“Later this morning,” Natasha replied, checking her watch. “Say about eleven?”
“I think this is one we should attend,” he told Quickenden, who muttered a reply.
“Okay, eleven it is then,” Natasha said.
“Have the photos been taken?”
“Being done now,” Roxy said.
“Don’t keep her up there for a second longer than necessary,” said Greco.
Natasha called to a man in a coverall who was taking photographs. “How long now, Mark?”
“Nearly there,” he said.
This had not been done on the spur of the moment, in jealousy or rage. The trussing up, the torture, were horrifying. This was the work of a psychopath.
“I want you to find the next of kin. Take them to the Duggan and get a formal identification. Don’t say anything other than that she’s been killed. No details. Do you understand?” Greco said.
Quickenden nodded.
“I’ll do what I can to make her more presentable,” said Natasha.
“And don’t go disappearing,” Greco said to Quickenden.
The sergeant nodded. He wiped his face with a hankie.
Quickenden had tried to up his game since Greco became his DI. At least he’d managed to moderate his behaviour — and improve his appearance. His clothes were clean and ironed. He’d had his hair cut. But even Greco had to admit the new look did nothing for him. Quickenden just never looked right. He was tall and very thin. Short hair accentuated his long, thin face.
“Unless Green says otherwise, I want you on this one. No excuses. Have you got that?”
Quickenden nodded. Then he dashed outside and threw up again.
* * *
Greco knew he should go straight to the station and begin formulating a plan for the investigation. But first he had to shower and change. There was no way he could get though the day wearing the clothes he’d entered that room in. His OCD wouldn’t let him. It had flared up again, brought on by the horror of what he’d just seen.
He’d go to his flat. That way, his ex-wife Suzy would never know. Together they had developed a strategy to keep his condition under control, and it had been working — until now. He didn’t want her upset by this sudden setback.
He and Suzy were together again, but taking things slowly. It was she who wanted to try again after their divorce, and Greco was happy to agree. The divorce had made him miserable. It had been hard only seeing his daughter on designated weekends, and not being able to talk to Suzy properly. He was delighted when she’d admitted the divorce had been a mistake.
He’d kept his flat on because it was useful. When he was working late or had one of his bouts of insomnia it was simpler just to stay there. But it was an indulgence they couldn’t afford for much longer. He really should consider putting it on the market
Suzy was helping him with his condition. She knew him better than anyone and recognised all the signs — the obsessive hand-washing, the preoccupation with hygiene, having everything exactly in its place. With her help he was confident he’d get on top of it. But not today. Today was an exception he couldn’t tell her about.
Greco tore off his clothes and jumped into the shower as soon as he arrived. A new bar of soap and a torrent of hot water would hopefully wash away any contamination from that room. Not that Greco really believed there was any. He had that much rationality. After a thorough scrub and a mug of coffee he began to feel normal again. He’d needed this time out. If he was to function at his best, his head had to be clear, and free of obsessive-compulsive thoughts.
He put on fresh clothes, deciding to wear a lighter suit. The weather was getting warmer. It was late spring, and at last he could put away the overcoat he’d practically lived in all winter. A quick check in the mirror, a reminder to himself to get his hair cut, a tweak of his tie . . . he was ready to go.
He heard a key turn in the lock on the front door. It was Doris Hope, his cleaning lady. Apart from Suzy, Doris was the only other person to have a key. She came in three times a week, whether he’d been there or not, so the place was always spick and span.
“Hello, Mr Greco!” she said. “I’m glad I’ve caught you. No need to leave a note now, and anyway, it’s better said in person.”
“What is it, Mrs Hope?”
“I’m leaving you, I’m afraid.” She threw her coat onto a chair and Greco tensed. “My Albert has retired now, you see. We’ve decided to go for one of those houses on Pierce Street, the old terraced cottages. It’s a buy-to-let project. It’ll keep Albert out of trouble and bring in extra income to eke out our pensions.”
“You’re going to help him?” Greco picked up the coat and hung it up in the hallway.
“Not really. I’ll be the gofer. It’ll be me down the do-it-yourself shops buying stuff, making his sandwiches, keeping the place tidy, that sort of thing.”
“I wish you luck. It’s hard work I believe, but a popular undertaking these days. Always providing folk have the money.”
“We’ve saved for most of our lives. But it’s no good stashing money in the bank the way things are, is it?”
“So when do you want to go?”
“Today, after I’ve finished, if that’s alright with you. I’ll stick the key through the letterbox when I’ve locked up.”
Greco nodded. “I’ll pop round later with your wages. Thanks for all the time you’ve put in.” He smiled at her.
“You’re a treat to work for. You’ve been no trouble at all,” she said, making her way into the kitchen. “I wish all my people had been like you.”
Greco walked out to his car. Perhaps he should take Mrs Hope’s leaving as a sign. Use it as the excuse he was looking for to ditch the flat once and for all and move in properly with Suzy. He’d give it some thought and talk it over with her later. In the meantime he had the case to think about.
The body of that poor girl was one of the most awful sights he’d ever witnessed. The killer had taken his time, inflicted intense pain and made her suffer until the very end. Was it personal? Did he have a private vendetta? Or, more terrifying, was it the beginning of a new nightmare for the town of Oldston? If this was the case, would his team even be allowed to get involved? Greco knew that moves were afoot to set up a ‘Major Incident Team’ to cover all serious crime committed in the Oldston, Leesworth and nearby Daneside areas. This team would be made up of CID officers handpicked from within the local stations along with others recruited from outside.
Greco didn’t know any of the officers at Daneside, but he did know the people at Leesworth. DC Rockliffe had been offered a place on the new MIT but had already refused. DI Calladine would more than likely be considered too old. As for his own people — DC Grace Harper perhaps? She was good, and had showed promise during the last case they’d worked on. He couldn’t see Quickenden being offered a place. He was too work-shy. Then there was him of course. But was that the way he wanted to go? And if he did, who would head up the MIT? He pulled into the car park at the Duggan Centre. His phone rang. It was DCI Colin Green from the station. This would be it — the final word on whether he was in or out of the case.
“Stephen,” began Green. “I’ve seen the preliminary report. It’s a bad one. Whoever did this needs catching fast, but we’ve got a problem. The new team we discussed is still a work in progress. This happened on our patch, so I’m afraid Oldston station has drawn the short straw. And that means you.”
So there it was. His team was on its own once again.
“I did wonder whether or not the new squad would get it.”
“We’re no nearer than we were three months ago, when it was first mooted. Too few officers of the right calibre, and even fewer resources. However, there is help if you need it. Daneside have offered someone. Leesworth are already an officer down, so no joy there, but you must make full use of uniform. Get them to do the legwork. We have some good people, Stephen.”
Trouble was, Greco could count those good people on the fingers of
one hand. “Who’s on the cards from Daneside?”
“A Sergeant Seddon. Good record, looking for promotion, sounds promising. I’ll sort it.”
“We should wait until we know what we’re up against.”
“Don’t be coy about accepting the help, Stephen. We need this sorting quickly. We’ve already got the press outside the station, and they’re baying for blood.”
“They were quick off the mark. It’s only been a few hours.”
“Someone on that street rang them. Which means they’ll have already sold what they know for a fat fee, and have no doubt been promised more if they keep their eyes peeled,” Green said bitterly. “Since you will be going back there to interview the neighbours, be careful what is said. I don’t mean you particularly, but the other members of your team.”
“I understand, sir,” Greco replied. “If this Sergeant Seddon is keen to join us, that’s fine with me. I’m at the Duggan now. Quickenden and I will observe the PM then get back to the station.”
But Quickenden was nowhere to be seen and his vehicle wasn’t in the car park. He should be inside with the relatives, helping them through the identification of the body. So what had happened?
Chapter 2
Jed Quickenden took one look at the address and groaned. Why did it have to be here? Why him? The spring sunshine did nothing to make the Link Road estate look better. It was a depressing, downtrodden place that the council, and even the law, chose to ignore as much as possible.
But it was more than that for Quickenden. Ever since Grady Gibbs’s death he’d been avoiding the area. People blamed him. Of course they knew Quickenden hadn’t wielded the knife himself, and most folk hadn’t liked Gibbs much either. But Gibbs had been one of their own, and Quickenden was now very much on the other side.
He parked his car on a stretch of open ground and stared up at the tower block. Jessie Weston had lived on the twelfth floor with her mother Mavis and a younger brother. He knew the lift only went as far as the sixth. “I’ll go up and get her,” he told the uniformed officer who’d accompanied him.
He hauled his lanky frame step by step up the last six flights, gasping. He was seriously out of condition. Too many fags, too much booze and precious little in the way of exercise took its toll no matter how young you were. If he wanted to keep this job he’d have to try harder. But was he up to it? Greco had marked his card and was watching him like a hawk. It had got so bad Quickenden was rapidly getting sick of the whole police thing. If he could find some other way of earning a living, he’d get out.
Panting, the DS banged on the front door of flat 1207. No answer. He tried peering through the window but it was caked with dirt.
“Get lost!” a male voice shouted from inside.
“Police!” Quickenden bawled back. He was in no mood for a protracted argument.
“We ain’t done nowt, so sling yer hook!” An empty beer can struck the inside of the window.
“It’s about Jessie!” Quickenden shouted back. “I need to see her mother.”
“What’s the stupid cow done now?” Finally a dishevelled youth came to the door.
“Is Mavis Weston in?”
“No, she ain’t come home in a while. I ain’t got a clue where she’s gone.”
Now Quickenden had a problem. He needed a close relative to identify Jessie. Would this one do? “Can’t you ring her? It is important.”
“She don’t answer.”
“Who are you?”
“Jonathan Weston, Jessie’s brother.”
“How old are you, son?”
The young man was tall, slight and scruffily dressed. He looked about sixteen.
“Nineteen. Why? What d’you think I’ve done?”
“Nothing, Jonathan. This is about Jessie. Look, there’s no easy way to say this . . .” Quickenden could tell the lad was losing interest. He kept looking back towards the TV and the football match he’d been watching. “I’m afraid Jessie’s dead. She’s been killed.”
Someone scored a goal. The lad grunted. “You’re kidding me. You don’t expect me to believe that.”
“It’s the truth.”
“What happened?”
He didn’t seem much surprised.
“It’s a murder enquiry, so I can’t say much.”
“Murder? Our Jessie? Got that one wrong, mate. Jessie will be working about now, down at the Crown.”
“No, Jonathan, she isn’t. In fact, that’s why I’m here . . . I want you to come with me and identify her body.”
“Why bother? You seem to know who you’ve got.”
“It has to be done formally by a relative, someone who knew her well. Why not get your coat and come with me. I’ve got a car down there and an officer will bring you right back.”
“You’re not having me on, are you?”
“No. I wish I was. Your sister has been killed. It’s no joke, and we are searching for her murderer.”
Jonathan Weston grabbed a coat off a hook behind the door and stepped out onto the deck. He looked at Quickenden. “Won’t throw up, will I? Never seen a dead body before.”
* * *
The post-mortem room had never held any fears for Greco. He liked the clinical cleanliness of the gleaming stainless steel and the white floors. They were somehow comforting. He stood on a raised platform only five feet from where Natasha Barrington would perform her art.
Jessie Weston’s body was laid out on a table, covered in a white sheet. He shuddered. She was so young, too young to have had her life so brutally snatched from her. A long list of questions swirled in Greco’s mind and he tried to order them. First, he had to determine the motive.
Natasha Barrington smiled and waved at him as she and her assistants entered the room.
“Alone, I see,” she said. “Your sergeant got cold feet again?”
Greco didn’t reply. Quickenden had gained a reputation. He had been warned about his conduct during the last big case they’d worked on. Greco didn’t want to be on his back again.
“She’d been dead about ten hours when she was found. So I’d put time of death at one this morning.” Natasha removed the sheet and reached for a microphone.
Greco wondered where had she been until that time on a week night.
“We have the body of a female, one Jessie Weston. Her brother gave her age as twenty-six. She’s of slim build and otherwise healthy.” She leaned over to examine the body more closely. “There are a number of injuries on the upper torso and the face.” She stood to one side, making way for the photographer. “Most of these are burns. To the face, chest and arms. The right nipple has been completely burned away.”
Greco felt sick.
“There are what appear to be knife cuts to the body, on both thighs and the belly. She has several much deeper lacerations to the face and scalp. The scalp wounds will have bled profusely. They are deep and long.”
She parted Jessie’s hair carefully, to look more closely. The camera flashed.
“A piece of scalp is missing with hair attached, about two inches in diameter. The shape is precise. The cut was made very neatly, possibly with a scalpel. There are cuts to the face, particularly to the mouth. At each corner the blade has cut deep into the cheek and upwards towards the earlobe.”
Greco looked down at his feet. Why do that? He pictured the killer insisting she smile, and when she didn’t, or couldn’t, he’d cut one into her face.
“The main wound on the torso is to the chest, at the site of the heart. It’s deep and long but this isn’t what killed her. The cause of death was the burning that occurred after the chest wall was cut into. It looks to me as if the cutting was to gain access.”
“Bloody lunatic,” Quickenden said, finally putting in an appearance.
“There is evidence of rape,” Doctor Barrington continued. “There is extensive vaginal bruising, though I can’t see any semen present.”
“So he used a condom? Thoughtful of him,” Quickenden said, shuffling from one foot
to the other. Greco had noticed it was something he did when he was anxious.
“It would appear so. I’ll take swabs to make sure. I’ll be doing toxicology tests as well.”
“Tortured and killed.” Greco inhaled. “He took his time with her.”
“It looks that way,” the pathologist said.
Doctor Barrington took a scalpel and made the customary incision lengthways down the body. Her assistant held out a bowl.
Greco looked away.
“Her heart is extensively damaged. Access to the heart was made by a sharp blade. It entered the chest wall between the ribs. Your killer knew what he was doing. After the incision a long, thin object that had first been heated to a high temperature, was pushed deep into the heart muscle.”
“The poker we found?” Greco asked.
“There is what looks like soot residue. Tests will confirm,” the pathologist said. She was holding Jessie’s heart in her hands. “The burning extends through the heart muscle and into the right ventricle.”
“It’s an odd way to kill someone,” Greco said.
“Who knows what goes on in these people’s heads, Inspector.”
“About before, sir, not being here. It couldn’t be helped,” Quickenden interrupted.
“Later, Sergeant,” Greco barked.
“That’s about it,” Natasha said. She looked up.
“I’ll get everything processed and on the system as soon as,” added one of the assistants. He was removing the hood of his coverall.
“You met Mark at the house,” the pathologist said. “He and Roxy are the latest additions to the team here.”
He nodded at the detectives.
The forensic scientist, Doctor Roxy Atkins, came up to Greco and Quickenden. She was young and petite. Her dark hair was cut short but a long fringe covered her forehead. She wore dark red lipstick and heavy black eyeliner. This, and her pale complexion, made her look slightly gothy.
“Like I said at the scene, her clothes were cut from her body. Also, a square of fabric has been neatly cut from her skirt. It’s about two inches, the same as the cut on her scalp. It could be that your killer is collecting trophies,” Atkins said.
Complete Detective Stephen Greco Box Set Page 21
