Stop Dead (DI Geraldine Steel)

after leaving the hostel. On the streets and desperate to feed her habit, she would have been making what money she could by any means possible. She might have been finding it difficult to earn money from soliciting without the protection of her pimp, with her looks no doubt fading as a result of her habit. A wig seemed the only possible explanation for Lynn’s hair turning up like that, but they had no way of finding out who had bought the wig and presumably worn it while killing Bradshaw.

     
    ‘Well, that’ll be a nice little job for you tomorrow,’ Geraldine said to Sam as they drove away, ‘checking the records of every wig-maker in striking distance of London.’
    ‘I know it’s got to be done, but you don’t really think there’ll be an official record in writing somewhere of blonde hair bought from Lynn Jones, or Lolita, do you?’
    Geraldine ignored the question.
    ‘Let’s get some chips on the way back,’ she said instead.
    ‘That’s the first sensible thing anyone’s said to me since we started on this crazy case with people committing murders from behind bars, and beyond the grave,’ Sam answered cheerfully. ‘I know where there’s a great chippy not far from here.’
    ‘I was counting on it.’

CHAPTER 61
     
    G eraldine knocked at a dirty white door and waited patiently. She could have delegated the visit to a local constable but preferred to carry out the task herself, her judgement coloured by an experience in her early years as a sergeant. She had despatched an inexperienced constable to break the news of a fatality to the parents of a youth who had been knifed in a pub brawl. Geraldine still wondered if she was responsible for his crass performance. Her instruction had seemed innocuous enough: ‘Deliver the message and come back here straight away.’

     
    Years later she still felt cold when she remembered questioning the young constable. With hindsight she suspected his rapid return to the station had alerted her to the fact that something was wrong. If she hadn’t been there on his return she would never have discovered what had happened, and the outcome could have been dreadful. Finding the house empty, the young constable had put a note through the door informing the parents of their loss. Shocked, Geraldine had rushed to the house. Fortunately the family had not yet come home. She had waited in the car for five hours to intercept them and tell them in person that their son had been stabbed to death, before they saw the note that had been posted through their letter box.

     
    The latest victim to be bludgeoned to death by ‘The Hammer Horror’ had lived in Wealdstone, not far from the bus garage. Geraldine caught the overground from Kings Cross and walked for about a mile along the High Street past small dilapidated shops. Turning off the noisy main road, she found the small terraced property where John Birch had lived with his wife. This time she only had to wait a few minutes before the door was opened by a tall lanky woman. Dark hair streaked with grey hung in a straight fringe, through which her eyes gleamed anxiously from a narrow face with a small pointed nose.
    ‘Where –’ she began in a screechy whine.

     
    Seeing Geraldine, she pressed her thin lips together and stood poised, one hand on the door, while the other hand wandered absent-mindedly to her face. Long bony fingers cupped her chin.
    ‘Mrs Birch?’
    The woman nodded without speaking. Behind her fringe, Geraldine saw her eyes narrow with suspicion.
    ‘May I come in?’
    Mrs Birch’s eyes widened in sudden apprehension when Geraldine held up her warrant card, and her grip on the door tightened visibly, bony knuckles whitening under the pressure. Without another word, she ducked her head and led Geraldine into a cluttered front room. Tattered magazines covered a coffee table, women’s magazines and car periodicals jumbled together as though they had fallen on the floor and then been thrown together on the surface of the table without any care.

     
    A fat ginger cat strolled into the room and scrutinised Geraldine before leaping onto Mrs Birch’s lap with surprising agility as soon as she sat down. She scooped the animal up in her thin arms and dropped it on the floor. Offended, it raised its tail in the air and stalked out of the room.
    ‘Where is he?’
    ‘Mrs Birch, I’m afraid your husband’s dead.’
    The widow looked confused.
    ‘What are you talking about? Who are you?’
    Geraldine