by Dan Waddell
Garvey flicked his eyes from Heather to Foster. ‘With respect, you didn’t know Dammy; she was an independent spirit. She wouldn’t have appreciated me stalking her.’
She might have done, given that she had been kidnapped and was then killed, thought Foster, but he said nothing.
‘Sorry, but I need to ask you some difficult questions,’ Heather said, stepping back in, waiting for Garvey to indicate that would be OK. ‘When you’d rowed before, did Dammy ever go off with someone else? I’m thinking specifically of another man.’
‘Never. No way. She’d had her fair share of boyfriends but, as far as I know, she was faithful. She once told me she’d cut my balls off if she ever found out I’d cheated on her. I know where she went. She’d have gone to the Prince of Wales in Holland Park; it was her favourite pub. She knew people in there, the staff, the regulars. It was why I didn’t go there; didn’t fancy venturing into enemy territory during a state of conflict.’ He smiled weakly, though it vanished immediately. ‘Of course, now I wish I had done.’ Garvey’s head bowed and his eyes looked to the floor.
And you always will, Foster thought.
He remembered the Prince of Wales on Princedale Road as an old man’s local boozer, all stained carpets and garish lights; now it was stripped wood bars, Belgian beers, and candles on each table. There were few traditional pubs left in the area. Foster wondered what happened to the regulars of gentrified pubs. Did the brewery round them up and shoot them?
Checks had been made on Dammy Perry’s movements. Garvey had been the last of her family and close friends to see her; a scan of her credit-card and bank-account history showed no activity since Friday morning.
It was early evening and the pub was still full from the Sunday-lunch trade, the bright young things of Holland Park and Notting Hill taking the edge off their weekend hangovers. Heather asked to see the manager, a fat, amiable-looking Geordie. He had not been at work on Friday, but called one of his bar staff across. Karl was a wiry, dark-eyed man in his thirties with a long face that wore the leathery imprint of a life lived in front of a bar.
Foster asked if there was somewhere quiet to speak and Karl led them out to the beer garden, which was empty save for two smokers gathered under an overhead burner. The familiar scent drifted under Foster’s nostrils and reminded him how much he missed the habit.
Foster asked if he knew Dammy Perry. He did.
‘Was she in here on Friday afternoon?’ he asked.
‘She came in about three or four o’clock, I reckon.’
‘On her own?’
‘Don’t remember anyone else with her. A couple of people she knew were here having a drink, so she sat with them. They left after about half an hour and she came out here.’
‘On her own?’
‘No. There was a bloke, too.’
‘Where did he come from?’
‘Can’t remember. Think he came in for a drink after her. All I remember is coming out here to collect a few glasses and seeing him and her sat at that table. They were both smoking. I remember that because she didn’t smoke unless she was well gone. Is she all right?’
Heather was scribbling furiously.
‘We found her body last night. She’d been murdered. We think she was last seen here on Friday.’
‘Christ,’ he said, wind knocked from him. ‘Murdered? Who’d want to murder a gorgeous woman like that?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Foster said. ‘Did you know the man she was sitting with?’
‘Never seen him before.’
‘When did they leave?’
‘I don’t know. I came out about an hour later to collect more glasses, about five o’clock, and they’d gone.’
‘Would anyone else have seen them?’
‘Sonia was on, but she was working the bar mainly.’ He scratched absent-mindedly at the back of his head. ‘Still can’t believe she was murdered, like. That’s horrible.’
‘Was there anything about him you remember?’
He spent some time in thought, stifled a yawn, then spoke. ‘Nothing springs to mind. He was wearing shades and he had a round face, pudding-basin sort of dark hair. He was thickset, too, but he was sat down so… He was drinking Virgin Marys, I know that. Can’t remember the face, but I never forget an order.’
‘Is there anyone in the pub now who was in then?’
‘Don’t think so. Sunday’s a different crowd to the rest of the week.’
‘We need you to come and help us do a photofit as soon as possible.’
‘Sure, if it’s OK with the boss.’
He went inside to check.
‘Darbyshire disappeared after going out of a pub for a smoke,’ Foster said to Heather. ‘Ellis and Perry were last seen in a pub. Think we’re getting closer to knowing how he picks his victims up.’
‘Pretty public place to operate.’
‘Look at it this way: it’s an easy way to lace a drink.’
‘Rohypnol?’
‘Something like that. Next thing you know, they’re out of it.’
‘Park your vehicle nearby. Help them in. Nothing untoward about helping someone the worse for wear outside a pub,’ Heather added.
The barman returned. ‘I’m ready when you are,’ he said.
‘We’ll also need to get in touch with whoever was serving the bar that night. Sonia, was it?’ Foster said.
‘The boss says he’ll give her a call.’
‘What was Dammy drinking, do you remember?’
‘Same as always. Vodka, lime and soda.’
Ruled out Rohypnol. The makers put a blue dye in it to guard against spiking. She would have noticed. Though it could have been a counterfeit. And there were any number of other ‘date rape’ drugs it could be. Toxicology would tell them more.
A few hours later, they called it a night. Foster was looking forward to getting home, climbing into a few glasses of red then seeking sanctuary in sleep. His whole body ached and creaked from weariness; a headache had settled behind his tired eyes.
They had a sketch of the suspect. Tomorrow they would show it to everyone in the lives of their three victims, as well as to everyone who might have seen them in the final hours before their disappearances. They had also lifted a print from the box containing Nella Perry’s eyes. It had been put through the database, but there had been no matches. Still, together with the description, it was a start.
He would wait until Detective Superintendent Harris, his boss, was in tomorrow before he released the sketch to the media. Harris had been summoned back from his holiday in Spain, so Foster knew he would not be in the best of moods. The press bureau had been briefed after sinking under an avalanche of calls when Nella Perry’s demise circulated around Fleet Street. There was to be a briefing at eight the following morning for the whole team, a chance to sift all the facts and see what emerged.
Then there had been Barnes’s phone call, about Rillington Place. It fascinated him. Was there any significance to it?
He found Heather preparing to leave.
‘Ever heard of psychogeography?’ Foster asked her.
She made a face. ‘Teach it at universities now, do they?’
‘Don’t start me,’ he said. ‘No, it was Barnes’s phone call. For some reason he found himself back in North Kensington, near the murder scene. Apparently, just around the corner is the site of 10 Rillington Place.’
‘The Christie-Evans murders,’ exclaimed Heather.
‘I remember a mate of my old man, a gnarled old-school detective,’ Foster said. ‘You know, the sort you’d want on the job if your daughter had been killed. He was talking about that case once. He knew one of the coppers who was given the job of removing the bodies. Someone asked him a few years later whether he received any counselling. He said, “Well, the district inspector bought me a pint.”’
Despite his exhaustion, Foster rumbled with laughter.
Heather looked heavenwards. ‘So what did Nigel want?’
/> ‘He just thought I should know that Rillington Place was near, in case it was important.’
‘Do you think it is?’
‘Could be. Anything could be. At the moment this case is like moulding milk; it’s spilling out everywhere.’ He paused. ‘I told him we’ll need him tomorrow. I can’t help feeling that if we’re going to get anywhere near to solving the present, we’re going to have to know everything we can about the past. Only then will things make sense.’
‘And what is psychogeography?’
‘According to Barnes, it’s the theory that some places always carry the stain or stigma of the past; these places can then have an effect on people’s emotions, behaviour and actions.’
‘Sounds interesting,’ Heather said.
‘Sounds like he’s lost his marbles,’ Foster said. ‘You’re quite taken with his barmy little theories and interests. You like him, don’t you?’
‘He’s good at his job,’ she replied, flicking a stray hair from her brow.
‘Not that sort of like, the other sort.’
‘Do I fancy him, you mean?’
Foster smiled. Heather often did that: confronted the subject head-on, rather than skirt around it. She claimed it was her northern upbringing, where people called a spade a bloody shovel. In the south of England, so her theory went, people euphemized and pussyfooted around. Whatever the reasons, Foster liked it and he knew she admired him for the same quality. Unlike some other junior officers, she had never been intimidated by his presence or nature.
‘He’s all right,’ she said. ‘Quite dishy.’
‘Really?’ he replied; Foster had him down as a bit geeky.
‘That’s because the last three blokes I’ve seen have been coppers. He’s about as far removed from that world as can be. For a start, he’s intelligent.’ Foster ignored the slight; she wasn’t finished listing his qualities. ‘Yes, he’s a bit shy and reserved but he has lots of energy. He’s a good listener, too, which is hardly a trait you meet in most modern men. And he’s enthusiastic and passionate about what he does for a living, not world-weary and cynical. God, I’m so bored with world-weary and cynical.’
Foster knew both adjectives could well be applied to him. He could not remember ever having been innocent and idealistic. Those attributes tended not to flourish in murder squad.
‘He also has a gorgeous pair of blue eyes that you want to dive into,’ she added, then gave him a victorious smile. ‘You did ask.’
‘Well, can you lead him astray after the case is closed?’ he said, putting on his jacket.
16
Detective Superintendent Harris was sitting in Foster’s chair when he arrived the next morning. He was waiting, leaning forwards, a frown on his tanned face. Foster’s head was heavy; three pints in the pub, then half a bottle of claret before turning in hadn’t helped. But he needed it to get to sleep – an alcohol-induced coma was preferable to a restless night.
Harris said nothing, no greeting. Merely tossed a copy of a morning tabloid on to the desk. Foster picked it up.
There was a picture of Dammy Perry on the front page, dressed in a full-length gown, straw hair, broad smile, bleached eyes peering from the page. She looked ethereal, otherworldly. Above the picture, in bold type, the headline read: ‘Could She Have Been Saved?’
No, thought Foster. He turned, as directed by the story, to page three.
‘There are six pages in total,’ Harris said.
‘Jesus!’
‘And there’s a leader on the comment page. It says we should hold an investigation into how our forces came to be at the wrong tube station and missed the chance to catch the killer.’
Foster was only half listening as he leafed through the pages. The headlines were a succession of lurid questions: ‘When Will Fiend Strike Again?’ ‘What Are Cops Doing?’ There was a picture of Simon Perry, ‘Slain Dammy’s Brother’, managing to look both bereaved and self-regarding.
‘Fish-and-chip paper,’ Foster said, tossing it back on to the desk.
A thin, joyless smile spread across the superintendent’s face. ‘To you, Grant, it may be. But this is exactly what we don’t need. Do you know how bad this looks?’
Foster was in no mood to get into an argument about media perception. ‘I can see how, reported like this, it looks bad. But the fact is, we discovered he was going to dump a body only a few hours before he actually did. The genealogist found out it was to be Notting Hill. There wasn’t time to research the whole history of the London underground. It was a genuine, honest mistake. In any case, she was dead before her body was dumped.’
‘Her brother will cause us no end of problems.’
‘Her brother’s a chinless fool.’
‘Who sits on the Home Affairs Select Committee.’
Foster said nothing; he was prepared to weather Harris’s public relations paranoia.
‘What about the first victim? How come nobody realized he’d been murdered until almost a week after his body had been found?’
Foster explained the story of the tramp who wasn’t. The severity of Harris’s expression did not alter. He had been in the army in his younger years and, with his ramrod straight back, salt-and-pepper hair and overweening pomposity, Foster guessed he might have made a good officer.
‘We need more manpower,’ he said, when Foster had finished.
‘I agree.’
‘I’m bringing Williams’s team in from South.’
That wasn’t what Foster had in mind. They needed more infantry, not another general. He started to protest. The room, lit only by the thin sunlight of the early morning, darkened perceptibly as two masses of grey cloud met and became one.
‘I’m taking charge,’ Harris said. ‘And you won’t like my first decision.’
Foster said nothing; he could feel the tension bulging in the back of his arms.
‘DCI Williams’s team, and most of yours, are going back out on the streets, finding witnesses, digging up all they can on the victims – their lives, their enemies, every single thing they can find. They will show the sketch you’ve got to everyone who’s ever known these victims. I’m also releasing it to the media. We’re going to shake down every single ex-con in London who’s ever picked up a knife. Williams will coordinate the investigation on the ground and report back to me. You will concentrate on the past. Find out what the hell happened in 1879.’
‘Sir…’
‘Grant, there is a man out there murdering at will,’ he said, his finger jabbing towards the window. ‘The press are all over it. They’re saying it’s the biggest manhunt since the Yorkshire Ripper.’
‘So you’re going to turn it into one?’
‘Yes, if it means we catch the murderer,’ he barked back.
‘We’ve been behind the eight ball all the way through this investigation and now when, if we haven’t yet got a foothold, at least we’ve got a bit of purchase, you’re standing me down?’
‘Not standing you down, Grant. Asking you to oversee a different part of the investigation.’
The one that involves being shut away in dark rooms poring over documents, books and maps, Foster thought.
‘We need to understand everything that happened back then. What is it someone once said, “The past is another country”?’
‘So is France. Never wanted to go there either.’
Harris simply shook his head. ‘My mind is made up.’
In one respect Foster knew Harris was right; to solve the present they needed to solve the past. But the killer was to be apprehended in the present, and that was the task he wanted to see through himself. Instead, he would be stuck in some archive with Barnes when they finally caught this creep.
‘The ex-wife of Graham Ellis is coming down today to identify the body. I fixed it up.’
‘I’ll handle it,’ Harris said immediately, rising from Foster’s seat. He picked his papers up from the desk, uncurled his wiry frame and walked out without another glance.
Fost
er picked up a pen and hurled it against the wall.
Nigel was standing outside the newspaper library, puffing on a roll-up, when Foster screeched to a halt in his car, then reversed at speed into a space. He and Heather got out, Foster striding three yards ahead of her. As he reached the door, he did not meet Nigel’s eye, muttered no greeting, merely brushed past and went into the small reception area.
‘Don’t ask,’ Heather murmured to Nigel, who flicked his cigarette stub to one side with forefinger and thumb, then followed her in.
The security guard on reception was waiting to take them to their room. They went through a set of double doors into the small ‘café’ area, which was nothing more than a collection of chairs, tables and vending machines. They headed left through more double doors into an area that Nigel knew was for staff only, then straight across the staff canteen into a small room that smelled as if it had lain unused for some time. The walls bore the shadows of long-gone pictures and calendars. It was windowless and, when Nigel absent-mindedly ran his finger along the only table, it was thickly coated with dust. Two swivel chairs and a battered wooden chair had been put in there for their use.
Foster shut the door behind them. ‘We’re working here,’ he barked.
Nigel didn’t understand why, but sensed it would be unwise to ask. Foster detected his bemusement.
‘If we work upstairs, or wherever the main bit is, what’s to say Joe Public doesn’t have a look at what we’re doing? Or your mate Gary Kent, or some other enterprising hack, doesn’t slip a few quid to one of the staff in exchange for having a glance at the same papers we’ve been looking at? Here we know we can get some privacy.’
‘But that doesn’t solve the problem of the staff being bought off,’ Heather interjected.
‘No, but I’ve asked for copies of every single national newspaper that was published in the 1870s to be brought here.’
‘Every one?’ Nigel asked incredulously.
‘Yeah. So if they want to work their way through that lot, they can. By the time they reach 1879… Well, they won’t. They’re too lazy,’ he said.
