Tastes Like Fear (D.I. Marnie Rome 3)

by Sarah Hilary

  ‘We’re talking with Ruth Eaton this morning,’ he told Calum, ‘hoping for a better description of the girl.’

  ‘Ruth’s okay. That’s good.’ He put his fingers to his eyes as if he was afraid of finding tears, but it was only pain spilling over. ‘Their kids’ll be glad to get their mum back.’

  The room smelt of sweat and carpeting. They sat at the metal table.

  ‘I know Sergeant Kenickie’s been in touch,’ Marnie said. ‘I’m sure he’ll keep you informed of progress with the investigation.’

  ‘Kenickie,’ Calum repeated. His jaw moved. ‘Yes, I met him. He’s got it in for Joe, expected me to feel the same, but Joe wasn’t driving my car. I should’ve reacted faster.’

  ‘From what Joe said, there was no time for that.’

  ‘Ruth saw the girl, that’s what I don’t understand. They both saw her, but I didn’t. How could I have missed her? She must’ve been directly in my headlights. If Joe swerved into us, then she must’ve been right there.’ He jabbed a thumb at the table. ‘I should’ve let Logan drive. He had his provisional licence and he was doing great. Nothing fazed him. He was all grown up, didn’t need my help with anything, not any more. If I’d let him drive …’ He shut his eyes for a second before blinking them back open. ‘He’d want to know the girl’s okay. It cut him up to think that kids like that were out there. I know Kenickie thinks it’s her fault for walking out into the road, but Logan wouldn’t agree.’

  ‘How’s his mum doing?’ Noah asked.

  ‘She’s got her parents round. Logan’s gran and grandad. Mine died a couple of years back; he only had Gina’s mum and dad.’

  ‘Do you have someone?’ Noah hoped the man wasn’t on his own. ‘Brothers, sisters?’

  Calum shook his head, as if he didn’t matter. ‘This girl … If she’s homeless, on the streets, Logan would want to help. He wasn’t volunteering for his CV or because his mates were doing it. He cared. The kids he met … They were like him, that’s what he always said, just that he was lucky enough to have a roof over his head. “Dad, can you imagine living like that? Being scared and on your own, no one to look out for you?” It cut him up. That’s what I keep thinking about. How much he cared. He’d hate this girl to be lost, no one taking care of her. Her family wondering where she is, missing her, praying for news …’ He hugged himself the way Loz had done, rocking slightly in the seat, blinking at nothing. ‘I hope Ruth gives you something. I wish I could. Wish there was some way I could help, but I didn’t see her. Didn’t see anyone, just Joe’s car coming right at us, and … Logan, hitting the windscreen.’

  ‘Poor bloke,’ Noah said, as they climbed the stairs back to the main office. ‘How long d’you think he’ll keep blaming himself?’

  ‘Until he’s able to forgive himself, or until his wife does.’ Marnie wore the thread of a frown at the bridge of her nose. ‘Or until Kenickie backs off. He’s gearing up for a manslaughter conviction. If he keeps on at Gina and Calum about the need for someone to pay the price for Logan’s death—’

  Her phone thwapped. ‘DC Tanner, we’re on our way back up …’ Her eyes sharpened as she listened, and she switched to speakerphone. ‘Again, please.’

  ‘We’ve got another one.’ Debbie’s voice was stressed by static. ‘Another body.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the Garrett.’

  Marnie and Noah turned back down the stairs, towards the car park. ‘Who’s on the scene?’

  ‘DS Carling and the house-to-house lot. Ron’s sealing it off.’

  ‘Another girl?’

  ‘Yes, but he says it’s not like May. This one’s been dumped.’

  ‘Dumped where? Who found her?’

  ‘Kids. He says kids.’ Debbie sucked a breath. ‘Not drugs, it’s not an overdose. They’ve had their share of those on the Garrett, but this girl was killed. Strangled, he thinks. Like May, but not clean. He strangled her and then he dumped her.’

  ‘Is it Traffic’s girl?’ Noah asked.

  ‘Ron doesn’t think so. She’s too big, and there’s no writing as far as he can tell. He’s sealed off the scene and he’s waiting for Forensics, and you.’

  ‘Tell him we’re on our way.’

  24

  May Beswick’s murder had been loud, her body shouting at Noah from the bed in Battersea. This new murder was noiseless, shoved against a brick wall still bleeding with recent rain. A tall girl, bigger than May, but the killer had turned her into a smudge, as if a dirty thumb had been rubbed against a hard surface unthinkingly to remove a stain.

  Marnie crouched, gesturing for Noah to join her. He saw the distinctive crook in the dead girl’s nose. The fleshy lobes of her ears were pierced in three places.

  Marnie said, ‘It’s Ashleigh Jewell. Yes?’

  ‘Yes …’

  The girl from the whiteboard at the station, the one blowing a kiss at the camera. Her face was closed, lips swollen shut by blood, blackish, a match for the marks around her neck.

  The scratch of litter across tarmac made Noah turn his head.

  Ron Carling caught his eye and glanced away, as if the crime scene shamed him.

  ‘Do you think it’s the same killer?’ Marnie asked.

  Noah looked. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me why.’ Her voice was freighted by calm, holding him here, making him respect the crime scene despite its smell, its meanness, its futility.

  ‘The bruises. The pattern is the same. Big hands.’

  ‘What else? Is anything else the same?’

  At first glance this killing had nothing in common with May’s. Ashleigh Jewell was fully clothed. No writing in the palms of her hands or on the visible part of her sternum. Her hair had not been brushed. She’d been dumped in the corner where the flats met – a litter trap reserved for communal rubbish – her body at a right angle, brick wall at her back, her face half buried in chip papers and an empty pizza box, her hands lying loose, no sign that she’d been tied. Wearing what looked like a school uniform, white shirt and black skirt, opaque tights, trainers on her feet. No watch or rings, no jewellery. Her hair was loose, its ends matted by the shallow tide of rubbish. No make-up or nail polish, although Noah could see the speckle of old polish at the base of two of her nails, a gritty line of silver close to her cuticles.

  ‘She’s clean.’ He looked across at Marnie. ‘She’s too clean. And she smells the same as May. Underneath, I mean. Soap and water. She smells of Pears soap.’ His nose pinched shut, protesting the memory. ‘The uniform is … wrong. As if someone dressed her to look like a child. She didn’t look like this in the photograph you put on the board.’

  ‘No, she didn’t.’ Marnie straightened and stepped back from the body.

  Noah moved with her, working the perimeter for evidence that needed tagging. A breeze sucked at their crime-scene suits, and at the polythene tent erected too late for the handful of residents who’d gathered to see what was happening. A bad vibe from the crowd, too much static making Noah’s scalp prickle. He sensed a fight coming.

  Marnie glanced in the direction of the rubberneckers before crouching back by the side of the dead girl. ‘Go and see what’s happening. I’ll finish up here.’

  Noah moved outside the cordon, ducking under the tape to where Ron was holding a trio of teenage girls at bay, his hands raised against their questions.

  ‘The fuck’s going on?’ one of them demanded. Dressed for school, but not like Ashleigh Jewell. This girl wore skin-tight trousers and a black sweatshirt with the neck ripped out, a white vest top underneath. Black-spoked eyes, blusher slashed on her cheeks, hair gelled back into a ponytail that looked like a whip. Everything about her was hard and tight, from her laced ankle boots to her lips. ‘The fuck’s going on?’ Pointing her chin at Ron.

  ‘Back off. Now. This is a crime scene.’

  ‘Yeah? Sat on someone, did you?’ Throwing a laugh in the direction of her friends.

  ‘Back off, Abi. I won’t tell you again.’

&n
bsp; ‘I saw you with the old cow again.’ She was Abi Gull, the fire-starter who was terrorising Emma Tarvin. ‘Eating her fucking biscuits like a pig.’

  Ron said, ‘Go to school. Or nick off, it’s all the same to me. But this is a crime scene and you need to stay clear of it.’

  ‘I’ve a right to know. I gotta live here. You get to piss off home when you’re done wringing us out.’ Craning her neck and catching Noah’s eye. ‘What?’ Tightening her stare. ‘Saw you, too. With that old bitch. Like she’s your gran, sucking up.’

  ‘Aw, Abi.’ One of her friends, same uniform, but baby-faced. ‘He’s peng.’

  ‘So? He’s still a pig.’

  ‘You would, though, wouldn’t you? I would.’

  Laughter from the other two girls, but Abi just stared at Noah. ‘Someone died. You’re wearing the white suit. Who’s dead?’

  Ron put his hands up again, palms out towards the girls. ‘Clear out, now.’

  ‘I fucking live here. I’ve a right to know whether one of my mates is dead.’

  ‘We don’t know, all right? Who she is or how she died. Let us do our job, make this place safe.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know safe if it sucked your dick.’ Stretching the stare to Noah. ‘Fucking feds, you’re all the same. Even the black ones are dirty white.’

  She turned on her heel and walked away, flanked by her friends.

  Noah recognised the shape they made. Arrowhead formation, Abi a stride ahead of the other two, all three swaggering. They might not be the only gang on the Garrett, but they owned it. The other two girls kept turning their heads, scoping for enemies. Noah had grown up watching kids like this. Avoiding kids like this.

  ‘That was Abi Gull,’ Ron said. ‘In case you were in any doubt.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’ Noah unzipped the forensic suit and pulled it off.

  ‘No wonder Emma’s living like a whipped dog with that little bitch working her patch.’

  ‘She’s thirteen, is that right? She looks older.’

  ‘They all do. This dump adds ten years to everyone who sets foot in it.’ Ron squinted across Noah’s shoulder and raised a fist in greeting. ‘Kenickie, you old bastard.’

  A middle-aged, middleweight man came across the tarmac towards them, his stare flat and sand-coloured, a shade darker than his thinning hair. Acne scars as deep as fire damage marked his face. He nodded towards the tent, juggling the keys to his BMW in one hand, seat-belt creases in the front of his shiny suit. ‘This our girl?’

  ‘We don’t think so,’ Noah said.

  ‘Where’s your ball-grinder of a boss?’ Kenickie showed his teeth, humourless. Smoker’s teeth, shrunken gums. ‘Only I don’t fancy chatting to the monkey.’ He looked at Ron. ‘Logan Marsh died, remember?’

  Ron nodded. ‘We’re pretty sure this isn’t her.’

  ‘She was seen here.’ Kenickie swivelled his neck, scanning the estate. ‘Right?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘But you lost her.’ Bringing his stare back to Ron. ‘Got your best people on it, have you?’

  ‘We’re looking. Joe Eaton’s wife’s helping with the e-fit—’

  ‘Eaton’s a mess. Admits he was drinking even if he scraped the breath test.’ Eyeing Noah. ‘I thought you lot were up to your ankles in dead body over at Battersea.’

  ‘And now this.’ Ron nodded. ‘Never rains but it shits.’

  ‘Pervert.’ Kenickie had his eyes fixed on Noah. ‘Over at Battersea. Heard it was a sex killer.’

  Ron ran a finger under his shirt collar. ‘Too soon to say.’ He glanced at Noah, then away.

  ‘I’d like to run house-to-house here.’ Kenickie bounced on his heels, car keys jangling in his fist. ‘For our girl.’

  ‘Best leave us to ask the questions. Now that we’re talking two murders.’

  ‘Three if you count Logan. I know his mum does. She’s in bits, and his dad’s not much better. Pure chance he was on that road that night. They need answers which make sense. Something better than a silly cow out for a stroll and a tosspot full of carbonara and Chablis.’

  ‘We’re working on it.’ Ron rubbed at his face. ‘Trust me, you wouldn’t want the gig. We’ll be at this all day and night.’

  Kenickie bared his bad teeth again. ‘Just as well you’ve got a stroke of midnight on your side.’

  A stroke of midnight. Noah hadn’t heard that insult in a while, but apparently Kenickie was old-school.

  ‘All right, mate.’ Ron’s hands came up, the way they had when Abi Gull was baiting him. ‘Leave it alone.’

  ‘Good luck with your pervert.’ Swinging on his heel, away from them. ‘Laters.’

  Ron let out a breath through his teeth. ‘Kenny never was a morning person.’ He shot a look at Noah, on the brink of an apology.

  ‘Cheer up.’ Noah clapped a hand to his shoulder. ‘I’ve had cocktails with worse names.’

  Ron squinted at him.

  ‘Midnight Pervert. Half price at happy hour …’

  They turned their heads as Marnie came out of the tent, peeling off the forensic suit. ‘DS Carling, I need you to make a start on the house-to-house. Who saw what, and when.’ She tidied her red curls from her face, nodding at Noah. ‘We need to confirm the identity of the dead girl and contact her family … Was that Traffic’s radio interference I was hearing?’

  Ron nodded. ‘They still think the missing girl is theirs. Logan’s mum’s in pieces.’

  ‘A lot of mothers are in pieces. May Beswick’s, and now this new girl’s. Show the e-fit during the house-to-house, but in connection to May. The RTC can wait.’

  ‘That’s what I told Kenickie.’

  Marnie nodded towards the knot of onlookers. ‘Are those our arsonists?’

  Abi Gull and her gang had retreated to the shelter of a doorway, but they were watching, arms across their chests, chins pointed towards the tent.

  ‘I told them to stay away.’ Ron scowled. ‘They should be in school.’

  ‘Did they see the body?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Noah said. ‘They knew someone had died, because of the suits and the tent. But I don’t think they saw anything.’

  ‘Ashleigh went missing in Dartford about four months ago. If anyone on the estate saw her before today, we need to know.’

  ‘You’re thinking they’re connected,’ Ron said. ‘May and this girl, maybe even Traffic’s?’

  ‘Too soon to say. No definitive similarities between May’s killing and this one, but let’s keep an open mind. Without encouraging too much speculation from the public, or the press.’

  Several onlookers were holding phones, filming the scene.

  ‘We’ll be on YouTube before we know it,’ Ron grumbled.

  ‘Let’s hope some of them had their eyes open last night, or early this morning.’

  Fran Lennox was making her way towards them, blonde hair spiked with gel, wearing grey jeans and a leather jacket, looking like a pixie dressed as a punk. Abi and her friends watched narrowly, as if they were seeing a rival, not a pathologist. ‘Another fine mess for me?’ Fran asked.

  ‘Dead girl. DS Jake and I are seeing a link to May Beswick, but you might want to put us straight on that score.’ Marnie nodded at Noah. ‘I’ve got this. You get back to the station and see what you can find out about Ashleigh Jewell’s last known whereabouts, and her next of kin.’

  25

  Fran knelt at the dead girl’s side, studying her swollen face before touching gloved fingers tenderly to the bruises.

  Marnie stayed back, not speaking, watching Fran work. Her presence made the scene feel less like an annihilation. She was taking the temperature of the crime, finding its pulse, feeling for its edges. Until now, Marnie had wanted to cover the dead girl, hide her from prying eyes. She’d seen the way Ron had looked at the body, embarrassed and angry. A teenage girl dumped like garbage, appallingly vulnerable. With Fran kneeling beside her, she looked safe.

  ‘She’s been dead less than twelve hours, possi
bly as few as six. Time of death? Let’s say between nine p.m. and one a.m. Strangled, like May. Same pattern of bruises, same size too. You might be right about it being the same killer.’ Fran raised her head and scoped the immediate area. ‘Not much of a tableau here. No writing, either. Unless it’s well hidden, under her clothes.’

  ‘Not a tableau, but a message, maybe. Just as there was in the penthouse.’

  ‘May as an angel, this poor girl as trash?’

  ‘If it’s the same killer.’

  ‘She’s May’s age. Or thereabouts.’

  ‘We think she’s Ashleigh Jewell. Fifteen. Went missing from Dartford four months ago.’

  Fran was holding one of the dead girl’s hands, studying the nail beds. ‘Another one he looked after, if this is the same killer. She was in good shape until yesterday.’

  ‘He finds them, takes them in, feeds them. Then he kills them. Why? Why take good care of someone you’re going to discard like this?’

  ‘Maybe they disappoint him.’ Fran was feeling the girl’s abdomen. ‘No obvious sign that she’s pregnant, but I’ll let you know if that’s another similarity with May.’

  ‘They disappoint him,’ Marnie repeated. ‘Or he finds someone else. Someone new.’

  ‘You said this girl was missing for nearly four months. That puts her in the same time period as May. He’s not taking them one at a time.’ Fran straightened. ‘Assuming it’s the same killer.’

  ‘Too much speculation.’ Marnie nodded. ‘Let me know how you get on with the results, anything connecting this killing to May’s, or anything ruling out a connection.’

  ‘Security’s been tightened at the power station, I take it?’

  ‘No chance of anyone leaving a second body in the same place. That might have necessitated leaving Ashleigh out here.’

  ‘Riskier, in some ways.’ Fran looked around. ‘No privacy. More chance of being seen, and of the body being found quickly.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s what he wanted.’