by Mosby, Steve
Yes, I could see that all too clearly.
I squatted down and peered at the hands.
‘No sexual assault?’
‘Nothing obvious at this stage.’
‘And no robbery.’
‘Her credit cards and money are still in the handbag.’ He arched his eyebrow again. ‘I’m not throwing you so far, am I?’
‘I’m not telling you yet. Weapon?’
Simon shook his head. ‘Impossible to say for sure right now, or possibly at all. But since we’ve not found it, I imagine it would be something small and hard: a hammer or a pipe. A rock perhaps. Something hand-held anyway.’
I nodded. The weapon would need to be hard enough to inflict this level of damage, but light enough for the killer to be able to carry it away with him afterwards: something that could deliver the force of a boulder but not the weight. That was an awful thought, of course. A heavy boulder might cause this level of damage with only one or two blows. With something like a hammer, it would have taken much more time and effort; many, many more blows.
But it also meant this probably wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment crime. The attacker had most likely brought the weapon with him and taken it away again. And that degree of ferocity tended to indicate a personal motive. Not always, but usually.
‘Come on then, Sherlock Hicks. Let’s have it.’
I stood up.
‘Ex-husband.’ Then I corrected myself: ‘Well, ex-partner. She used to wear a ring, but doesn’t any more. It might have been an engagement ring.’
‘Never married.’ Laura inclined her head. ‘The IT guys are pulling her files now, though, so if there’s any previous complaints or restraining orders there, we’ll know shortly.’
‘There will be,’ I said.
Bizarre as it sounds, I felt a little brighter. As bad as this murder was—and it was bad—I knew it would also be explicable. Because, ultimately, they all are. I’m not saying the explanation is ever satisfactory or reasonable—I’m not saying it’s ever enough—but the reason is always there, and it always makes sense to the person who did it.
The fact is, most crimes conform to mundane statistical patterns. The vast majority of female murder victims, for example, are killed by somebody they know, and it’s usually a partner or recent partner. Countrywide, two women die every week at the hands of men who are supposed to love them, or once claimed to, or imagine in their heads they did. So—especially having ruled out robbery and sexual assault—an ex-partner was the obvious guess. Most DV murders happen indoors, but this was close enough: someone had known where and when to find her. And now that I thought about it, the fact that Vicki Gibson, at the age of thirty-two, lived with her mother also indicated an ex rather than current partner.
I was sure that the IT guys—if not Carla Gibson herself—would very shortly give us a man’s name. At some point in the past, either Vicki or her mother was likely to have called the police before, because these things rarely just explode out of nowhere. Gibson’s ex-boyfriend would have a string of reports against his name, and probably some charges. At some point, she would have dared to leave him. And because of the type of man he was, the resentment and hurt everyone feels in such circumstances would have been much blacker and more aggressive than most.
From some of the other domestic homicides I’d dealt with, I could almost picture the pathetic bastard. When we picked him up, he’d probably still be blaming Vicki Gibson for what had happened—even now. Still convinced she’d pushed his buttons, and that it was somehow her fault.
‘We’ll see,’ Laura said.
‘We will.’
I was confident. This was a textbook bedroom crime, in my own personal architecture of murder. Hideous and awful, but comprehensible and quickly tied shut.
It had to be that.
What else could it be?
Two
‘SHE WASN’T HERE WHEN I got up,’ Carla Gibson said.
‘No,’ Laura said gently. ‘I know.’
The flat shared by two generations of the Gibson family—until this morning, anyway—was so small that it seemed cramped even with just the three of us inside.
We were in the front room, which doubled as the kitchen—built in down one side, but only in the sense that the room’s threadbare carpet stopped, leaving a stretch of blackened floorboards along the base of the counter. I was leaning against the wall, next to a rusted wall-mounted boiler and exposed pipes that ran out of the ceiling and disappeared down dirty holes in the floorboards.
Laura was sitting opposite Carla at a rickety wooden table. Like most of the furniture in here, it was ramshackle and cheap: just flimsy wood, held together by little more than four metal bolts and a prayer. Laura was sitting carefully, as though worried the chair would break beneath her.
‘I crept through to make tea. I always creep through. She works so hard, you see, all the time, and I wanted to let her sleep. But she wasn’t here.’
‘We know, Mrs Gibson. I’m so sorry.’
The old lady seemed calm on the surface now that the mild sedative the nurse had given her had taken effect, but was still obviously in pieces—frail and shivering. Her eyes rarely met ours; she kept staring off into the middle distance instead, focused on something out of sight beyond the drab walls. Of course, the drug didn’t repair the damage, just dampened its effects. It remained obvious that she had been crying long and hard, and that all she was doing right now was avoiding facing the horror of her loss head on.
Aside from this living space, there was a bathroom and a single bedroom, where Carla slept. Vicki Gibson had slept in here, on the settee. It was sunken almost to the floor, but still made up carefully for the night’s sleep Vicki had never reached. Blankets and pillows had been laid neatly over it, topped by a patchwork quilt that I suspected had been hand-sewn by Carla herself.
It hurt to see it—a visual reminder that although they lived in abject poverty, they were making the most of it. Vicki worked late and often early too: cleaning at an office block as and when; shifts at the launderette in the evenings. Every night, Carla made up her daughter’s bed on that settee; every morning, she folded those blankets away and a makeshift second bedroom was transformed back into a makeshift front room again.
Every morning except this one.
And all the rest now.
‘And then I looked out,’ Carla said, ‘… and she was there instead.’
Laura said, ‘We don’t need to talk about all that again, Mrs Gibson.’
‘No. No.’
‘Let’s move on to something else.’
‘Yes.’
As much as anything else, I knew Laura was trying to distract the woman from the fact that her daughter still was out there. We wouldn’t be moving the body for a few more hours yet, which was a logistical nightmare in terms of handling residents of this and the neighbouring blocks.
When we were done talking to her, I planned to have a sympathetic officer stay here with Carla Gibson and gently persuade her away from the balcony at the far end of this room. The sight of the tent down there, while far less horrific than the scene that greeted her this morning, would really be just as awful. The fact was, we were taking care of her daughter as best we could right now. To relatives, though, that doesn’t always necessarily appear to be the case.
‘That’s good,’ Laura said. ‘Shall we talk about Tom Gregory instead?’
‘Tom …?’
Carla stared back at her for a moment.
‘Vicki’s ex-partner.’
‘I know the name, but what does he have to do with this?’
‘Well,’ Laura said, ‘I understand that their relationship was quite volatile.’
‘I didn’t know about that.’
I folded my arms, still saying nothing, because volatile was an understatement. In the time since viewing the body, we’d had the relevant files through from IT support, and my hunch outside hadn’t been too wide of the mark. The violence between the couple wasn’t as extensi
ve as I’d imagined—but all that really meant was that it hadn’t been extensively reported to the police. Given the power dynamics and threats that go along with domestic violence, the two are obviously entirely different things. For every reported peak of violence, there’s most likely a bunch of others that are only marginally smaller.
What we knew for certain, though, was that Vicki Gibson had called the police about Tom Gregory in connection with three incidents. Two of those were when they’d been together; the third occasion, six months ago, had been after they separated. Gregory had turned up at the launderette, drunk out of his mind, and a couple of the other customers had needed to physically restrain him.
For various reasons, all three cases had disintegrated at some point before charges were filed. Cases of domestic violence, like rape, carry a huge amount of what we call slippage. Sometimes it’s our fault; more often, these days, it isn’t. But it’s fair to say there have been many, many cases where I wish I could have done more. Wish more than I could say, in fact.
Laura said, ‘Vicki never mentioned it?’
‘No, no.’ Carla frowned. ‘And I don’t think Vicki would have stood for that. She’s such a strong person, you know. So protective: always looking after me. It’s very hard for her, I know, but she’s such a good girl to me.’
‘I understand.’ If Laura noticed Carla’s use of the present tense, she chose not to acknowledge it. Wisely. ‘Did you ever meet him? Mr Gregory?’
‘No. I know they were very close for a time, but that was before she moved back home.’
Home.
I looked around again. Peter Gibson—Vicki’s father—had died the previous year. Her parents had lived here for a very long time, and this was where Vicki had grown up. I imagined her crawling around on this floor as an infant, the sounds of neighbours’ televisions barely muffled by the thin panels on the walls. A bad place, maybe, but a good family. Sometimes that’s enough; usually it isn’t. Vicki had struck out on her own, tried her best, and eventually been pulled back to where she’d started by the inescapable social elastic of our city. It’s a cliché, but it’s true: so much of where people end up depends on where they start.
‘When they broke up, I told her not to worry,’ Carla said. ‘These things happen, don’t they? It’s sad but we have to move on.’
‘And you were glad to have her back, weren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Carla’s face brightened a little. ‘Yes, I was. She’s a good girl.’
‘She never mentioned why they’d broken up?’
‘No. But I’m sure it wouldn’t have been her fault. That’s what I told her. She’s a catch. Are you married, Detective?’
The last was directed, somewhat hopefully, at me. I felt awkward and sad for her.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a shame. She’s a lovely girl.’
I leaned away from the wall and, for the first time, involved myself directly in the interview.
‘Did Mr Gregory ever come round here after they broke up?’
‘No, no.’
‘Would you have any contact details for him?’
‘Oh. Well, perhaps—yes.’ She stood up, wobbling slightly. ‘They lived together before she moved back home. I need to find my address book.’
‘That’s okay.’ I held out a hand to stop her. We had that address already, and officers had established he wasn’t home right now. ‘I was more wondering if there was anywhere else you knew of? Places he went, or friends or family he might stay with?’
‘In that case, no, I’m sorry.’ She sat back down again. The chair seemed barely to register her. ‘I didn’t know him like that. I didn’t really know him at all.’
‘That’s all right.’
It had been a long shot anyway. Whether out of pride or embarrassment, Vicki Gibson had kept the abusive element of her relationship a secret from her elderly mother. Again, that wasn’t remotely surprising. The situation she found herself in did not make her weak, but when you’re in that situation you’re made to feel that way, and are often reluctant to compound the feeling by admitting to it. People who really need and deserve help are usually at the point when it’s hardest to admit it.
There was no real consolation in it, but one thing we could guarantee now was that Tom Gregory wouldn’t get away with what he’d done. Not this time. If he was proving elusive for the moment, he wouldn’t be for ever.
I was already thinking ahead when I realised Carla Gibson was looking at me, a distressed expression on her face, as though my thoughts had been a little too obvious—already out of the door, in fact. I was about to apologise when she said:
‘Vicki was so strong.’
It took me a second to realise she was talking about Gregory—regressing to the point of the conversation where Laura had described their relationship as volatile. She didn’t want to believe her little girl had endured something like that silently. And I understood it wasn’t about me being distracted but about Carla Gibson, despite the drugs, being suddenly present again.
‘She was strong,’ I said, looking right back at her. Even though it’s not about strength, because that can seem like a judgement on those who don’t leave, I said it again. ‘She was very strong indeed.’
And I thought:
We’re going to catch you, Mr Gregory.
Three
ON OUR WAY BACK downstairs, Laura and I talked it over.
‘You’re convinced?’ she said.
‘I’m more convinced than ever. You mean you’re not?’
To me, it looked clear-cut. People aren’t killed for no reason; there’s always cause and effect, and the facts here spoke for themselves. It wasn’t an aggravated robbery and there had been no sexual assault. All that was left, realistically, was that Vicki had been murdered out of revenge—out of passion, or at least its curdled, ugly flip side. Tom Gregory had form. If it wasn’t him, then who was it? The odds, already good, were only getting shorter.
Laura sighed.
‘It looks nailed on, I admit. And that’s obviously what we move forward with for now.’
‘That’s what we move forward with. Yes. Blue-sky thinking there, Laura.’
‘Shut up, Hicks.’
‘Look. He’s got motive. He’s got opportunity. He’s got form. And he’s missing.’ I threaded my fingers together, then drew them apart. ‘We’ll have this sewn up by the end of the day.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘I sense a but.’
‘But … something in me doesn’t feel it’s right. Don’t say it: I know you hate it when I use the word feel, but it’s true. Don’t you feel … something?’
‘I’m not a monster,’ I said.
‘Oh God, Hicks, I know you’re not.’
‘I feel sorry for Vicki Gibson. Don’t let my flippancy kid you otherwise. And I feel intense fucking dislike for Tom Gregory. And believe me, I’ll feel a lot better when he’s locked up paying dear fucking money for what he’s done.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
I didn’t say anything. No, I knew that wasn’t what she’d meant—we’d worked together long enough for her to take the things I’d said as given. Still, I didn’t say anything else. I’d been intending to add something like I don’t feel anything weird—and yet for some reason I didn’t. As far as I could tell, I was totally in the right, and I was still sure we had our man, but a part of me knew what she meant. Not that I was going to admit it.
‘I just find it hard to imagine,’ Laura said. ‘That someone could hate someone that much. Don’t you?’
I shrugged.
‘To a point. I find it hard to imagine me or you hating someone like that. But we don’t know anything about this guy. He could have taken it as an affront to his manhood, her leaving him. Maybe he didn’t like being confronted with the fact that he didn’t own her the way he thought. You know what some men are like.’
‘Yeah. Unfortunately so.’
‘Some of them.’
�
�Defensive much?’
‘Defensive always.’
We pushed our way out into the midday sun. After the interior of the stairwell, it was too harsh and too bright; I shielded my eyes.
‘What?’ Laura said.
I lowered my hand to see an officer standing in front of us: the same one who’d met me at the cordon. He looked panicked, excited, a bit lost.
He said, ‘We’ve got another body.’
As Laura and I took my car south through two intersections of the grids, all we knew was that the second body found belonged to a male, but because I tended to go with probabilities, I was expecting it to be Tom Gregory.
Again, we’d both seen it happen before. Most likely he’d been incoherent during the murder itself, with alcohol or anger or both, and the effects, the armour of that, wear off in time. It’s fairly common in these circumstances for the perpetrator to take his own life after it hits home exactly what he’s done—destroyed not only someone else’s future, but his own as well. Plus, it would explain why we hadn’t been able to find Gregory so far.
A minute later, we drove out of the end of Lily Street, into a rough parking area on the northern bank of the river. The water stretched out in front, fifty metres wide, and silver in the sunlight. The water was moving along at quite a lick: rippling and shredding. On the far bank, the rich old town clustered, gathering itself gradually upwards into the distant skyscrapers of the business district that glinted and beamed in the sun. On the river itself, a tourist ferry was purring along in the middle. As we parked up, I could see people on the deck, staring in our direction.
As we got out of the car, the wind hit. Whatever the temperature, there always seems to be a cold breeze close to the Kell, as though it’s made of ice.
There were already two police cars in the parking area, but only one officer in sight—standing at the far end by a break in the moss-green stone wall, guarding the steps that led down to the old promenade.
‘Hicks.’ I showed him my badge. ‘And Fellowes. Where are we going—down there?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The steps were ancient and weathered: blocks of stone from a different world. Our city is several centuries old, and this is roughly the spot it spread out from, the initial colonies clustering along the length of the river. For a long time, the northern bank itself was considered too marshy to develop, and it was only fifty years ago that the grids were constructed on its upper lip, fitted in between the water and the industrial and agricultural areas further north. But you feel the heart of the city here. The rocks and flagstones always remind me of gravestones in an abandoned churchyard.
