The Death of Jessica Ripley

by Andrew Barrett

  “I will get it right.”

  “And people are waiting for you to get it wrong.”

  “I said—”

  Weismann palmed her comment. “Okay. But if you feel uncomfortable at all, or out of your depth—”

  “I’ve been doing this job—”

  “For three years. Yes, your father said.”

  So why do you always try to talk your way out of it?

  * * *

  Weismann held a clipboard and walked behind Nicki up the short path leading to the front door. He offered his name to the scene guard, who entered it onto a log below Nicki’s. Nicki had the camera and her small box of forensic kit. He pulled up his face mask, stretched the gloves on his hands into a fist, and stepped forward. He had a bad feeling about this.

  Once in the hallway, Weismann pushed the front door closed with a knuckle and said, “What are you going to do about body recovery? We’ll need a tent to shield—”

  “I have one in the van.”

  Weismann nodded as she turned away. “What about someone to give you a hand—”

  “I’m quite capable of handling this alone, actually, thanks. And before you ask, I’ve arranged for a biologist to attend. And I’ve let the coroner’s officer know; she’ll contact the pathologist and request he visit the scene.”

  All well and good, thought Weismann, but she hadn’t even viewed the body yet. Who was to say they’d even be needed?

  “Now, I’m going to put stepping plates up the stairs.” She thrust her chin forward in an assertion of power. “So you might want to make a note of that” —she indicated his notebook— “and then we’ll go on up and see what all the fuss is about, yes?”

  “Okay, I’ll help you—”

  “No, you won’t. You’ll do nothing. In fact, I don’t understand why you’re here, unless you’re hoping I’ll mess up so you can report it to my father?”

  “Nicki, I don’t want you to mess up; why would you say that?”

  “Because you don’t agree with how we did things.”

  “No. No, I don’t agree. But it’s done now. And my only concern at the moment is this scene.”

  “You need have no concerns on that score. This scene is in very safe hands.”

  Weismann nodded slowly. He stood back, clutching the notebook to his chest. “I’ll wait while you get the plates,” he said. “I want to see what’s up there.”

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Nicki put the last plate on the top step and lurched onto the landing. She didn’t watch Weismann ascending shakily behind her; she was awestruck by what she’d seen in the bedroom and the massacre that was waiting for her. She swallowed, regretting her earlier bravado.

  Standing here, she realised there were a lot of things she regretted. And most of them began with her dad.

  “Well?”

  Nicki looked around, surprised to find Weismann was already by her side. “I, er… I think we need more stepping plates. It’s a good floor in there. Don’t want to er… You know. Footwear marks.” Her mouth was watering. “Back in a minute.” She set off back down the stairs.

  A full fifteen minutes later she was back with another armful of stepping plates.

  Weismann had run out of tunes to hum, had run out of conversations to have with himself, and was instead standing by the bedroom doorframe, peering in at the body and at the attempt someone had made at becoming a butcher.

  “Here I am. Sorry I kept you waiting.” She dropped the plates on the landing and cringed at the noise they made, like a thousand church bells chiming at the same time. She nodded a brief apology at Weismann and then laid a short trail out across the laminate bedroom floor, arriving a couple of feet short of the dead man and his cleaved face.

  She swallowed, and then she noticed Weismann sniffing the air.

  “Can you smell mint?” he asked.

  “Oh. I used a little Vicks, actually. Would you like some?” Her eyes watered.

  “Shall we get on?”

  Nicki nodded, and turned back to the man. He was on his back, halfway between sitting and lying – the position he would have assumed if reclining in a deckchair. He was leaning against his upturned bed frame. He had a hand missing, chopped off at the wrist at an angle; she couldn’t see it, but she could make out the ends of the radius and ulna glistening white among the red meat. The other hand was draped strangely across his right knee, only connected with his forearm by a string of white – a clump of nerves, or a tendon.

  Nicki blinked rapidly.

  Her eyes drifted down to his open crotch area. The clothing there was in shreds, and his… She peered closer, torchlight picking out details she wished it hadn’t. There were two hefty cuts, one of them down to the inside of his thigh bone. She could see bone clearly; his leg looked like a freshly butchered steak.

  She looked away.

  Among the collection of dust and empty crisp packets on the floor were a pair of socks, three used condoms, clumps of dust-encrusted hair, and dozens of chewed fingernail ends, ragged. Nicki closed her eyes and took a long slow breath.

  But the scene didn’t get much better when she eventually opened them again and saw his penis lying on the floor, partly covered by his scrotum. Blood everywhere. She suddenly felt warm as her eyes drifted north to his face. When they got there, she felt hot. Her mouth watered even more. She could hear her rushed breathing inside the mask, could feel sweat trickling into her eyes. Her whole body was prickling. She dropped the torch, turned and ran straight into Weismann as she headed for the doorway.

  “Nicki?” Weismann was up on his feet quickly, following her to make sure she was okay. He was right behind her as she ran across the hall into the bathroom.

  She pulled her mask down and slid to a halt, panting. It smelled of faeces in here.

  On the toilet was another body that no one had told them about. It was a woman, head tilted to one side as though she’d nodded off. It was cleaved almost from her shoulders. A sheet of blood had cascaded down her side, down her arm. On the floor was a spread of blood a couple of feet wide that had crusted at the edges.

  A single delicate droplet of blood hung from one of her long brown fingernails, ready to fall, but frozen in place by coagulation, pursed by haemostasis.

  Across the wall to the right was more blood. Part of Nicki’s mind suggested it was cast off, and another part insisted it was arterial spray. The last part of Nicki’s mind made her turn away from the woman and throw up all over Weismann.

  Now it smelled of vomit in here, too.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Eddie was sitting in his car, looking at the house where he used to live as a kid. Back then there were maybe two or three cars parked in this street; now it was like driving through a slalom. What rankled most was knowing that his dad was stuck in there with a woman he couldn’t stand because he was just too proud to admit it.

  Someone had shown him a bit of attention, and he’d fallen down on one knee like a love-sick prick. If only he could see what he looked like from the outside; if only he could see what she looked like from the outside. If only he could, he’d run a mile.

  Eddie’s thoughts turned back to Troy just as Sid answered the phone.

  “Eddie, is that you?”

  “How you doing, Sid?”

  “I’m helping Melanie out with research and whatnot. I’m not working in there, in CSI; I told them I wouldn’t work under that” —Sid’s voice lowered— “under that cow. I told them, Eddie, she’s ruined that office, ruined it! But I couldn’t walk out of the building, you see. I know it was the great show of strength or maybe the show of dignity on your part, whatever you want to call it, but I just couldn’t join in. You do see that, don’t you, Eddie? I really need to keep my job. I’m sorry.”

  “You know what I’ve missed about you, Sid?”

  “No, what?”

  “Fuck all.”

  “Ah, you haven’t changed.”

  There was a smile in Sid’s voice, and it somehow pop
ped out onto Eddie’s face too. It was good to talk to him again.

  “There’s been a murder.”

  “Sid, this is Leeds – there’s always a murder.”

  “I know, I know, but she’s gone to it – Nicki. And Weismann has gone with her.”

  “Should be interesting.”

  “She won’t last two minutes, Eddie. You know how she always wriggled out of dealing with bodies… Well, I mean, I know I couldn’t deal with them either, but that’s not the point, is it? It’s her job, and she should be able to do—”

  “Sid. Do me a favour.”

  “What? I am quite busy, Eddie.”

  “You shock me. Listen, just find out for me if Nicki sent the coat and knife from Doc Bolton’s scene away for DNA analysis.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  Eddie could hear Sid attacking a keyboard.

  “So what are you doing with yourself while you’re not at work?”

  “I am still at work, Sid, just not in the office. You know what I mean; I’m keeping my finger in the pie.”

  “What you do in your own time is your own business.” Sid laughed. “Right, here we are, the exhibit list for Doc’s case. Yes, she sent them off, twenty-four-hour turnaround. So, a day for transport and admin… should get the results later today. But I’d say tomorrow morning at the earliest – you know what they’re like.”

  Eddie nodded. He did indeed; getting a genuine twenty-four-hour turnaround was like getting an insurance company to pay out. “One more thing. Any idea where Troy lives?”

  “Troy? Oh, Eddie. I think you should leave him alone. He’s trouble.”

  “I think he’s in trouble, Sid.”

  “Ah; going to his rescue? What a lovely gesture.”

  “It’s not a gesture. I’m trying to help him.”

  “And everyone says you’re a twat, can you believe that?”

  “Who? Who says I’m a twat?”

  Sid was laughing down the phone, and Eddie found himself smiling again. It felt good, but he wouldn’t tell anyone he’d done it. No point having a reputation as a twat and then ruining it all by smiling. It would be a bit like having a reputation as a twat and then going out on a date. The smile limped off Eddie’s face and dragged a sneer into position.

  He looked to his right, saw the curtains twitching in his old front room. Doubtless Wendy was in there slagging him off to his dad again. “Sid?”

  “I’m looking, hold on.”

  “Do you know anything about Facebook?”

  “You’re joining Facebook?”

  “No, not me, you dick. Can you find someone on there for me?”

  “Who?”

  Eddie frowned. What the hell was her surname? “I only know her as Wendy.”

  There was a long pause before Sid said, “That could take a little while, Eddie.”

  “Was that your best attempt at sarcasm?”

  “I thought it was quite good! Anyway, how come you’re after someone called Wendy? Melanie says you’re dating—”

  “Yes, I am. It’s not for me.” He sighed.

  “Congratu—”

  “Sid, listen. I’m running background checks on some cow who’s… Never mind, just get me some details about her.”

  “Like what?”

  “Actually, you’ll be able to find her through my old man: Charles Edward Collins.”

  “Aw, were you named after your dad?”

  “No. His name’s Charles, Sid. Get a grip.”

  “Okay, leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do. Anyway – Troy: his address. He lives in Harehills.”

  * * *

  On his way to Harehills, Eddie thought about Troy, and about what he’d said in the parlour last night when Eddie had asked why he’d gone back on the drugs again. I’d lost my chance, Mr Collins. Nothing to keep me off them any more.

  “Chance?” Strange choice of word when all he meant was that he’d lost his job. “I’d lost my chance.”

  Eddie drove along York Road, past the old fire station and past the old police station, headed up the dual carriageway under the walkway, and took his next right along Harehills Lane.

  Back-to-back terraced houses – hundreds of them. Identical. Kids vandalised them so they knew which was their street. He drove along slowly, staring. Dereliction and deprivation were the only things in abundance around here. He felt sorry for the mucky kids running around in the streets, the old men sitting on stone steps smoking joints and watching the high-heeled tarts strutting to the shiny black four-by-fours belonging to their pushers, pimps, and punters.

  Number 49 came up on his left, and Eddie’s jaw nearly bounced off the steering wheel. He stared at the house. It was like a glistening jewel in a field of cow shit, like a single smile in a sea of tears. Eddie came to a halt outside. It wasn’t one of the red-brick terraces; it was a large detached house, painted white. In the front garden were palm trees, a water feature, a well-landscaped lawn amid a plethora of late-blooming plants and shrubs. On the roof was a row of solar panels, and the red eyes of a pair of high-end CCTV cameras glowed under the eaves.

  Eddie climbed out, locked and double-checked the car doors, and then walked to one of the stone pillars either side of the driveway. He pushed a button as he looked across the driveway for Troy’s black Astra.

  “Hello?”

  Eddie looked into the small camera set into the wall. “My name’s Eddie Collins. I work with Troy. I wondered—”

  The black and gold wrought-iron gates folded inwards and Eddie crossed the threshold. He was surprised to find this house on this estate, but he tried to cast aside all the preconceived images of the occupants that came to the fore. He couldn’t help one image, though; it came and refused to be ushered aside. It was of a drugs baron. Look at the security here, he thought; look at the easy distribution, the opulence paid for and no doubt maintained by a choke-hold on the local community and their addictions. It stank of cliché.

  The front door opened before Eddie got anywhere near it. A man stood in the shade; as Eddie approached, he could tell he wasn’t looking at a typical drug baron.

  Not many drug barons wore knitted green tank tops and tweed golfing trousers. He had garters on his shirt sleeves. His face, pleasant enough for a man pushing fifty, was as pristine as his front garden was immaculate. And when he smiled, Eddie wished he’d been wearing his sunglasses.

  The man thrust out his hand. “Marlow.” Eddie felt compelled to shake. The hand was cold, smooth, like he was a mannequin with full AI robotics. His eyes were green with perfect whites and there was not a single whisker on his face. The resemblance to Troy was uncanny.

  “I work with him.”

  The man’s eyes squinted up a little. “He mentioned an Eddie Collins once.”

  Eddie shrugged and smiled. “Guess I’m just popular.”

  The man did not smile. “How may I help you, Mr Collins?”

  “I’m looking for Troy. I wondered if you’d—”

  “Is he missing?”

  “Well, no; not missing, as such.”

  “If you work with him, how is it that you cannot find him? He is either missing. Or he is not missing. Which is it?”

  Eddie blinked, something he had yet to see those green eyes do. “I was expecting to meet with him today, but he didn’t show up.”

  Marlow gave it some consideration.

  “Are you his father?”

  “I am.”

  “Has he been in touch?”

  “Obviously not. Is he using drugs again?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I assume you are not hard of hearing, so you are shocked at my question. But not because I mentioned the drugs. Shocked because you know he’s using again, but felt it inappropriate to let me know. Are you trying to cover up for him, Mr Collins?”

  “Either you know where he is. Or you do not know where he is. Which is it?”

  “This was his last chance.” Marlow was completely expressionless, despite Eddie’s
impersonation. Not a twitch in the eyebrows, not a smirk or a frown to be found on that wonderful, wrinkle-free face.

  Eddie found himself staring at the face and had to pull back from tapping it to see if it was made of plastic. “I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow.”

  “You don’t have to. Goodbye, Mr Collins.”

  “Wait, wait. What’s up with the lad? He just needs some help.”

  “He received help three years ago, Mr Collins. Now is the time for discipline and action.”

  Eddie got back in the Discovery and watched as the gates clanged shut. A shiver scooted up his back, and he thought his first assessment of this house had been woefully inaccurate. It was actually a cowpat in a field of jewels. Eddie started the engine, and thought about it from Troy’s perspective. A scream in a sea of smiles. No wonder he did drugs.

  “Where the hell are you, Troy?”

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Four miles away from his family home and from Eddie Collins, Troy snuggled beneath a fire hydrant on the sixth floor of a block of respectable flats. He was still drunk, and he was still high. He tended to keep his eyes closed most of the time because opening them caused his vision to spin like he had vertigo.

  The external walkways and the exposed concrete landings funnelled the cold wind. Troy found it almost comforting, but it was cold enough to make him wrap his arms even tighter around himself and pull his knees up closer to his chin.

  Though his mind was offline for most of the time, occasionally it entered a kind of analytical – no, visionary – state. Images came to him, circled his mind and fell onto the little projector screen that someone had set up so he could watch his own private movie show as he waited.

  There were pictures of Eddie; how bolshie he was, how ‘always right’ he was, how aloof and condescending he was. Eddie Collins was a first-class bastard – he’d proved that when he upped and left the office when Crawford and his bitch of a daughter had asked him to. Just like that!

  But Collins wasn’t all bad – despite setting him up with a fake drugs test.

  He’d hated Collins first thing this morning; would have killed him, given the chance. But he’d turned things around a bit since then. One of the images on the projector now was Collins in the kitchen, mug of coffee in hand, confessing his own addiction. He wasn’t daft; if they shared a common flaw, they would become allies. Well, in that respect it had worked – they had become allies of sorts, and Troy no longer hated him enough to stove his head in with a fire extinguisher, or stab him with one of his own kitchen knives. Now, he thought, they shared a common dignity, a brotherhood.