DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3)

by MARGARET MURPHY

  ‘Sightings all over,’ Foster said. ‘Nothing recent.’

  ‘He must have found a bolthole,’ Hart said.

  ‘He’s run off with a six-week-old baby — he can’t have just vanished.’ Rickman’s finger went to the scar over his right eyebrow. ‘Lee — you checked out Jasmine’s kitchen when we searched for the baby?’

  Foster nodded.

  ‘Was there any blood?’

  Foster shook his head. ‘It was clean.’

  ‘And there were baby’s bottles in the fridge?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Hart forgot Foster’s ill-humour and her own frustration with their lack of progress. ‘He’ll need food for the baby,’ she said, her excitement rising. ‘Nappies, maybe.’

  Rickman nodded.

  ‘I’ll put out a message to Foot Patrols.’ Her tiredness was gone, washed away by a fresh rush of adrenaline.

  ‘Ask them to check out all-night chemists,’ Rickman said. ‘And eight-till-late grocers.’

  ‘What about supermarkets?’ Foster asked.

  ‘He’d probably avoid anywhere with security staff — but better alert them, just in case.’ Rickman checked his watch again, noticed the awkward fit of his jacket and straightened his tangled lapel.

  ‘Go,’ Foster said. ‘We’ll stay in touch.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Rickman said. ‘I’ll be back later.’

  ‘Who’s the pathologist?’ Foster asked.

  ‘Owen Griffith.’

  Foster snorted. ‘You’ll be lucky to get out by midnight, boss.’

  Rickman nodded. ‘You’re probably right. I’ll keep my phone on, so if anything—’

  ‘We’ll let you know,’ Foster said.

  Chapter 16

  Strains of Mozart’s Concerto for Oboe and Clarinet drifted from the post-mortem room as Rickman changed into surgical scrubs and hurriedly slipped into standard-issue overshoes.

  A forensic photographer hovered in the background, gowned up and quivering like a gundog on point. There were others in the room: a woman CSI Rickman recognised from the crime scene, and two mortuary technicians. One would take contemporaneous notes, while the other handed instruments to the pathologist, bottled specimens for transfer to the path lab, weighed and set aside organs — ready for replacement in the body or for further biopsy. Rickman continued his scan of the room and met the steady gaze of Crime Scene Coordinator Tony Mayle. That Mayle was present at all was a mark of respect for Jasmine against the outrage perpetrated upon her. As CSC, and one of the most senior CSIs on the Liverpool force, Mayle would be coordinating several cases at once, and this post-mortem might take hours.

  Rickman nodded, and Mayle glanced briefly at the body and back at Rickman. Mayle had been a cop for sixteen years and had specialised in crime scene investigation for ten more. That look confirmed that even in the world Mayle inhabited, sampling and recording the intimate traces of violence and violations, this one was hard to take.

  Jasmine lay on the table. Standing beside her, six foot two and wide as a chapel door, was Dr Owen Griffith.

  White light reflected off the stainless steel of the tables, and although the air conditioning was inaudible below the music, Rickman could feel the cool downdraught, designed to push odours and pathogens to ground level before being sucked out into the biological filters of the mortuary’s independent air system.

  Griffith’s eyebrows, black, tufted and curved like question marks over his pale blue eyes, were by no means his most remarkable feature. He had a wide, flat nose and a broad mouth, a long, barrel-shaped body and disproportionately short legs. He acknowledged Rickman with a nod and said, with heavy irony, ‘Nice of you to spare the time, Chief Inspector.’ His accent retained a faint Welsh lilt, his voice a loud, rich baritone, as likely to be heard singing bawdy rugby songs on the terraces of Swansea United as propping up the bass notes of the Chester Choral Society, of which he was an enthusiastic member.

  Without preamble, he began dictating into a mike, suspended at head height above the post-mortem table. ‘External examination of female — do we have confirmation of identity?’ he asked Rickman.

  ‘The mother refused to make an identification,’ Rickman said. ‘But we do have a friend who’s willing.’

  Griffith nodded. ‘We’ve confirmed identity from fingerprints on record, anyway,’ he said, speaking clearly for the recorder. ‘The victim’s name is Jasmine Elliott, aged seventeen.’ He paused, then spoke quietly, away from the microphone. ‘Now then, Miss Elliott, let’s see what we can do for you.’ There was an uncharacteristic tenderness in his voice and his demeanour which was gone so quickly that it would be easy to think it had never been there.

  ‘Jasmine Elliott,’ the pathologist repeated, projecting his voice, as though he was announcing her in court. ‘Seventeen years of age, slightly underweight. Recent caesarean scar.’ He leaned closer to the body and lifted one eyelid. ‘Blue eyes.’

  Rickman forced himself to look at the network of tiny cuts that covered Jasmine’s body. The thin gauze of blood that had covered her was beginning to scab and flake on exposure to air. Rickman knew she would already have been photographed and swabbed, her fingernails scraped and her hair combed. Any fibres, flakes or hairs would already have been bagged and tagged by the CSIs and sent for examination. The forensic search of her home would be as painstaking, with fibre lifts, fingerprints and DNA samples taken and fast-tracked for analysis.

  ‘Notice extreme pallor of the skin, particularly the extremities, and signs of cyanosis around the lips and fingernails.’ Griffith lifted one slim hand from the table and tilted it for the photographer. Jasmine’s fingernails had once been painted a rich aubergine, but much of the nail varnish had chipped and worn off, revealing the tell-tale blue tinge indicating lack of oxygen. Rickman looked at the girl’s delicate fingers resting in Griffith’s meaty paw and wanted to weep.

  The full post-mortem took just over three hours. When Griffith tried to extract blood from the femoral veins, he found that the veins in both legs had collapsed. He discovered a deeper cut, at the back of Jasmine’s right knee. It had nicked the anterior tibial artery.

  ‘This would account for the pooling of blood under the body, and on the floor under the bed,’ Griffith said.

  ‘Are you saying she died of blood loss?’ Rickman asked.

  ‘Would that it were that simple, Chief Inspector. Sudden and extreme loss of blood causes acidosis — high blood acidity, which in turn can damage major organs.’ He ticked the items off on the fingers of his left hand. ‘Coagulopathy — thickening of the blood, if you will — hypothermia and finally dysrhythmia. The heart forgets its rhythm and eventually fails.’

  ‘Whichever way you look at it, what you’re saying is she bled to death.’

  ‘What I’m saying is that her body shut down over a long period — maybe hours.’

  Griffith hooked his little finger and traced a curve a centimetre above the circle of thorns tattooed around Jasmine’s upper arm. ‘Notice the beads of blood at the tips of the thorns?’ Rickman had been trying not to think about them since he first saw them that morning. ‘She would have to remain very still for that precise pattern of beading to occur,’ Griffith said.

  ‘Was she drugged?’ Rickman asked.

  ‘Or unconscious. I’ll know more when the blood screen results come through.’ Griffith took a breath, then raised one broad hand to shield the mike. ‘This young woman suffered a great deal, and for many hours before she died, Chief Inspector. Whoever did this took his time, and he enjoyed the work.’

  * * *

  Home for Rickman was a three-storey Victorian property in Mossley Hill. He turned the car through the gateway and had to brake sharply to avoid a car parked outside the front door. ‘Bloody hell!’ His anger fled when he realised it must be the car Tanya hired at the airport. He was ashamed to admit that he hadn’t thought of his sister-in-law since Foster had caught up with him in the park that morning.

  A lamp burned in the front
sitting room and Rickman felt his spirits lift. The heating was on, creating a welcome he was unused to, and as he dumped his briefcase and keys in the hall, Tanya stepped out of the sitting room. Her hair seemed to shimmer gold and copper under the hall lights.

  ‘Jeff!’ Her oval face lit up and she reached out to him, slipping gracefully into his arms for a kiss. Her cheek was warm, after the October chill outside, and she smelled of honeysuckle and darker hints of spice. Rickman held on to her for a second longer than he should and, feeling a quickening of his heart and a stirring of desire he wasn’t ready to acknowledge, he took a step back in confusion, holding her at arm’s length.

  ‘Sorry for the late hour,’ he said. ‘New case.’

  ‘I heard it on the radio.’

  ‘I’d hoped to be here to meet you.’

  Tanya lifted one shoulder in an expressive European gesture. ‘I have a key, it’s not like I was waiting in the cold.’ She frowned and squeezed his hand. ‘It sounds bad.’

  Rickman thought about the girl, left without dignity in death, the infant, ripped from her mother, and now in terrible danger. ‘It is,’ he said with a sigh. ‘It’s bad.’

  Tanya searched his face for a few moments, then gave her head a small shake, as though she had given up on what she was looking for. ‘I did some shopping on the drive from the airport.’ She walked ahead of him to the kitchen. ‘Could you eat?’

  He would have said no, but at that moment Tanya opened the door and the combined aromas of oregano, garlic, basil and thick, meaty sauce drifted out.

  They shared their meal at the scrubbed oak table, talking about her boys — Rickman’s nephews, Fergus and Jeff junior. Jeff had recently enrolled at university, and Tanya was worried about the company he was keeping.

  ‘I’m surprised you came over right now,’ Rickman said. ‘I’m pleased to see you,’ he added, ‘don’t get me wrong — but I thought you’d want to be nearby.’

  She took a sip of wine, and he could see she was struggling with a decision to talk or remain silent.

  ‘Tanya, is something wrong?’

  ‘It’ll wait,’ she said. ‘We can talk tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll be out of the house by seven a.m. — I’ve no idea when I’ll be back,’ he said. ‘If something’s bothering you, I’d rather know now.’

  ‘I didn’t want to burden you,’ she said. ‘Especially with this new case.’ She fiddled with the stem of her glass for a few moments longer, then glanced up at him, her brown eyes troubled. ‘This is terrible timing.’

  Rickman smiled. ‘There’s never a good time.’

  She lifted her napkin from her lap and folded it. ‘Simon takes so much of your time as it is . . .’

  Simon’s amnesia since his car accident, his inability to cope with the world, had reversed their roles, and Rickman had to assume the role of protector and guide to his older brother.

  ‘You’re worried about the business,’ he said. Simon and Tanya’s leatherwear business was the subject of glossy magazine features and their clothing sold to A-list celebrities, but Simon’s head injury had wiped all memory of it, and he had no interest in learning about it.

  Tanya took a breath. ‘I had our lawyers in Milan draw up papers — equivalent to power of attorney here.’

  Rickman swilled the wine in his glass. ‘Oh.’

  ‘I don’t want to cut him out, Jeff,’ she said, anxious to explain. ‘We lost money this year because the autumn collection wasn’t ready in time. Next year, it will affect our market share — I can’t risk that. I need to be able to take decisions and implement them without having to waste a month cajoling Simon into signing off on the board’s decisions.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know . . .’ Nevertheless, it was confirmation, not that it was needed. His brother wasn’t getting better. Would never get better. ‘Should Simon have legal representation?’

  She flushed a little. ‘I think he should. The family lawyers are based in Milan, and . . .’

  Her voice trailed off. Simon had no intentions of returning to Italy, and she didn’t need to say that he no longer saw himself as part of the family. For Simon, there was Jeff and him — nobody else counted. Not his wife, his children, his clients or his employees.

  ‘I wish there was something I could say — something I could do.’

  Tanya’s fingertips brushed his hand, the merest touch, but he felt it through the whole of his body. ‘You’re already doing more than any of us could have expected or hoped for. But Simon isn’t coming back to us. We have to accept that.’ Tanya softened her words with a smile so sad, he felt it like a pain in his chest.

  * * *

  Heading for home, Lee Foster tuned the car stereo to Radio Merseyside hoping that the sports broadcast would take his mind off the failures of the day.

  Bryony Elliott was still out there, Mark Davis was at best unstable, and every lead had come up with a big fat nothing.

  ‘He’s got the ball and he’s running,’ the commentator said, and Foster snorted in derision. Real sportsmen didn’t run with the ball, they kicked it. He pressed the autotune for Radio City. Kaiser Chiefs were playing ‘I Predict a Riot’ and he was just getting into it when the ads cut in. He muted the speakers in disgust and simultaneously, a text alert flashed up on the digital screen. It was from work, and it was marked ‘URGENT’. Foster pulled over.

  The message was short. ‘Davis cornered at Central Station. Officers need assistance.’

  Foster screeched from the kerb and accelerated into the outside lane, executing a U-turn that set car horns blaring.

  ‘Cornered,’ the message said, which meant he probably had Bryony with him. If he could talk the stupid bastard down . . .

  He swerved around a slow-moving stretch limo, jamming the heel of his hand on the horn to warn the driver. In his rear-view mirror he caught a glimpse of two girls hanging out of the sunroof, waving and laughing. He kept his foot down on the steep incline of Brownlow Hill, screaming past the redbrick facade of the university’s Victoria Building, through two more sets of lights as they changed to red. He broke hard at the T-junction, making the sharp jink right, then left, and screeched to a halt on the pelican crossing at the station. Three miles in just under four minutes.

  He dialled Calls and Response as he ran for the entrance.

  Someone yelled after him, ‘Hey, mate! You can’t leave that there.’

  A taxi horn sounded.

  ‘DS Foster,’ he said into his phone. ‘I got a text.’

  ‘Mobile patrols are on-way,’ the operator said.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Sorry, Sarge, no detail. In the station — that’s all we got.’

  Foster ran past the small parade of shops at the entrance to the station as he heard the faint whoop of a distant siren. The ticket desk and barriers looked quiet. The place smelled of dust and hot metal. The PA system bing-bonged, and a cancellation of service from the Wirral was announced. Then Foster saw a movement to his left — two youths loped across the dingy tiles of the concourse. There was a pent-up eagerness in the way they moved and he followed them.

  Turning a corner, he saw a small crowd gathered around the shuttered doorway of a shop. He could just see the helmets of two police in uniform. Foster fished out his badge and warrant card and edged through the huddle. ‘Police,’ he said, his voice low and controlled. ‘Watch your backs.’

  The two officers stood next to a man who lay crumpled against the grey shuttering of the department store. He had Mark Davis’s dark hair and long limbs, but Foster couldn’t see the face. Both officers had their hands on their batons, though neither had drawn them. The taller of the two emanated fear. The shorter man had the shoulders of a weightlifter and a mad glint in his eye.

  ‘What’s the score?’ Foster addressed his question to the shorter man.

  ‘They were knocking seven shades out of him when we arrived.’ The officer’s hackles were up, and he spoke loud enough for all of them to hear.

&nb
sp; ‘Citizens’ arrest,’ someone called out from the middle of the crowd.

  ‘Resisting, was he?’ Foster put enough irony in his voice to raise a laugh.

  ‘You do know who that is?’ A man of about thirty stood at the front of the gathering, leaning forward in the balls of his feet. He had the flattened nose and callused knuckles of a boxer.

  ‘Why don’t you tell us?’ Foster said, tagging him as the ringleader.

  ‘It’s that pervert killer — the one who snatched the baby,’ the boxer said.

  ‘Well.’ Foster rubbed his hands. ‘Best get him down the station, eh, lads?’

  The short cop looked ready to get moving, but someone shouted out from the back, ‘Where’s the little girl, then?’

  ‘Give me five minutes with him.’ The boxer stepped up, his fists clenched. ‘I’ll find out.’

  ‘You wouldn’t wanna do that, mate.’ Foster spoke softly, so as not to antagonise the rest, putting just enough threat in his tone so the guy knew he wasn’t intimidated. Then he spread his hands and deliberately relaxed his stance. ‘Why don’t you give your name to one of the officers, here — you might even get a commendation.’

  The boxer sneered. ‘Give that shithead a chance to do us for assault? No chance.’ He turned away and Foster breathed easier. With the boxer off the scene, there was a good chance the rest would disperse. This would become no more than a good yarn for the lads to spin for their mates and the girls down the clubs later in the evening.

  A sudden scuffle at the back of the crowd caused a rumble of protest. The onlookers began to turn as uniformed officers broke through, shoving left and right.

  Shit.

  The boxer met Foster’s eye and there was no going back. He lunged for the man on the ground. Foster moved into his path. The boxer jabbed with his left. Foster parried, but he was too tired. Too slow. The blow grazed his temple, and Foster staggered.

  The crowd surged forward, yelling, angry. The police pushed back, forming a ragged line against the mob. Batons were drawn, a few blows struck, and the crowd retaliated with fists and feet.