‘We do have to ask you,’ Claire said. ‘Where exactly you were early on the Sunday morning when Mrs Roy was killed?’
‘In bed with my girlfriend, Victoria, at her house.’ He gave an address in Surrey.
‘She would substantiate this, I presume?’ she continued.
‘I certainly hope so.’ He laughed.
‘Did you like Mrs Roy?’ Gillard asked.
‘I respected her and everything she had achieved. But it’s hard to actually like a woman who fundamentally distrusts you.’
‘Because of the divorce?’ Claire asked.
‘Mainly. Compounded by the tissue of lies that my ex-wife told about me.’
‘You expected to head the business after Dr Roy’s death, we understand.’
‘When I married his daughter Dr Roy promised me I would become chief executive. So yes. But in the event, I must concede, Mrs Roy did do a splendid job. As I say, I respected her.’
‘But you didn’t like working under her?’ Claire asked.
He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Well, obviously it grated a bit. She was arrogant and obtuse and sometimes got things wrong. But then, that can also be said of all of us from time to time, can it not?’
* * *
The interview over, Deepak Tripathi exhaled mightily, closed down the laptop and rubbed his hands over his face. The blank hotel room, its anodyne off-white bedspread and matching beige walls, seemed to him like a cell. He had lied to Philippa Boswell, and not for the first time. He wasn’t in Glasgow, but in the Orion Hotel at Heathrow Airport. He would have preferred to be in Glasgow, as far away from the police as possible, but he had business to conclude here, close to London.
He walked into the bathroom and rifled through his sponge bag for some tablets to deal with the stress. As he stared at his guilt-ridden face in the mirror, his mobile rang. He looked at the number and nodded to himself. This was a call he had been expecting.
‘Hello darling. No, it wasn’t too bad,’ he said. ‘They didn’t ask anything about that.’ He paused. ‘Look, I do need you to give me an alibi. Just say I was staying with you on that morning. Until at least nine o’clock I would have thought.’ He paused again as he listened. ‘I’m perfectly aware of that, it just saves complications. I need them off my back, for at least the next week. Then we can go away.’
He laughed. ‘Yes, somewhere like that, with no extradition treaty. Another couple of hours. Yes, back about nine p.m. I love you too. Bye.’
He hung up, and stroked his chin. Looked at his watch, then at his phone. He scrolled through his contacts until he found the one he wanted, a mobile number stored under a misleading name. He tapped it and waited for it to dial out. When the call was answered he said: ‘Is Xanthia available now? Good. Ninety minutes I think. I’m at the Orion Hotel, Heathrow, room 216. Yes, the usual. Stilettos, lingerie, that kind of thing.’ When prompted he read out his credit card number. ‘In half an hour? That’s fine.’
He knew it might be the last time. In future, depending where he ended up, he might have to learn to behave.
* * *
Claire Mulholland had inherited Gillard’s pub fight case from Saturday night. She had charged a young tearaway called Brendan Maguire with affray, drunk and disorderly, and assault but still had to identify another lad, who had been caught on CCTV throwing punches, and trying to kick one of those on the floor. Witnesses identified him as a scaffolder just known as Pikey Steve. The victims, Paul Welby and Jason Waddington, who had been on the losing end of this fight, were hardly angels themselves. The CCTV data stick that Gillard had passed to Claire had proved invaluable in unravelling the complicated punch-up that swirled around the pub.
‘I don’t think any of them are going to worry too much about this,’ she told Gillard, as they shared a starter of onion bhaji. ‘Maguire is pleading guilty, and will probably get community service and bound over. He claims that he doesn’t know Pikey Steve. I could try and track down every scaffolding firm in the area,’ she said. ‘But with the workload I’ve got, it’s hardly worth spending all that time if at the end of it he just gets a smack on the wrist from the magistrates.’
Gillard nodded. ‘Always the same. You just feel like you’re spending all day rolling a boulder uphill. Still, if we can’t prosecute people like him when we’ve got such good CCTV, what chance have we got when there isn’t any clear evidence?’
The mood improved as they began the main course, a prawn balti for Claire and a murgh masala plus saag bhaji for Gillard. Two huge, toasty-hot Peshwari naans arrived shortly afterwards.
‘So, any clues about Mrs Roy’s killer?’ she asked, as she tore a chunk off the bread, releasing a delicious aroma of almond paste and herbs.
‘Nothing clear yet. The only DNA on her skin was canine, two samples, one of which matched her own dog. Elimination samples from Kirsty Mockett and the male dog walker match what we have found on her coat. That could be from where they covered her over with a dry-cleaning bag. CSI also found a single hair on her lapel that has yielded some unidentified human DNA. Of course, with a coat, depending where it’s been hung up, it could be all sorts of hairs, and it could have dropped off the bag too. I’ve asked Gabby Underwood to get elimination samples from Mrs Roy’s family and close colleagues. There do appear to be glove prints on her coat’s shoulder too.’
‘Well, that might dovetail with what we have for the dog,’ she said. ‘The vet gave him a good once-over. He had bruise injuries on his head and shoulders consistent with having been struck by the murder weapon or something similar. She also found a couple of threads of material on his jowls, which conceivably might be fragments of the assailant’s trousers, but of course could be from anything he’s been rooting in.’
‘My biggest hope is for the tests from the murder weapon. I’m expecting them tomorrow.’
‘Any dabs?’ she asked.
Gillard shook his head. ‘The fingerprint boys say that the assailant had been wearing fabric gloves, which had obliterated some earlier smears and partial latent prints. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that whoever last used it for its intended purpose has left some sweat there, and we might be able to dig up a bit of DNA from them.’
* * *
Forty miles south-east, Sam Gillard was nearly home. She had just finished a shift in the Surrey Police control room, where she was a civilian call handler on the emergency line. Brutally stressful, not so much because of the weight of work, though that could be bad, but because of the distressing scenes that were described to her: serious road accidents, stabbings and worst of all domestic violence – often caught as it happened. Tears, anguish, pleas for help. Trying to get needed information and call tracing done while keeping witnesses and victims on the line.
Now, she was reversing her car up the drive, and would soon put her feet up in front of the TV. Sadly, no glass of wine at this stage in her pregnancy. Perhaps she’d try that yoga breathing technique again. She unlocked the door, and found a parcel on the mat. No stamp or address, just brown paper and string, the old fashioned way. It just had the four words written on it in marker pen.
‘For your little one.’
She unwrapped the parcel, and saw a series of hand-knitted baby clothes. A little jacket, booties and a bonnet.
Not pink, nor blue. An ugly twill of dark brown and grey with black ribbon. The enclosed card said: ‘With warmest wishes from your Auntie Trish.’
It made her blood run cold.
Chapter 7
Wednesday
The DNA test results on the hand weight turned out to be interesting. Gillard opened up the PDF emailed by the lab, and speed-read the details. The bloodstained end of the weapon unsurprisingly yielded lots of DNA that matched Mrs Roy, plus some animal markers, which turned out to be dog. Bertie the boxer, undoubtedly, struck with the same weapon. As Quoroshi had predicted, there was a profusion of previous usage. Unfortunately the partial prints were either smeared or not anywhere near detailed enough for a proper comparis
on with the national database. The separate report from the Surrey/Sussex fingerprint centre in Lewes had confirmed that. However those same sweaty prints did yield a tiny trace of so-far unidentified human DNA.
Gillard wanted more work done on this sample. After speaking to Quoroshi, he requested mitochondrial analysis, a lengthier process involving the maternal line of heredity and which would give some detailed evidence about the ethnic origin of that person. Though he already knew that none of Mrs Roy’s children had wielded the weapon, there was a much larger extended family of cousins and uncles peripherally connected to the business who had not been DNA-tested. Comparing the unknown sample with Mrs Roy’s could provide some pointers not only of direct familial connection but of common ethnicity. Of course, even if such a match were found it would not prove that the sample was from the perpetrator. At the very least it would hint at who had at some stage touched this gym weight, and open up a new line of inquiry. He also ordered specialist test on the fibres of cloth found on Bertie the boxer.
After he finished his emails, Gillard went off to the forensic pathologist.
* * *
Mrs Roy’s body was in the mortuary at East Surrey Hospital in Redhill. Gillard hadn’t arrived in time.
for the post-mortem, but was able to catch Dr David Delahaye while he was clearing up. They greeted each other warmly, having crossed paths many times over the years. The Home Office forensic pathologist was a tall, slightly built man with a domed balding head and metal-framed glasses. He looked like most people’s idea of a rocket scientist. Gillard trusted his judgement implicitly.
‘I’ll send you my full report later,’ Delahaye said. ‘But the bottom line is that Mrs Roy died as a result of a dozen or more hefty blows to the head with a metallic instrument. I understand you have found this murder weapon.’
‘Yes, here are the images,’ he said, sliding out a series of photographic enlargements. ‘It’s an old-fashioned weight, but makes a pretty nasty weapon.’
Delahaye peered closely at the photos. ‘Yes, that would appear to fit the bill. Effectively it is a hammer, and was almost certainly used as one. The cranium was fractured in several places on the left-hand side, which does fit with the idea of the cyclist approaching from behind on the left, and swinging perhaps outwards with the right hand, for the first blow. The lady would almost certainly have fallen after the first blow, and subsequent blows would have to have been administered from either a crouching or kneeling position. But it does seem to fit in with the tyre track evidence, and the impression of the tip of the training shoe, which was within two metres of where the body was found.’
Gillard summarised the DNA analysis from the weapon, and mentioned the discovery of the bicycle. Delahaye nodded, then said: ‘I would love to say that this is a straightforward case. But there may be a little bit of a complexity in this. Let me show you the body.’ He walked to one of the stainless steel drawers, and pulled it open. He then slid the surprisingly small plastic body bag onto a gurney and wheeled it under the halogen lamp at the centre of the examination room.
‘Did you actually see the body?’ he asked Gillard, as he reached upwards to put the extractor fan on maximum.
‘Only cursorily.’
‘Well, the victim was wearing a wig, which came off during the assault. Underneath she had thinning hair, possibly alopecia.’
‘Her family mentioned that.’
‘It’s not that uncommon for a middle-aged woman to have thinning hair. However, I would just like to show you this.’ He unzipped the body bag, and despite the extractor fan, a gust of foetid air hit Gillard’s nostrils. He suppressed his gag reflex as he looked at the damaged head. Mrs Roy’s face was pale considering her ethnicity and was encrusted in black, dried blood. On the right-hand side were marks where Delahaye’s circular saw had cut through her skull so he could extract and weigh her brain. Her hair was sparse and a wispy auburn.
‘She’s not done her roots recently,’ noted Gillard.
‘Yes, but look below that half inch of white. There is a thin layer of dark pigmentation, very close to the root. I remembered reading something about this from when I was a student, and had to look it up to be sure. I tested the hair in hydrogen peroxide, which confirms my initial suspicion, although I still hope I turn out to be wrong. Look at her toenails.’
Gillard looked at the nails, which looked misshapen. ‘Bit twisted,’ he said.
‘It’s not so much that as this, which is known as a Mees’ line.’ Delahaye pointed to a thin white line a third of the way up her big toenail. ‘The nails and hair are effectively a tape recorder for some types of toxic exposure, and because of their natural rate of growth they give us some idea of the time it happened.’
‘What do you suspect?’
‘I think she may have been exposed to thallium, which is a potent and gradual poison and also causes alopecia. I’ve taken samples from the kidneys, which excrete the toxic chemical, and of course we would also find it in her urine and faeces.’
‘Ah. She drank her own urine, apparently.’
‘Really? Hmm. It’s not unheard of as a folk remedy in the subcontinent. That certainly wouldn’t help matters, as she would reabsorb what the kidneys had just flushed out.’
‘Could this exposure be accidental?’
‘Fifty or a hundred years ago, I would say yes. The most common exposure is in rudimentary rodenticides. In Britain in the present day, it would be pretty difficult to stumble across thallium by accident. If she was, let us say, active in metal processing, working with cadmium, lead or zinc, there would be a possibility of occupational contamination. As the victim is of Indian ethnicity, it might be a visit home that could have provided the exposure.’
Gillard pursed his lips. ‘Her passport shows no visit to India in the last six months. Indeed she’s not been out of Europe in that time. It sounds like you’re dubious that it could be an accident?’
‘I really don’t want to rush to judgement until I have her medical records and received the toxicology results. That should be this week. If the victim had reported any neurological symptoms to her doctor in recent weeks and months, that would certainly be a confirming outcome. It would tend to show itself as peripheral neuropathy, feelings of numbness in fingertips and toes, and some gastrointestinal symptoms, principally constipation.’
‘The family did say she’d been feeling tired and stressed.’
Delahaye chuckled and adjusted his glasses. ‘Well, that puts her in the same boat as more than half the population. I think we’ll need something a bit more specific.’
* * *
The mug smashed against the wall, splattering dregs of coffee all over the expensive flock wallpaper that had only been hung by an interior designer six months ago.
‘You idiot,’ Prisha said to Simon, who cringed on the sofa where he was lying full-length, iced daiquiri in hand. ‘I thought you’d stopped.’
Simon Parr-Fielding, middle-aged, semi-retired antiques expert, and far from retired gambler, was covering his position as best he could. He sat up, placed the drink on the end table, and said: ‘Look, I had a few speculative open positions that I needed to close. It’s just that some of them moved the wrong way. So I’m having to cough up some margin.’
‘I’m not paying for this any more. Do you not understand?’ She waved her phone, on which was displayed a statement of account from the spread-betting company.
He looked anywhere but at it. Her partner of six years still looked boyish, despite his fifty-seven years. Perma-tanned from his solarium sessions at the gym, and a decent thatch of blondish hair. As always he was dressed for the beach, probably the only place where he had ever been truly happy. He always maxed the central heating to mimic the tropics. He was wearing ragged cut-offs and a bleached denim shirt, three buttons open, revealing his fair chest hair. That was something she had always liked. Fair body hair was rather exotic to her, and until quite recently she had enjoyed running her hands through it. But now she
wanted to take great handfuls of it, and wrench it out by the roots.
‘This will be the last time I promise, Prish. Honestly.’ He stood up and reached out for her as if to hug her.
‘Don’t you dare touch me,’ she hissed, and turned her back.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘We’ll be fine once the will is sorted out. It’s just a temporary phase.’
Prisha stared at herself in the ground mirror on the mantelpiece. Not yet forty, a hard-working businesswoman. It was beginning to show in the faint lines underneath her eyes, what Simon had once called those ‘bewitching brown orbs’. He had called her haughty, but really she was just shy and introverted. She had fought her way out of Indian orthodoxy. Set up her own business, not relying on the family, asserting her own skills and abilities, divorced that idiot Deepak. And she had found, while on a two-week beach holiday back in Mamallapuram, what she took to be a rather charming and kind English guy. The string bracelets and the leather bangles should probably have been a giveaway that this man, who had once been a senior advertising executive, and was now divorced and penniless, was only destined to be a beach bum. If only she had known then what she knew now. His secretive booze habit she could just about handle. He was after all an affectionate drunk, not a violent one. But the secretive gambling was far more worrying, a bottomless pit of addiction. And now with her mother murdered, he was still gambling. If only she had just a bit more cash, it would be easier to deal with.
She had originally taken up Vedic astrology to try to guide the best moment to create a Hindu son. The first two years together, she and Simon had made love at least twice a day. For Simon it was bliss on a stick, for her a means to an end. Her eggs remain stubbornly unfertilised. She persuaded him to visit the GP and get a fertility test. The result was as she predicted. His sperm were as lazy and immobile as he was. Azoospermia, it was called. ‘That’s a bit of a mouthful,’ Simon had said, as always making a joke of it. ‘Mine are apparently not very motile. Quite a lot of them were twisted or tailless.’ The regime, drinking less, and a change of diet, seem to make no difference, although whether Simon was following the first part of it she doubted.
The Body in the Snow Page 9
