Carroll said, realising how hot it was in the house. The heating was on full – all of the time, it seemed. There was no fear of Elizabeth Gardener catching cold if she stayed in her house.
It was their first decent lead, and it was better than they could have ever dreamed. A description of the killer would give them every chance in the world of catching the man responsible for the murders. It was now only a matter of time.
Chapter 12
Once the forensic boys had cleared up and left, all that needed to be done at number twelve Baalbec Street was a quick paint job. No one, except the police and maybe one or two neighbours, would ever know what really happened in the master bedroom of the house – at least not in any real detail.
According to the early reports that came from the forensics office, the dead woman was strangled and then cut open, just like Jo McCrae. Only this time, the woman hadn’t been dead when the killer began his cutting. That, according to forensics, was obvious on seeing the crime scene. The blood-stained walls and ceiling told the story much better than any typewritten report ever could. With a pumping heart and lacerated arteries you have an instant bloody mess on your hands. Whoever killed the woman was most certainly covered in her blood from head to toe.
Carroll and Grant made their way back to Baalbec Street with their book of mug-shots. If Elizabeth Gardener was all-there, and if her eyesight was as good as she had implied, then maybe, just maybe, they had a solid lead. The only problem, Carroll thought, was that she had not mentioned anything about the guy being covered in blood.
They had already identified the second victim as Isabella Visi, an escort with the City Slickers Escort Agency. They were due to pay a visit to the agency later that day. But for now they had Elizabeth Gardener to interview and a killer to identify.
Carroll sat down at Mrs. Gardener’s insistence while she had her home-help assistant put on the kettle. She was a good-looking young woman of around twenty-five, wearing fashionable jeans and a red shirt. Grant stood looking out the window, in an effort to understand how much the old woman could have seen on the day of the murder.
The old woman’s eyes scanned the mug-shot book with obvious delight. It seemed as if she was having the time of her life. She was a live-wire all right, Carroll thought. And he wasn’t wrong. Elizabeth Gardener had been married five times. Each of her husbands had died prematurely, leaving her alone but increasingly wealthy. She had a particular fancy for Jamaican men, she had told Grant, who shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot on hearing this. Her third and fourth husbands had been Jamaican, she had said. Carroll wondered if any of her husbands had been Irish. She didn’t seem like the same nice old lady that Carroll had spoken to a day or so before.
As she poured over the photos, Carroll and Grant drank their cups of tea and asked a few more questions.
‘Was your personal assistant here on the day of the murder?’ Carroll asked.
‘No – she only comes in two afternoons a week – the rest are mornings, aren’t they dear?’ she said, turning to her helper.
‘That’s right,’ the young woman said, nodding.
‘So, the guy was around thirty, blonde and going bald, Mrs. Gardener?’ Grant asked.
‘Yes – he was wearing jeans and running shoes, with a green jacket. He left the house very quickly and ran off up the road in that direction,’ she said, pointing northwards, up the street.
‘And that was at around four-thirty, ma’am?’ Carroll asked.
‘Yes, half past four. This one here looks familiar,’ she said, pointing at a photo in the book before her. ‘Is he a killer?’
‘So you think that this was the man who ran from the house?’
‘Yes – it looks very much like him, anyway....’
The guy in the photo was Mike Taylor, a
It was their first decent lead, and it was better than they could have ever dreamed. A description of the killer would give them every chance in the world of catching the man responsible for the murders. It was now only a matter of time.
Chapter 12
Once the forensic boys had cleared up and left, all that needed to be done at number twelve Baalbec Street was a quick paint job. No one, except the police and maybe one or two neighbours, would ever know what really happened in the master bedroom of the house – at least not in any real detail.
According to the early reports that came from the forensics office, the dead woman was strangled and then cut open, just like Jo McCrae. Only this time, the woman hadn’t been dead when the killer began his cutting. That, according to forensics, was obvious on seeing the crime scene. The blood-stained walls and ceiling told the story much better than any typewritten report ever could. With a pumping heart and lacerated arteries you have an instant bloody mess on your hands. Whoever killed the woman was most certainly covered in her blood from head to toe.
Carroll and Grant made their way back to Baalbec Street with their book of mug-shots. If Elizabeth Gardener was all-there, and if her eyesight was as good as she had implied, then maybe, just maybe, they had a solid lead. The only problem, Carroll thought, was that she had not mentioned anything about the guy being covered in blood.
They had already identified the second victim as Isabella Visi, an escort with the City Slickers Escort Agency. They were due to pay a visit to the agency later that day. But for now they had Elizabeth Gardener to interview and a killer to identify.
Carroll sat down at Mrs. Gardener’s insistence while she had her home-help assistant put on the kettle. She was a good-looking young woman of around twenty-five, wearing fashionable jeans and a red shirt. Grant stood looking out the window, in an effort to understand how much the old woman could have seen on the day of the murder.
The old woman’s eyes scanned the mug-shot book with obvious delight. It seemed as if she was having the time of her life. She was a live-wire all right, Carroll thought. And he wasn’t wrong. Elizabeth Gardener had been married five times. Each of her husbands had died prematurely, leaving her alone but increasingly wealthy. She had a particular fancy for Jamaican men, she had told Grant, who shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot on hearing this. Her third and fourth husbands had been Jamaican, she had said. Carroll wondered if any of her husbands had been Irish. She didn’t seem like the same nice old lady that Carroll had spoken to a day or so before.
As she poured over the photos, Carroll and Grant drank their cups of tea and asked a few more questions.
‘Was your personal assistant here on the day of the murder?’ Carroll asked.
‘No – she only comes in two afternoons a week – the rest are mornings, aren’t they dear?’ she said, turning to her helper.
‘That’s right,’ the young woman said, nodding.
‘So, the guy was around thirty, blonde and going bald, Mrs. Gardener?’ Grant asked.
‘Yes – he was wearing jeans and running shoes, with a green jacket. He left the house very quickly and ran off up the road in that direction,’ she said, pointing northwards, up the street.
‘And that was at around four-thirty, ma’am?’ Carroll asked.
‘Yes, half past four. This one here looks familiar,’ she said, pointing at a photo in the book before her. ‘Is he a killer?’
‘So you think that this was the man who ran from the house?’
‘Yes – it looks very much like him, anyway....’
The guy in the photo was Mike Taylor, a
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