by Tim Ellis
The dark red and gold paper on the walls had started to fade in places, and where the strips joined it bubbled and peeled. Predictably, all the framed pictures depicted fox hunts. As we pushed our way through the standing crowds, I could feel my feet sticking to the heavily stained carpet. I recognised French and Russian from the snippets of conversation overheard above Billy Joel singing Uptown Girl on the jukebox.
A beer mat, wedged beneath one of the legs of the table we sat at, prevented it from wobbling. Some bored customer had redesigned my stool by removing a portion of the stuffing. I could see the hardboard below the red velvet covering as I positioned the stool between my legs.
Having settled at the table, I said quietly, ‘We know a bit more than what newspaper she reads. I thought the two shopkeepers were very helpful.’
KP leaned forward, putting her chin in her hand, hanging on my every word.
‘We now know that she didn’t leave the flat this morning to buy a newspaper.’ I took a swallow of Guinness and licked the white froth from my top lip. ‘We also know that the killer brought the Guardian with him, and left it there on purpose.’
‘He could have left it by mistake.’
‘Think,’ I said rather too loudly. An obese couple nearby dressed in matching anoraks craned their necks hoping for some entertainment. ‘Why would a killer take a newspaper with him to commit murder? Do you imagine he was reading it in between the rape and mutilation?’ A look of hurt clouded her face. I continued in a softer tone without waiting for an answer. ‘He left that paper there because it served his purpose. What that purpose is, we have yet to find out.’
‘You’re sure the killer is a man then?’
‘I’m sure a man sexually abused her.’
She nodded slowly. ‘It’s unlikely that he had an accomplice.’
I studied her. It wasn’t like Kim to jump to conclusions. ‘We don’t want to close our minds to the possibility, but I tend to agree with you.’
‘You think it’s a muti killing, don’t you?’ she blurted out.
I nearly choked on my Guinness. Not many coppers were familiar with muti killings. It was mainly practised in South Africa. Muti was a Zulu word, which meant powerful medicine. The victim is mutilated whilst conscious so that the medicine can be made more potent through the victim’s screams of agony. The harvested body parts are then mixed with medicinal herbs or plant roots and cooked to create a medicine, which is then either consumed; rubbed into cuts, or more usually made into a paste and smeared over the person.
She smiled. ‘You’re not the only one who knows things. I read about the Adam case you were involved in.’
She never ceased to surprise me. Like me, she had been fast-tracked. She was twenty-eight, a degree in Sociology with Criminology, and a professional cop. Originating from middle-class Surrey, both her parents were Headteachers, her father of a secondary school, and her mother of the local primary school. She had two older brothers who were both officers in the armed forces. ‘It crossed my mind. It’s certainly an avenue of enquiry.’
‘The positioning of the corpse is clearly significant.’
That’s why I’d chosen KP as my sergeant, we sang from the same hymn sheet. ‘Yes, I was thinking the same thing.’
It wasn’t the best Guinness I’d ever tasted, the pipes needed cleaning, but it was cold and wet. The scampi and chips arrived. They were soggy. We both picked at them.
KP took a sip of coke then licked her lips. ‘Do you think the newspaper is connected to what was printed on the paper?’
‘It’s seems possible, but as we don’t have any idea what is printed on the paper, we’ll have to work that out tomorrow.’ I felt suddenly drained. ‘Let’s go after this,’ I said, indicating my Guinness.
KP examined her coke for some time before she looked up and said, ‘That poor girl. Sometimes I hate this job.’
I didn’t respond. There was no response.
For a moment, she looked vulnerable. There were times when I felt an almost overpowering urge to hold KP. This was one of those times. She leant forward, her knees crossed, right elbow resting on her thigh nursing the glass of coke in her hand. I felt like a moth caught in the glow of a light.
I needed a girlfriend. I was thirty, the youngest DCI on the force, and the job swallowed my life. Since Angie’s death, there had been no other women, I simply couldn’t. Angie and I met at university. After finishing our degrees in forensic psychology, we went our separate ways, but then met again four years later, fell in love, got hitched, honeymooned, and settled down to live happily ever after. The dream was shattered a year ago by a hit and run driver. Last Friday had been the anniversary – the Chief should have known that. Angie had been Christmas shopping with Lexi in Covent Garden, two days after I’d arrived back from America. The car had taken her from behind. Miraculously, Lexi was asleep in her buggy and had not been harmed, but Angie died before the emergency services arrived.
I knew my relationship-phobia was a problem, but I didn’t want to face it. Being a registered psychologist, the idea of seeking professional help from another psychologist appalled and in some ways, terrified me. I didn’t want to know what might be buried underneath.
‘Lexi must have enjoyed having you at home,’ KP said.
Lexi, was my daughter, now two years and three months old. She had been born exactly nine months after the wedding. Angie and I both agreed that we’d wasted enough time. I gave a half smile. ‘Yes, it was good to spend time with her, even if it was only two extra days.’
‘She must miss her mum?’
Sometimes, KP had all the tact of a nuclear bomb in a dustbin. I didn’t want to go there, so I merely said, ‘Come on, let’s go.’ It was now nine-fifteen. I felt, and probably looked, like shit. I’d been doing some decorating before I went to the graveyard, and hadn’t shaved since last Friday.
She drained her glass. ‘Toilet first.’
I sighed, sitting back down again, watching as she fought her way through the bodies. She was gone for fifteen minutes. Thankfully, the half pint in my glass kept me company. Strangers surrounded me. I felt like the new kid in school sat alone eating his lunch.
‘I thought you went to the toilet,’ I said when she eventually got back. ‘Not a shower, sauna and a massage?’
She smiled. ‘I wish. Are you ready?’ she asked, moving towards the door.
I followed her out. As promised, there was an inch of snow on the ground. At our cars, we said goodbye and I drove back to my flat in West Kensington.
***
The lights were still on. I let myself in, the smell of fresh paint wafted up the hall from the half-finished utility room. I could hear the soft hum of the TV. I stuck my head round the living room door. Harry sat on the sofa engrossed in an old black and white film, munching chocolates and wiping her eyes. I recognised Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady.
‘Hi Harry. Everything OK?’
She jumped at the sound of my voice. Muting the TV, she turned and smiled. ‘Oh! Hello James. Yes, everything’s fine. Lexi was asking for you to read her a story, but she settled for my non-animated version of the Little Princess.’
Twenty-four-year-old Harriet Mullins was Lexi’s live-in nanny. I hadn’t planned on becoming a single father after only twenty-one months of marriage, but Harry had been a Godsend. I don’t know what I would have done without her. At a petite five foot three inches, she was closer to Lexi than she was to me, and she loved her as much as Angie had.
‘Thanks. I’ll check on her then I’m off to bed. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, James,’ she said, turning back to the film and her box of chocolates.
I went along the hall to Lexi’s bedroom. The nightlight illuminated my beautiful daughter’s blonde curls on the pillow. Leaning down to kiss her forehead, I pushed Gillian Wilkinson’s tortured body into a dark recess of my mind.
Chapter Two
Wednesday 18th December
I looked up from the n
ewspaper and smiled as Lexi waddled into the kitchen, her blonde ringlets cascading over her pink night-dress. Dressed in a pair of maroon brushed cotton pyjamas and a yellow towelling dressing gown, Harry followed her in. Thankfully, the transition between ‘a Mummy’ and ‘a Harry’ had been barely noticeable for Lexi. I swivelled on my stool and switched the television news off; my daughter was far too young to discover what the world beyond the front door was really like.
‘Daddy,’ she said, stretching her arms out towards me. I picked her up and sat her on my knee.
‘Good morning beautiful.’
Wriggling, she stood on my thighs and planted a kiss on my lips.
‘What was that for?’
‘Because I love you, daddy.’
I kissed her back and hugged her. ‘And I love you too.’
‘Come on, Lexi, time for breakfast,’ Harry said, lifting her off me. ‘Daddy has to go to work now.’
Yes, daddy did have to go to work. I checked the clock, seven-fifteen. I stood. ‘Be a good girl for Harry,’ I said kissing her on the top of the head. ‘Daddy will see you tonight and read you a story.’
‘Little Princess.’
‘Haven’t we read that one already?’
‘NO, LITTLE PRINCESS,’ she cried. It was her favourite. I could probably have told her the story from memory, I’d read it to her that many times.
‘OK, beautiful, Little Princess it is then.’
It was hard to leave her. Even though she was a constant reminder of Angie, with her big eyes and button nose, I loved her beyond reason.
A thick layer of crisp white snow had transformed the landscape. Driving between West Kensington and Hammersmith had been difficult before, the snow now made it nearly impossible. I would have made better time using a sled and a team of huskies.
‘Wake up people!’ I said, as I entered the incident room.
A chorus of, ‘Welcome back, Gov,’ met me. I smiled. Anyone would have thought I’d been gone for two months instead of two days.
KP came in immediately after me.
The team had already made themselves at home. Back-to-back desks, computers, phones, in-trays, and out-trays cluttered the spacious room on the top floor of Hammersmith police station. Wall-to-wall filing cabinets supported precariously balanced stacks of files, which made a joke of the paperless office. Fair Trade Guatemalan coffee beans percolated in the corner. The fruity chocolate aroma made a change from the tang of bodily odours.
They swivelled on chairs to face me, chatter tapering off. The detritus of human habitation already starting to make itself visible, discarded chocolate wrappers, empty paper cups, and a Kentucky Fried Chicken Family Meal carton, which beggared belief at eight-thirty in the morning, littered the desks.
Someone had already been busy with the large white incident board. Gory colour photographs of Gillian Wilkinson stared out from its centre. A map of Hammersmith and Fulham was displayed beneath the pictures with the location of the murder marked by a sticky fluorescent arrow. A line connected the location to the address neatly printed next to the map. A smiling photograph of the boyfriend seemed out of place. There was a photocopy of the unfolded piece of paper found in the girl’s ear piercing. The message, if it was a message, read:
‘You all know what happened to Gillian Wilkinson yesterday,’ I said, pointing to the photographs. The boyfriend, Steven Jackson, is a suspect until we’ve checked his alibi. KP’s sure he had nothing to do with it. I want a house-to-house around her flat. Brian I’d like you to organise that, and check the surrounding buildings for CCTV cameras. If there are any, acquire the tapes for the past week, but especially yesterday. Oh, by the way, the CCTV in the 24-hour Mart doesn’t work.’
DS Brian Mulwhinny coughed into his hands. ‘I’m on it, Gov,’ he gasped.
I looked at the bald slightly overweight man slouched on a chair with his legs stuck out in front of him. He appeared to be closer to retirement than in his early forties. His wife of twenty years had left him for another man in March, and although he gave the appearance he was over the betrayal, I didn’t think he was. He looked pale, and his waistline had expanded a good two inches. I made a mental note to talk to him soon, before his health deteriorated anymore. ‘And whilst you’re doing that Brian, give up the nails. You’re a heart attack looking for a place to happen.’
Some of the team sniggered. Everyone looked at him and nodded.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, shifting uncomfortably on his seat. ‘I’ll start tomorrow.’
We all knew he’d be smoking through the oxygen mask on his death bed.
‘John,’ I addressed DC Powys, ‘I’d like you to eliminate the boyfriend as a suspect. Once he’s made a formal statement, check out his alibi. Remember,’ I warned him, ‘treat him like a victim rather than a suspect.’
He took a slurp of coffee. ‘OK, Gov,’ he said in his musical Welsh accent. John was an inch taller than me, but three sizes wider. He blocked the light and turned rooms dark when he stood up. A committed rugby player when he was younger, he had sat on the bench for Wales versus Italy in 1998, but a knee injury had forced him to try something else.
‘Pea, you can deal with Gillian’s parents.’ She pushed up the sleeves of her purple crew-neck sweater, picked up a pencil and began writing on a post-it pad. In the six weeks she’d been with the team, she had proved herself to be methodical and reliable. ‘They’ll be here at eleven. Find out if Gillian was seeing any other men, or if there’s anything she might have told them by letter or phone. Liaise with the mortuary and get them to formally ID her. Assure them we’ll do everything in our power to find their daughter’s killer.’
‘KP and I will check on the post-mortem, then go and talk to the people where she worked. Ali, I’d like you to see what you can do with the message. You’ve got the rest of today, and then we get help with it. It might have something to do with yesterday’s Guardian, but what, I don’t know. See me after. I’ll give you my copy.’
‘No need, Sir, I’ve still got mine.’ She waved it in the air. ‘I’m stuck on one clue in the crossword.’
Ali, short for DS Alison McGowan, a tall skinny black woman married to a Scottish financier close to the top of the London Stock Exchange. She wouldn’t have been out of place on the starting blocks for the Olympic one hundred metres.
The door creaked open. A dishevelled DC Jane Keogh clattered in carrying her coat and bag. Everyone turned to stare. I saw Ali roll her eyes and write something on a notepad, and I wondered what that was about. I’d have to speak to KP and see if she knew what was going on between the two of them. ‘Sorry I’m late, Sir.’ She said breathlessly, and started blushing. ‘The childminder didn’t…’
‘Save it, Jane,’ I cut her off. As a single parent, I could emphasise with her, but this was hardly the time to discuss her various marital and family problems. She had three children by three different coppers, and she wasn’t married to any of them. The current one worked in traffic. ‘Ali will bring you up to speed after the briefing. Then I’d like you to go and pester your old mates in forensics. See if you can hurry them up. Once you’ve done that, you can co-ordinate the incident board.’
I addressed the whole team. ‘Every bit of information is to go through Jane.’
‘What do you want me to do, Gov?’ DC Paul Padgett said, waving his hand in the air like a school kid.
‘Ah yes, the hippie in the corner,’ I said. ‘Nice shirt.’
There was a ripple of laughter.
Paul sat surrounded by a muddle of wires and gadgets that took up most of his desk. He was our resident IT expert, who liked to be the centre of attention and obviously wore his orange and blue Hawaiian shirt to achieve his objective.
‘I want you to do a database search on any similar killings, not just in London, but throughout the country. Pull the files of any possibilities. I have a nagging feeling this might not be the first one.’
He ran his hand through his shoulder-length hair. ‘I dig it man.
’ He added ‘Sir,’ as an afterthought.
I saw KP grinning.
‘This,’ I said, passing round a double-sided sheet of paper, ‘is a basic psychological profile of our killer, and some information on muti killings, which might or might not be relevant. Read and inwardly digest.’
I looked around the room – my team. I felt reassured.
‘Right, let’s get to it. We’ll meet again tomorrow morning at nine and see where we are, unless something important turns up between now and then.’ As a parting shot, I said, ‘And clean this damned place up. It looks like a bloody squat already.’
To KP, I said, ‘I’m just going to see the Chief and bring her up to speed, then we’ll move.’
***
I walked along the corridor to the Chief Super’s office. It was nine-fifteen. I wasn’t looking forward to seeing her again. Now in her late fifties, Avril Smart had done the rounds. I’m sure she saw me as the son she sacrificed for her career. Rumours had it that as a Sergeant she’d had an affair with a work colleague and got herself pregnant. After a botched abortion, she had to have a hysterectomy. Her husband left her. Hadn’t even known she’d been pregnant. I passed through her secretary’s office, knocked and went in.
Avril looked up from her paperwork, but didn’t smile. When she spoke, her voice hit me like a Siberian wind. ‘James, Glad to see you back.’ She didn’t look glad. ‘Good holiday?’
Draping my overcoat on the back of one of the two brown leather chairs in front of her desk, I parked myself in the other one and crossed my legs. On the primrose–painted walls hung at least twenty pictures of Avril shaking hands with various dignitaries whilst receiving awards. There was Margaret Thatcher and a young Tony Blair.
‘It was only two days, Chief, and anyway, it was more like suspension,’ I muttered, but the venom had gone from my voice. She ignored my petulance.
