The Scribe

by A A Chaudhuri

  Drake had been greeted by a pool of vomit outside conference room four, where the body of Sarah Morrell lay. On the plus side, Mike had held on long enough to throw up outside the room, thereby avoiding further cross-contamination. After a cursory examination of the scene, Drake sent an initial report back to the Chief Superintendent. Soon after, Carver arrived, along with Avery and his team.

  Carver was whip-smart, with ox-like stamina and a rock under pressure. He was one of the best at solving tough cases, but his hard upbringing meant he had little patience for laziness or indecision. A fair, modest man at heart, his outward bluster was often mistaken for arrogance. This, coupled with his short temper, meant he wasn’t the sort who made or retained friends easily. The last thing Drake wanted was to get off on the wrong foot with his new boss.

  ‘Well, sir, I’m guessing it’s something to do with law.’

  This earned him a wide-eyed look of disbelief. ‘No shit, Sherlock. You think?’

  So much for not getting off on the wrong foot. Luckily, Drake was a calm sort, and it took a lot to rattle him. He told himself to hold it together and not let Carver’s cutting remark distract his train of thought. ‘And I would imagine, sir, I mean, I’m just speculating, that in the Banking department of large City law firms, it’s all about doing deals and drafting contracts. So maybe that’s what the killer was getting at here. I mean, look at all those papers.’ He pointed to the table, littered with crisp, fat documents, as well as the pile of dishevelled papers on the floor, each one labelled “Monicrom”. ‘The victim must have been working on these when the killer showed up. Presumably she dropped some when he surprised her?’

  Carver raised himself up and made space for the crime-scene photographer who’d just arrived. But his animated eyes remained glued to the corpse. ‘Yes, but why, Drake, why? Why’s the killer trying to make this point?’ His voice sounded breathless, while Drake could almost hear the frantic ticking of his brain. He took a step back so that he was facing the girl’s feet. ‘It looks as if he shot her in the stomach first …’ he spun round, took several steps back, as if mimicking the girl’s last movements, ‘… causing her to fall to the ground, before finishing her off. Very precise, painstakingly thought-through.’

  Carver rested his chin between his index finger and thumb. Thinking, speculating. The case had already locked him in, clearing his headache in a way no number of painkillers could. ‘Why did the killer choose this method, why? And what was it about this girl?’

  This time, the question sounded more rhetorical. Even so, Drake racked his brain for an answer. But Carver’s next question stopped him mid-thought. ‘When’s the pathologist and his team arriving?’

  ‘Any time now, sir.’

  ‘Good. We’ll see what he has to say. In the meantime, don’t you, or anyone …’ he gave the photographer an icy stare, ‘… touch the body or anything else in this room.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The photographer nodded, then widened his eyes at Drake when Carver wasn’t looking. He knew the drill and was insulted by Carver’s insinuation that he didn’t.

  ‘I’d like you to video the scene before the pathologist arrives.’ Carver twisted round, catching the photographer off guard. He nearly jumped out of his skin, while his face turned cherry red. ‘Close-ups of the girl, the bloodstains on the carpet, the table, walls – everything in the room, in as much detail as possible, please.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Drake, the day’s going to get very busy indeed. Horrendously so. Are you ready for that?’ Carver narrowed his eyes at Drake, already testing his rookie, needing to know that he’d make the cut.

  Drake didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. After we’ve spoken to Coleridge and the pathologist, I expect I’ll have to go and make a brief statement to the press. So, before the party starts, take a note of what I want you to do.’

  Drake shot to attention. Pen poised, ears pricked, his heart beating double time.

  ‘Get the girl’s full history.’ Carver’s delivery was fast and furious, and Drake was thankful for shorthand. ‘Everything from the year dot to the present. Where she grew up, family, likes, dislikes, hobbies, schooling, boyfriends, girlfriends, et cetera. Check out her home, get it swept for prints, hairs, fibres, every kind of bodily fluid. Talk to her family, friends, neighbours. Find out if she travelled as a student, and where. We’ll need to interview all Channing & Barton staff, from the partners to the cleaners.’

  ‘Do you think it’s someone who worked here, sir?’

  ‘I can’t comment on that yet. We may know more once forensics are through. What I’m ninety per cent sure of, from the way she died, is that she was the end game – it’s way too calculated, too precise – while the unfortunate guard just got in the way.’ Carver gazed back down at the body. ‘But somehow, don’t ask me why, I’ve got a horrible feeling we’ve not heard the last of her killer.’

  ***

  7 am

  ‘I would say she’s been dead less than five hours.’

  Carver watched Dr Charles Grayson, the pathologist, steadily slide the thermometer out of Sarah’s rectum. He was a short, rotund man, with beefy fingers and very little sign of a neck. He also had a shiny bald head and small suspicious eyes concealed behind thick tortoiseshell glasses, while his portly appearance made his velvety James Bond drawl doubly surprising. They had worked together several times before, although Carver was woefully unaware that his brusqueness wound Grayson up.

  Grayson had stripped the girl naked. Her lower half was dark purple, her top half as pale as snow.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because there’s still some movement in her lower legs.’ Grayson demonstrated. ‘And her body temperature’s thirty-one degrees. A dead body loses 1.5 degrees per hour until reaching the ambient temperature. Assuming she wasn’t unwell, or especially cold, she’d have had a temperature of around 37.7 degrees while still alive.’

  ‘Okay, what else?’ Carver asked impatiently.

  Grayson flinched at Carver’s tone, but told himself he should be used to it by now. He swallowed his irritation. ‘Rigor mortis normally sets in two hours after death. But as I said, so far, it’s only affected her top and middle half. This suggests she’s been dead more than two hours but less than six. Lastly, see these purple splotches over her legs and feet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s what we call “lividity”. It kicks off once the body’s had contact with a firm surface – in this case the floor – for a period of time. As you can see, it hasn’t reached her top half yet, which is still pale.’ He paused. ‘But now look at this.’

  Grayson hauled the body onto its side. The purple colouring immediately began to dispel.

  ‘Why’s that happening?’ Drake blurted out. Unlike some of his more squeamish peers, forensic pathology fascinated him.

  ‘Because her blood’s not set yet,’ Carver answered for Grayson. ‘It’s realigned in the new position of gravity.’ He gave a surprised Drake a wry smile. ‘I’ve seen a fair few dead bodies.’

  ‘The blood remains liquid for the first four to six hours after death,’ Grayson explained. ‘It’s only after six to eight hours that it becomes relatively fixed in position, and the blood vessels will have begun to break down within the body.’

  Carver cut to the chase. ‘Can you put an estimated time on death?’

  Grayson stood up, gazed down at the body. ‘I would say between 2.30 am and 3 am.’ He looked back up at both men. ‘But there’s still a lot of work to be done. We’ll need to take various samples and go much wider than the girl and this room. Assuming the killer came in the front?’

  ‘We think so. That’s roughly where the security guard was shot dead. I agree about widening the parameters. The killer may have tried a number of rooms and/or floors first before finding the victim. We don’t know how he got up here. There are six lifts, as well as the stairs. Whoever it was must have been certain Sarah was in the build
ing.’

  ‘How?’ Drake asked.

  ‘If it’s an inside job, that’s a no-brainer. Otherwise, he could have been stalking the place all day, waiting for her to leave. Then, when she didn’t, decided to take a chance and go inside. Could have been a friend or acquaintance who knew she’d been working late or heard as much from someone else. There are so many ifs and buts, Drake, and we just don’t have enough to go on at this stage.’

  ‘I’ll need to perform a post-mortem to determine the exact physiological time and manner of death,’ Grayson said.

  Carver nodded. ‘Agreed. Just be sure to extract as much evidence as you can from the body and surrounding area first before you move her. Anything that might have been in contact with the killer, however brief.’

  ‘Of course.’ Grayson contemplated the body again. ‘Having taken a perfunctory look, it doesn’t look like she was sexually assaulted. For one, she was fully clothed, aside from her blouse being torn apart. Even so—’

  ‘Even so,’ Carver interrupted, ‘we must rule it out for certain, so a thorough examination must be done. Semen, saliva, you know the drill. Be sure to make a detailed written record of your findings. I don’t want any claims of post-mortem injury being made.’

  Grayson felt his blood pressure rise at Carver’s needless remark. ‘I will,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  There was a knock on the door. Drake opened it to see a distinguished-looking man standing there. He was smartly dressed, with hair as white as whipped cream. Worry imprinted his face, deeply lined by the trials of life. Drake wondered whether his hair colour was the result of advancing age or stress.

  ‘Mr Coleridge?’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice was clear, yet soft. Perhaps he was still in shock.

  Carver went over and introduced himself. He didn’t want Coleridge going any further. He couldn’t risk another vomiting episode contaminating the scene.

  ‘Is Sarah … is Sarah still in there?’

  ‘She is, Mr Coleridge. It’s a very distressing sight, and I think it’s best if we talk somewhere else. Another conference room perhaps?’

  ‘Yes, yes of course,’ Coleridge nodded with obvious relief.

  Carver looked back over his shoulder at Grayson. ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘Right you are,’ Grayson replied without looking up, deep in conversation with one of his team.

  ***

  ‘I’m still finding it rather hard to come to terms with,’ Coleridge admitted, sitting across from Carver and Drake in one of the smaller meeting rooms. He fiddled distractedly with his collar. ‘I just can’t think why anyone would want to murder Frank or Sarah.’

  ‘We believe Ms Morrell was the target,’ Carver explained, ‘while Mr Jones was just a means to an end I’m sorry to say. Unfortunately, your CCTV, normally an invaluable source of evidence, had been disabled. Presumably by the killer.’

  ‘How?’

  Carver shrugged his shoulders. ‘May have hacked in, switched it off remotely. It’s something we need to look into. Clearly, we’re dealing with someone who’s as smart as they are dangerous.’ Carver’s gaze fixed on Coleridge. ‘Ms Morrell was the victim of cold, premeditated murder, and it’s therefore essential that we secure all of the available evidence to give us the best chance of catching her killer.’

  Coleridge sighed heavily. Rubbed his glassy blue eyes in frustration. ‘I’m assuming you can’t do that with my staff around?’

  ‘No, we can’t. Presupposing the killer came in the front, we’ll need to sweep the entire building. We don’t know what route he took to get to Sarah, and we can’t risk missing anything.’

  ‘DCI Carver, I have a law firm to run, and several thousand clients to keep happy. I need my offices back as soon as is humanly possible. As it is, I fear I’m going to lose clients after what’s happened.’

  Carver’s patience was wearing thin. He tried not to lose his temper. ‘I understand. But I’m running a very different show here, Mr Coleridge. A murder investigation. And I’m sure you’ll want to do everything humanly possible to assist me in catching this lunatic. Because until then, I don’t think you, or any of your staff, are going to sleep easy at night.’

  Coleridge couldn’t argue with that. His resigned face said as much. He gave another heavy sigh. ‘Okay, Chief Inspector, I understand. Just urge your team to work as fast as they can.’

  ‘I will. Meantime, can you get me an up-to-date list of employees, support staff included. I’ll need to question everyone once forensics are done.’

  ‘Yes, of course. You’ll have it before midday.’

  Carver thanked him, then leaned back in his chair, glancing at Drake. A signal to pick up his pen.

  ‘Did you know Ms Morrell well?’

  ‘Not well, no. As the firm’s senior partner, much of my work is on the administrative and marketing side. I have very little day-to-day contact with the more junior staff, although I was aware Sarah was in her last seat, and due to qualify next March. In fact, only last week we had a partners’ meeting to discuss which trainees were going to be offered jobs and where, and her name came up.’

  ‘Her fate had already been decided?’

  ‘Sarah had been an exceptional trainee. Although she’d only been with him a month, Mark Warren, the head of Banking, saw how good she was. Plus, she’d made it clear from the outset that Banking was her first choice. He was keen to offer her a permanent position on his team.’

  ‘The competition for jobs must be fierce,’ Carver said. ‘I imagine trainees would do anything to get a position in today’s unpredictable climate?’

  Coleridge looked visibly affronted. ‘If you’re insinuating that any of my trainees would be prepared to murder for the sake of a job, I’m sure you’re very much mistaken.’

  Carver smiled inside, amazed at people’s naivety, their trust in human nature, especially where “well-educated, respectable types” were concerned. Everyone had a dark side. Everyone was capable of murder. But most were able to tame their urges. ‘I have to consider all possibilities, Mr Coleridge. Nothing surprises me after twenty years on the force.’

  Coleridge leaned in, his hands clasped together. ‘Still, that doesn’t explain Frank’s death, does it? Surely, if it was one of my staff, they could have just walked in through the front door without having to kill him first.’

  He has a point. ‘Maybe.’ Carver changed tack. ‘Was Sarah popular? Amongst her peers, I mean?’

  ‘I really can’t answer that. You’d have to ask them. All I know is that she was smart and dedicated and had a promising future ahead of her.’

  The ensuing silence was shattered by the telephone.

  Coleridge shot up to answer it. ‘Yes?’ A pause. ‘It’s for you.’

  Carver took the phone, listened. ‘Okay, I’ll be down shortly.’

  He rang off, turned to Drake. ‘The media are here. I need to go down and make a statement.’

  ‘Do I need to be there?’ Coleridge asked nervously.

  ‘No, not for this. They’ll want a comment from you at some point today, though, so be prepared. All I’m going to do now is make a brief statement. There’ll be a full press conference later.’

  Coleridge looked relieved once again.

  Despite his contempt for the money-making mentality of the City, Carver felt some sympathy for the man. In less than a day, his celebrated law firm had become the site of a double murder. A news story for all the wrong reasons, and a huge burden for him to bear.

  It wasn’t going to be good for morale, and it wasn’t going to be good for business, because the simple truth was, until the killer was caught, who in their right mind would want to walk through the doors of Channing & Barton?

  If Coleridge wanted to save his firm, he had no choice but to cooperate.

  And the same went for his staff.

  Chapter Three

  Tuesday, 28 October 2014, 8.15 am

  ‘Maddy, quick, come here. You need to see this.’

 
Madeline Kramer angrily spat out the frothy mass of toothpaste she’d hastily been slathering over her teeth, conscious of the fact that – yet again – she was running late for work. Why was it, no matter how early she set the alarm, no matter how quickly she got through the bathroom before shovelling some breakfast down her throat, she never seemed to leave the flat on time? And she hadn’t even had the chance to check her emails since hauling herself out of bed. There was probably a string of them lined up, waiting to be answered, each one as important as the next.

  Maddy, who’d recently turned twenty-six, was blessed with both brains and beauty. She had light caramel skin, wide-set eyes a person might get lost in, and straight, shiny black hair cascading just past her shoulders. Her body was naturally lithe and toned, although working out helped, while her brain worked quicker than most. Orphaned at nine – her parents David and Alisha had been killed in a car crash coming home from the theatre one night – she’d been raised into womanhood by her widowed grandmother, who’d showered her with more love than some children get from two parents. As a result, Maddy grew up content and secure. She had no trouble making friends or showing affection in her platonic relationships. She was caring, approachable, empathetic, and yet an astute judge of character. No one ran rings around Maddy, except maybe Paul, her flatmate, whom she adored. He was her weakness. Along with red wine, chocolate and tear-jerker movies. But she constantly reminded herself the first two were good for the heart, the third for the soul.

  The only kind of relationships Maddy found herself backing away from were those of a romantic nature. She rarely let a man get too close, her longest relationship having lasted six months back when she was an English undergraduate at King’s College, London. He’d wanted to take the next step, move in together, but that had scared her. What if she did, and they got married, had kids, were blissfully happy, and then boom! Just like that, something dreadful happened, and it was all taken away from her, or, even worse, her children were robbed of their parents in the blink of an eye? Bursting their perfect bubble of happiness and security. She couldn’t risk that happening again. Not to her, and certainly not to her children. She’d been lucky. Her grandmother, Rose, was special, one in a million. She’d held her hand through those initial dark months, when she’d woken up, night after night, screaming for her mother. She’d kept her strong, made sure she didn’t retreat into her shell, too scared to face the big bad world, let alone make her mark in it. But Maddy had no mother to protect any future bereaved child of hers, and right now she couldn’t imagine her son or daughter suffering in the way she might have, had it not been for Rose. In any case, now was not the right time to be tied down. She was still so young, with no shortage of friends, and a job that ensured a serious relationship could never be on the cards.