Blood Red Roses Page 4

  Rhona stood, her heart thumping. Belcher, a voyeur, watched everything from here. Which meant he probably knew who Donna’s regular visitor in the ‘Rose’ room had been.

  Before she left she tried a quick look inside the desk. Only the top drawer was unlocked. In it was an open packet of condoms and an inhaler.

  Rhona stared, the full impact of the discovery hitting her like a sledgehammer. She had Belcher marked as a voyeur, a sleazy creep who exploited young girls. But a murderer?

  She left the inhaler where it was and shut the drawer. She took a quick glance round before she emerged from Belcher’s office.

  The barman called to her as she walked casually past.

  ‘Any luck?’

  She shook her head. ‘Too busy with his important guests.’

  ‘Leave your name and contact number,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell him.’

  She wrote a made-up name and number on the pad.

  ‘I finish at two thirty,’ he offered.

  She smiled an apology. ‘Some other time.’

  ‘Your loss,’ he called after her, as she made for the Ladies.

  This time the toilets were empty. She dialled the number the taxi driver had given her. She must have sounded rattled because he said, ‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’

  She waited for three minutes then walked purposefully out. The doorman gave her a look but said nothing. One of the three middle-aged men was getting into a fancy black car. She found a pen in her bag and wrote down the number. Maybe Bill could use it to find out who Belcher’s important guests were. As for Belcher...

  The taxi arrived and she climbed gratefully in.

  ‘Didn’t find him then?’

  ‘What?... no,’ she shrugged.

  ‘Where to now?’

  She gave him the address of the jazz club. ‘I need a couple of minutes there, then home.’

  ‘He’s a jazz lover then?’

  Rhona didn’t answer.

  The club was still open, the sound of music and voices drifting out. She hesitated at the top of the stairs, recognising the notes of his saxophone. Sean was still performing. That’s why he hadn’t come.

  She turned and climbed in the taxi.

  ‘Change your mind?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She gave him her address and leaned back, feeling foolish and relieved at the same time.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The flat was cold. The heating had gone off by now. Rhona put on a warm dressing gown and thick pair of socks and lit the gas fire in the sitting room. When she sat on the sofa, Chance jumped up and joined her, keen to enjoy the warmth of the flames.

  There was no point trying to contact Bill until morning. Belcher didn’t look as though he was going anywhere.

  The cat’s purring soothed her. This was why she didn’t like relationships. The worry. The uncertainty. Both made sex more exciting but screwed up your emotions... if you let them.

  Sean must not be allowed to interfere with her work or her life. He would come and go, as she pleased. When, or if he arrived tonight, then she would decide.

  The buzzer wrecked this decision. She pressed the entry button without answering and left the door off the latch. It took seconds for him to climb the stairs. Waiting in the sitting room, she heard the door open and close.

  Then there was silence. She wondered if he had gone straight into the bedroom. The thought both unnerved and excited her.

  Then instinct told her she had made a mistake. It was not Sean who had entered her flat. It was someone else. Someone she had let in.

  Chance jumped to the floor, tail upright, tip flicking from side to side. He made a weird sound, almost a whine, as the door opened. Rhona stood near the fireplace with nowhere to go, her body tensed, ready for flight.

  A man she recognised as Jonny Simpson stood framed in the hall light. His stance reminded her of his fireman role, minus the uniform. He was determined and desperate at the same time.

  Murderers, she knew, often looked like that before they killed. Hell bent, obsessed, so desperate for that rush of pleasure, nothing would stop them.

  He muttered ‘the bitch, the bastard’ under his breath. She thought the words were directed at her, then realised he was abusing some picture inside his head. He was drunk or high or mad on grief.

  ‘Jonny?’

  His eyes tried to focus. Seeing her he suddenly launched himself forward.

  In seconds he had one arm about her, the other wrenched her dressing-gown from her shoulders. It dropped and she was left naked. He grabbed a breast and squeezed so hard her voice became a squeal of pain.

  ‘Jonny. No!’

  He met her eyes and let go.

  ‘She fucking kept doing it. I loved her. I told her not to.’ He sank on the couch, searching for answers in the flames of the fire.

  Rhona fastened the dressing gown tightly round her. Her mobile was in her handbag in the bedroom. The main phone was in the hall. She judged the distance to the door, the path that skirted Jonny.

  He was weeping now. Great gulps that wracked his body. He looked up at her.

  ‘I couldn’t take it, her working in that place. I made her promise. But she wanted that fucking dress...’

  ‘I’m going to make us some coffee, Jonny.’

  He nodded like a child listening to its mother.

  She stood by the kettle, forcing her body to stop shaking. How the hell had he turned up here? She had never met him, only seen his photo and tested his DNA. He must have seen her with Bill somewhere. Then she knew. Jonny must have been at Eden tonight. He’d followed her from there.

  She spooned coffee into two mugs. She would find a chance to call the police. Meanwhile she would feed him coffee and get him to talk. Instinct told her Jonny hadn’t killed Donna. But if he had been watching the club, he might know something that would help find the murderer.

  The cat’s screech sent her running through. The acrid smell of smoke met her in the hall. Jonny’s arm was already well ablaze, the flames licking across his chest.

  He toppled and fell as she threw herself at him. She scrabbled for the rug, throwing it over him, trying to roll the heavy body, seeing all the time his horror-filled eyes and blistering skin.

  The flames died inside the rug. Jonny was whimpering, like a beaten dog, mental pain still drowning the physical pain of the burns.

  As she dialled 999, the numbing effect of the drink or drugs gave way. Jonny’s agonised screams were worse than the stench of burnt flesh.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’

  Bill Wilson was not a man given to cursing. Rhona took the stiff whisky he handed her. She shook so much she had to guide the glass to her mouth using both hands.

  ‘Jonny wanted to tell me something. I’m sure of it.’ Rhona felt the whisky slide down her throat, warming her. She sat the glass on the coffee table and clasped her hands to steady them.

  ‘Maybe he was about to confess.’

  She shook her head. ’I don’t think so. I went to Eden tonight.’

  ‘What?’ Bill’s voice was incredulous.

  ‘Belcher didn’t recognise me. I made sure of that. He was too interested in important guests anyway.’

  ‘You think Jonny followed you from there?’

  She gave a brief nod. ‘I got into Belcher’s office.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath.

  She rushed on before he could protest. ‘There’s a screen behind a painting. Belcher watches all the private rooms from there.’

  Bill thought about that. ‘He saw Donna’s rose man.’

  ‘He must have.’

  Bill’s mouth was tight with anger. ‘I’ll have him for obstructing our enquiries.’

  ‘There were three men there for a private showing,’ she went on. ‘I think I recognised one of them. Something to do with football. I saw him leave and took a note of the number plate.’

  She handed him the scribbled number.

  ‘
If Belcher’s covering for someone,’ Bill threatened.

  ‘My bet is he’s covering for most of his clientele. The ones with money at least.’

  ‘But would he cover a murder?’

  Rhona gave him a look. ‘Maybe.’

  Bill raised his eyebrows. ‘Okay. What else?’

  ‘I found an inhaler in the desk drawer in Belcher’s office.’

  That threw him. ‘So he could have been close to Donna before she died?’

  ‘If the inhaler is his.’

  When Bill left, Rhona poured another whisky and crawled into bed. She recognised she was in shock, but couldn’t stop the trembling. She sat upright, the duvet hugged round her. When her mobile rang, she could hardly pick it up for shaking.

  ‘Rhona. It’s me. I know it’s really late but I need to see you.’

  ‘I..I..don..don’t know.’

  ‘Rhona? Are you okay?’

  ‘Sean... ’ her voice faded.

  ‘I’ll be right over.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘But…’

  She didn’t want sympathy. It would make her feel worse. Her voice was stronger now. ‘I can’t explain right now, but I don’t want you to come.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ she offered.

  ‘Sure.’ His voice was cool.

  She suspected Sean was not used to being turned down.

  When he rang off she fetched another duvet from the spare room. Wrapped in one, she lay with the other over her. The cat jumped up and wriggled in underneath. Rhona lay, eyes open, shivering, remembering only flames and Jonny’s terrified eyes.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  After he left Rhona’s flat Bill headed for the hospital. He called Jonny’s mate, Alistair Banks, on the way there.

  Banks appeared half an hour later, looking pretty shaken up. When they wouldn’t let him see Jonny that shook him up even more. Sitting in the corridor with Bill, he revealed that Jonny hadn’t shown up for his shift the night Donna died. Alistair had covered for him.

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything about this before?’

  ‘He was screwed up. I didn’t want to make things worse.’

  Bill had difficulty holding himself back as he waited for Banks to go on.

  ‘Jonny thought Donna was seeing some guy from her days at the club. I tried to tell him it was rubbish.’

  ‘And he didn’t believe you?’

  ‘No. He was pretty mad.’

  ‘At Donna?’

  Banks spoke as though he was trying to convince himself. ‘Jonny was hard on Donna sometimes, but he would never hurt her.’

  ‘What if he was sure Donna was sleeping with someone else?’

  Banks looked stupidly at Bill. ‘What?’

  ‘The landlord says another man – not Jonny – visited Donna in her room the night before she died. He stayed a long time.’

  ‘Fuck!’ Banks’ world was crashing round him.

  ‘If Jonny knew about that, would it be enough for him to kill Donna?’

  Banks didn’t answer, but Bill saw the shadow of doubt in his eyes. He ran the scenario over in his own mind, just the way Banks was doing.

  Jonny suspected Donna was playing away. When he found out his suspicions were correct, he killed her in a fit of jealousy and rage. Then he realised Tracey suspected him. So she had to go too. But drink couldn’t blot out what he’d done. So he set fire to himself.

  Bill took Banks to the police station and got a statement, then he asked him for a DNA sample. Banks agreed but didn’t look happy about it.

  ‘We’ll be sampling everyone at the fire station,’ Bill told him.

  They needed to find this other guy. If Banks couldn’t tell them who he was, maybe Belcher could.

  Next day Bill sent DC Clarke and a colleague to question the other members of Jonny’s watch and collect DNA samples. He wanted to know exactly who was on the outing when Jonny first met Donna. He suspected that hadn’t been the only time men from the fire station had visited Eden. He wanted everything. Names, dates and who had danced for them. Tracey had said the guy who visited Donna regularly was young and worked out, which meant he could have been a fireman.

  Bill delayed his own arrival at Eden with his search warrant until the club was open and packed with lunchtime punters. All the better to watch Belcher shit himself.

  He ordered a police presence on all doors and gave orders to his Detective Sergeant.

  ‘No one is allowed to leave the premises until their contact details are recorded and a DNA swab is taken.’

  Belcher’s face was wearing enough sweat to fry chips. Bill flashed the search warrant and demanded to be taken to the manager’s office.

  The fat man’s breath was a painful wheeze as he unlocked the office door. It got worse when Bill headed straight for the painting and pulled it back to reveal the hidden screen.

  Bill opened the top drawer of the desk and took out the inhaler.

  ‘I think you need some of this.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Rhona was surviving... just. Chrissy had offered to listen if she needed an ear. Rhona said no. Talking made it too real. The news from the hospital wasn’t good. Jonny was badly burned around the upper torso including his face. He wouldn’t be fit to talk for a while.

  Belcher’s arrest and grilling by DI Wilson had produced a client list so short the club must be making a loss. The search of the premises was more productive. They found a hidden store of tapes, secretly recorded by Belcher. According to him they were for his eyes only. Watching the girls perform was his way of having sex. He insisted they knew about it and he paid them extra to do it. And yes he needed to use his inhaler when he got excited. He couldn’t or wouldn’t say why Donna’s hair had traces of salbutomal.

  A police team was going through the video footage. Especially footage of the Rose room. If there was evidence that Eden was being used for prostitution, Belcher was in big trouble.

  The best lead they had was the car number plate. It belonged to a Sir Geoffrey Helden who was bankrolling a Scottish first division football club. DI Wilson had already made contact and would speak to Sir Geoffrey with his lawyer present.

  Rhona spent the morning putting the Bacardi bottle back together. Concentrating on that stopped her thinking about what had happened the night before. When the phone rang, Rhona let Chrissy answer.

  Chrissy covered the mouthpiece. ‘There’s a guy in reception. Insists on seeing you.’

  ‘Who?’ Rhona mouthed.

  Chrissy checked. ‘Sean?’

  Rhona shook her head and then thought better of it. She would have to face Sean sometime and it might as well be now.

  ‘Tell him I’ll be straight down.’

  It was the first time she’d seen Sean agitated. Normally he was relaxed and easy. When she appeared he looked over, relieved.

  She headed for the door without speaking and he followed. She walked quickly past the guard on the gate and down the hill towards the park, her breath condensing in the cold November air. When she reached the bridge she stopped. Below, an autumnal mist clung to the River Kelvin.

  He stood close, sharing her view of the muddy swirling water.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  She shrugged, unable to look him in the face. ‘It’s nothing to do with you. It’s work.’

  He lifted his hand and stroked her cheek. A shiver of longing ran down her spine and anchored itself deep in her groin.

  ‘You can’t work all the time.’

  She laughed. The sound was harsh and unforgiving in her ears.

  ‘Rhona. Look at me.’

  His eyes drew hers. Powerless to stop herself, she looked into their blue depths. She hardly knew this man and yet she had let him enter her body, possess her, at least for a short time. What was he really like? How much of herself could she entrust to him?

  ‘Tell me when I can see you.’

  ‘Tonight.’ She gave in to desire. ‘Co
me round tonight.’

  His finger traced her cheek, her lips, her neck. He didn’t kiss her, though he knew she wanted him to.

  She watched as he headed for the Art Gallery; the tall dark-haired figure confident now. She felt like a tune Sean had chosen to play.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Donna and Jonny’s text messages were designed for their eyes only. Three quarters of them were short, repetitive and sexual. A sex act by phone. Bill imagined Jonny sitting in the long night shift, putting in time by fantasising.

  The tone only changed near Donna’s death. Tense and angry, Jonny demanded to know where Donna was and why she didn’t answer. Jonny was running scared. Scared and jealous.

  They had never recovered Donna’s mobile. Bill was beginning to think Tracey had removed it from the handbag before they arrived at the scene of Donna’s death. If Tracey listened to the messages, did that make her suspicious of someone? Is that why she was killed?

  He’d insisted on interviewing every footballer who used the lap dancing club, which hadn’t gone down well with the Superintendent. Bill didn’t care.

  He didn’t like any of them on principle. Beckham look-a-likes with money and an inflated sense of their own importance.

  The one that sat in front of him now was different. Quietly spoken. Slightly built with the intensity of a young Jimmy Johnstone.

  Thomas Watkins. Bill had seen the name in the paper a lot recently. A rising star. Scotland’s hope for the future. A lot of pressure for a nineteen year old.

  Bill pushed Donna’s photo across the interview table.

  ‘Donna Stevens. Known to you as Rose.’

  Thomas gave the photo a quick glance. Too quick.

  ‘Sorry. Don’t know her.’

  Bill consulted his notebook. ‘You and three mates booked Rose on the night of the... ’