‘Fuck, there’s still no answer,’ Luke said as Wendy sped down the dual carriageway touching one hundred miles an hour. They’d shave a good amount of time off the journey, but it’d still be a good twenty to twenty-five minutes before they’d reach Suzanne Corrigan’s house.
‘Don’t worry. Uniform will be on their way. They’ll be there before us. We’d just better hope they make it in time.’
‘I’ve had a thought,’ Luke said, putting the phone in his lap. What if Paul Kinsella’s out there in uniform? I mean, we don’t even know what he looks like. What if he’s milling around with the specials and guys from other forces?’
‘I don’t think he’ll risk that,’ Wendy replied, speeding past a dodgy-looking white van that she’d be tempted to pull over in any other circumstance. ‘They’d be able to tell, surely.’
‘Not necessarily. A fancy dress costume, yes, but a proper replica uniform for theatre or film hire? The whole point is they’re meant to look real.’
Wendy took a couple of moments to compose her thoughts. ‘Right. Call Culverhouse. Ask him — no, tell him — not to send uniform in. If he asks why, tell him... Tell him to trust me.’
Baxter tried to stifle a laugh as he found Culverhouse’s name in his phone’s contacts list. ‘Do you really think he’s going to go with that?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s got to be worth trying. Tell him we’re ten minutes away. At the most.’
Debbie Weston parked her Cavalier up outside number 21 Mark Street. It looked pleasant enough, but she was in no position to admire the architecture, noticing the bright red front door was slightly ajar.
As she got closer, she could hear a mobile phone ringing inside. It stopped, then started again. She pushed open the door and called inside.
‘Hello?’
No answer. She walked in and found herself immediately in Suzanne Corrigan’s living room. The only sign of life was a half-drunk glass of wine on the nest of tables next to the sofa.
‘Hello?’ she called again.
Still nothing.
She peered up the stairs, but was met with darkness. Putting her foot on the first step, she slowly made her way up, calling out as she went.
As she reached the top of the stairs, she could hear a murmur from what seemed like the back bedroom.
She walked up to the door and put her ear up against it, listening. That murmuring again.
Debbie put her hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it, hearing it creak and squeal slightly as it turned. With a click, the door opened and Debbie peered inside to find Suzanne Corrigan’s eyes glistening in the moonlight, silver tape plastered over her mouth as she murmured and whimpered, tied to the bed, her eyes pleading desperately.
She took a step towards Suzanne and reached out to loosen her bonds, but was stopped dead in her tracks by the sudden sound of a man’s voice.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I was you.’
Fortunately for Culverhouse, he’d managed to stop the uniformed officers reaching Suzanne Corrigan’s house just in time. They were barely fifty yards from the turning into her street, but he’d managed to hold them off. He still wasn’t sure why he’d done it, but he knew that a hunch from Wendy was often right. Having glanced at his watch, he knew they probably had a couple of hours before the Ripper would kill again, so decided to trust Wendy’s judgement.
Despite that, he’d called Baxter straight back, demanding an immediate explanation. Luke told him everything about the costume hire shop and Wendy’s theory that Paul Kinsella could be disguising himself as a uniformed police officer. The only way they could make sure he couldn’t get near Suzanne Corrigan — assuming he wasn’t already there or in his house next door — was to go in themselves.
He personally cleared Wendy and Luke to go to Suzanne’s house in their unmarked vehicle, knowing that he’d have to stay where he was and make a very interesting call to the Chief Constable.
‘Who are you?’ Debbie asked, backing into the room as the man walked towards her, staring down the barrel of the pistol. He was dressed in a police uniform, but Debbie knew instinctively that this man had never been a police officer in his life.
‘Who am I, or what’s my name?’ the man replied, in a calm voice, smiling.
‘Both.’
‘My name’s Paul. And I think you know who I am. Who are you?’
Debbie’s calves hit the edge of the bed and she could step back no further. ‘My name’s Debbie. Put the gun down and we can talk.’
‘Are you a copper?’ he asked, his eyebrows raised and head cocked slightly to the side.
‘They’ll be surrounding the house as we speak. They’ve got armed units trained on the house,’ Debbie lied.
Paul Kinsella laughed a deep, guttural belly laugh. ‘Don’t be stupid. If that was the case, they wouldn’t have sent you in. You’re alone. I know you are.’
Debbie tried to stop the fear showing in her eyes, but it wasn’t easy.
The flash of light seared through the window only for a second or two as the noise of the police helicopter became a deafening roar. It was brief, but it was enough for Paul to glance towards the window, allowing Debbie to knock the gun out of his hand and slam the heel of her hand up into his nose.
As the gun skidded across the laminate floor, Debbie scrambled to undo Suzanne’s bonds, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she did so.
She glanced over at Paul. He seemed to be unconscious. For now.
Finally, the ties came loose and Suzanne was on her feet, clambering across the room and yanking the door open. She was already halfway down the stairs when Debbie decided to forget trying to find the gun and to follow her instead.
Just as she reached the bedroom doorway, she felt the firm grip of two hands around her right ankle as the ground rushed up to meet her.