Murder Club - Mark Pearson [29]
Sally picked up on the look. ‘Sorry, Kate, pardon the French. But what is it with the name Michael? When I remember what nearly happened to me …’ she said by way of explanation, then shook her head to interrupt the thought, as if to chase the memory away. ‘But nothing did happen to me,’ she continued with a small nod, ‘because of Jack Delaney.’
‘He does have his moments.’
‘He does that.’
Kate patted Sally on her shoulder as they walked up to the waiting uniforms.
Some months earlier Sally Cartwright had been kidnapped by a mentally ill man. His name was Michael Hill and he was a police forensic photographer. He was off his medication and, together with his psychotic sister Audrey, they had gone on a killing spree. Sally had gone on a date with him, and when he realised that she was getting close to discovering his involvement in the killings, he had drugged her and taken her to his aunt’s empty house.
She had woken to find herself chained to a wall, wearing only her underwear, in a cellar hidden in the house. The walls were thick stone and no amount of shouting would help. As she struggled to break free of the manacles holding her to the wall, she remembered what mutilations had taken place to two previous women’s bodies at the hands of this mad man. She didn’t let him see her terror at the time, had fronted up to him in a way she wouldn’t have believed possible. Those kinds of perverts got off on power and control – she had gleaned that much from her studies at Hendon Police College. So Sally had shown him no fear, had mocked him in fact. But she had had nightmares about it ever since. Waking and starting bolt upright in the middle of most nights. Her skin clammy with sweat, a scream unuttered on her lips. But the scream was there, always there. She reckoned if she ever let it go, she wouldn’t be able to stop. She would hold a hand to her mouth, bite on her knuckles, shiver at the thought of what might have happened if Jack Delaney hadn’t rescued her.
Sally smiled back gratefully at Kate as the older woman took her hand off her shoulder. ‘Yeah, for a miserable old bastard he’s not too bad sometimes, is he?’
‘Less of the old,’ said Kate. ‘He’s the father of my unborn child, remember, and I’m not much younger than him!’ Automatically her hand went to her stomach as she turned to the uniformed officer who had come across to meet them as they neared the top of the path. ‘Hey, Danny,’ she said. ‘So what have you got for us, this cold and snowy December morning?’
‘Probably nothing,’ he said, then flashed a nervous smile at Sally Cartwright. ‘Morning, Detective Constable.’
Sally flicked him a brief nod. She had gone out on a date with him before she had agreed to go out for an Indian meal with Michael Hill. Playing them both off against each other. A stupid thing to do, in the circumstances. PC Danny Vine had been walking on eggshells around her after what had happened, but he had still made it clear he was interested. But Sally wasn’t about to rush into anything romantic any time soon, and she had decided that if she were to get into a relationship with a man again, it certainly wouldn’t be with anyone she worked with. Been there done that. Bought the T-shirt.
She looked over Danny’s shoulder. They were some thirty feet from the church, which had been built some time back in the nineteenth century, early in Queen Victoria’s reign, and stood in its own fair-sized plot. There was scaffolding running all the way around the building; clearly some extensive renovation was taking place. In real estate terms, given its location, the place was worth millions. Sally wondered what the planning permission guidelines were for old churches. She had been looking into getting a mortgage on a small flat and realised she couldn’t even afford a garden shed in west London, nowadays.
Danny Vine jerked his thumb back at the church. ‘It’s been deconsecrated apparently. Built