Dead End

by Dead End (retail) (epub)

  ‘No! That’s damn slander right there!’ Brian stood up and his chair fell backwards. The uniform standing behind him politely placed a heavy hand on his shoulder and he sat down again. It had been quite a response and, given Kelly’s test theory, probably the truth.

  ‘Where is Dominic Cairns at the moment? Is he home, do you know?’

  ‘He’s probably off on one of his drives. He disappears for days on end. Generally comes back with the odd deer, mind …’

  Kelly watched him. He’d tripped up.

  ‘What does he drive? I thought he didn’t own a car.’

  Brian didn’t say a word.

  Kelly finished the interview and released Brian Walker. He was by no means eliminated, but they hadn’t enough to keep him in a cell or charge him.

  Her next stop was Jack Sentry, but when she went to the desk to see if Rob had checked him in, she found him white-faced.

  ‘Guv, Jack Sentry has disappeared.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His trailer’s been cleared out, as well as the campsite office. He’s gone.’

  ‘ANPR?’

  ‘We’re checking. We’ve got a hit at Manchester airport.’

  ‘Christ. Check all flights for the past two days.’

  ‘Yes, guv.’

  She took the stairs again up to her office and watched from the window as Brian Walker got into the earl’s Land Rover. She needed a warrant for those cars, and she thought she had a good chance of getting one. She called Will.

  ‘Have you anything for me?’ she asked.

  ‘Plenty,’ Will said.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  Chapter 46

  Cheryl Gregory bit her nails and watched the staff TV with her colleagues. The room was airless, and there was space for perhaps five of them.

  ‘This is Chantel Dean, for Sky News, in Ullswater, the Lake District, Cumbria.’

  A map of Britain flashed onto the screen, with Cumbria highlighted in red, and the spot where Freya had been found in yellow. A photo of Freya appeared in the bottom left-hand corner. A missing person case had just turned into a murder inquiry, and it was a quiet news day elsewhere: there were no politicians currently fucking whores, no celebrities avoiding tax, and no terror attacks. A murder would do nicely, even a murder in Cumbria, despite no one south of Nottingham knowing where the hell it was.

  ‘Detectives have confirmed that Freya was the victim of a homicide, and have warned locals and tourists to be vigilant. Freya went missing four months ago, but it was thought that she’d been spotted in Lancashire and the case was transferred. Two other girls have been missing here in the Lakes for over a week now, and concern is growing for their safety in light of this recent discovery. Hannah Lawson and Sophie Daker were staying at the Howtown campsite, and Sky News has learned that the manager of that campsite has been questioned by police. I asked a police spokesperson what she thought was the likelihood of finding the girls alive now, but officers are being deliberately cautious, not wanting to panic the public.’ Chantel Dean smouldered on camera, evidently conscious that this could be her career-defining moment.

  The camera switched to a recorded interview, set up inside Cumbria Constabulary HQ. A senior officer read from notes, looking up and down, as they were taught, to get as much eye contact in as possible.

  ‘We can’t jump to conclusions, and we’re doing our utmost to find Sophie and Hannah.’ The officer paused. ‘We’re urging anyone with information to come forward, no matter how insignificant it may seem.’

  ‘And I believe you’ve set up a website and dedicated phone line?’ asked Chantel Dean.

  ‘Yes, we have set up a phone line, and we have a large team working round the clock, as well as continued searches for Sophie and Hannah.’ The officer humanised the girls, using only their Christian names.

  The website, email and phone number flashed across the bottom of the screen, along with the relevant Facebook and Twitter information, before the bulletin flicked back to real time. Chantel Dean had clearly preened herself whilst the VT played.

  ‘So, what is seen as one of the most beautiful places in the country has been shocked by the horror of finding a young girl murdered and her body dumped. And police now face the hunt for two more women who are still unaccounted for.’ Chantel Dean looked fleetingly pained. The camera zoomed out, and as she was framed by the lake, she smiled. ‘Back to the studio.’

  * * *

  Bulletins rolled every few minutes, and Chantel Dean’s next stop was as close to Christy Bridge as she could get. It was swarming with police, but she managed to find a good vantage point. In the distance, clouds boomed and rain began to fall; lightly at first, but by the time Chantel went live again, she was reporting from inside an unflattering raincoat and utterly pissed off, though she didn’t show it.

  ‘Do we have anything else from Cumbria, Chantel?’ asked the newsreader in the warm, dry studio.

  ‘Yes. Police have just released this photograph of Jack Sentry, the manager and owner of the site where Hannah and Sophie were camping. They’re calling him a person of interest, and concern is growing for his whereabouts.’

  ‘Is he a suspect, Chantel?’

  ‘The police aren’t confirming that at this stage.’

  ‘And just who is Jack Sentry, Chantel?’

  ‘Well, this is what we know so far. He’s unmarried, and an accomplished climber, and he worked for many years at the exclusive Peak’s Bay Hotel, here on Ullswater, not far from where I’m standing.’

  ‘Do the police think he’s left the area, Chantel?’

  ‘They seem to be unsure about that, but the story has affected people deeply here in Cumbria. Flowers and candles have been left outside St Martin’s Church, which is near to where Freya’s body was found. You can see them behind me. I’ve read some of the messages, and they’re outpourings of grief and sadness for the girl and her family.’

  ‘And what have the police had to say about the mistakes made over Freya’s last known whereabouts?’

  ‘Well, questions need to be answered, that’s for sure. For now, they’re staying tight-lipped, and we’re hoping for a new statement tonight.’ Chantel beamed.

  ‘Thank you, Chantel Dean, in rainy Cumbria. We’ll keep you updated on our main story as the news unfolds, here on Sky. Now, Victoria Beckham is saying that she won’t be joining the Spice Girls reunion …’

  * * *

  Cheryl’s pulse quickened. A flurry of excitement rippled through the tiny room. Colleagues swapped theories and a few shared gossip about Jack Sentry. Many knew him. The drama allowed Cheryl to slip out of the room undetected. Her shift had ended twenty minutes ago.

  She went outside for a cigarette and lit it with shaking hands. She stood under a huge hydrangea bush, to shelter from the worst of the rain, and sucked in the chemical cocktail greedily. It was time to move on, she thought. She’d been here for five months, and she’d saved the majority of her pay. Hotels up and down the country were desperate for seasonal staff. She needed to get as far away as possible, and considered the south coast; there must be thousands of hotels down there. She exhaled and inhaled rapidly, and it felt good. The toxic mix hit her bloodstream and calmed her nerves.

  She’d asked herself if Jack was capable of murder.

  She’d never thought so before tonight. He was rough, he was amoral and he was arrogant, but murder was in quite another league. She hadn’t seen him for weeks, and struggled to believe that he could do something so terrible. But the police seemed desperate to speak to him. And someone had killed Freya.

  He’d been in Cheryl’s bed, he’d kissed her and done things to her that she wasn’t proud of. She couldn’t go to the police. It would come out. She couldn’t live with her parents knowing. No, she’d move instead.

  She flicked her fag-end under the shrub and made her way round the back of the hotel towards the staff accommodation. A noise startled her, and she turned quickly. A hand wrapped around her mouth, and she was dragged i
nto a bush. She fought hard, but quickly realised that it was no use: the man was much stronger than her. She recognised his smell. He always wore the same cologne. She stopped struggling, and after a while, he let go.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing? You’re wet through, where have you been?’ She hit him and he cowered.

  ‘I’ve been walking,’ he whispered.

  ‘The police are everywhere, looking for you.’ She tried to whisper and shout at the same time.

  ‘I didn’t do it, Cheryl. I swear.’

  ‘Fuck off. Why are you here?’

  ‘I need you.’

  ‘Me? Why the hell would you need me? I thought you preferred Freya. Maybe you killed the others as well.’

  ‘No! I swear I didn’t touch any of them. I didn’t even know that Hannah girl.’

  ‘Fuck off! She was at your campsite, you moron. She’s your type, Jack. Blonde, slim, pretty; looks like she’d cry if you did it too hard.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d hate it so much. You gave me the come-on, moaning and shit. I thought you wanted it.’

  ‘No, Jack, I didn’t want it. Not like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Cheryl, I need to hide. Once they find out who really did this, it will all be over.’

  ‘Jack, you’re crazy! I can’t hide you.’

  ‘I can stay in your room. I won’t make a sound, I promise. I won’t touch you. I’m scared, Cheryl.’

  She felt herself softening. He seemed genuinely terrified. He didn’t look like a cold-hearted kidnapper and killer of women.

  ‘Just for tonight, OK? Wait there.’

  She checked the back of the hotel, then picked up a rock and threw it at a security light.

  ‘Where d’you learn to aim like that?’ he asked when she returned for him.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Come on.’

  They took a private stairwell, and Cheryl prayed they wouldn’t bump into anyone. They made it. She closed the door and stood behind it, panting.

  ‘You can sleep on the floor. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Starving.’

  ‘Wait here. I need some fags. I’ll grab some food on my way back. I’m locking you in.’

  ‘Cheryl?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Chapter 47

  Ted Wallis’s thoughts were not of the dead girl in front of him, but of Wendy Porter.

  Kelly stood opposite him on the other side of the body, and even though her mouth and nose were covered by a blue mask, he could still see her eyes; could still see that she was Wendy’s daughter. He regretted waiting so long to summon up enough courage to go and see Wendy. But now he had, and the woman before him was a constant reminder.

  He turned his attention back to Freya Hamilton and tried to work out from his first cursory glances if she’d been out in the elements for some time, or freshly dumped. She was in a bad way, but she hadn’t been butchered, though the water could do even worse things to a corpse than a weapon. That and the creatures within the icy depths. A familiar stench rose from the body and Ted noticed Kelly put her hand to her nose.

  ‘Do you need a moment?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  Ted had been on tenterhooks since she’d arrived. Something was bothering her, and he got the distinct impression that he’d done something wrong. It was possible that she’d been sent here by a senior officer against her will, and was simply not looking forward to witnessing the dismembering of an already rotting corpse. It wasn’t for everyone. There was no doubt that once the operation got under way, Freya would let off plenty of foul-smelling gas, and Kelly might need to leave.

  Ted placed his own mask over his face and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. The external check would give him clues as to how long the girl had been dead. Bodies pulled out of fresh water were in better shape than those taken from the ocean: salt, sea creatures, temperature and lack of entomology all derailed investigation, and time of death was rarely established for such corpses.

  Freya had been missing for four months, but she hadn’t been dead that long, that was obvious to both of them. It was possible that she’d been wrapped in something and buried, only for the heavy rain to wash the grave away. So she might not have been in the water very long. Her head and orifices were fairly intact, and that supported his theory that she’d been wrapped up, and only exposed to the elements as she’d been washed down the beck. The body had gone beyond lividity, and blood pooling was consistent with the victim being laid on her back. Putrefaction had begun, and Ted knew that when he cut her open, the room would be filled with the vile stench of hydrogen sulphide, carbon dioxide, methane and nitrogen; a heady mix, and one never to be forgotten. He doubted he’d be able to extract foreign DNA.

  There was an absence of maggots; to Ted, this confirmed that the body had been wrapped in something before being dumped. She was well preserved. He estimated her time of death as up to one or three days ago, but he’d have to check the body thoroughly for blowfly pupae. He cut away the once red sweater and bagged it.

  ‘That belonged to a girl who went missing five years ago,’ Kelly said. Her voice was emotionless, and Ted wondered if that was the source of her irritation: too many dead people.

  ‘The sweater?’ he asked. Kelly nodded. ‘This changes everything, does it? Have you any idea who you’re looking for?’ He was trying to keep the conversation strictly within the boundaries of work, but he was keen to ask her how she was, if she was happy, if she wanted dinner sometime. His visit to Wendy had made him realise that he needed to stop dithering and make the most of the time he had left. He thought about her cancer and how he’d avoided her all these years, only to pluck up the courage now and find out she was dying. His hand slipped and he tutted. Kelly looked at him oddly.

  ‘I’ve got an MO and a profile, but nobody to compare evidence to,’ she said flatly. There was nothing like a dead brutalised body to strip the joy out of a day.

  ‘Deep purple welts in the skin around the ankles … Skin has some slippage, but not advanced.’ Ted spoke into his microphone.

  ‘Restraint wounds?’ asked Kelly.

  ‘My guess,’ he said. ‘Did Freya Hamilton have any distinguishing features?’ He was trying to confirm identity, for procedure, before he moved on.

  ‘In the notes it said that she had a large birthmark next to her left nipple.’ Kelly looked at him.

  He could see a mark next to the left nipple but had assumed it was a leaf stuck to her chest from the beck. He tried to wipe it off, but the mark remained: it was a large birthmark, and he asked for it to be photographed.

  It was obvious that Freya had once been pretty. Even after the elements – and something else besides – had ravaged her, she still looked semi-alive; asleep even.

  ‘You’re still hoping to find the other girls alive?’ Ted asked. Kelly nodded.

  ‘If you’re right and Freya died approximately between two and three days ago, then that means she was kept alive prior to that, probably in restraints. I’m thinking that wherever that was is where I’ll find Sophie and Hannah.’

  ‘What about the other one? The one whose sweater this is?’ Ted pointed to the bag.

  ‘We’ll never know; she’s a pile of bones. Found by walkers near Hartsop.’

  Ted whistled. ‘Crikey.’

  ‘Was she raped, Ted?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure. That’s the water, I’m afraid. There is evidence of sexual activity, and … let me see.’ He went closer. ‘Yes, healed abrasions. My guess is yes, she was, over a prolonged period.’

  ‘Thoughts on cause of death?’

  ‘Judging by her eyes, I’d say the beating around the head did it, but I won’t know for sure until I see the brain.’

  ‘Sure.’ Kelly nodded.

  ‘Let’s turn her over.’ Ted summoned his assistant, then spoke into his mic again. ‘Any of these wounds could have caused a rabid infection, and she could well have died from septicaemia. Let’s look insi
de.’

  As Ted made his first incision, there was a long release of trapped air caused by her body consuming itself; nature’s bin collectors had moved in. She was way past rigor, but was still in the grip of bloat – although that could have been slowed by the cold water.

  ‘Thank God for that rain,’ said Ted. Kelly nodded. In hotter weather, Freya might not have fared so well, though pathologists were hardened to it.

  Freya’s insides looked frothy and gloopy, like some kind of organ soup, but he could still make out each separate element. The cadaver sac was intact, and he was able to remove it completely. Kelly looked away as he did so. Ted kept an eye on her as well as the task at hand. He felt her unease keenly and wanted to comfort her.

  ‘The rest is purely scientific, if you want to head off. I’ll write a full report tomorrow and email it to you,’ he said.

  ‘No, I’m staying. I’m all right,’ she said.

  He looked at her and nodded.

  ‘I think she died of septicaemia, Kelly. I think the marks on her skin are not just bruising from the beck – or something else. Now that I’ve seen her organs, I’m pretty sure. Her heart is enlarged with the effort, her spleen is hard and her lungs are congested. I think the bruising is consistent with petechiae. Having said that, I’m pretty convinced that it was only a matter of time before the beating killed her.’

  ‘I have no idea what petechiae is.’

  ‘It’s the small purple marks all over her skin. Indicative of blood poisoning.’

  ‘So she had a raging infection. Someone didn’t look after her very well,’ Kelly said.

  ‘I think that’s an understatement. I think you’ve got a sadist on your hands.’

  ‘What about the guy? Wouldn’t he get it too? The septicaemia.’

  ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that. Septicaemia is internal. It only takes one type of bacteria to get into her bloodstream and multiply and travel. Even if he was still having sex with her, he might be free from bacterial pathology, because he kept himself clean, just not her.’