Linda Regan - Passion Killers

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 wasnt 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 didnt bear thinking about. If they found out hed be a laughing stock, and would never command the respect he needed to head a murder enquiry. Hed never be able to show his face in the incident room again.

Of course, Lottie knew. They were twins, and though he hadnt 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 wouldnt 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 hed 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 sisters 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 squads 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 candle-lit 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 didnt mix.

That made Alison very angry, and no one wanted to be on the wrong side of Alison Graingers temper. So he decided it was time to do something. He 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 hed 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.

Mrs Deamer 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 wouldnt hold his moment of panic against him.

But he wasnt sure; his confidence was still on the low side. As he walked down the steps from Joan Deamers office the thought of that temper brought a smile to his face. He knew the signs: the black flecks in her sludge-coloured 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 sisters; 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, Its 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 Grainger 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 teams 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.

Shes been dead about two weeks, we think, guv, Alison said. She was dressed from head to toe in black, a woolly hood over her head and hair 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 sludgy eyes more captivating than ever with her curly hair covered. He stared into her serious face and read the concern in her eyes.

Its 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, congealing around a colony of maggots over the holes that once were 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. The 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 wouldnt want to say until Ive done a full examination, Heather said, but thats the way it looks. I think the legs were broken afterwards, to fit her into the space.