The four police officers moved through the club and out to the back. The cook, a big man who looked tough but had proven himself not to be, was sitting quietly. The dead body had upset him.
Careful not to disturb the evidence, the four police officers approached by a circuitous route. Standing on the other side of the yard, with the toilet door slightly ajar, they could see the body sitting on the toilet, the head drooped forward. There appeared to be a lot of blood.
‘I need to check,’ Sara said. She was aware of the CSE’s reaction if he saw her, but she needed to know. Close up, she could see the knife in the man’s body. She looked around, a small torch in her hand, as there was no light inside, and it was still night.
‘It’s here,’ she said.
‘What’s the number?’ Sean asked.
‘4.’
‘Rowsome is going to have my guts for garters after this,’ Bob said, knowing full well the man’s venomous tongue, a man short on praise, long on criticism.
This was his department, and his SIO, someone he had protected from criticism, and yet again the woman had come into his patch and committed murder, and from all accounts, in sight of five hundred patrons at the busiest club in the area.
Bob Marshall knew what was coming: an immediate directive to remove Sara from the senior role.
Sara, equally aware of what was to happen, but not willing to relinquish control without a fight, focussed on the job in hand.
Stan Crosley had arrived, and he was ushering them out of the area. ‘I’ve got work to do. The same woman?’ he asked.
‘It looks to be that way,’ Sara replied.
‘Can’t you find her?’ his sarcastic response.
Out front, the patrons were getting restless. Most had been drunk or close to it, and the alcohol was slowly wearing off. The local police had identified the friends of the dead man. They were off to one side.
As for the other patrons, the local police could interview them, check proof of identity and ask the mandatory questions: did you see anything suspicious, did you visit the back of the club at any time, did you see a woman with the dead man? One of the dead man’s friends had supplied a picture from his smartphone.
‘Liam,’ one of the friends said. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘What can you tell me about the woman?’ Sara asked. Sean was interviewing another of the friends. Keith was dealing with two others.
‘We saw her, of course. Liam never had much success with women, and there he is with a looker.’
‘Can you describe her?’
‘It’s hard. We were all drunk, celebrating Liam’s promotion at work. He had just been made regional manager, and the drinks were on him. Anyway, this woman starts wrapping herself around him.’
‘Can you describe her?’
‘Slim, extremely attractive, especially to us drunks.’
‘She’s attractive, even without alcohol.’
‘You know her?’ the friend asked.
‘Not personally, but we know what she is capable of.’
‘And she killed Liam?’
‘Subject to confirmation.’
Liam’s friend Ken was slowly recovering from his drunkenness. Sara organised a coffee for him, one for her. One of the uniforms obliged and went and found a café still open, or it had opened once it had seen the milling throng out on the street.
‘Ironic, I suppose,’ Ken said.
‘What do you mean?’ Sara asked.
‘The first time he finds an attractive woman, and she kills him. Is it the one on the news?’
‘It seems possible,’ Sara replied, not wanting to comment too much, knowing full well that the media would certainly grab Ken for an interview.
‘Mind you, she wasn’t attracted to him for his charm, was she?’ Ken said.
‘No.’
‘I tried to move him away from her on the dance floor. The woman told me to find my own woman. If I had succeeded, it would be me dead now.’
‘Probably.’ A one-word reply from Sara.
‘Why does she do this?’
‘That’s the subject of our enquiries. Anyway, what else can you tell me about the woman?’
‘Dark hair, almost black, or I assume it was.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘There’s not much light inside the club.’
‘She was previously blonde. Are you sure she had dark hair?’
‘Positive.’
Sara realised that if the woman was teasing them, she could be out the front: part of her ghoulish behaviour, revelling in what she had committed.
***
‘Pierced the large artery coming from the heart,’ Stan Crosley said later in the morning.
‘Death came quickly?’ Bob Marshall asked. He had heard from Detective Superintendent Rowsome already. The death at the club had become headline news, and he would have to make a press statement.
The DCI was not sure what to say: we are following all lines of enquiry; an arrest is imminent. He knew such words would not allay the demands of an eager media desperate for any titbit of information, but what else could he offer. He could hardly say that they knew the identity of the murderer but hadn’t a clue where she was.
Stan Crosley answered Bob Marshall’s earlier question. ‘This woman does not understand the physiology of the human body. If she had, she would have known that a knife wound to the heart does not guarantee immediate death. She did, however, luck on piercing the large artery. Anywhere else, the man could possibly have regained consciousness long enough to raise the alarm.’
‘Would he have lived?’
‘Unlikely, but he would have lived longer. With Gregory Chalmers, she used a large knife, but a stiletto is much smaller. With Brad Howard she was lucky as well. Is she likely to strike again?’ Crosley asked.
‘We can’t be certain, but all indications are that she has found a taste for murder.’
‘And you can’t find her?’
‘Unfortunately, that is the truth at the present
