Throwaways (Crime Files Book 2) Read online

  Throwaways

  Crime Files Book 2

  By Jenny Thomson

  Throwaways

  Copyright © 2014 by Jenny Thomson. All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: May 2015

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-121-8

  ISBN-10: 1-68058-121-X

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To my late dad, Sam, who fought cancer with a smile on his face and gritty determination.

  (1952—2015)

  To my partner, John, for putting up with questions that would terrify any man.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  As the ball gag cut off her cries for help, Diane tried to steady her breathing. If she didn’t, she’d suffocate. She sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” in her head and imagined she was in the kitchen warbling along with Kyra as they washed the dishes; little Kyra standing on a stool so she could reach the sink, her wee sleeves rolled up so her top didn’t get wet. But no matter how hard she tried to tune everything out, one thought was trapped in her head: she’d never see her daughter again.

  “It’s good money,” Traci had chirped as she’d flicked a strand of hair behind her ear. She was platinum blonde today. “All we need to do is put on a girl-on-girl show, lez it up a bit, and we’re on to a big score. It’ll be fun.”

  She made a gesture with her hand as though she was counting money. “From what I’ve heard, this punter is seriously loaded, and not shy about throwing his cash around, either.”

  The prospect of a big payday was tempting, but Diane had never done anything like that before. With her, a blowy down a dark lane and a wee car ride to the back of a disused warehouse was more her usual. She’d never done any lezzy stuff, but she couldn’t afford to turn this job down. Not with her Kyra needing some shoes.

  Despite the protests in her head, she said, “Okay, sounds good. But how did you find out about this gig? Do you know the guy?” She’d long since learnt that if something sounded too good to be true, it always was.

  Traci shook her head. “Nah, but a friend of mine vouched for him.”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  Her question made Traci smile, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. “If I told you that, doll, what’s to stop you cutting me out and doing the gig yourself?”

  There was an implied threat in her words. Diane knew she’d get rag dolled if she crossed Traci. She’d seen her in action enough times; once she’d dragged another girl along the sidewalk by the hair because she accused Traci of stealing one of her punters. The other girl had screamed like a banshee, but nobody had gone to help her. You looked after yourself on the streets and never got involved unless you wanted your face rearranged. That was rule number one.

  ***

  Traci hadn’t been capable of battering anyone the last time she’d seen her. Her ginger hair (he must have ripped off her wig) had been hacked off. Tufts of it stuck out, reminding Diane of one of the hairdressing dolls Kyra was always playing with. She called it Angel, but it was the ugliest thing she’d ever seen, especially after Kyra had cut off its hair with nail scissors when she’d been out of the room.

  What Diane wouldn’t give right now to have the doll on her lap whilst Kyra used her best lipstick as blush.

  A tear trundled down her cheek. Nobody was ever going to find her. She’d die here, alone in this damp, dark room, with rats that were as big as cats scuttling around. She’d starve to death, and then they’d eat her, gnawing on her face first; sharp, jagged teeth tearing into skin and bone. She’d seen that in a movie once. All she’d been given to eat was bread that was only fit for the birds and milk that smelt funny. She’d thought about not drinking it, but with nothing else to drink, she was always glad when she saw the plastic cup.

  When he brought the food, it was the only time he removed her gag. He’d leave her for five minutes, then return to replace the gag. If she resisted he’d inject her with one of those needles he always carried. Pain would scream through her veins, and then she’d be out of it. She’d wake up with a raging thirst and tendrils of hair sticking to the sweat on her face. But then there were worse things than being injected…

  Chapter 1

  As a division of labor went, it didn’t come more unfair than this. As Tommy sat in a comfy car, heater up full bung, sipping a Starbucks and leisurely munching on a cheese-and-onion bagel (with extra fried onions), I was standing outside, shivering my barely covered butt off, as the wind whooshed up my skirt and the rain came down like nails.

  This was summer in Scotland.

  Huddled in a doorway, in a scraggy blond wig and my best Pretty Woman outfit, I was already soaked to the skin. And I knew it wouldn’t get any better because there were men who would pull over in their cars and ask how much I charge for a blowjob or full sex.

  As downward spirals went, this was bad. At least it would have been if I hadn’t been out here to catch a killer and not because I was reduced to turning tricks for a living.

  After our last episode together—the word episode’s not mine, it’s Tommy’s; he likes to talk as though we’re on a TV show—we should have been desperate to retreat back into our safe, normal lives. We could start again, bound together by the secrets we shared—secrets that could never get out because they’d land us both in the slammer.

  But neither of us wanted that. Dicing with danger had whetted our appetites for a world where we could get justice for those who’d been wronged—I was once one of those people—and ensure scumbags got what they deserved. Our lack of ties meant we could do that without anyone knowing. Nobody was expecting us home at a set time, no family was waiting for us. My parents and brother were dead, and Tommy’s only close relative, his dad, was in a nursing home with dementia.

  Before the worst night of my life set off a chain of events that changed me forever, I’d been rudderless doing a job I hated, designing those awful leaflets for the inserts nobody wants that they put in newspapers and magazines, advertising all kind of crap like mobility scooters and over-fifties savings plans. I was a mouse trapped on a wheel that wouldn’t stop turning even when I wanted to get the hell off.

  Now I’d found meaning and a sense of purpose, and it had all been triggered by a news report abo
ut missing sex workers. One of those women had been found dead with the finger of another missing woman wedged in her throat as if it was a hot dog she’d swallowed whole. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get that image out of my head or the smarmy newsreader’s dismissive tone as she’d said the word prostitute. The prissy bitch spat out the word like phlegm. So much for the sisterhood.

  A car pulled up alongside me and a head came into view. “Want some business, darling?”

  Scrunching up my face, I tried not to laugh when I saw it was Tommy. “How does a boot to the groin region sound?” A quick smirk. “I’ll even pay you.”

  Tommy feigned shock. “Jeez, no wonder you’re making no money. Your customer service is lousy.”

  If I’d had anything heavy to hand, I’d have flung it at him.

  “You try standing on Beverley Hills Boulevard here, with a skirt the size of dental floss and see how you do, pal.”

  As I opened the door and climbed in the passenger seat, Tommy took in my outfit. “Doubt I’d look that good in a skirt and fishnets, Nancy.” He patted my leg, swiftly removing his hand when I gave him a death glare. “But, I prefer you as a redhead. It suits your fiery personality.”

  He was being polite. I’d caught sight of my reflection on the car door and I looked like a friend of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.

  Removing the blond wig, I shook out my real hair, glad to be rid of the hairpiece. “Do you think Kim’s ever going to show?”

  Tommy didn’t reply as the smile on his face dimmed.

  There was no point in deluding ourselves. After three nights walking the same streets where Kim used to ply her trade before she’d disappeared and then reappeared, there was no sign of her. It was beginning to look like she’d been spirited away again. But this time, just like Sheena and the other women, she might never be coming back.

  Maybe they’d find her in a dump somewhere with some other girl’s finger in her stomach too, her eyes and nose pecked out by crows.

  Finding Kim was the key to everything, because so far she was the only one who’d come back. Somehow she’d managed to escape the fate of the other missing women, at least once. We needed to find out what she knew.

  Chapter 2

  After we saw the story on the news and listened to a procession of tight-lipped commentators inferring that by their “choice of career” these women had given up any right to expect not to be abducted and murdered, Tommy and I decided to “look into things.” We told ourselves there was no obligation for us to get involved. We’d already put our lives on the line and weren’t looking to do so again against someone who could well be another Suffolk Strangler. At least that’s what I told myself. The truth was I’d got an adrenaline rush out of getting revenge and being a kickass. I wanted more. For me, there was no going back to my old life, because the person in that life was now a stranger to me.

  Tommy’s eyes narrowed with concentration as we’d worked out a plan. “Before we can do anything, we need to know everything we can about the victims. Their families, their friends, or any ties they might have.”

  “We can glean as much as we can from the papers and the news,” I said. “Speak to their families.”

  Tommy nodded. “I have a friend in the force. He’ll help us with some info. He worked with our Sammy.”

  Tommy’s brother had been an undercover cop. He’d been killed by the same man who’d ordered the murders of my parents and brother. The bastard had eventually been killed by his own daughter, but only because I couldn’t kill him first. Whilst I was sad about her death, I’d have danced on her father’s grave, after lighting a bonfire and having a barbecue. Hate wasn’t a strong enough word to describe my thoughts towards him. He’d taken so much from me.

  “We should talk to the women who work the same streets as they do,” I said. “Maybe they’ll know something.” Tommy didn’t look so sure, so I carried on. “It wasn’t like those women worked as city bankers. They were mixing with sordid little men who can only get their rocks off with a woman they paid to go down an alleyway for a quick fumble. Pathetic bastards.”

  Tommy grinned. “Christ, Nancy, you’re pretty judgmental about the punters.”

  The vein in my forehead throbbed. “And I shouldn’t be? Don’t you read the papers? These punters couldn’t care less that they’re fuelling those women’s addictions. Or that they’re no better than rapists because they have sex with girls who’ve been sex trafficked, many of them kids.”

  Tommy held up his hand in surrender. “Fair enough. But we’ll need to tread carefully. They’ll already be jittery; I don’t want a stiletto heel through my skull.”

  “We could always offer money for information,” I said. “That might get them to tell us things that they wouldn’t tell the cops.”

  Tommy sucked in his cheeks. “Nah. These women are scared shitless. It’d be better if…”

  “If what?” I hated when he clammed up like this.

  There was an awkward moment as he stared off into the distance, flexing his arm until it cracked. Eventually he said, “Nah, you couldn’t do that.”

  Reaching over, I pinched his arm. He didn’t flinch, but then with biceps like his, it probably hadn’t registered. He swallowed, and this time he met my gaze. “They’d be more likely to talk to you if you were one of them.”

  He was right. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  Seeing his serious expression, I couldn’t risk a jibe. I needed something to lighten the atmosphere, because the thought of walking the same streets as those murdered women had sickened me. “Crikey, a few months into our relationship and you’re already pimping me out. Should I be worried?”

  Now he smiled, but it quickly faded. “Obviously it’d be as a last resort,” Tommy said, his mouth tight. “You wouldn’t have to actually turn tricks. Just act like you are. Put on a show. Make yourself believable. We need the other girls to see you as one of them so they’ll confide in you and tell you where to find Kim.”

  Shit. The full implication of what I’d agreed to do started to sink in, and my stomach felt like I’d swallowed a lump of lead. “What am I meant to say if a punter comes over and rolls down the window?”

  “Tell them you have a regular appointment to keep with a cop. That’ll scare them off.”

  Tommy had an answer for everything.

  “But you going on the streets is us going out on a limb, Nancy. You know that even with me nearby, it’s dangerous. Anything could happen.”

  He’d get no argument from me on that score.

  “You know I’d do it, but my hairy legs would give me away. Glasgow’s not ready for the Ladyboys.” The glint in his eyes made me chuckle, then he went back to being serious. “It might not even come to that. Most women are harmed by people they know. Husbands, boyfriends, relations, even parents. So we concentrate on family first.” He paused. “We’ll need a cover story.”

  I’d come up with a plan I thought would work. “We can say we’re journalists doing a story on their daughters, trying to find out what happened to them.”

  Tommy didn’t agree. “The press have been door-stepping these poor bastards for weeks now, writing all sorts of lurid tales about their daughters’ descents into prostitution. Painting them as junkie whores. They’ll just slam their doors in our faces and tell us to fuck off. Who can blame them? I’d do the same thing.”

  He had a point. “But how else do we get them to talk to us? We can’t say we’re the police. They’ll expect to see some ID, and when we don’t have it, they’ll call the cops on us.”

  The last thing I needed was the ever-diligent Detective Inspector Waddell on my case. The man was as tenacious as a terrier down a rabbit hole. He already suspected I’d been up to no good, which was hardly surprising when one of the men who murdered my parents and raped me ended up tied to a bed, in his manky boxers, with the word rapist carved into his stomach Lisbeth Salander style. Not that I’d been a complete psycho. I’d shown him some mercy and had drugged him first. He
and his mate had shown me no such mercy when they’d raped me again and again before abandoning me to die alone in a puddle of my own blood.

  Tommy outlined his plan. “We tell them we’re relatives of one of the missing girls and we want to find out what happened to her and the others. That way the families of the other women might talk to us.”

  “That might work,” I said. At least they’d be sympathetic and less likely to chase us from their doors.

  So that’s what we agreed to do. But first we had to learn as much about the missing women as we could before we spoke to anyone.

  Whilst I headed off to the Mitchell Reference Library where they kept newspapers on microfiche, Tommy went off to speak to his police contact. Between us, we’d get what we needed.

  Chapter 3

  “Let’s look at what we do know.”

  We’d turned Tommy’s once-orderly apartment into investigation central. We had a large whiteboard like the one we’d seen on police shows. On the board we’d pinned a picture cutout of a newspaper of Suzy Henderson, the former law student who’d once been a model. The photo was a portfolio picture the newspaper had got from a modeling agency of Suzy pouting as the wind machine blew her black curly hair, making it look like it was full of volume. A year after the photo was taken, she was working as an escort to pay off her student loans and cover the cost of a new modeling portfolio. By the age of twenty-one, she had a cocaine habit—she’d starting snorting coke when she’d been a model to keep her weight down—had been kicked out of college, and was told she was “too old” for modeling.

  Next to Suzy, we’d pinned a picture of Sheena Andrews, a smiling teenager in a slinky party dress at her sixteenth birthday party. It was hard to believe that seven months later, the fresh-faced teen had been picked up by the police for soliciting in Glasgow’s red light district. Like Suzy, her fall from grace had been pretty spectacular. Straight-A student at a fee-paying school so prestigious there was a waiting list, to “twenty quid a time” streetwalker. Unlike Suzy Henderson who was currently languishing in a mortuary drawer, Sheena’s fate was less certain. Someone had leaked it to the newspapers that she’d been alive when her finger had been bitten off. The teeth marks matched Suzy’s dental records. Try as I might, I couldn’t imagine how that happened.