.’
Robert switched the television on. A short, blonde-haired reporter was stood outside Mildenheath police station.
‘Ooh, fame at last!’ Robert joked.
‘This latest murder,’ the blonde-haired reporter explained, ‘is thought to be linked with two others in Mildenheath which occurred over the last few days. Specific information from Mildenheath Police has been scarce with no word as to how these three young women came to meet their deaths. Their identities, however, were confirmed earlier this evening as twenty-one-year-old Ella Barrington, twenty-nine-year-old Maria Preston and seventeen-year-old Nicole Bryant. Local sources have confirmed that both Ella Barrington and Maria Preston were known prostitutes operating in the area but it is thought that Nicole Bryant was not working as a prostitute at the time of her death. Nonetheless, it appears that this is a line of enquiry which Mildenheath Police are following up.’
Before the reporter could finish her report, Robert got up and switched the TV off.
‘Robert? What's that all about?’ Wendy asked, confused.
‘Well, it's not very nice is it? Having to hear about those people dying. No, I suspect you have enough of it at work. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, I'd like to know why you switched the TV off.’
‘I told you. I didn't think you'd want to concentrate on work stuff outside of the office. Besides, I don't like hearing about serial killings. It gives me the creeps.’
‘You seemed quite interested the other night.’
‘Well, just taking a friendly interest, you know.’
The silence hung over the pair for a good two or three minutes before Robert, seemingly continuing a train of thought out loud, broke the deadlock.
‘I read a book about something similar once,’ Robert said. ‘Turned out the father of the first victim had been the killer and had got such a buzz out of it that he just carried on killing women that reminded him of his daughter. Well, I'm just saying that it's not a massive leap of faith to have it work the other way round.’
‘It's unlikely that Mr Bryant will have killed two random prostitutes and popped off his daughter as a piece de resistance, don't you think?’ Wendy said. ‘I think you've been reading too many books.’
‘I see. Well, yes, I do read quite a lot. Quite a varied range of interests, I'm afraid, so I tend to buy a lot of books on various subjects.’
Wendy scanned the bookcase and her eyes rested on a section of eight or nine books on knots.
‘You have a lot of books about knots,’ Wendy said.
‘Hmmm? Oh, yes. I... I was in the boy scouts. Sort of a long-running interest of mine. Never know when you might need to tie a proper knot.’
‘Yes, I suppose there's a lot of call for them in accountancy practices in Mildenheath.’
‘Well, not exactly, no. But I am quite keen on camping. I tend to refer to them for that.’
‘You're going camping in October?’ Wendy asked.
‘No, why?’
‘You've got two books on camping knots open on your coffee table. I just wondered why you were referring to them in the middle of October.’
‘Oh, I just wanted to check something. A friend asked me to find something out about bowline knots for him. Think he’s into fishing or something. Anyway, what’s wrong with camping in October? It’s still very warm at the moment.’
‘Yeah.’
The words of Steve Wing and Frank Vine echoed through Wendy's head.
...each of the victims was found with a length of rope tied around their necks...they weren't your usual knots...Bowline knots... pretty handy for nooses...
A shiver ran down Wendy's spine. Did she believe in coincidences? At this moment she wasn't entirely sure. She made her excuses and left.