Death Call by T S O'Rourke

opened a couple of bottles of wine and, once the kids had been put to bed for the night, there was no stopping her. Grant couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex. It seemed like years, but it didn’t take him long to get back into his stride. Whether it was something to do with the disappointment of her Yardie boyfriend not turning up, or whether she still had feelings for Sam, wasn’t really obvious. Sam just decided to go along with the flow.
     
    Victoria was all dressed up, wearing the sort of finery that he remembered from when they were dating all those years before. Once they were married though, she had let herself go to seed. It was as if she didn’t care how she looked anymore. Maybe that was why Grant had taken to spending more time at work. Whatever their separation had done for Vicky, Grant thought, it had worked wonders. She used to complain that she didn’t feel like getting dressed up and was always tired from looking after the kids. That certainly didn’t seem to be the case now.
     
    He had forgotten how quickly she could move him with just one look. A certain glance, a way of moving, a swing of her hips and that damned seductive smile. He knew what was coming, but he had to sit back and wait for it. There was no use in rushing Victoria. If he rushed her, then she’d only get annoyed at his presumption and he would’ve found himself back in his Dalston flat – alone. She always did like to be in control.
     
    Grant’s phone call came at just after seven, as DCI Jones had trouble locating him. He wasn’t to be found at his Dalston flat, so, using his rusty detecting skills, Jones had tracked him down to his wife’s house.
     
    Victoria wasn’t amused at being woken up at seven in the morning by Sam’s boss. It reminded her of the way it was before their split, and she didn’t like it one little bit. It was all she could do to stop herself from screaming at him to get out. He apologised, understanding the fire that was present in her eyes, and left.
     
    Carroll and Grant sat down in front of Jones, waiting for the story to be told. Jones obliged.
     
    ‘While you two were sleeping, Wheeler and Thompson were hard at work. We had another stiff turn up last night. Same MO as your slasher. In fact the whole thing looks very similar indeed,’ Jones said.
     
    ‘Another prostitute?’ Carroll asked.
     
    ‘Yeah, looks like she was sexually assaulted, too. Forensics are finishing up on the scene at the moment. I want you two to take over from Thompson and Wheeler – it’s obviously your guy who did this, and you must be near to finding him by now....’ Jones said, fishing for an update.
     
    ‘Well, we have a general description of the perpetrator, sir, but we haven’t got any definite description yet....’ Grant said.
     
    ‘You can start by knocking on some doors down Baalbec Street. The body was found in the bedroom of number twelve. Wheeler and Thompson left their report on your desk – read up on it and then get to work. And gentlemen, I want to see some results. You’ve been moving too slow on the McCrae case. Don’t go letting the grass grow under your feet, okay?’
     
    Grant made a move to get up from his seat. Jones looked at him and smiled.
     
    ‘It took a while to get a hold of you this morning, Sam, are you back with your wife?’
     
    ‘I don’t think that has anything to do with you, sir....’
     
    ‘We need to be able to contact you at all times. Your mobile was switched off. At least have the courtesy to leave a contact number in future, Detective Constable Grant, okay?’ Jones didn’t like being snubbed, it seemed.
     
    Thompson and Wheeler had been working hard. The report was one of the best that either Carroll or Grant had read for a long time. Not only was it neatly typed, it also had every last detail, every last angle and attitude. In fact the report was so good, that Carroll could visualise the entire crime scene from the notes. The last time