The Jigsaw Man

by Nadine Matheson

  Henley felt a flush of empathy – it wasn’t his fault that he had been dumped with her – but the warmth was brief.

  ‘Well, things work a bit differently at the SCU. It’s very rare that we hit the ground running like this. The cases are usually passed on to us once the potential emergence of a serial killer or rapist has been identified. The preliminary work that we’re doing now has usually been done before we get going.’

  ‘But that’s not all that the unit does,’ said Ramouter, following Henley towards the detached building in the middle of the grounds. ‘There was that serial kidnapping and human trafficking case a few years back and also the Jigsaw Killer case.’

  Henley winced as a muscle pulled in her neck. The Jigsaw Killer. The case that had changed everything. There had been praise from her colleagues, a commendation from the commissioner, a promotion to detective inspector. But the case had stolen a piece of her.

  ‘That must have been amazing to work on,’ continued Ramouter. ‘It’s what made me want to join the unit. The reason… Well, one of the reasons why I came down to London.’

  Henley turned and looked at Ramouter. Even though she knew that he was nervous, there was no mistaking that familiar look of excitement in his eyes.

  ‘Don’t let what you saw in the media fool you. The SCU is understaffed and underfunded. I’m surprised that your transfer was even authorised. Look, in your average Murder Squad it wouldn’t be unusual to have up to a hundred people working on an investigation from the DSI down to your civilians, but at the SCU it’s just us and we spend a lot of time pulling in favours. There’s no glamour here and any praise is short-lived.’

  Henley turned her back, entered the passcode she wasn’t meant to have, and pushed open the door.

  Head forensic pathologist Dr Linh Choi was sitting at her desk with her back to the door, hunched over her lunch. Her long black hair was piled on top of her head, secured loosely with a biro. She bobbed her head up and down in time to the heavy drum and bass that was escaping from the Bose wireless speakers on her desk. Henley had met Linh over fifteen years ago, when they were both starting out in their careers and feeling woefully out of their depth. Their friendship had flourished over time. Henley tapped Linh on the shoulder.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Linh jumped in her seat. The hot wing in her hand fell back into the box. ‘You nearly gave me a bloody heart attack.’

  ‘Reliving your raving days, are you?’ Henley said with a smile.

  ‘Don’t you mean “our” raving days. You love this as much as I do. I’ve got a wicked mix that I found at home. I’ll have to send it to you.’ Linh muted the volume on her laptop. ‘You didn’t tell me that you were back. Had to hear it from Anthony,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll talk to you about that later,’ Henley replied.

  ‘And you’ve got a new partner? What did Stanford have to say about that?’

  ‘This is TDC Salim Ramouter, and he’s not my partner.’ Henley moved aside to allow Ramouter to step forward. ‘I’m his mentor. He’s just transferred from West Yorkshire Police.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, you couldn’t have asked for a better person to train you than DI Henley,’ said Linh, getting up from the chair. She cleaned her hand with an anti-bacterial wipe before extending it towards Ramouter. ‘Nice to meet you. Dr Linh Choi.’

  She’d had the benefit of a private school scholarship and Cambridge University education, but you’d never have guessed from her thick south London accent. She pulled her glasses down from the top of her head.

  ‘I’ve just completed a preliminary examination on your male victim, but let me tell you about the arm first. There wasn’t much to go over, considering that we’re missing bits. A head, legs, torso, another arm would be nice.’

  ‘What can you tell us?’ asked Henley.

  Linh shrugged. ‘Black female. Probably in her twenties but that’s all that I can tell you until you find the rest of her.’

  Henley and Ramouter followed Linh out of her office, towards an examination room that resembled a hospital operating theatre. There was a chill in the air. Against the wall a row of metal cabinets provided temporary storage for the dead, while opposite were three deep sinks with a fridge in the corner. In the middle of the room stood four metal examination tables. Linh’s assistant, Theresa, was working on a body on the far table while listening to music on her Beats headphones. The scents of industrial antiseptic and soured bodily fluids tickled Henley’s nose.

  Theresa inserted an expander into the body’s chest.

  ‘That used to be a 23-year-old bodybuilder,’ Linh said, shaking her head. ‘Heart attack. Collapsed in the gym. I don’t need a toxicology screening to tell me that he’s going to be pumped full of steroids.’

  The sound of someone stepping on broken glass filled Henley’s ears as Theresa cracked the chest open. Ramouter took a step back.

  ‘The loo is the second door on your left,’ Linh said, amusement tickling her voice, as Ramouter turned and ran.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Ramouter when he returned a few minutes later with the look of shame in his eye.

  ‘That’s all right. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last,’ said Linh. ‘Right, are you ready?’

  Henley nodded her assent and Linh pulled back the protective plastic sheet. The body parts that had been found along the riverbank and the driveway of 15 Nelson Mews were now arranged on the examination table, like a bloodied jigsaw that had yet to be fully put together. Henley felt lightheaded. She took a step back and tried to anchor herself.

  ‘Are you able to give us a time of death?’ Henley asked, trying to hide the nervous quiver in her voice.

  ‘Rough estimate,’ said Linh, ‘I would say between twenty-four to thirty-six hours for your man.’

  Henley took a closer look at the tattoo on the torso.

  ‘It’s a scene from Full Metal Alchemist,’ Linh said. She sounded quite pleased. ‘That’s a Manga anime film, if you didn’t know. Way before your time,’ she continued for the benefit of Ramouter. ‘He’s got Ken from Fist of the North Star tattooed on his back.’

  ‘What can you tell me about the dismemberments? Before or after death?’ Henley asked as she walked slowly around the body parts, taking every detail in, ignoring the mobile phone that was vibrating in her pocket.

  ‘Both.’ Linh moved towards the top of the table. ‘Right arm and the left leg were removed first. If you take a look here,’ she pointed to where the left leg had been cut, ‘the blood had already started to coagulate. Death would have occurred within four minutes.’

  Linh turned the lower end of the torso towards Henley, pointing out the bone, flesh and bowels. ‘There is hardly any coagulation at all here. So, four hours after death, your killer starts to remove the limbs. There’s an interesting puncture wound in the chest, just above the heart. That was done before death. I’ll know more once I start the autopsy after lunch. I will tell you one thing, though. They made a right shit job of cutting this body up. Look here.’ Linh pointed a gloved finger to two long, jagged cuts on the right shoulder. ‘There were at least two attempts made before the arm was finally taken off. It’s as if whoever it was had never used a Black and Decker jigsaw before.’

  ‘Was it a Black and Decker jigsaw?’ Ramouter asked. He was standing almost three feet away with his back to the sinks.

  ‘I wouldn’t have a bloody clue. You need a DIY expert for that.’ Linh’s eyes crinkled with laughter as she straightened the right leg. ‘But more importantly, take a look at this.’

  Linh picked up the head and turned it towards Henley. She then prised the jaw open with her fingers. ‘Ramouter, grab the torch on the side,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got enough hands.’

  Ramouter picked up the small silver pen torch and walked over to the table.

  ‘Come on. Don’t be shy. Shine it here.’

  Ramouter did as he was told and shone the torch into the opened mouth.

  ‘Erm… Where’s his tongue?’ Ramouter a
sked.

  Henley forced herself to take the torch from Ramouter and shone the light towards the back of the throat. The mouth was caked in dried blood and she could see the remnants of exposed striated muscle that formed the base of the tongue.

  ‘How?’ Henley asked.

  ‘It was cut off,’ Linh replied. ‘A very clean dissection which could only be achieved by something like a very sharp fillet knife or a scalpel.’

  ‘But how easy is it to cut out someone’s tongue?’ Henley wriggled her own tongue around her mouth, feeling the small tendons at the base stretch and pull.

  ‘While they’re alive? Bloody difficult. Which is why it would have made sense if the tongue was cut off post-mortem, but it wasn’t.’

  ‘Hold on, he was still alive when his tongue was cut out?’

  Linh nodded. ‘To grab hold of the tongue while the person is alive would be difficult and the cut is so clinical. My guess is your victim was unconscious. Also, there’s another thing. Tell me if you notice anything about the legs.’

  Henley crouched down. The calf of the right leg, covered with small grains of sand, fragments of seaweed and dried vomit, was muscular with fine, light brown hair. The left leg was the same but, on the ankle, a strip of skin, about two inches wide, was paler than the rest.

  ‘Our victim was wearing a tag?’ Henley said.

  ‘I think so,’ replied Linh. ‘If you look here.’ Linh turned the leg to examine the pale patch, which was no bigger than a matchbox. ‘Definitely, I would say that he was wearing a tag. I’m sure that if I got the measurements of a generic tag from one of the monitoring companies, it would fit.’

  ‘So, our victim was on court bail with a curfew?’ asked Ramouter. ‘That should give us something to go on. There must be a way of finding out if anyone has breached their bail in the last few days.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how many people are granted bail and placed on tag?’ said Henley.

  ‘Good luck with that,’ replied Linh. ‘I’ve taken blood, urine samples, the usual, and sent them off this morning. Hopefully, I’ll get something back by the end of the week. So, do we have a name? It feels a bit disrespectful to keep calling him… well, one of them, Manga man, now that most of him is laid out on the table like this.’

  Henley pulled her phone out of her pocket, which had been buzzing with alerts and read the message on the screen. It was from Anthony Thomas confirming that he had run the severed arm’s fingerprints through Livescan, the police database.

  ‘Actually, we do,’ said Henley. ‘Meet Daniel Kennedy.’

  Chapter 5

  It was almost 8 p.m. by the time Ramouter had entered his flat, taken off his shoes, which still had traces of dried mud on them, and placed them on the doormat. It had been four days since he moved in. The scent of the flat wasn’t his. It still smelled of artificial air freshener and bleach. A lingering stack of unopened boxes occupied the open-plan living room and kitchen. He turned on the radio for company and took out a ready meal from the fridge, pulled off the cardboard sleeve and stabbed the taut plastic with a fork.

  A few minutes later, Ramouter pushed aside the remains of the bland spaghetti carbonara and picked up his iPhone.

  ‘Oh, we were expecting you to call earlier. We’re just about to eat,’ said Pamela, stepping away from the camera. As always, her face was perfectly made up and not one muscle moved on her face. She was dressed in expensive yoga clothes, even though Ramouter knew for a fact that Pamela had no idea what downward-facing dog meant and probably thought savasana was a type of tea.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise how long it would take me to get back from the station. The traffic on the South Circular—’

  ‘Well, perhaps you could leave on time, tomorrow. Routine is important.’

  Ramouter bit his tongue to stop himself from saying, ‘Murder isn’t a nine-to-five job.’

  ‘Where’s Michelle? I tried to FaceTime, but she didn’t pick up.’

  ‘She’s probably forgotten to charge her phone again but she’s upstairs. They both are. She was feeling tired. I’m going to leave in a bit to pick the boys up from football practice. I’ll bring my iPad up to her.’

  Pamela found Michelle sitting on the edge of the bed. Her bedroom mirrored his living room with suitcases and boxes taking up much of the space. He chuckled to himself.

  ‘Michelle. Sweetheart,’ said Ramouter. ‘You OK, love? Where’s Ethan? How was his first day at school? I miss you.’

  ‘He’s already in bed,’ Michelle replied, steadying the iPad on the bedside table. ‘His first day at school completely knocked him out. I took loads of photographs for you.’

  ‘I know. Remember, you sent me the photos this morning?’ Ramouter’s heart sank as confusion spread across Michelle’s face. Early onset dementia at the age of thirty-six. A rare genetic form of Alzheimer’s, the specialist had said. Her father had died at fifty-eight, but the rest of the family had thought that maybe it would skip a couple of generations. He had received his transfer confirmation to join the SCU two weeks before Michelle’s diagnosis. They had found the flat in Forest Hill, a school for Ethan and a job interview for Michelle lined up, but the diagnosis had changed everything. Michelle’s older sister Pamela had argued that her sister needed stability and a move to an unknown city away from her family and friends would be detrimental. Ramouter couldn’t argue with that. He still had the email declining the transfer to the SCU saved in his draft folder. He had been ready to send it, but Michelle had told him no. That it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. That she didn’t want him to regret it. To resent her.

  ‘How was your day?’ Ramouter asked.

  ‘My day was OK. Pamela took me to lunch to meet some of her friends. You would hate them. How was your day?’

  ‘It was good. They’re a good team and I’ve been paired up with Anjelica Henley on a case. Do you remember her, the one I told you about?’

  ‘The Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. The Inspector,’ Ramouter replied, his voice brightening.

  ‘What is she like?’

  ‘She’s erm… Tough. Smart. Don’t think that she likes being stuck with me much, but it’s early days.’

  ‘Hmm. Ethan wanted to stay up to tell you about school—’

  Ramouter looked at Michelle through his screen and felt overwhelmed with sadness. She was distracted again. He could see it in her eyes. Staring back at him as she tried to hold on to her memories. He couldn’t look back at her. He turned the phone screen down onto the counter. He should have ignored Michelle when she told him that it was OK for him to go to London. He should have stood by his wife like a man but instead he ran at the first opportunity. He wore the guilt in his shoulders, as familiar as his work suit. He was angry with Michelle and her illness. And the guilt and embarrassment that he felt from that anger was suffocating.

  ‘Sorry,’ Ramouter said, as he picked up the phone. ‘The reception is a bit dodgy in this flat.’

  ‘You need to stop,’ Michelle said.

  It was these moments of lucidity that made Ramouter feel worse. His eyes filled with tears as Michelle stared back at him with intense clarity. She knew him and how to manage him.

  ‘We both agreed,’ she said.

  ‘Aye. I’m just missing you and Ethan. That’s all,’ Ramouter replied as he wiped away the tears.

  ‘It’s going to be OK. We’re OK,’ Michelle said firmly.

  ‘I know. I’ll have a word with myself.’

  ‘Good. Now, let me tell you about lunch with Pamela’s lunatic friends. I’m actually looking forward to the day when I don’t remember them.’

  Ramouter laughed as he watched Michelle brighten up. The guilt was still there but for the next hour, as he spoke to Michelle, the weight was not so heavy.

  Chapter 6

  Henley knew that the collection time for the non-recyclable rubbish was around 11 a.m. She put down the shopping bags and checked her watch: 8.26 p.m. The blue wheelie bin was blocking t
he front gate. Her dad probably hadn’t left the house all day.

  Henley dragged the wheelie bin to the side and opened the gate. The thorns on the overgrown rose bush caught on her jacket as she walked up the pathway. Weeds had forced themselves through the cracks in the paving stones.

  ‘What the hell?’ Henley said as the key to the front door refused to turn anti-clockwise. It was the same key that had been attached to the same blue Tesco Clubcard fob for the past five years. She pushed the key in again. It wouldn’t turn.

  ‘Dad, for crying out loud.’

  Henley crouched down and shouted through the letterbox.

  ‘Dad. It’s me. Anjelica. Open the door.’

  She sat back on her heels, keeping the letterbox prised open with her fingers.

  ‘Dad. Come on. Just… Please. I want to see if you’re OK.’

  ‘I’m fine. Go away.’

  ‘Not until you open the door. I’ve bought you some shopping.’

  ‘Leave it at the door.’

  ‘Dad. Please. Let me see you. I promise that I won’t come in.’

  Henley peered through the letterbox and saw his legs approaching in their faded grey tracksuit pants. The letterbox slammed shut as the front door opened.

  ‘You need a haircut, Dad.’ It was the only thing that Henley could say as her stomach was twisted in knots. She hadn’t seen her dad, Elijah, in almost three weeks and his appearance was shocking. He’d lost weight. The skin around his neck was folding into itself like a rumpled handkerchief. Henley felt the shock give way to the type of fear that came when you recognised your parents were tapping on the door of mortality.

  Elijah patted his hair which was now more white than grey. The number two fade devolved into a short unkempt afro.

  ‘Simon came around this morning.’ Henley placed her hand on top of her dad’s hand. He pulled his hand away. ‘Why didn’t you want to see him?’ she asked softly.

  ‘I don’t want to see any of you.’

  ‘Dad. You have to let us help you.’