She had been murdered, injected with a drug that shut down her respiratory system. The file from Tempest suggested there were two dozen other cases. On the face of it, they were all recorded as missing persons, the ladies vanishing as so many did each year. However, when examined with a less cynical eye, Quinn could draw similarities that linked their disappearances.
He even recalled some of the names and it went back more than twenty years. The women were all similar in appearance and age. All lived alone and all just up and vanished one day. Checking the filed missing person reports was a simple matter. Family members came forward to state their daughter/sister/whatever had gone missing but in the police reports that followed, there was never any suggestion of foul play.
Their homes had not been broken into, there was no sign of a struggle. Their cars were generally found still in their garage or parked outside their house. There was nothing to suggest to the police that a crime had been committed and therefore no investigation followed.
However, now that he was looking deeper, half a dozen of the women reported having a stalker at some point in the weeks or months leading up to their disappearance. In the last two hours, Quinn found three separate reports from the last decade in which the women reported someone being in their house at night and singing to them. It was always the same song. That the reports were not linked to the missing person reports prevented anyone from following up, and they came from all over Kent which meant different officers in different departments had filed the reports. Twenty years ago, there was no central database, but even now, such a tenuous link was unlikely to be spotted.
How he hated that Tempest Michaels was right.
What to do about it though? How could he turn this into a personal win? There was a simple and immediate answer to that question – he needed to let Tempest Michaels lead him to the so-called Sandman and swoop in to make the arrest with his men.
With the evidence Tempest Michaels so generously sent him, he could claim it was his department’s fine detective work, undertaken in secrecy to protect … he couldn’t remember the name of the woman from New Ash Green but remembered that was when he first heard the name Sandman. He clicked back into the file, searching until he found the name he wanted. It would be a simple thing to claim to his superiors his investigation had to remain secret even from them. He had been ensuring Karen Gilbert remained safe from the serial killer.
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Catching a serial killer, that was going to ensure his next promotion. It was the sort of bust that became legendary. Fellow officers would refer to him as a steely-eyed thief taker or the man who put the Sandman to sleep.
‘Ooh, that’s catchy,’ he said to himself.
Pushing away from his desk, he went in search of Sergeants Faraday and Kenya. They were two of his finest, by which he meant they could be relied upon to do exactly as he said and follow him to the top by riding his shirt tails.
Ambition. Some saw it as a bad thing, but Chief Inspector Ian Quinn knew it was what made him great. He was a great cop because he had ambition. Using Tempest Michaels to aid his climb up the ranks was no different to a great craftsman selecting the right tool from his box.
According to the annoying Mr Michaels, his odd crossdressing assistant, James Butterworth, was to be the Sandman’s next victim. That had to be avoided at all costs, not because Quinn cared what happened to him; he could not have cared less. He needed to prevent it if possible because Butterworth reporting it was the police who saved him would put Tempest’s nose out of joint and sound better than Quinn reporting his own glory.
Then again, a voice in Quinn’s head argued, a fresh grisly murder always grabs the front page. If you catch the killer right afterwards …
Happy with either scenario, he clicked his fingers to get the attention of one of his officers.
Tempest. Start Talking, Punk! Friday, December 23rd 1903hrs
About halfway to Harrietsham, it was silent in the car. Hilary wasn’t much of a conversationist and I was lost in my own thoughts. Currently, I was thinking about Big Ben’s random and unexpected attack earlier. If there was a gang targeting us, the chance of them finding me could not be ignored. A worrying voice reminded me my home was undefended and that caused me to call Mrs Comerforth.
The lady in the house next to mine considered herself too old to own a dog but loved looking after my miniature Dachshunds. In the recent weeks, they had been in her house so often it was beginning to feel like joint ownership.
My pair of black and tan sausages were easy company for her and thus leaving them snoozing on her couch was a mutually beneficial arrangement. However, she tended to put them back in my house at bedtime in anticipation that I would come home and want to find them there.
Not only was I doubtful I was going home tonight, I was also now worried someone might target it.
I had Hilary call her with my phone, my right foot getting heavier on the accelerator now that I didn’t have a squad car tailing me.
She answered with, ‘Good evening, Tempest, are you home already, dear?’
I could picture her watching her evening soaps with my dogs snoring either side of her lap. Dozer was
