She paused for a moment, and Emma imagined her peering through bifocals, trying to focus on the words on the screen. ‘Yes … let me see. They have found traces of an anaesthetic in the blood of the corpse. It’s a variant water-soluble form of propofol known as fospropofol. I believe it is marketed under the name Lusedra. It is a quick-acting anaesthetic which is injected into the bloodstream.’ She hesitated again, then continued as if talking to herself. ‘Interesting, because I did not notice any marks from a hypodermic syringe. Any injection point may have been hidden in the area of the nipple, or the armpit – it’s a relatively common trick.’
‘Yes, thanks for that. So, she was drugged.’
‘Indeed. Presumably to prevent her struggling when she was abducted.’
‘And this propofol …’
‘Fospropofol.’
‘Fospropofol. How easy is it to obtain?’
‘Easy enough if you are a doctor or have some kind of medical reason for using it; more difficult if you are a member of the general public. Remember, the singer Michael Jackson died from a mixture of propofol and the benzodiazepine drug lorazepam.’
‘Doctor Catherall, I’m amazed you even know who Michael Jackson is – was.’
The Doctor had the good grace to laugh – a sweet sound, like the tinkling of bells. ‘After that case we had involving the TV presenter whose arm was stripped of its flesh I decided that I needed to find out more about popular culture. I am now a proud subscriber to various popular magazines, including OK, Hello and Bella.’
‘I don’t know what to say. I think you’re scaring me.’
‘I’m scaring myself. I’ve become an avid fan of Britain’s Got Talent and The X Factor. I never miss an episode.’
‘DCI Lapslie’s not going to recognise you when he gets back. Whenever that is.’
‘Actually, Mr Burrows at the forensics laboratory mentioned that Mark was already back in the country. Apparently he’s got a case on. Someone has sent him a “sound file”, whatever that is, of a person being murdered in a particularly protracted and horrible manner.’
Emma was stunned. ‘And he flew back just for that?’
‘The file was emailed specifically to him. He’s been singled out for some reason. He felt it best to return.’
‘Meaning that he never wanted to give a presentation in the first place and he’s offloaded it to some other poor bugger.’ She shook her head. ‘Rouse isn’t going to like that.’
‘Yes,’ Jane said shrewdly, ‘another good reason for Mark to have done it.’
‘You said that the lab had analysed the organs as well. There was something about the liver, wasn’t there? I think you said it was larger than normal.’
‘I did, and well done for remembering. Yes, the analysis showed that the woman suffered from galactosemia, which sounds like some kind of science fiction film but actually is a genetically inherited disease that prevents the sufferer from digesting sugars such as lactose and galactose properly. It is usually diagnosed in infancy, but if left untreated it can lead to various symptoms such as an enlarged liver, cirrhosis, cataracts, renal failure, brain damage and ovarian failure. Without treatment, mortality in infants with galactosemia is about seventy-five per cent. This woman obviously survived, and I found no obvious damage to her kidneys or her ovaries, and no cataracts, but she must have been living on a diet that had a high level of sugar to cause the liver engorgement.’
‘Does the galacto-thingie help us at all?’
‘Funny you should ask,’ the pathologist replied, ‘but galactosemia is much more prevalent in Travellers than in the ordinary population.’
‘Travellers? You mean Pikeys?’
‘I mean an Lucht Siúil, or the Pavee,’ Jane said firmly. ‘They are a recognised ethnic group in English law. Terms such as Pikey or Gyppo or Diddycoy are considered derogatory. You should know that, Sergeant.’
‘I apologise,’ Emma said, chastened by the fierceness of the pathologist’s response. ‘So she was a member of the … Pavee, then?’
‘Quite probably.’
‘Hmm. What about the girl’s face? Have you managed to do a reconstruction of what she looked like when she was alive?’
‘I’ve had Dan working on that. He’s a dab hand with an HB pencil and a pad.’ She paused. ‘Of course he’s always on at me to get him some computer-aided design package with facial modelling software, but I keep telling him that when civilisation collapses into barbarism and the electricity generators fall silent an HB pencil is all he will have left.’
‘Doctor Catherall, when civilisation collapses into barbarism and the electricity generators fall silent, I think Dan will have bigger issues to contend with than reconstructing the faces of murder victims. Such as, just staying alive.’
‘Hmm.’ She sounded unconvinced. ‘He’s still better off with an HB pencil, in that case. He can always jab it through someone’s eye socket and into their brain. It’s an instantaneous way of either killing someone or at the very least rendering them unable to retaliate.’
‘I’m revising my opinion. Maybe you and Dan are the best people to be with if civilization collapses.’ She paused, bringing herself back to the case. ‘If he’s got a good facial reconstruction can you get him to scan it in and email it through to me? I should be able to pick it up on the system here.’
‘I’ll ask him how far he’s got.’
‘Thanks.’
Emma spent the next hour or so moving furniture in her new incident room until she got it into the right shape, and using the opportunity to get to know the names and faces of the people who popped in to get coffee, paused to ask her what she was doing and ended up staying to help. Having got about as far as she could without whiteboards, computers or phone lines, she set off to find a spare terminal and check her emails. Still nothing from Mark Lapslie to say he was back in the country, but Dan at the mortuary had emailed through several GIF files containing a number of pictures of the dead woman’s face, taken before the autopsy, and a high-resolution scan of his drawing. Emma had to admit, he was a pretty good artist. She had no idea of how accurate a representation the drawing was, but he’d apparently taken the underlying bone structure of the skull and extrapolated layers of fat and muscle on top, using what had remained of the girl’s face as a guide. What he had ended up with was a pretty, vivacious blonde with a rather pointed chin and prominent cheek bones. He’d even put a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye. It should be good enough for someone to identify her, if she’d been reported missing.
Remembering the Maldon salt beneath the dead girl’s fingernails, Emma forwarded the picture straight on to the Maldon Police, asking if it matched the photographs of any missing people in the area, especially those of Traveller origin. If that didn’t pan out then she would circulate it to all the other Police Stations in Essex, and then to all the other Constabularies in the UK, but it might take weeks for someone to come up with a match. At the moment, Maldon was her best bet.
She popped her head around the door of Keith Murrell’s office.
‘I’ve done about as much as I can here for now. I’m going to book myself into a hotel. Any recommendations?’
He thought for a moment. ‘If you want something big where you can be anonymous, come and go as you like and can get reasonable food at all hours, I’d go for the Cocklecatcher. It’s independently owned, not part of a chain. I’ll draw you a map.’
‘The Cocklecatcher? You’re kidding me.’
‘No, I swear it’s true.’ He nodded in emphasis. ‘Cockles are very popular in these parts. They’re delicious on toast, with butter. And black pepper.’
‘Anything to disguise the taste.’ She grimaced. ‘I can just see the remarks back at Chelmsford when I put in a claim form for something called the Cocklecatcher. Still, if it makes them happy …’
Leaving Canvey Island Police Station, she drove back out along the main road, following Murrell’s directions, until she found the hotel. She had been imagin
ing something out of a Dickens novel, but it turned out to be a pub that also had a restaurant attached, along with a small number of rooms. They had some spare and she had an emergency bag in the boot of her car with two changes of clothes and a toiletries bag, so it seemed like a done deal. She dumped the bag in her room and quickly splashed some cold water on her face to freshen up. The room was surprisingly large and decorated in beiges and browns in order to offend as few people as possible, but it did have two large beds, side by side. For a crazy moment she considered phoning Dom and getting him to drive down and join her. That way they could be together but he could get to sleep in a bed to himself which, considering his size, would give her the chance of a better night’s sleep, but she quickly quelled the idea. Mixing business and pleasure was never a good idea. And Lapslie, if he ever found out about it, would never forgive her. He and Dom McGinley had some kind of history that neither of them particularly wanted to talk about. Sometimes, in an obscure kind of way, it made her feel jealous.
She drove back to the police station, having become familiar enough with the roads around there that she was already able to navigate on autopilot. As she entered the station, receiving a cheery nod from the PCSO on the front desk, Murrell popped his head around his doorframe.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I thought I heard your car pull up.’
‘You can tell people by the sound of their cars?’
‘I can tell from the engine noise that it’s not one of the regular cars that pulls up here. And you need to get your exhaust looked at – it’s got a slight rattle.’
‘Will do. What’s up?’
‘I’ve got a detective sergeant from Maldon on the phone. He thinks he recognises the sketch of the body you sent through.’
She nodded, impressed. ‘That was quick.’
‘Ditto. You got that sketch out pretty rapidly as well.’
He led the way back into his office. Emma followed. The phone receiver lay on the desk, and Murrell reached out to press a button on the phone itself.
‘I’ve put you on speakerphone,’ he said loudly. ‘In the office here you have me, Sergeant Murrell, and you have Detective Sergeant Emma Bradbury.’
‘And I’m Sergeant Rossmore, Maldon Police,’ said a deep voice with a Scottish accent, distorted by the speaker on the phone. ‘Thanks for the sketch you sent through. Good work there. We think it’s a woman who went missing in this area about a month ago. Name of Catriona Dooley. She’s part of an extended Pikey family that’s been rehoused on a council estate in the Maldon area.’
‘Not Pikeys,’ Emma corrected. ‘Travellers. They’re a recognised ethnic group with a distinctive culture.’
‘Whatever,’ Rossmore grunted, obviously unimpressed.
‘You say she’s been missing for a month?’ Emma questioned. ‘According to the autopsy she’s only been dead for a day or two.’
‘Then she must have been kept somewhere,’ Murrell said. ‘Imprisoned.’
‘Probably by someone in her extended family,’ Rossmore said. ‘There’s all kinds of familial feuds and tensions in Pi—in Traveller families. Rape and abuse are common within marriage. You try telling the women that these things are illegal and they just won’t believe you. That’s their “distinctive culture” for you.’
‘There were indications that she had been tied up,’ Emma added. ‘Restrained. And for long enough that – ’ Emma swallowed – ‘that she had soiled herself.’
Murrell sucked his breath in. Rossmore was quiet on the other end of the phone for a few moments.
‘Signs of sexual interference?’ Rossmore asked eventually.
Emma shook her head automatically, although the Scottish sergeant couldn’t see her. ‘Nothing obvious. No signs of forcible sexual activity, at least.’
‘So she was abducted, imprisoned for several weeks without being raped, and then, what?’ Murrell asked. ‘Just killed? Why? What was the trigger?’
‘Unknown, as yet,’ Emma replied. ‘We need more evidence.’
‘If she was kept prisoner,’ Rossmore said, sounding as if he was thinking as he was talking, ‘then she must have been fed, or at least given water. Either that or the body would have shown distinct signs of malnutrition.’
‘Not that I saw,’ Emma said. ‘She looked normal.’ She caught herself. ‘As normal as possible considering what had happened to her, I mean. At least, she didn’t look like she had starved to death or died of dehydration.’
‘What about stomach contents?’ Rossmore continued.
Emma silently cursed herself. She hadn’t asked Jane Catherall that question, although, to be fair, the pathologist hadn’t volunteered the information either. ‘Tests are still under way,’ she said guardedly.
‘Any suspects?’ Rossmore asked.
‘Only the manager of the kids’ play area where she was found,’ Murrell responded, ‘and I can’t seriously see him in the frame for this.’ He glanced at Emma to check that she agreed. She nodded. ‘What about the missing girl’s friends and family?’ he went on. ‘Husband, boyfriend, any romantic triangles?’
‘We’ve covered the family fairly extensively,’ Rossmore said. ‘No obvious motives there. They all seemed appropriately distraught at her disappearance.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll have to go and give them the news. And then I assume there’ll have to be a formal identification.’
‘We’ll arrange to hold that at the mortuary,’ Emma said. ‘Let’s do it tomorrow – it’s getting late, and rushing isn’t going to bring her back to life now.’ She glanced across at Murrell. ‘If we arrange for the identification tomorrow, that will give us a chance to re-interview the family, given what we now know. One of them may have kept her captive for a month, done God knows what to her, psychologically and physically tortured her and then killed her in a particularly grisly way. And distraught or not, I’m going to make sure they pay for that.’
CHAPTER FIVE
The scream rang out around the office: raw and filled with anguish and surprise. Lapslie flinched. It didn’t matter how often he heard it since it had arrived the day before; the sound went through him like a stiletto, making his heart stutter and his breath catch in his lungs.
Was it Charlotte? He just couldn’t tell.
He clicked the ‘Back’ button on the computer screen to reset the file back to the beginning. And then he pressed ‘Play’ again. A moment of silence, and then that first scream, filling the office, pushing against the walls and the window.
The door burst open. A uniformed policewoman stood framed in the doorway, framed by the early morning light spilling through the windows behind her, face white and shocked. She took in the scene – Lapslie sitting in front of a computer screen – and halted, face crumpling into puzzlement.
‘Sir …’
‘It’s a recording, Constable,’ he said wearily, pressing ‘Pause’. ‘Not an interrogation. Don’t worry about it.’
She frowned, still unsure. ‘But – Sir …’
‘It’s an ongoing investigation. A murder, although we don’t have a body yet.’ He paused, waiting for her to leave. ‘Shut the door on your way out.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Habit overcame curiosity, and she closed the door, leaving him alone in the small office. He could hear her voice outside, explaining to a colleague what was going on. A middle-aged detective chief inspector was sat alone in an office listening to a woman screaming. Yes, of course. Happened every day.
He pressed ‘Back’ again, and then ‘Play’.
The scream. Familiar now, but still shocking, not so much because of the sound itself but because of the overtones and undertones of disbelief, horror, confusion, pain and a hundred other half-formed emotions that had accreted around it. Thinking about his own synaesthesia, Lapslie had once likened it to flavours: various combinations of salt and sweet, bitter and sour making a thousand different tastes in the same way that simple combinations of red, blue and yellow paint could make millions of subtly different hues. He realised now that the same was t
rue of sound. A simple electronic sine wave, of the kind he remembered from physics lessons at school, was the simplest, purest, least emotive sound there was, but combinations of sine waves at different frequencies, added together and interfering with each other, made the sounds more and more complicated: piano strings, violin strings, guitar strings, vibrating columns of air in trumpets and tubas and bassoons. And with that complication came emotion and meaning.
He hit ‘Pause’ again. He knew he was obsessing about the noise, playing it again and again in the hope that he could hear something within it that told him it wasn’t Charlotte, but there was nothing. His mind kept getting hooked on that raw agony.
Twenty-seven screams. He had listened to them all now, one after another, classifying them into categories based on length, volume, level of shock, level of tiredness and level of pain. He had played them forwards and backwards; he had played them at normal speed, speeded up until they sounded like birds twittering in the trees and slowed down until they sounded like whales lazily talking across the immensity of the ocean. No revelations leaped out at him. They were the screams of a woman being slowly killed. That was it. That was the meaning.
He leaned back in his chair and massaged his eyes, grinding them into his head with the heels of his hands. This was madness. All he had was an electronic file a few megabytes in size; a cluster of electrons on a hard disk, a set of binary pulses existing as information somewhere in cyberspace. Nothing else. And yet the implications were huge and horrendous. Somewhere out there a life had ended – maybe someone he knew, maybe not – and he didn’t know where.
His mobile rang. He checked the display, and the world seemed to tilt beneath him as he saw the name ‘Charlotte’ on the screen. Thank God, was his first thought, she’s alive! Within a second his brain reminded him that sometimes the first thing a policeman did on discovering a dead body was look for a mobile phone and check the contacts list and the received messages, and given the sound of his voice the last time he’d left a message for Charlotte they would want to talk to him.
Scream: A DCI Mark Lapslie Investigation Page 7
