Secret Remains

Book 0: The DCI Banham Series

by Linda Regan

Genres: Hard-Boiled; Police Procedurals; Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

When a group of young women working in London's sex trade become involved in a murder investigation, their fabricated account of events leads to the wrong suspect becoming convicted. Twenty years later, the innocent person is free - but somebody has started killing the women connected to the case.

With the threat of blackmail hanging over them, the women have a lot to lose and nobody has a cast-iron alibi. In a case where nothing is quite what it seems, can Detective Inspector Paul Banham stop a cold-blooded killer?

Release date: April 28, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 289

Sample

Detective Inspector Paul Banham was making good progress. In his eleven years as a detective in the murder squad he had, on many occasions, sought the help of psychological profilers, and he had enormous respect for them. But counselling, he had discovered, was psychology of a different colour.

Counselling was personal: in his case very personal indeed. For one thing it meant facing up to his reaction to – no, his all-consuming fear of – looking at certain corpses. It was common knowledge among his colleagues that he got the shakes, and sometimes even fainted or threw up, when he looked at a young, murdered woman.

But that wasn’t the worst part. His counsellor was also helping him to deal with his sex life, or lack of it; and the prospect of his colleagues knowing about his inadequacy in that department didn’t bear thinking about. If they found out, he’d be a laughing stock, and would never command the respect he needed to head a murder enquiry. He’d never be able to show his face in the incident room again.

Of course, Lottie knew. They were twins, and though he hadn’t told her, she knew anyway, just as he knew things about her. She had been the one to suggest that he talk to someone; in fact she had begged him to seek counselling, and once or twice they had almost quarrelled about it. He had argued that it wouldn’t help, that the only thing that would solve the problem would be if the police finally caught the bastard who had murdered his wife and their eleven-month-old daughter, and ensure that bastard suffered as terrifying an ordeal as the one he’d inflicted on Diane and baby Elizabeth. If that happened, Banham could put his life back together, perhaps even love again, physically as well as emotionally. But despite breakthroughs in forensics, after eleven years they were highly unlikely to catch the killer.

So Banham had given in to his sister’s nagging and taken the bull by the horns. He had been having regular sessions with a counsellor for several weeks now. He had to admit it was a lot to do with Alison Grainger, the detective sergeant with unusual black-flecked, sludge-coloured eyes who had crept into his heart.

It was seven years since she had moved over to the murder division of CID to work with him, and from the start they had understood each other and worked well together. The squad’s success rate was improving all the time. Recently he had realised how attracted he was to her. A few weeks ago he had invited her out for a candlelit supper, and she had asked him to her flat for coffee afterwards. In a blind panic, he refused, with the feeble excuse that business and pleasure didn’t mix.

That had made Alison very angry, and no one wanted to be on the wrong side of Alison Grainger’s temper. So Banham had decided it was time to do something. He’d made an appointment with Joan Deamer, a middle-aged, approachable counsellor his sister Lottie promised would change his life.

That was seven weeks ago, and already he was beginning to feel different. The physical feelings he’d believed he would never experience again had started to stir. At one counselling session they had talked about blue films, and Joan had given him a couple to take home. The effect had been like a door bursting open; after eleven celibate years, he found he could function physically again. He had a sexual future, and the person he wanted in it was Alison Grainger.

Joan had urged him not to give up on a relationship with Alison. She had assured him he could always ask her out again; Alison was quite bright enough to see past his excuse about not mixing business with pleasure, and if she felt as he did, she wouldn’t hold his moment of panic against him.

But he wasn’t sure; his confidence was still on the low side. As he walked down the steps from Joan Deamer’s office, the thought of that temper brought a smile to his face. He knew the signs: the black flecks in her eyes seemed to expand, then the verbals began to flow within seconds. Those eyes were beautiful: so much so that he even looked forward to her losing her temper.

He flicked his wrist to check the time. It was seven thirty, nearly bedtime for his six-year-old niece Madeleine. He decided to head for his sister’s; he could ring for a pizza for himself and Lottie, and while they waited for it, he could read Madeleine another chapter of the book of stories he had bought her the previous week. He loved watching her angelic little face as she listened to the goings-on of the Flower Fairies’ daily duties. Tonight it was the turn of the Cowslip Fairy.

The drive took him twenty minutes, including a quick stop at the garage for a couple of cans of lager, a bunch of flowers for Lottie and far too many bars of chocolate for Bobby and Madeleine.

He made it as far as the doorway; a beautiful, excited six-year-old princess ran down the stairs announcing to the doll on her arm, ‘It’s Uncle Paul. He brings us chocolate, Barbie.’

Then his mobile began its urgent chirp.

Half a dozen police cars, blue lights flashing silently, signalled the spot as Banham drove down the road.

A uniformed officer stood in front of the blue and white plastic cordon, redirecting cars down the next side road. Banham flashed his warrant card and the officer waved him through. Alison was already there, bending over the boot of a car with a torch in her gloved hand.

She looked around as Banham approached. No one ever described Alison as pretty, or even striking; in fact DC Colin Crowther, the team’s self-styled expert on women, had once said she was pretty average. But Banham thought she was beautiful. She reminded him of a red squirrel; she often wore her long, naturally curly, mouse-coloured hair tied back in a pony-tail resembling a bushy squirrel tail.

Heather Draper the police pathologist was peering into the car boot alongside Alison. When she saw Banham she moved to block his view.

‘She’s been dead about two weeks, we think, guv,’ Alison said. She was dressed from head to toe in black, a woolly hood up to keep out the bitter February cold. Only her face peeped out, with one escaping curl balanced on her forehead. Banham found her wide-set eyes more captivating than ever with her curly hair covered. He stared into her serious face and read the concern in her eyes.

‘It’s not a pretty sight,’ she warned.

He nodded, and took a deep breath as he moved toward the boot. Alison shone the torch on the contents.

The dead woman was curled in a foetal position, her bloated face angled and facing him. Blood from the wounds in her head had slid down her forehead and congealed, to be overrun by a colony of maggots in the holes that once were her eyes. Other overfed insects that had feasted on her now lay dead in the rotting remains of her open throat.

Bulging from her disintegrated mouth was a piece of rotting, discoloured fabric. A thin, blood-drenched ribbon hung from one side of the blackened lip, making her look almost vampire-like. Even in the winter gloom Banham could see she looked Asian; her hair, now grey with dirt, had been black and her skin light brown.

After a few seconds he turned to Heather Draper, who was dressed in the usual blue plastic overall. ‘Her nose was broken too?’ he said.

She nodded.

He rubbed his fingers across his mouth, a habit he had when he was thinking. He hoped neither Heather nor Alison realised how much of an effort it was to hold himself together and not throw up.

‘She obviously put up one hell of a fight. I hope she was dead before he closed the boot,’ he added quietly.

‘I wouldn’t want to say until I’ve done a full examination,’ Heather said, ‘but that’s the way it looks. I think the legs were broken afterwards, to fit her into the space.’

‘He was either very strong or very angry,’ Banham said, turning his head to keep the smell at bay. ‘Any signs of sexual assault?’

‘No.’ Alison and Heather spoke in unison.

‘But this?’ He indicated the G-string bulging from her mouth. ‘It’s underwear, isn’t it?’

‘Not hers. She’s still wearing her knickers.’ Alison Grainger pointed her torch on the body. The stink of excrement from her black skirt made Banham turn away to grab a lungful of fresh air.

Heather Draper lifted the skirt with blue latex-gloved hands, revealing warm, unglamorous thermal knickers.

‘There,’ said Alison. ‘A bit different from what’s jammed in her mouth.’ She too turned away from the stench and inhaled fresh icy air.

‘He broke both her legs to get her in there,’ Banham said thoughtfully. ‘So he was in a hurry. But he made time to force those things in her mouth.’

‘You mean, you don’t think it was an afterthought?’ Alison asked.

Banham shook his head. ‘No. Something tells me she was in the car with him.’

‘She’s a bit old to be a tom, guv.’

‘Some men like them older.’

‘Not even older toms wear knickers like that, though. So, if she was in the car, she knew her killer.’

Banham walked round to the front of the car. A group of SOCOs were busy with their swabs, tweezers and tiny polythene evidence bags. Max Pettifer, head of forensics and Banham’s bête noir, was sliding a brush around the steering wheel. He heaved his bulk out of the car and smirked at Banham. ‘Not throwing up in a bucket?’ he said, lifting a thick, wiry eyebrow.

One of these days, Banham thought, I’m going to take a pair of forensic tweezers and pluck those eyebrows right off Max’s face. He waved at the air in front of the other man’s face. ‘I’m surprised you’re not, after the amount of garlic you ate last night.’ He stepped back. ‘Have you got anything of interest to tell me, like was she a passenger in the car?’

‘Urine on the headrest of the passenger seat,’ Max said flatly. ‘With luck that’ll be your killer’s DNA. He probably got over-excited and pissed in her face. She’s been there a good couple of weeks from the state of the maggots,’ he added.

Banham muttered reluctant thanks and returned to the waiting Alison. ‘Who found the body?’ he asked her.

‘Uniform,’ she told him. ‘Look at the way the car’s parked. It looked abandoned, so they radioed it in. Turns out it was reported stolen two weeks ago. The woman who owns that house said she first noticed it four days ago. Uniform checked the boot and . . .’

‘Right, get the car to the pound,’ Banham interrupted. ‘How soon can I have your first report?’ he called to Max Pettifer.

‘As usual, guv’nor. As soon as I get it done.’

‘And yours?’

Heather Draper was a lot less irritating. ‘I’ll work as quickly as I can,’ she told him.

He started back towards his own car, the gruesome image of his own wife and baby on that fateful night flooding his mind. But he shook away the memory before it consumed him. He had to focus. This woman was probably a wife and mother. Her family would be relying on him, and he wasn’t going to disappoint them.

Alison called after him, ‘Where are you going, guv?’

He looked over his shoulder. ‘To the station, to make a start.’

She caught him up. ‘Do you want some company?’

He found himself staring into those sludgy eyes. ‘Haven’t you anything better to do?’

She shook her head and shrugged.

She had no idea how much pleasure that gave him. ‘Come on, then. Leave your car. I’ll drive.’

Olivia Stone was attempting to butter bread for sandwiches. She had promised to make them with banana and sandwich spread for her thirteen-year-old daughter’s gymkhana day, and was regretting it. She flung the knife on the granite worktop, wishing she hadn’t given her daily help the day off. Her nerves were in shreds and the bread kept tearing. Since Brian Finn had been released from prison, she could hardly think straight. It wasn’t that she hadn’t known it was coming.; he’d always said he’d be out after nineteen years with good behaviour, and now he was.

It was the blackmail note that she hadn’t expected.

It was true that the girls had got away scot-free while he’d served that nineteen-year stretch, but they had done everything they could to help him. Well, she had, courtesy of Kenneth’s millions, and Katie too, since she started earning big money in the number one TV soap. They had supported Bernadette, the child Theresa had with him just after he went down. And surely he knew he could still rely on them, now he was out. But here it was: a demand for a hundred grand, or he would send the pornographic videos from the Scarlet Pussy Club to the press.

What none of them had understood at first was why he was turning against them after serving all those years to help them. He had the power to destroy Kenneth’s career as a government minister, and Katie Faye’s as the nation’s favourite soap star, but none of them ever dreamed he would use it. But the note said he wouldn’t return the tapes until that cash was in his hands.

Olivia had been pregnant at the same time as Theresa, and had married ‘Fat Kenneth’ Stone. He was filthy rich, so she was able to make sure Theresa and Brian’s daughter had everything she needed. Poor Bernadette was born brain-damaged, and all the club girls had rallied around to help – all, that was, except Shaheen. What a cow, Olivia thought, sending another wad of butter flying across the marble surface. Bloody Shaheen had done nothing at all – except causing the problem in the first place.

She opened the nearest of the three fridges in the large kitchen and pulled out a bottle of gin. She placed it on the granite surface in front of her; it took less than a second before she gave in and poured a small measure, topping it up with slimline tonic. It was only ten thirty in the morning, but today she needed it. She swallowed a mouthful and assured herself everything was going to be just fine. Five out of the six had agreed that Brian should be paid; only Shaheen disagreed, and Olivia wasn’t about to let her get in their way. She and Katie had raised the hundred grand between them – well, Katie had, and Olivia was going to pay back half of it as soon as the bank draft came through. Brian deserved a new start, and they’d get all the pornographic videos back. The lid could be sealed on the whole embarrassing affair, and finally they could move on.

None of them wanted any reminder of their summer at the Scarlet Pussy Club, or of what happened on that sweltering night. In any case, it was she and Katie who had the most to lose, and they were the ones who were paying up. If those videos got into the wrong hands, her marriage would be ruined, along with Kenneth’s career. And Katie, after years of struggling for a break as an actress, had just been voted the nation’s favourite small-screen character: the naïve, innocent staff nurse Penelope. The tabloids would have a field day.

The kitchen door suddenly opened. She hastily pushed the glass of gin behind the spaghetti jar as her nineteen-year-old son Kevin walked in the kitchen.

‘We’re ready to go, Mum. Have you made Ianthe’s sandwiches?’

‘Two minutes,’ she snapped.

‘Who rattled your cage?’

Olivia closed her eyes. No point taking it out on the kids – it would only backfire if Kevin threw one of his teenage strops and refused to drive Ianthe to the stables. ‘Sorry. You’re still OK for the gymkhana, aren’t you, Kev?’

He sighed heavily. ‘Yes, Mother dearest. I’ll sit and watch the pretty horses all day, and bring her home safe. Just do the bloody sandwiches!’

He loped off into the hall, and she felt like throwing the breadknife at him, her nerves were so frazzled. But somehow she held herself together. It had taken a lot of planning to get all the girls together and the house to herself for the day, but she had managed it. Kevin would take his sister to pony club, Kenneth was in meetings in the House till late, and she’d given the daily woman the day off.

All that remained now was for the girls to decide which of them should meet Brian and hand over the money. At least Shaheen wouldn’t be there. They had all told her what they thought of her half-arsed suggestion about going to the bloody police with the blackmail letter and, since then, no one had heard from her. She was supposed to meet Susan in London two weeks ago; Susan had offered to talk her round. But Shaheen hadn’t turned up, and hadn’t been answering her mobile ever since. And none of them was allowed to phone her home in Leicester, so end of story. Good, Olivia thought. Shaheen hadn’t even been in an embarrassing porno video.

She opened her packet of menthol cigarettes and lit one up, and sliced a banana onto a hunk of badly buttered bread. The vinegary smell of the sandwich spread made her gag; how can Ianthe eat this stuff? She emptied half the jar over the banana and pressed a second thick slice of white bread over it. That’s enough, she decided; her feet were aching and she needed to sit down and calm herself before the girls arrived. She threw the sandwiches in a paper bag, opened her purse and took out a twenty-pound note; let them buy burgers, she thought, slipping it into the bag with the sandwich.

The video played through her mind as it seemed to a hundred times a day: Katie lying across a wooden chair, not a stitch on and legs in the air; Olivia standing astride her, bending to suck her nipples. How could I have been that naïve? Her face burned; what would the prime minister say if he saw them? Or Katie’s television producer? A hundred thousand pounds was a small price to avoid embarrassment of that order.

The children were clattering around in the hall, gathering Ianthe’s riding things together. She called to Kevin and threw him the sandwich bag. ‘There’s money in there,’ she said. ‘Buy McDonald’s for lunch and keep the change for petrol.’

‘Cheers, Mum.’

‘Just look after your sister.’

‘Will do.’

‘And, Kevin? I could really do with a day to myself.’

‘Toyboy on his way over, is he?’

She could never tell how serious he was. ‘Is that what you think of me?’

‘Chill, Mum. Just kidding.’

Ianthe hugged her goodbye, and Kevin took the car keys off the hook. They left, squabbling good-naturedly, and Olivia sighed with relief. She massaged her temple points with her fingers, promising herself that, after today, she too could make a new start. It wasn’t as if it would be hard to decide which of them would take the money to Brian; it had to be Susan. Both she and Katie had to protect their public profiles; Kim’s other half was a copper; Theresa was too angry with Brian. Susan was the only one left.

Susan had visited him often in prison, and she still worked in the sex industry. Olivia had visited too, but more out of duty than friendship – she had married Kenneth as soon as she found out she was pregnant, and when he became an MP, she had to be careful. Then, when poor Theresa’s baby was born, just a mon. . .