The Death of Jessica Ripley

by Andrew Barrett

  “You okay?”

  Eddie squinted, tried to take a deep breath and had to open his mouth.

  “It might be broken. Your nose.”

  Eddie wiped a sleeve under his nose and was rewarded with a blistering white-hot pain. He winced, saw the blood on his arm, and winced again. “Have you got any paracetamol?”

  “You’re concussed. We’ll need to take you to the LGI, they’ll want to keep you in overnight for obs.”

  “What?” Eddie tried to sit up, but the fuzzy guy rested a hand on his shoulder. “I love the NHS,” Eddie said, “and I love the doctors and the nurses and the paramedics. Really I do. But get your hand off me. I ain’t going anywhere for obs overnight.”

  The paramedic took away his hand. “And we appreciate it that you love us all so much. But you’re giving us twice as much work to do if you fall over again and split your head open. Twenty-four hours, that’s all.”

  Eddie was nodding. “Okay,” he said. “Just give me some paracetamol. And if you could let my boss know?”

  “Sure. Was he the short one? Tie and braces?”

  Eddie tried to nod, but his head just wobbled as though it had dislocated itself. He groaned again. “Yep. Looks like a penis. Can’t miss him.”

  “Back in a minute.”

  The fuzzy shape disappeared and the bright ceiling lights made Eddie close his eyes again. Still the banging on the side of the ambulance continued. The back end of the vehicle lifted slightly as the paramedic climbed down. Eddie immediately climbed off the gurney, steadying himself with a strap dangling from the ceiling. A moment later he was back outside, patting his pockets for his van keys. As he unlocked the van door and opened it, a familiar hand landed on his shoulder, and Eddie sighed into the night.

  “Come on, Mr Collins, let’s get you checked out.”

  Eddie turned and saw the paramedic, and beside him a man wearing a crumpled tie and braces. Eddie found it interesting to note the blood smeared across Weismann’s chin. “I appreciate your concern. But I’m fine.”

  “Eddie—”

  “Thank you.” Eddie stared at the paramedic. “Goodbye.”

  The paramedic looked between Eddie and Weismann, and simply turned and left them.

  Eddie sighed. “Get it out of your system, and then you can fuck off as well.”

  Weismann walked around the other side of the van, climbed in just as Eddie had, and closed his door. He tutted, “What? I have things to do.”

  “We got here too late.”

  “I figured that out all by myself. Now we have to find out where the hell Troy is.”

  Weismann looked forwards. “And where the hell do you start looking for a shadow among shadows?”

  “Isn’t it our job to find people?” Eddie went a white cold, and felt the last dregs of strength running out of the soles of his feet. He could practically see them – his strength and energy sloshing around together in the footwell. He swallowed, looking out of the side window as a couple of hot tears threaded their way through the whiskers on his face. “Fucking prick. I always said…”

  “You should rest.”

  “Who’s doing their scene?”

  “I’ll get North Yorks down to help.”

  “Make sure you don’t use Michael Penny. Fucking useless.”

  Weismann nodded as though making a mental note, but Eddie knew he’d forget about it as soon as he got out of the van. Weismann would want to shove that scene as hard as he could into someone else’s hands.

  “It’s in the hands of the IPCC, anyway,” said Weismann, opening the van door and stepping out into the night right next to a black Astra. “We’ll run it with them. But it won’t be a long job.”

  Eddie looked at him.

  “There were at least two people who filmed it all.”

  “Filmed it? Instead of helping?”

  “Someone tried to, apparently. Didn’t get there in time.”

  Eddie was speechless.

  “Look,” Weismann’s voice was low and calm. “The attack on you. That was being filmed too.”

  Eddie swallowed the pain, and shook his head anyway.

  “I have to ask you if you want to pursue it. The assault on you, I mean.”

  “Pursue it?”

  Weismann nodded.

  “Put yourself in his shoes,” Eddie said. “Would you have done anything different? I wouldn’t.”

  “But he—”

  “Listen… Victor, isn’t it?”

  Weismann nodded.

  “His daughter is dead. I hope my nose is broken. I wouldn’t want it straightening; I’d like to keep it bent so I could remember this every time I looked in a mirror. I’d think of Crawford, a man who will spend every minute of his life from tonight without his daughter. It would be worth it never to forget.”

  “But it’s not your fault.”

  “I kinda think it is. If I hadn’t rigged up that false drugs test, Troy wouldn’t have been so paranoid, and Nicki wouldn’t have used it as ammunition against me, catching him in the cross-fire. She’d still be alive.” He tried to smile, and he thought he’d done a fairly good job of it. “You got any paracetamol?”

  Weismann stared forward, tormented by blue strobes. The light shone on his dampened face, and Eddie turned away so as not to see it. “I thought the way they muscled their way into West Yorkshire was wrong,” said Weismann. “But I didn’t complain because Crawford got me this job too.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m good at my job, and I’m glad to be here rather than in Nottingham. But I’d rather have been invited than being part of a package that your top brass couldn’t turn down.”

  “Can’t believe they acceded to blackmail.”

  Weismann shrugged. “It’s not unheard of to get one top man who brings others along too. But as I say, I’ll be a good asset, I think.” He bit his lower lip for a moment. “And I’m sorry. About Jeffery.”

  “And Nicki?”

  Weismann smiled ruefully. “Not exactly an asset, and that’s why all this isn’t your fault. She was poor at her job; if she’d been any good at it, would she have needed to bring attention to your alternative style of management? They both saw you as an easy gateway to her getting a quick and painless promotion up the ladder.”

  “Painless?”

  “Indeed. What I’m trying to say is don’t blame yourself for tonight, Eddie. It’s a culmination of a series of bad events, that’s all. People who couldn’t moderate their own behaviour. It’s a series of events that could only have happened to them.”

  “Circumstances built for the dead?”

  “Something like that,” he said. “Listen, why don’t you take a few days off? You’ll need to rest before your body seizes up.”

  “Nice idea. But we’re back to one CSI.”

  “I think there’s help on the way.”

  When Eddie didn’t reply, Weismann nodded. “Take it easy. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

  “We’ll never see him again, will we?”

  “Crawford?” Weismann shrugged. “He’s angry. He’s already arranged a meeting with the Senior Leadership Team tomorrow to put his case forward.”

  “His case?”

  “For your permanent removal.” Weismann palmed away Eddie’s imminent protest. “Don’t worry about it; I’ll be there, and I’ve made it perfectly plain that I want you to stay.” He swallowed. “He’s overstepped the mark, and I think he’ll be out, not you. Early retirement or resignation.”

  “No one’s concerned that he’s rigged up a meeting the day after his daughter is pushed to her death?” Eddie stared forward. “What’s wrong with the man?”

  “He’s very driven.”

  “He’s fucking mad, is what he is.”

  “Just… just don’t worry about tomorrow, Eddie.”

  Eddie started the engine. He gave Crawford twelve months. At the end of it he’d be a shell of a man, just waiting to never wake up again.

  He drove to a garage where he bought
a packet of paracetamol, a bottle of water, and some wet wipes to clean the blood off his face. Then he called at Mac’s for food and coffee.

  Twenty minutes later he was back in Morley. During those twenty minutes he thought of Troy, and he thought of Troy’s parents. Those thoughts slipped across to Nicki’s parents, and finally landed on Nicki herself. When that happened, Eddie turned them off like they were a torch. Some things should be saved until their rightful time and place, until they could be dealt with properly.

  He lit a cigarette, cracked the window open, and stared at Sidmouth’s house. Kenny’s flash popped through the landing window even more prominently now that it was fully dark outside. “No rest for the wicked.” He opened the door.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  There’s an unwritten rule that says you shall never, under any circumstances, visit a crime scene for any other purpose than to examine it.

  Eddie nudged the front door open, slid inside, closed it with a heel, and shouted, “Grub up!” He nodded at Kenny’s shouts of hurrah, and dropped the covered box of food and drink onto the coffee table in the lounge, and made sure the curtains were closed.

  He was fairly sure that nothing relating to the crime upstairs had happened here in this room, and so rather than eat in the van in full view of the public and any dregs of the press still hanging about, he thought the sofa might be more welcome. Eddie was suddenly starving.

  When Kenny entered the lounge, peeling off however many pairs of gloves he now wore, there was a grumble in his stomach and great relief on his smiling face. “Thanks, mate, you’ve no idea—what the fuck happened to you?”

  “I told McDonald’s their fries tasted like maggots.” Eddie smiled, but it turned to a frown moments later as he heard footsteps on the stairs. Kenny had already dived into the box for a burger and a coffee.

  “Sally.” Eddie screwed his eyes up. “Shit. I forgot.”

  And then she appeared. “Hi, Eddie. Jesus, what happened to your face?”

  “I just came from a fucking fancy dress party, alright?”

  She peered closer. “Excellent makeup.”

  “Tuck in,” he nodded towards the box, “before he eats it all.”

  Sally licked her lips and peered inside the box. “There’s only one meal left.”

  “I already ate. I got it for you.”

  “Ooh, thank you – I’m ravenous!” She pulled out a burger and a box of fries, sat down and reached back inside for the coffee. “Very kind.”

  Eddie licked his lips longingly, looking at the coffee. “What’s left to do?”

  Kenny spat food as he talked. “We already shifted the woman out of the bathroom. Body snatchers came for her about half an hour ago. So that room is finished.”

  “Footwear?”

  Kenny sighed. “Yes, Eddie. I got footwear. You need to see someone about this fetish of yours.”

  “Very good.” He turned to Sally. “You finished in there too?”

  She nodded. “It wasn’t a long job. Two blows to the neck. Nothing else, just cast-off; three nice neat arcs.”

  “Three?”

  “The first one is an arc of the male victim’s blood as the weapon travelled to the female victim, I should imagine. I’ve swabbed it anyway, and we can check later, but it all helps in forming a picture, a sequence of events.”

  “I don’t think there’s much doubt about what happened, do you? How far have you got with Dickless Dan?”

  “Go have a look,” said Kenny. “We got a shitload of footwear, including one from his face. It might be good to try UV, actually, at the mortuary. But it’s clearly the same shoe as on the bedroom floor.”

  “He stamped on his face,” Eddie said.

  “Looks that way. It’s not a kick, anyway.”

  Eddie nodded slowly.

  “And his dick is in a knife tube. A small one.” He laughed through a mouthful of burger.

  Eddie looked away.

  “Seriously,” Kenny said, “what happened to your face?”

  “Seriously?”

  Kenny nodded.

  “Nothing to worry about. Hurry up, we’ve got work to do.” Eddie walked out of the room, took a suit from a stack on a CSI foldout table in the hallway, and struggled into it. He pulled on a couple of pairs of gloves as he mounted the stairs. “I presume all general photography’s done?”

  “Yep.”

  Even the lingering smell of puke couldn’t dispel Eddie’s hunger as he peered from the landing into Sidmouth’s bedroom. He stepped inside, noted all Kenny’s camera gear dumped in one corner and all Sally’s shiny cantilever boxes in another, next to Kenny’s forensic kit and a stack of packaging materials.

  On the laminate floor were several clean rectangles where Kenny had peeled away adhesive footwear lifters. Outside on the landing were Nicki’s stepping plates, no longer needed. There were other clean areas on the floor, much smaller than the footwear lifters, and next to them were white labels with exhibit reference numbers on them. These were blood spots that Sally had marked and then swabbed – no doubt asking Kenny to photograph them first.

  All that was left to do was to process Sidmouth.

  Eddie’s face throbbed, his jaw ached, and even his neck felt sore – like he’d suffered whiplash. He just wanted to lie down and go to sleep. But he couldn’t leave all this to Kenny. He looked at his watch. It was already after ten, and there was a shitload of work still left to do.

  Of course, he could elect to leave the body here and attack it fresh tomorrow. But Benson wouldn’t be too pleased about waiting longer for the post mortem; they needed results, confirmation that he died of the obvious wounds and there wasn’t anything being concealed by them – no drugs in his system, things like that. Often the ‘straightforward’ murders were anything but; things that looked like ducks and quacked like ducks sometimes turned out to be peacocks.

  Better safe than wrong.

  “What we doing about the hand?”

  Eddie jumped. “Jesus, Kenny! There were nearly three deaths in this house then. Twat!”

  Kenny laughed, “That would have been funny as fuck.”

  “You’re such an arse. Tape the hand, if you can find any clean bare skin to tape. Then bag it; it goes into the body bag with him.”

  “Do we need to exhibit it separately?”

  “No. This isn’t disaster victim identification. I’m fairly happy it belongs to him.”

  “’Kay.”

  “When you pull him forwards, spin him over and get some close shots of his heel. Scaled, obviously. I’m going to swab blood from the stair, and then I’m going to cast the split in the wood.”

  “Why?”

  “Striation marks. If we can match them to a tool, we might match the tool to an offender.”

  Kenny nodded, “Ah, so that’s what we do. Thanks.”

  “Can you think of anything else?”

  “Yes. What happened to your face?” He was looking at Eddie, arms folded, but his voice was soft, serious.

  Eddie looked away, undecided whether it would be right to tell Kenny about Troy and Nicki. If he didn’t tell him, if he found out from someone else tomorrow… well, he didn’t think Kenny would thank him. But if he told him now, then it would take Kenny’s mind off what he was doing. Hell, he might even have to leave the scene. And Eddie couldn’t finish things all by himself. “Tell you later. Let’s get this shit finished first, eh?”

  “Ah. It’s bad then?”

  Eddie tried to smile. “Don’t suppose you saved me any fries, did you?”

  * * *

  It was after three in the morning when they finally finished with the body and waved him goodbye as the body snatchers, followed by an officer in a beat car, took him away in a plain black Mercedes van. Sally peeled herself out of her wet scene suit; Kenny looked away, Eddie did not. She promised to get the swabs off to the lab by lunchtime, and to submit a report the same afternoon. Eddie and Kenny watched her taillights disappear.

  “What
are we going to do about fingerprinting?”

  Eddie looked at his hands, damp, white and wrinkled after being gloved for so many hours. They trembled. He was beyond hungry, and felt himself sinking into the blackest pit of exhaustion. His face hurt. But there were still several hours of fingerprinting to get through. All the doors and door frames from the front door, the bathroom and bedrooms, the bannister rail, all needed examining.

  It was probably safe to assume that the attacker had been wearing gloves and had touched nothing anyway. But to assume would be foolish. The only assumption they allowed themselves was that this place needed a fingerprint exam.

  “I’m not sure I can last another four hours.”

  Eddie nodded. It was something that they would have to leave until the morning – until later in the morning, rather. But who would do it? Eddie and Kenny would be asleep until lunchtime. And Eddie didn’t want to lean on divisional CSI too much; they’d already be doing him a favour by taking both post mortems and processing the dead-end alleyway.

  It didn’t look good, and Eddie didn’t know what the hell he was going to do about getting some staff.

  “We’ll have to come back in the afternoon.”

  Kenny nodded.

  Eddie lit a cigarette. “That suit you?”

  “Yep. Right now, I just want to get out of here. We’ve got hours of fucking computer work in front of us.”

  “Okay,” Eddie said, “let’s gather our shit and our evidence and lock it down till later.”

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  A small sliver of orange light from the landing guided her to his side. She watched him; marvelling at how still he was, and how recognisable – even after all these years. There were still features of that adorable two-year-old in him; if asked what they were, she wouldn’t be able to give a definitive answer, but it was the same face. It was her little man. It was Michael.

  As quietly as she could, she sat on his bed and pointed the gun at him.

  He stirred and, as though aware of someone’s presence, his eyes flickered open.