Barely ten seconds after answering the call, Culverhouse was in the car, Wendy beside him, racing up the high street.
‘The working men’s club next to the car garage,’ he said as he switched on the siren and sped through a set of red lights. ‘A patrol officer found her behind a bin in the car park. Poor bastard’s blaming himself, apparently. Says she’s still warm.’
‘Christ. Any ID?’
‘Yep, positive, apparently but we’ll find all that out when we get there. How the fuck did he manage it, though? With all the patrols we’ve got out and about. It’s right on the fucking high street, barely two hours after closing time. The staff probably hadn’t even been gone long. He’s getting fucking brave, that’s for sure.’
Foremost in Wendy’s mind was that this meant another murder was due to occur somewhere in the town within the next couple of hours. The news had already been relayed to the patrol officers, ensuring that they knew they had to be on top of their game and on the highest state of alert with regards to lone males or females in the town.
As they parked up in the entrance road to the working men’s club, Wendy jumped out of the car and jogged round to the rear car park, where three uniformed officers were already waiting.
‘Anybody touched anything?’
‘Nothing, sarge,’ said one of the officers while the other two shook their heads.
‘Who found her?’
‘PC Rashid. He’s round there, honking up,’ the officer said, pointing towards the door which Wendy presumed went straight into the working men’s club’s kitchen.
‘Lovely. Dr Grey should be here soon. Funnily enough, she was kind of expecting a call right about now. Don’t touch anything until she gets here.’
Wendy could see that even though the woman’s skin still held the colour of life, she was clearly not about to take another breath. By now, Culverhouse had caught up and was speaking to the two shocked, silent PCs.
The woman was lying facing the wall of the car park, her legs drawn up and her throat cut — this was clearly visible even through the now-familiar handkerchief that was tied around her neck. As she noted this, her earpiece crackled as the radio buzzed into life. It was the control room.
‘We’ve had a call from an anonymous male in a phone box who’s reported a woman’s body behind the working men’s club on the high street. Could nearby officers please attend?’
Wendy pressed the button on her radio and spoke back. ‘I’m about six inches away, will that help?’
‘Who the fuck called that in?’ Culverhouse barked. ‘There’s no phone box around here, is there?’
‘Not that I know of,’ Wendy said, pressing the button again to speak to the controller. ‘Can you get a trace on the phone box please?’
‘Guv, you seen this?’ one of the PCs said, gesturing to a large hole which had been cut in the chicken wire fence at the other side of the car park. ‘Looks like it’s fairly recently cut. Isn’t rusted or anything.’
‘Where does that go?’ Culverhouse asked.
‘Lawn bowls club on Sycamore Close. Just off Meadow Hill Lane. The road’s probably six or seven hundred feet away.’
‘And it’s a much fucking quieter road than the high street,’ Culverhouse replied. ‘Get the fence tested for DNA. Any hair, fibres from clothing or even blood from the victim. If he’s come in or out that way, he could be anywhere by now.’
Wendy’s radio buzzed in her ear again. ‘Got that trace, sarge. The call was made from the phone box on Allerdale Road, next to the church. The caller sounded very calm, apparently. Almost matter-of-fact.’
‘Jesus. Allerdale Road? Right, find out if there’s any CCTV anywhere nearby. There’s a row of shops right near that. One of them must have CCTV outside.’
‘That could be good news, sarge,’ one of the uniformed PCs said.
‘Please do tell me how,’ Wendy replied, almost sarcastically.
‘Well, if he’s got up to Allerdale Road from here, through that fence, he would’ve had to cross Meadow Hill Lane, go up Copeland Avenue and round the back of the shops. Would’ve only taken five minutes at the most, if he wasn’t walking quickly. Would keep him well away from most of the patrols, too. If you ask me, it looks as if our man’s on foot.’