Cut You Dead (Dr. Samantha Willerby Mystery #4) - A J Waines Page 0,89
been ‘sacked’.
With that thought came a burst of adrenaline. I had no more to lose.
I jumped up in search of a pen. Then wrote down an address from the police file and stuffed it in my pocket. Without bothering with breakfast, I grabbed my coat, hurried down the communal stairs and caught the first bus over to Stockwell.
66
The bus left me on the edge of a high-rise estate. Each tower block was distinctive, however, with its own unique daubing of graffiti. As I strode down steps into a central square, lads doing wheelies on bikes criss-crossed the open space, making a point of narrowly missing me. Women carrying plastic carrier bags, many also pushing buggies, skirted the edges with their heads down.
Further on, groups of teenagers were hanging around watching me. Others sat on walls banging their heels into the bricks. Most were smoking, empty cans of beer strewn on the ground. Loud reggae music came from somewhere. Even at ten in the morning, it felt intimidating.
On the journey over, I’d made a plan about how I was going to play this. I hated the idea of deception, but if it ultimately led to the police arresting a serial killer, it was going to be worth it. I swatted Fenway’s disdainful face out of my mind. Then I thought of Terry and gulped hard. If he found out what I was up to he’d be simmering with disapproval too. But I needed to do this.
A woman edging towards fifty answered the door. She wore a pink miniskirt and tight low-cut top. Her legs were bare. Chestnut roots bled through her blonde hair.
‘Mrs Pitlock?’
‘Might be. Who’s asking?’ She held the edge of the door firmly, giving the impression of someone well-practised at slamming it shut.
‘I’m Dr Willerby from St Luke’s Hospital, near London Bridge.’ I held up the photo ID card I wore around my neck. ‘I’m involved in research looking into–’
‘Bugger off!’ she snarled.
‘There’s a fee,’ I called out, just as the gust of air from the slammed door hit me in the face.
The door opened again slowly, seemingly of its own volition. Her face slid into view. ‘A fee?’
‘We usually offer between one to two hundred pounds,’ I said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Depending on how useful the information is to us and how willing people are to–’
‘What information?’
A couple of front doors on the same floor had opened. A little black girl wandered out of one of them, sucking a lolly, and at the other, a woman in a dressing gown was leaning against the door frame, chewing gum, her eyes glued to me.
‘May I come in?’ I said, pulling my gaze back to Mrs Pitlock.
She grunted something and stood back, then led me through to a sitting room, heated like a sauna by a roaring gas fire. Mrs Pitlock gave a cursory wave to the nearest sofa and flopped into a rocking chair, which squeaked as it tipped back with her weight. I perched on the edge of the cushion, forced into that position by collapsing stacks of knitting magazines behind me.
‘So what do I have to do and when do I get the money?’
She was at least two stone overweight with chubby white flesh bulging out above her waistband. Judging by the lattice design imprinted on her cheek resembling a nearby cushion, I’d say she’d been fast asleep until I’d rung the bell.
‘We understand there’s been some renewed interest in your son, Chris, regarding the tragic death of his fiancée.’
Mrs Pitlock threw me a fierce look. ‘How does St Luke’s know about that?’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t reveal my sources,’ I said, bluffing my way through as I went along. ‘What we’re interested in is how bringing it all up again has affected you and your son. Mental health is big in the news these days, as you might be aware. We’re looking into whether people think the police are sensitive enough when handling this kind of thing.’
Mrs Pitlock took a laboured breath. ‘Sure, it’s shaken us all up again. That poor girl’s death was nothing to do with Chris,’ she said, picking up a couple of knitting needles embedded in a pile of lime-coloured wool that had been stuffed down the side of her seat. ‘I’m making a pair of gloves for him.’ She waved a leaflet at me, showing the pattern.
‘Complicated…’ I said, blinking hard. They resembled something you might make for a ten-year-old for a Halloween party.