Deep Cover

by Leigh Russell

  ‘A pleasant change, I hope,’ Matthew replied, equally cheerily, as Geraldine introduced him.

  ‘That rather depends on whether you prefer your people alive or dead. But what have you done with Ian?’ Jonah asked, his voice expressing mock horror like a character in a pantomime. ‘Not that I’m going to miss him. He never had a strong enough stomach for the job, did he?’ He winked at Geraldine. ‘He’s a big softie, not like us hard nuts.’

  Jonah’s observation was true, although Ian would have been mortified to know the pathologist had seen through his pretence at indifference to the sight of death. Even after years on the murder squad, Ian still struggled with attending autopsies.

  ‘Maybe it was the smell,’ Jonah added thoughtfully. ‘He was a bit delicate, wasn’t he? Not like Geraldine here.’ He nodded in her direction, still addressing Matthew. ‘Her guts live up to her name. Absolutely no feelings for anyone, living or dead. This woman is utterly inflexible. She knows I am devoted to her, yet she insists on spurning my advances.’

  ‘Ignore him,’ Geraldine laughed. ‘Jonah’s happily married to some long-suffering woman, who is blessed with the patience of a saint.’

  Jonah grunted and turned his attention to the body. ‘So do we have an identity for this poor creature here?’

  ‘Yes, she was well known to the local force. Most of her dealings were with vice and drug squads,’ Geraldine replied. ‘Her DNA has been on the database for years and she was frequently picked up for soliciting and petty shoplifting. She was a known cocaine user and no doubt a lot more besides, but was never arrested on a drugs charge. In fact, she was never charged with any serious crime, and never given a custodial sentence. She was a sex worker,’ she added, by way of explanation.

  ‘Not looking very sexy now, is she?’ Jonah responded grimly.

  The three of them stood gazing gravely at the body. The woman’s age was difficult to determine. Her face bore vestiges of make-up that had been wiped away: a faint streak of black in the corner of one eye, a fleck of scarlet in a crease of her bottom lip, a tiny blob of mascara on her eyelashes, while death had wiped away all trace of the anger and suffering that must have dogged her throughout her life, so that she looked almost peaceful. She might once have been attractive, with a small, thin nose and full lips, but drugs had taken their toll on her physical appearance, and her face was pock marked and prematurely lined. Even in death her skin had an unhealthy look. Her scrawny arms and legs stuck out, making her look like a giant insect with a bloated body. One of her arms was turned inward, but on the other puncture marks were visible. She had tattoos on her stomach, her thighs and her shoulders, and her nose was pierced, along with several piercings in her ears.

  ‘How did she die?’ Geraldine asked, staring at the cadaver.

  Jonah pointed to the side of the dead woman’s head, where her lank black hair had been shaved to uncover a large dark swelling which had been neatly sliced open to reveal a glimpse of bloody tissue under the skin.

  ‘There was a large contusion here,’ Jonah said. ‘It was occasioned by her hitting her head, quite violently, due to a fall. Cause of death was the resulting internal haemorrhage which led to irreparable damage to the brain. The chances are she would have passed out quite soon after such a hefty whack and never recovered consciousness.’

  ‘You said she hit her head during a fall,’ Matthew said. ‘But could the head injury have been caused by a blow from a heavy blunt weapon?’

  Jonah shook his head. ‘That’s highly unlikely, given the nature of her other injuries. There’s quite extensive bruising, mainly to her shoulder, elbow and hip, all of which bears out that she fell from a standing position. What isn’t in doubt is that the head injury killed her.’

  ‘She was found in a clearing in the woods. Could she have tripped and accidentally hit her head on a tree or something?’ Geraldine asked. ‘Is that a possibility, do you think?’

  Jonah shook his head. ‘It’s hard to see how this could have been an accident, considering she was moved after she died. I would say she was killed some time on Friday night, but she wasn’t moved to the woods for around twenty-four hours after that. It’s impossible to be precise, since we don’t know how long she was lying outside exposed to the elements, but the early insect activity suggests she was in the woods for less than twenty-four hours. In addition to that, she was found face down in wet mud, but lividity suggests she was lying on her back for some hours after she died. Look here.’

  He turned the body over and indicated dark mottled patches on her back.

  ‘So her body was definitely moved after she died?’ Geraldine asked.

  Jonah inclined his head. ‘It must have been. I don’t think we can be in any doubt she was turned over. Added to that, she hit her head on the square corner of some piece of furniture and not on the rough bark of a tree.’

  ‘Which means that someone was either there when she fell,’ Geraldine said, ‘or else they discovered her body afterwards. Either way, it looks as though someone knew she was dead and didn’t want anyone to find out where it happened, so they moved her body to the woods.’

  ‘That’s what it looks like,’ Jonah agreed.

  ‘It’s not that easy to shift a dead body,’ Geraldine went on. ‘And they would have had to be careful not to be observed. Whoever it was, they went to considerable lengths to move her without being noticed. Why?’

  ‘Isn’t that obvious?’ Jonah replied. ‘Who wants to be found with a dead sex worker on their hands? I know my wife wouldn’t be too happy if she found this body in my bed.’ He heaved an exaggerated sigh and shook his head. ‘And I thought you were a detective.’

  ‘What state was she in when she received the head injury?’ Matthew asked. ‘Was she drunk? Or high?’

  Jonah shrugged. ‘The one does not preclude the other. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find she was both.’ He pulled her arm back to display puncture marks from injections. ‘The results of the tox report aren’t back yet. As soon as I hear from the lab, I promise you’ll be the first to know. And if we can get anything from the skin cells under her fingernails, of course.’ Above his mask his eyes narrowed.

  ‘So far all we know is that she had male skin cells under her nails,’ Geraldine said.

  ‘Let’s hope it’s enough to nail her killer,’ Jonah commented, his eyes creased into a smile.

  ‘We’ve not found a match,’ Geraldine replied grimly, ignoring the pun. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You get on well with the pathologist,’ Matthew remarked when they were driving back to the police station.

  ‘Yes, we’ve worked together before,’ she replied.

  ‘I rather gathered as much.’

  ‘He’s a good guy. I mean, it’s not just that he’s likeable, he’s a good pathologist and helpful with it.’

  Geraldine found it useful to be on friendly terms with a pathologist prepared to share his speculations with her, off the record. Several times his suggestions had led her down a useful path of enquiry. Ian had never appreciated the value of Jonah’s unofficial conclusions, insisting that what they needed from Jonah was evidence, not theories. Unsure how Matthew would feel about Jonah’s input, Geraldine hesitated to discuss his role further, and they drove the rest of the way back to the police station in silence.

  ‘The fact that she was moved seems to confirm beyond any doubt that she was murdered,’ Matthew said as they arrived back at the police station and reported back to the detective chief inspector.

  ‘I have to say I’m inclined to agree, although, of course, that’s not absolute proof she was murdered,’ Geraldine replied.

  ‘But why else would someone go to the trouble of moving the body if they weren’t trying to cover up an unlawful killing?’ Eileen asked.

  Geraldine shook her head. ‘To get rid of an unwanted dead body? She was a sex worker, wasn’t she? Perhaps her presence was a
n embarrassment to whoever moved her.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Eileen replied. ‘Well, come on then, let’s get to work.’

  Answering her phone that evening, Geraldine was guardedly pleased to hear Ian’s voice on the line. He was calling from wherever he was working, so her call screening had not alerted her to his name. She noticed the number was shielded so she had no clue as to where he now was. It had taken her a long time to finally agree to live with Ian, yet now she was rejecting him against her better judgement. It was an emotional reaction, although her anger against him was not entirely unprovoked.

  ‘Well? What is it?’ she asked, agitation making her curt.

  There was a faint pause before he answered. ‘I want to be sure I can come home when I finish the job I’m working on.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ he replied, sounding impatient.

  She had the impression he was struggling to control his temper and scowled, although he was not there to see her. He would have to do better than that if he wanted to talk to her outside of work.

  ‘No,’ she lied, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Geraldine, we need to talk. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Go ahead. Talk.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘Geraldine, please, I would really like to see you when I get back and talk about what happened, face to face.’

  They both knew what had happened. Ian had deliberately gone behind Geraldine’s back and arranged for her twin sister Helena to be given a new identity. The upshot of his meddling was that while Geraldine’s sister was now safe from a drug gang that had been threatening her life, Geraldine could never see her again without risking revealing her whereabouts. Only if Helena remained untraceable could both Geraldine and her sister remain safe. Ian insisted he had proceeded in the interests of both women, but he had acted so swiftly that Geraldine had not had the chance to say goodbye to her sister. At the time, she had been convinced she would never be able to forgive him. She had tried and had even let him move back in with her, but their uneasy reconciliation hadn’t lasted long. She had spent Christmas with her adoptive sister’s family and while she had been away from York, she had reached her decision to part from Ian. Now, hearing the desperation in his voice, she found herself wavering.

  ‘You’re there in your apartment all alone,’ he was saying, ‘and I’m here on my own, and it doesn’t have to be like this. Please, can’t we at least go for a drink one evening and talk about what happened, like civilised adults?’

  With a tremor of self-pity, Geraldine hung up. She knew she was being stubborn, childish even, but she did not want to let Ian win her round. Not yet. If he moved back in with her again, there was a danger her resentment would fester and ruin any chance they might have of rebuilding their relationship. Ian might not appreciate her intransigence now, but it was better to walk away completely than try to resurrect a love affair that had turned sour. As things stood, they were on civil terms, and it was best they remain that way. After all, it sounded as though they might end up having to work together again. In time their relationship might improve, but perhaps friendship was the best they could hope for.

  Ian rang back, as she had known he would.

  ‘Geraldine, I never meant to hurt you,’ he said. ‘What choice did I have? Blame the villains who want to kill your sister, not me. This situation was not of my making, and what happened wasn’t my fault. You can’t keep punishing me like this.’

  ‘I don’t know what you want me to say,’ she replied.

  ‘You have to let it go, Geraldine.’

  ‘Stop calling me. I don’t want to talk to you.’

  She hung up again. She half expected her phone to ring again, but he didn’t call her again that evening. She wasn’t sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved that he had stopped trying to contact her, at least for that evening. Many women succeeded in sustaining successful relationships with men. She was not one of them. But she had never appreciated how lonely she was living alone until Ian had moved in with her. Now he had gone and she was caught up in a wave of self-pity. Pulling herself together with an effort, she poured herself a glass of red wine and settled down to review the murder case so far. She had lived quite contentedly on her own before. She could do so again. In the end, her relationship with Ian had only ever promised a brief spell of happiness. Now she had to return to reality and focus on her work. But all the time she was telling herself that work was all that mattered to her, she knew deep down that wasn’t true. Somehow she had to find a way to reconcile with Ian, before it was too late. He loved her, she was sure of that, but even he might not wait forever for her to relent. The prospect of living on her own, which had once been welcome, now seemed interminably dreary.

  7

  The hushed room was very quiet after the loud music, which had virtually drowned out voices raised in an attempt to make themselves heard. Just along the corridor strippers flaunted their bodies, pole dancers gyrated and swung, and scantily clad waitresses plied customers with drink, the deafening racket muffled by a green baize-covered door. In the office at the back of the premises Ian waited for the uncomfortable ringing in his head to subside. A man in a navy suit was seated opposite him behind an enormous leather-topped desk. He did not stir when Ian entered, although he must have heard the abrupt blast of noise as the door to the office opened and shut.

  Ian studied the man behind the desk covertly. Tod could have been an unremarkable bank manager or senior civil servant, smartly dressed and good looking, were it not for the jagged scar that ran from his right cheek bone all the way down to his jaw, where he had been slashed in the face with a broken bottle. Such a blatant reminder of what had clearly been a violent injury would have disfigured most men, but somehow it looked almost natural on the man in front of Ian. If anything, the scar made him more attractive, a man with an interesting past. It was an odd notion to think that he wore his scar well. Black eyes flicked from Ian to his escort and back again with the lazy arrogance of unassailable power.

  Conscious of the need to conceal his curiosity about the owner of the central London club in Soho, Ian lowered his gaze and stared at the carpet. Like everything else in the plush office it looked expensive, and he had immediately registered how his feet had sunk into the soft, deep pile when he stepped into the room. There were two other men present. One, who was tall and burly, was wearing a brown leather jacket. The other was skinny and wore a dark sports jacket. His arms hung at his sides, but Ian suspected he could have a gun in his hand in an instant. The first bodyguard looked about forty, while the skinny one was barely out of his teens. Jittery, fidgeting with his cuffs, his eyes flicked constantly from Ian to his boss and back again. His nails were bitten to the quick and his fingers were nicotine stained. He was so nervy Ian was afraid he could lose his self-control at the slightest provocation. Several upholstered office chairs faced the desk, but no one else sat down.

  Before anyone spoke, the door opened to admit a dishevelled youth. He had shoulder-length hair the colour of dry straw and he stumbled in, eyes glazed and arms swinging loosely at his sides, the strap of a hessian satchel slung across one shoulder. His entrance was accompanied by a blast of music and shouting. The older bodyguard reached across to close the door and the noise cut out as abruptly as a radio that is switched off.

  ‘How much?’ Tod drawled, raising his dark eyes to look at the spaced-out youth who had just come in. ‘How much?’ he repeated, more loudly.

  Seeming to hear the question for the first time, the lad emptied the contents of his bag on to the desk. A few notes fluttered to the floor and the young bodyguard darted forward to retrieve them, adding them to the fistfuls of cash the courier had already deposited in front of the boss. Ian was instantly alert, but he knew better than to let his interest show, even for an instant. He watched from beneath lowered lids as Tod counted the cash, his black eyes sparkl
ing as they flicked from note to note, and his pink tongue flitting in and out, moistening his lips, while the boy who had delivered the cash watched anxiously. Other than the rapid flipping of money, there was no sound in the room and no one moved. Ian tried to see how much money was there, but it was impossible to watch it closely without arousing suspicion. Judging by the time it took to count, he figured there must be thousands of twenty pound notes. The club alone must have been a lucrative venture, but Tod clearly turned over a decent profit from drugs.

  At last Tod nodded and dismissed the courier with a wave of his hand. The young man stuffed a bag of white powder in his pocket as he turned and shuffled from the room, grinning foolishly. Having locked the money in a safe beside his desk, Tod raised his eyes and stared directly at Ian who faced him stoically, aware that the success of a long-running project depended on the outcome of this encounter.

  ‘So you’re Archie?’ Tod said, running his eyes appraisingly over Ian’s broad shoulders.

  Ian did not answer.

  ‘You know Tallulah?’

  ‘Tallulah’s my bitch,’ Ian replied quietly.

  ‘Word is you fancy yourself as a tough guy?’

  Ian shrugged. ‘I can be handy.’

  ‘And you had a gig as a heavy for someone else?’

  ‘Bodyguard for my boss,’ Ian replied, trying to sound proud of the job title. ‘He said I was the best he ever had.’

  Ian hoped he wasn’t being too pushy, but if Tod decided to employ him as simply another bouncer on the door, he would be less useful to the drug squad than if he was working as a bodyguard protecting the owner of the club.

  Nick, the younger of the two other men in the room scowled, perhaps suspecting Ian was after his job.

  ‘The boss has got a bodyguard,’ he snarled. ‘If you’re so tough, how come you got canned?’

  Ian turned and glared at him. The man was younger and taller than Ian, but he thought he could take him down. It was unlikely the thug had received the kind of professional training Ian had undergone. This was a chance to prove himself to Tod. He clenched his fists and took a threatening step towards the young man who immediately responded by taking a swing at Ian. His aggression alone was enough to intimidate most assailants, but Ian was prepared. Dodging the blow, he seized his attacker’s arm and twisted it up behind his back before the young man had time to react. At the same time, with his other hand, he slipped Nick’s gun from his waistband and kicked it across the room.