Death Sentence

by Sheryl Browne

  ‘No official ID yet, but … ,’ DS Steve Ingram hesitated. ‘It looks like it, yes.’

  ‘Fuck!’ Matthew grated, knowing what no official ID meant.

  ‘Right.’ He blew out a sigh and steeled himself to walk back with Steve to see for himself.

  Brianna Phillips? Matthew couldn’t believe it. He’d only spoken to her yesterday. Scared witless, refusing to say why, she’d come to him and asked him outright if he could offer her protection in exchange for certain information. Videos, she’d hinted, directed by Patrick scum-of-the-earth Sullivan, Matthew was willing to bet. He’d been out of prison, what, six months? And he was as free as a bird to do what he liked, to whoever he liked, pedalling his crap, coercing underage kids to star in those videos. For what he’d done to Lily, the bastard should have been banged up forever. Or, better still, met an excruciatingly painful demise while he was in there.

  Parasitic scum. Matthew’s jaw tensed, his lungs tightened, as he tried, and failed, to still the images that played over and over, his child, her eyes silently pleading, the light in them finally fading, his world disintegrating. Before then, the goading look on Sullivan’s face when he’d paid him an official visit in prison. Sullivan’s brother under investigation, running the show while he was locked up, Sullivan hadn’t liked it.

  ‘How’s that pretty young wife of yours, DI Adams? Pregnant again, isn’t she?’ he’d enquired idly, blowing smoke circles into the air like he hadn’t a care in the world. ‘Congratulations, Adams. Didn’t think you had it in you.’

  Matthew swallowed back the bile in his throat, picturing how Sullivan had casually stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forwards.

  ‘Give her my regards, won’t you?’ he’d said, his eyes as black as molasses and swimming with pure evil. ‘I would do it myself, but I’m a bit busy … banged up … in here.’

  It had been a threat. Matthew had been sure of it. A threat the murdering psychopath had eventually attempted to have carried out. And Matthew had been able to do nothing about it. The bastard was out now though, wasn’t he, no bars to provide him an alibi. Not for long, Sullivan. Not for long. If it was the last thing he did, Matthew aimed to make sure Sullivan was taken off the streets, by whatever means.

  Dammit. He should have done something more when Brianna had come to him. There was no way he’d been able to make promises, offer her a safe house, but he should have done something, found her some kind of accommodation, stayed on it, before it came to this. Matthew swallowed again, hard.

  ‘Visual ID not possible then?’ he asked, tugging his collar loose.

  ‘Afraid not.’ Steve shot him a wary glance. He didn’t offer details. He didn’t need to. He knew Matthew would be filling in the blanks. Matthew was, graphically. Closing his eyes, he counted silently. At five, he managed to get a tenuous grip on his emotions.

  ‘Timing?’ he asked, feeling the abject sense of failure he always did when one of these girls turned up drugged and beaten, raped, or worse.

  ‘Not sure yet. Last night at a guess,’ Steve offered. ‘The body wasn’t discovered until they opened up shop and, er …’ he stopped and gauged Matthew cautiously again.

  ‘Put the trash out?’ Matthew finished sardonically.

  Steve puffed out a breath and nodded slowly. ‘Pathologist and scene of crime officers are present,’ he went on, professionally following protocol, outwardly calm. Not detached though. Matthew eyed his colleague—a rugby-playing brute of a bloke— and noted the faint odour of vomit sympathetically. New to the squad, Steve was what, twenty-eight? Keen. Corruptible? Matthew wondered. The man was about to get married. He’d met his fiancée, a stunning girl, and judging by the love-struck look on Steve’s face when he’d introduced her, she was enough to keep him content at night even fantasising about her. Matthew guessed Steve wouldn’t be looking elsewhere. It was an iron-willed man or woman who didn’t succumb in some way to the seedy world of sex and drugs, though, sometimes getting sucked in, sometimes getting psychologically screwed. Detachment was a requisite part of the job if you wanted to sleep nights. Matthew only wished he could attain it.

  Sighing, he braced himself as he headed around to the back of the restaurant. It was her. Matthew noted the bleeding heart tattoo on the girl’s upper arm immediately. Gulping back the sour taste in his mouth, he took in the lifeless, broken body of the teenager in a succession of sordid, stomach-churning snapshots. Face down, her head twisted to one side, she was almost unrecognisable. Her eyes swollen like two overripe plums. Her nose and lips split. Right arm, fractured, judging by the impossible angle. One shoe missing. Clothes … in brutal disarray. Matthew glanced away.

  Nodding a greeting at one of the SOCOs taking requisite photos of the surrounding area, he noticed a fat bluebottle buzzing over the nondescript grey bin the girl was sprawled in front of. His stomach turning over and a distinct wheeze in his chest, Matthew tried hard not to breathe in the pungent stench of rotting oriental food and dead flesh.

  ‘I take it this is our crime scene?’ He turned back to the pathologist, who was busy making an external examination of the body.

  ‘Judging by lividity,’ the pathologist indicated the dark purple discoloration on the underside of the girl’s torso, ‘I’d say, yes.’

  Matthew nodded. ‘Do we have a time?’ he asked, nurturing a faint hope that there might have been witnesses.

  ‘From the body temperature and degree of rigor mortis, I’d say post mortem interval is about eight hours.’

  ‘Cause of death?’ He glanced at the deceased girl’s eyes, now grey, opaque and empty, trying to remember what colour they were.

  ‘Asphyxiation, ligature.’

  After suffering what kind of humiliation and terror, Matthew wondered, nausea sweeping over him.

  ‘Can we rush this one through, Nicky?’ He shrugged hopefully, knowing she was probably backed up.

  The woman studied him for a second, and then, ‘I’ll do my best,’ she offered. Obviously, she’d picked up on the hint of desperation Matthew had heard in his own voice.

  Matthew nodded his thanks, outwardly trying for composed, inwardly, broiling with hot, impotent anger.

  ‘Anything under the fingernails?’ he asked, praying there might be something they could go on.

  ‘Looks like they’re clean,’ she said, going back to her painstaking evidence collecting. ‘Very clean.’ She glanced meaningfully at him again. ‘The autopsy might yield something, but I wouldn’t count on it.’

  ‘No, nor would I.’ Matthew smiled bitterly, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. God really would have to be in his heaven, wouldn’t he, he thought cynically, for there to be enough DNA present to give him the bastard on a plate. Clearly, the assailant had cleaned up after himself. Clearly also, he’d known he wouldn’t be interrupted, meaning his minions had been on lookout or, possibly, doing his cleaning for him.

  The pathologist paused in her bag-sealing and vialing and sat back on her haunches. ‘Matthew,’ she asked, ‘are you okay?’

  Matthew’s gaze flicked back to her face. Nicky had been the pathologist in attendance after Lily, ergo was one of the few people who would guess that Matthew was very much not okay; that this kind of crap got to him, more and more every day.

  ‘Yep, never better.’ He smiled tightly, glossing it over, because it was simply the only way he could get through it. ‘Ring me, will you, Nicky?’

  Nicky nodded and went back to her task as he turned away.

  ‘Sir?’ his DS followed him, as Matthew headed back to his car, his stride purposeful, belying the sinking helplessness he felt inside.

  ‘Matthew?’ Steve called again. ‘Shall I stick around?’ Oversee the preliminary examination until removal of the body, he meant, always keen to follow rules and do things exactly by the book.

  Sometimes, though, when murdering scumbags walked around scot-free, flouting the law, Matthew couldn’t help thinking that rules we
re made to be broken.

  ‘Do that.’ He nodded despondently over his shoulder. ‘And keep me posted, particularly as to the whereabouts of the missing shoe.’

  Dragging a hand over his neck, Matthew pondered as he walked, tried to get his head around someone as devoid of feeling as Sullivan calmly checking he’d left no evidence. But then, the bastard has always been meticulous, making sure to cover himself when he’d decided he needed to teach people a lesson. Concocting alibis if ever one of his girls found courage enough to point the finger at him, alibis mostly provided by other young girls too terrified not to lie for him. Even the piece of scum’s wife lied for him, obviously preferring to turn a blind eye than give up the luxurious lifestyle her husband’s businesses afforded her.

  Vermin! Matthew’s fist hit the brick wall without process of forethought. His chest heaving, he counted silently in an attempt to control his fury, studied his stinging knuckles as globules of rich, red, fresh blood popped through the wounded flesh. Focus, he warned himself, groping ineffectually for some kind of detachment, trying hard to still the almost overwhelming desire to go directly to the ‘respectable’ Surrey home of the shit-dealing, pimping bastard who’d prostituted that young girl, abused her, used her, raped her probably, and—as sure as the sun rose in the east—murdered her. Patrick Sullivan. Pat to his friends, Pit-bull to those who crossed him, the man would never let go a grievance.

  Matthew wasn’t about to either.

  Chapter Two

  Rebecca was searching for a file in ultrasound when she heard her co-workers oohing and cooing, and cries of, ‘Oh, isn’t he adorable!’

  Melanie popped in from her maternity leave, Rebecca guessed, brought her brand new baby to show off to everyone. Keen to get a glimpse too, painful though it would undoubtedly be, Rebecca retrieved the file she’d been searching for and headed back around reception.

  ‘Becks!’ Melanie beamed, coming towards her, her precious bundle in her arms.

  ‘Mel! How’re you doing? You look absolutely fabulous.’ Forcing back the familiar sadness that washed over her whenever she saw a woman radiating that special kind of happiness only a new mum could, Rebecca smiled back and pulled Melanie into a hug. ‘Ooh, I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Me too. And the gossip,’ Mel said. ‘Intelligent conversation’s a bit difficult with someone who doesn’t do much more than gurgle. Mind you, he makes up for it with his gorgeousness, don’t you, little man, hmm?’ She held her bundle up for inspection.

  ‘Oh, he’s a heartbreaker, aren’t you, sweetie?’ Rebecca looked him over approvingly. He was too. Reaching to brush his baby-soft cheek with the back of her hand, Rebecca’s heart physically ached with longing as she gazed down at him. He was perfect. With his softly curled eyelashes and adorable cupid lips, he really was beautiful. Laughing, she reached for a tiny flailing hand, as he stretched and yawned, his baby-blue eyes clear with the innocence of childhood. A fragile new soul, Rebecca thought awestruck, untouched, untroubled, untarnished by life.

  It’s Matthew’s job to try to make sure they were never tarnished by some of the sordidness out there, Rebecca reminded herself, and tried not to mind that he still hadn’t rung her. The nature of his job meant he worked long, unpredictable hours. She’d known that when she’d gone out with him. She’d married him anyway, because she’d loved him, utterly, all of the man who was so obviously caring of other people, as frustrating as he might occasionally be, more so since Lily. Now, when he was involved in a case, he was literally immersed in it, to the exclusion of everything else. He did try to make up for his workaholic tendencies lately, though: booking restaurant tables, bringing her flowers, delivering them personally on special occasions. Rebecca smiled inwardly, recalling how he’d turned up with arms full of red roses for their anniversary, right here in radiography. He’d got the wrong day. Melanie had enlightened him as to the reason for Rebecca’s bemused expression. Hugely embarrassed, he’d simply shrugged and smiled what Mel called his killer shy smile. Matthew had always had a ready smile. Still he tried, but the underlying sadness was always there now, etched deep into his eyes.

  ‘Talking of heartbreakers,’ Mel cut through Rebecca’s thoughts, ‘how’s that gorgeous husband of yours?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ Rebecca answered, though it was obvious to anyone who knew him that Matthew still carried his guilt over Lily’s death around like a stone in his heart. As if his being there by her side that evening could have prevented the accident.

  Mel raised her eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ Rebecca smiled. She knew her friend was fishing out of caring not nosiness. Mel had been there for her when she’d gone into too-premature labour and lost little Mia. The much-needed friend who’d held her hand until Matthew had made it to the hospital.

  ‘No gossip to share there, I suppose?’ Mel probed hopefully.

  Wondering whether I have any news in the baby-making department, Rebecca guessed. ‘No, nothing to report,’ she said and mentally crossed her fingers. Mel would be furious with her, but, for fear of jinxing things, Rebecca wasn’t ready to share her news yet.

  Mel knitted her brow sympathetically. ’But you are trying?’

  ‘Frequently.’ Rebecca assured her, thought in truth, they hadn’t been until recently. They’d held each other, woken sometimes in the same position they’d fallen asleep in, Matthew’s arms wrapped tightly around her. Making love though hadn’t come naturally, as it had always done previously, each of them feeling that somehow it was a betrayal of their grief, of their children.

  ‘You’d better go and sort your little man out.’ Pushing her sad thoughts aside in light of Mel’s obvious joy, she nodded at the baby, who was getting a bit fractious and about to make his presence known.

  Mel rolled her eyes. ‘He needs a feed. He’s just like his dad, permanently ravenous.’

  She gathered him to her. ‘Are you going to take his niece in, Becks?’ she asked the question she’d obviously been burning to, as Rebecca walked with her towards the exit.

  ‘I think so,’ Rebecca answered cautiously, the decision still having not yet been finalised. ‘Matthew seems uncertain. I’m not sure he’s convinced I can cope, but I’d like to, yes.’

  ‘You should.’ Nestling her baby in one arm, Mel turned to wrap her free arm around Rebecca and squeezed her into a hug.

  ‘Seeing how you were with Lily … ,’ she paused awkwardly. ‘Well, if ever little man needed a foster mum, you’d be my first choice. You were both such great parents, Becks. It breaks my heart, it really does.’

  Rebecca’s breath hitched in her chest. ‘Don’t tempt me. I might steal him.’ Her smile now a little forced, she gave Mel a hard hug back and then planted a kiss on the little man’s peachy cheek.

  Waving Mel off, Rebecca kept her smile fixed in place, and then headed quickly for the loo, where she quietly gave in to the tears which tended to sneak up on her unexpectedly, tears for Lily, her lost baby, for herself. This time though, she realised, she was crying for Matthew, who really had been a great parent, if only she could make him believe that he was.

  ****

  Brianna’s mother broke down as they left. Pausing on the drive of the house, a middle-class, unspectacular house, home to the child her parents had given birth to, nurtured, obviously cared for, until the age of sixteen, a child now lying stone-cold dead on a mortuary slab, Matthew heard her heaving sobs as the front door closed.

  It was the realisation that she’d be lying there alone that got to the father, caused him to excuse himself from the lounge, to try—and fail—to supress his own grief when the kitchen door closed behind him. Matthew had guessed what was going through the man’s mind. He could never hold her, comfort her, talk to her, he could never, ever make things all right for his little girl ever again: take back the argument, unsay the heated words that caused her to leave. They’d both been expecting the worst, Matthew knew. Most parents of runaways lived with that fear eating
away at them day and night, day after tortuous day. They wouldn’t have processed the finality of it yet. God help them when they did. It would haunt them for the rest of their lives.

  Sighing, Matthew ran a hand wearily over his neck.

  ‘No news is better than that news,’ he told Steve, pulling his ringing mobile from his pocket as they walked back to the car.

  ‘Adams?’ he answered distractedly, and then, realising it was Becky, squeezed his eyes closed. Hell!

  ‘Becky, hi. No, I didn’t. Sorry, I got caught up in something and I … I forgot. Sorry.’

  Veering away from the driver’s side, he fished his car-keys from his pocket and tossed them to Steve, indicating he should take the wheel while Matthew took his call.

  ‘Oh, Matthew!’ Rebecca sounded disappointed.

  ‘Sorry,’ Matthew repeated, climbing in the passenger side. ‘Something needed my full attention. A young girl …’ He stopped, kneading his temple with his free hand. Rebecca would be sympathetic when he shared as much as he could. She always was. She didn’t need the gory detail, though. She didn’t need to feel the parents’ heartbreak, which she undoubtedly would.

  Rebecca didn’t answer immediately. Matthew heard her long intake of breath, and then, ‘Bad, I take it?’ she probed gently.

  ‘On a scale of one to ten, eleven,’ Matthew admitted, grateful for one thing in the shit-fest his life had become after Lily. That God had seen fit to spare Becky. She’d rescued him in the weeks after the funeral: literally prised the booze from his hand, led him upstairs, and just lay with him, her warm body up close, her limbs like a soft blanket around him. He hadn’t shed a tear until then. The tears had come that night though. Christ and some. He’d sobbed his heart out, right there in her arms. Without Becky, he might well have gone the same route he had when his father had decided life was no longer worth living: haunting the pubs, staying as long as he could after hours, stumbling home, falling unconscious into merciful oblivion, until the harsh light of reality jolted him sober. He wasn’t sure he’d know how to be without her. He wouldn’t want to be. He loved her. So much his heart physically ached at the thought of having almost lost her.