“It’s fair comment, Speedy. You used to be better.” Her voice was softer now, she was calming down. But she was right. There was a time when he’d been seen as the golden boy, the cop with the promising future. That was ages ago now, though. He’d actually got himself a bravery award back in the day, but since then his work record had gone steadily downhill.
He rubbed his head — it ached and Grace’s ranting didn’t help. That was the last time he’d drink any of Les’s hooch, no matter how cheap or tempting. When he got back to the nick he’d need a gallon of coffee and a load of Paracetamol just to feel human again. “He wants to know about missing persons, women, in the last forty-eight hours. See what you can do, babe.”
“Don’t call me babe.” She replied and rang off.
* * *
The more Greco saw of the ex-mill town, the more he disliked it. He’d come here after his marriage had collapsed, this was where his ex-wife Suzy had chosen to live. It wasn’t that he harboured any romantic notions about winning the woman back; that boat had long since sailed. It was all about seeing their five-year-old daughter, Matilda, on a regular basis.
He’d moved to Oldston from Norfolk. The two environments were worlds apart. His patch in Norfolk had been rural, spread out. He’d loved the place and the warm, dry weather. The countryside had been a beautiful backdrop to his job, so different from the bleak grey that seemed to hang over Oldston.
In the cold and damp of an early spring morning he had to wonder what had motivated Suzy to move here of all places. It was so out of character. She’d been brought up on a farm near the Norfolk Broads and her parents still lived down there, retired now to the seaside at Cromer.
In complete contrast, Oldston was industrial — or it had been once. The remains of the cotton industry were visible everywhere; in the huge dilapidated, red brick mills scattered around the town and the rows of Victorian terraced houses that fanned out from the centre. Oldston’s problem was that nothing had replaced the cotton industry. This meant there was nothing to mop up the vast pool of labour in the area. An underlying poverty pervaded the place, which Greco found depressing.
Suzy was renting a house in the Leesworth area — the more upmarket part of this godforsaken hole. Greco wasn’t daft — there had to be a man at the bottom of it, but Suzy wasn’t saying anything.
“Inspector!” A female voice called out from behind him, breaking into his reverie.
Greco and Quickenden turned to see a dark-haired woman in a white coverall coming towards them. She was carrying a doctor’s bag and had a voice recorder in her hand.
“Doctor Natasha Barrington, home office pathologist from the Duggan Centre,” she told them, taking some identification from her pocket.
“DI Greco and Sergeant Quickenden from Oldston CID,” Greco said.
“Don’t come any nearer without covering up,” she instructed, handing out the suits and gloves. “I’ll take a look; give you the basics and the have the preliminary report with you later today,” she assured them, pulling up the hood on the suit.
“Suspicious death, or did she fall?” Quickenden asked hopefully, hauling his lanky frame into the coverall.
The pathologist ignored the comment and knelt down beside the dead woman. With her gloved hands she gently moved some of the dark hair that covered the side of her face. “The wound on her head is deep. I can see the skull,” she noted into the voice recorder. “Also there are what looks like wood splinters embedded in the wound.”
“There’s your answer, Sergeant. Do you see anything made of wood here that she could have fallen onto?” Greco asked him.
“There are defence wounds on her hands,” the pathologist continued. “This woman tried to fight someone off — perhaps her attacker,” she told the pair. “I’d say she’d been dead since late last night — about eight hours. She looks about forty to forty-five years old.”
The pathologist slowly rolled the body over a little further onto her side.
Greco, now suited up, moved forward.
“Is there anything to help with identification, anything lying under her?”
“There’s no sign of any belongings under the body.”
“Could you look in her coat pockets? Anything at all would help.”
Natasha Barrington felt in both coat pockets and then put her hand into the inside one. “An ID badge. . .” She placed it in an evidence bag. “. . . In the name of Brenda Hirst. It appears she worked for Webb’s Travel.”
Greco noted down the name in his notebook.
“Also there are some nasty scratches on her wrist. I’d say a watch or bracelet had been ripped off her.”
But it was the side of her face that had Greco’s attention now. The cheek bones on the left side were caved in. It looked as if someone had stamped on her head.
“There is an imprint, Inspector,” Natasha Barrington confirmed, “a boot with a thick, heavy tread.”
He heard Quickenden cough and then retch. Natasha Barrington stiffened and said nothing for a few seconds. She’d moved the woman onto her back. Greco could hear her breathing as she knelt for a long moment, looking at the woman’s face.
“I’ll arrange for our CSI people to attend right away,” she told them both soberly. “You should see this.” She moved aside and beckoned Greco closer. “I think it removes any doubt about this being an accident,” she said. “Her eyes are missing. From the look of the wound, I’d say they were gouged out deliberately.”
Chapter 2
The woman’s body went to the morgue at the Duggan Centre and Greco and Quickenden went back to the station. Neither man spoke much about what they’d seen. Both of them knew the score. Quickenden spent the journey mentally rearranging his week’s social life. Basically clearing the decks because there was no way he’d get out of putting in the long hours the case would demand.
“Nasty,” he said finally, as they pulled into the station car park. “Who does that sort of thing? What sort of monsters have we got out there?”
“The very worst, Sergeant, which is why we need to stay focused.”
“Mind if I grab a bite in the canteen before I come up?”
“Take half an hour. We’ll have a meeting at one o’clock, see what we’ve got.”
Half an hour — the man’s generosity knew no bounds! Mind you eating could be a problem; he still felt lousy from last night’s session. He’d drunk far too much and on an empty stomach too, so now he was suffering for it.
One thing was for sure; he could do without the hassle of a new case, and partnering the DI would put him in the spotlight again — great! It would soon become glaringly obvious that his heart wasn’t in it anymore. Quickenden’s job set him apart from everyone he’d grown up with and he was getting tired of being the guy no one wanted to talk to. A lot of his schoolmates had turned to crime after long spells of unemployment and Quickenden knew the score — he was a cop so they no longer trusted him. It was a situation that he was uncomfortable with particularly as he still liked to socialise with most of them.
As usual, the canteen was busy. He scanned the tables for someone he could foist himself on and spotted DC Grace Harper in the queue for food.
“Grace!” he called to out to the pretty blonde. “There’ll be no peace now, it’s a real bad ’un.” He grimaced, standing beside her. “Eyes missing, nearly threw up — never seen owt like it.”
“D’you mind Speedy, I’m about to eat.” She pulled a face.
“He’ll really be on one now. He’ll have us here at all hours. Greco’ll have us running around like scalded cats, and then he’ll just go and double check everything himself. The man’s an obsessive.”
“He’s bloody good and like I said earlier, you need to straighten yourself out. Try to be a bit more like him.”
“Please no!” He feigned shock. “Why on earth would I want to do that?”
“Because you’re going nowhere, being like you are now. Don’t you want promotion — a leg up to DI, your o
wn team?”
“No way — I’d have to move.”
“And look at the state of you, Speedy, you’re a disgrace. He won’t have it, not for much longer. Mess up on the case as well as continuing to look like a washing basket gone wrong and you’ll be out.”
Speedy knew she was right, but did he really care? The job was a real pain in the arse at times, and he was on a bit of a roll at the Spinners, his local pub. He and some mates had a card game going. Over the last few nights he’d cleared over a ton, with precious little effort. He could see why some of his mates were workshy — they didn’t have to bother.
“Pie looks nice — they make it here,” Grace told him.
“Don’t know if I can — my guts are bad. Anyway if it’s so nice why aren’t you having it?” He was looking at her plate of salad.
“Some food might settle you. It’s going to be a long day,” she warned, ignoring his observation.
“Okay — get me some, will you, and I’ll get us a table,” he offered.
“Come on, Speedy, out with the money.” She held out her hand, flexing her fingers. “I’m not some sort of soft touch who’ll fall for your little boy lost routine.”
No, she wasn’t and that was a pity because he liked Grace. Trouble was she had more sense than to like him back.
* * *
There were times when Speedy got on Grace’s nerves. He could have had it all yet all he ever did was squander his chances. He’d made sergeant in no time flat, whereas for her it was going to be a long hard slog.
Grace was ambitious. Before she’d had Holly she’d had a plan that would see her at the top of her game by the time she reached forty. But that was out of the window now. There was no way she could do that and raise Holly on her own. Her mother helped, she was a marvel, but she had her own life to lead.
Every morning, Grace felt guilty when she dumped Holly with either the breakfast club at school or with her mother. She wanted to be a good detective, and she knew she had it in her to be one of the best. But all her DI saw was a DC who was usually late and the first to leave given half the chance. Speedy didn’t know he was born, yet all he did was abuse his opportunity.
“Like I said, you’re not eating much.” He grinned at her as he shovelled the pie down his throat.
“This will do me for now,” Grace sighed, sitting down. “For someone who wasn’t hungry, you’ve made short work of that.”
“Like you say, it’ll be a long day.”
Grace pushed the lettuce leaves and tomato around her plate. Speedy was right, she didn’t eat very much. Her mother said she was too thin and needed some meat on her bones. But Grace liked the way she looked. She was slim, she had a straight up-and-down figure that was almost boyish. On the days she wore jeans and a shirt, from behind it was only her long blonde hair that gave the game away. People said she was pretty, but Grace was a realist. The trials and tribulations of life had hardened her features. She looked like the sort of woman who’d stand no nonsense. Pity she hadn’t always looked that way. In her younger days, she’d had to put up with enough ‘nonsense’ to last her a lifetime.
* * *
Georgina Booth was the information officer for CID at the station. She wasn’t attached to a particular team but worked where she was most needed. However if Georgina was given the choice she would have chosen to stay with DI Greco on a permanent basis. She liked his style, he got things done and this suited her no nonsense approach.
She took her work seriously, throwing herself into whatever case was current. Georgina didn’t attract the attention that Grace did. She wasn’t attractive for a start. She was small and dumpy with dark hair which she wore cut short. Grace could have a laugh with the others, and they liked her. Georgina didn’t have that sort of confidence. She was far more serious and, given the job, didn’t think there was a lot to laugh about. She didn’t wear a uniform but always dressed in a skirt and white blouse. Georgina, or George, liked her job, the only trouble was — she was spread a little thin.
She’d tried her hand at regular police work; she’d made CID and been a DC like Grace a couple of years ago but she couldn’t hack it. Being out there, on the job, seeing life in the raw had taken its toll. George had made the decision to stick to a desk job — it was safer.
While Greco and Quickenden were out, she and Grace had looked at the latest list of missing persons. Two of the names fitted the description of the dead woman.
* * *
Brenda Hirst and Rose Donnelly were both fortyish. Brenda had been reported missing by her husband, Jack, and Rose by a friend who hadn’t wanted to leave a name. Greco took the mobile from his pocket and flicked through the dozens of snaps. The last two were of the woman.
The victim wore a beige three-quarter length raincoat, and a black pleated skirt. He couldn’t see her top. Her shoes were black, heels low and chunky. She wasn’t dressed for a night out on the tiles — so where had she been? More importantly, what had happened to take her along the canal bank, which was well known, according to Quickenden, for being a dangerous place?
“Do we know anything about either of these women?” he asked Grace when she returned from lunch.
“Rose Donnelly was done for shoplifting about two years ago,” she told him.
“Dig out the file and leave it handy. There may be nothing in it but these women are roughly the same age and went missing at the same time.”
Greco sent the photo he’d taken of the victim to the printer and stuck the image in the dead centre of the incident board, fiddling around until he got it exactly right. As the seconds passed, Suzy’s voice echoed in his head. Let it go Stephen or it’ll rule your life. He gave the image one last tweak and walked away. She was right; his OCD was taking over again. Stress, he reckoned but what could he do about that? It came with the job.
He walked out, he needed to take five minutes, get his head together before the briefing. Greco made for the gents toilet. He leant forward over one of the sinks and took several deep breaths. Suzy’s words were still ringing his head. But it wasn’t that easy. She had no idea what he went through. He turned on the tap holding his hands under the steady stream of hot water. He held them there for several minutes, every few seconds using the liquid soap from the dispenser to scrub off imaginary dirt. This was stupid, so why couldn’t he stop?
“Okay, sir?” DC Craig Merrick asked. He’d come in to wash his hands, and Greco hadn’t even noticed until he’d spoken.
Greco nodded, but as he caught his own reflection in the mirror he could understand why the man had asked — he was white. The colour had literally drained form his face. “Just cleaning up — it was a hard one this morning.”
Walking back to the office, Greco felt his heart pounding. If he couldn’t get it under control he’d have to see someone about it — again.
Once back he looked around; Grace, Georgina and Craig were all back from lunch and busy working, but there was no sign of Quickenden. Greco looked up at the office clock — he’d taken almost an hour now. He wrote the name ‘Brenda Hirst’ neatly next to the photo on the board followed by a question mark.
“Sorry, sir,” Quickenden apologised, as he barged through the office door. Greco could see that he was out of breath. He’d obviously run up the stairs.
Greco said nothing — he’d deal with him later.
“Grace, do you have the Hirsts’ address?”
“They live quite near where she was found, sir,” she noted, handing him the sheet.
“Could have been a domestic.” Quickenden threw this into the pot. “Irate husband does in the wife then goes berserk — well, with whatever he took her eyes out with.”
Greco did not appreciate the humour. “We’ll go and talk to him,” he said, looking directly at his sergeant. “And while we’re there keep the facile comments to yourself, understand?”
“It’s not facile, sir, it could well be a simple case of a domestic,” Quickenden reiterated. “A row, a fight, and she ends up on
the canal bank.”
“It says on the report that when Jack Hirst reported her missing he was asked if his wife might simply have left him. But he was adamant that she wouldn’t do that. He reckoned they were solid,” Grace told him, reading from the sheet.
Greco rolled his eyes. “She was killed several hours after she’d left work. She went somewhere, and not with her husband. And don’t you believe all you hear about marriage, Constable. They all have their problems.”
Quickenden had not been listening. He was rattling around in one of his desk drawers looking for something. Greco saw him wink at Grace Harper.
“Get a move on, Sergeant,” Greco barked.
“Just tidy myself up a bit, sir,” he replied.
“Tidy hair won’t fix things,” he warned.
Greco saw the looks exchanged between Grace and Quickenden. She was doing her best to warn him to tone it down — it showed in her body language.
“Sorry if this wasn’t what you have in mind for today. I don’t imagine that partnering the DI is something you enjoy but it’s in the job spec, Quickenden,” Greco put to him sarcastically. “We have a job to do and I am going to be on your back day and night until we’ve cracked this. So sort yourself out.”
“I’ll go to barber’s later — get it cut,” he said with one last look in the mirror.
“I’m only interested in the case, Sergeant, not your hair.”
“A bloke has an image to keep up, sir. There was a bird in the Spinners the other night who really liked it. She sat on my knee and ran her fingers through my mane.”
Greco shook his head. He didn’t have an office of his own so he’d chosen a desk as far away from the others as he could get. But the inane chatter he was constantly privy to drove him up the wall, and was a first class waste of time.
“Grace, get hold of the CCTV footage from around Webb’s Travel where Brenda Hirst worked on the High street and have a look at it,” he barked sharply. “You should have sobered up by now, sergeant, so you can drive. You know the town far better than I do.” Greco threw him a set of car keys.
Complete Detective Stephen Greco Box Set Page 2
