She's Out

by Lynda La Plante

  “So, the body was there first?”

  “That’s for you to decide, Martin.”

  “Accelerant?”

  “Undetermined as yet.”

  Prescott was disappointed when the video footage ended. “That all ya got?”

  Sally started to play a second video, which began by showing the iron bedframe sitting squarely astride the sofa. Prescott closed his eyes and sighed heavily at the sight of his crime scene being buried under a double bed. The quiet breath he exhaled formed the words, “Fuck me!”

  Prescott took a moment to gather his thoughts. When he was thinking, his eyes flicked from side to side as though he were seeing the various scenarios flashing past inside his head. He appeared to be a very laid back man, but had an intensity bubbling away underneath the surface.

  Sally knew that Prescott took this action because he was mildly dyslexic and, soon after joining the force, had made the decision to never write anything down in public. Instead, he had to remember everything, and in a brain that full, it could sometimes take a little longer to process what he was seeing. But Prescott was a clever man, and it was always worth waiting for him. He hid his intellect under Northern glibness, but Sally’s older sister had shared all of his secrets with Sally over the years.

  “Right, well, ya know the rules, Sal. It’s a suspicious death, so I ’ave to assume murder till the evidence tells me otherwise.” Prescott walked away from Sally before she could counter and headed for Rose Cottage to see if he could at least peek in through where the window had once been. “And if it’s murder, then I’m wastin’ valuable time standin’ out here doing naff all!”

  Sally raced ahead and stood in his way, forcing him to stop. “This may be your crime scene, DI Prescott, but you are not going into Rose Cottage until I say it’s safe for you to do so.”

  Prescott looked down at Sally. She was at least four inches shorter than him, but she was a feisty woman, just like her sister, and her calling him DI Prescott instead of Martin told him that she wasn’t going to back down.

  “And anyway . . .” Sally added, “. . . I hadn’t finished.” Sally fast forwarded the second video, stopping it at seven minutes and thirty-two seconds. On the wall above the hearth the word PERVERT could be seen scrawled in red paint. It was mostly covered in a thick layer of black soot, but the letters could still just be made out. “It looks like you could have a dead sex offender. And I doubt he got here on his own.”

  Prescott got his vape out of his left-hand jacket pocket and said, “See, I know that should make me feel better about havin’ to wait to gain access to me crime scene. I mean, a dead perv ’int supposed to be as bad as a dead anybody else, but it just annoys me more. I don’t know if that word relates to this dead body or not, do I? So now I’m more frustrated than before you showed me.” He dragged on the vape, but couldn’t for the life of him get it to work. He put it back into his pocket and, from the other jacket pocket, he got a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. “You follow ya rules and get that place scaffolded up asap and I’ll be over ’ere shortenin’ me life.”

  Six hours had passed and Martin Prescott had been donned in a blue paper suit and shoes for the last fifty minutes. His white paper face mask sat round his neck as he watched Sally pointing at the partially collapsed roof and muttering to Sub. Sub nodded and Prescott immediately put on his mask. The man of few words had spoken.

  Inside Rose Cottage, scaffolding held up the charred ceiling beams and the loose stones from the walls had been removed, leaving behind a relatively solid and safe structure. Visually, the scene was as Prescott expected, based on the preview he’d got from Sally’s videos, but nothing ever prepared him for the smell of a body. The stench of burnt flesh and bones overpowers every other sense and, even through his face mask, he could smell and taste the distinctive miasma of “long-pig.”

  “Long-pig is what cannibals call human beings,” Sally had explained on their first ever meeting, more than fourteen years ago. “By all accounts we taste like barbequed pork and, as we cook, we definitely smell like it.”

  “Fuck me,” Prescott had mumbled through his face mask. “No wonder you’re single.” And from that day forward, Prescott and Sally had got on like the proverbial house on fire.

  Prescott and Sally paused just inside the jagged hole in the wall that used to be the front doorway of Rose Cottage and watched the dog handler lead her spaniel through the rubble. The dog wore tiny red canvas boots, velcroed in place around the ankles and with thick rubber soles that protected her paws from smoldering embers and sharp debris, allowing her to work safely and comfortably. The single repeated command of, “Show me, Amber,” was all that could be heard inside Rose Cottage.

  Amber’s handler kept her off the sofa, as the charred body was still there. The dog worked hard, sniffing and moving around the remnants of furniture. Her tail wagged, her tongue lolled, she jumped and rummaged, but she didn’t make one single indication that an accelerant was present.

  “Maybe the fire burned intensely enough to destroy any accelerant?” Sally speculated. “Or maybe a less common one was used. The dog only knows the most common ones, such as petrol or household flammables. Your Forensics people might still find accelerant on the items you collect.”

  “I’ll make sure I’ve got a tennis ball in me pocket if they do.” Prescott signaled for his blue suited CSIs to descend on the scene. He pointed at the sofa. “There’s a body in there, fellas, but it’s goin’ nowhere, so don’t rush and don’t compromise evidence just to get it out.”

  A sea of nodding blue paper heads dispersed around the room and set about collecting anything and everything that might be useful—wood, brass hinges, plaster, bed springs. All items were individually double-wrapped into nylon bags to preserve any traces of accelerant.

  Now that Prescott was inside his crime scene, he had the patience of a saint. He could see the wheels of the machinery turning, see his officers working and progress being made. He followed his CSIs deeper into the mess, allowing them to clear and preserve the way in front of him, and Sally followed after. This was his scene now, and she totally respected the shift in authority.

  Eventually, and in relative silence, Prescott and Sally made it as far as the sofa. The iron bedframe, which was now gone, had missed the body when it fell. Even so, the body was massively damaged. The face was not only burned down to the skeleton, but the cheekbones and lower jawbone were smashed and many of the teeth were missing.

  “Could that damage to the skull be from falling debris?” Prescott asked.

  Sally leaned in to get a better look. “The ceiling was largely gone by the time we arrived, so God knows what might have fallen through and landed on the sofa. The cleaner looking skull fractures around the temple area could be heat stress. The skull can sometimes just pop, depending on the intensity of heat the fire achieves.”

  “Damn shame this fella’s teeth are so damaged,” Prescott commented, almost to himself. Then louder, “Look at the bloody mess your lot has made of this place!”

  Sally was just about to tear a strip of him when she looked at his partially hidden face. His eyes were crinkled at the edges and she knew he was smiling.

  “Bloody fires,” Prescott continued, avoiding her gaze. “If the flames don’t destroy the evidence, the water does.”

  Prescott scratched his head through his blue paper hood and his eyes flicked about again as he thought through everything he was seeing. “If this is murder, we might be lookin’ for someone who’s savvy ’bout forensics, you know. I mean, you can’t print burnt wood and you can’t find shoeprints under water.”

  He was suddenly distracted by the contents of the hearth. The water from the fire hose on the floor in this area of the room looked like thin black paint—a result you might expect to get after paper is burned, creating a fine, soluble ash. Further back in the hearth, untouched by the water altogether, were the remnants of what looked like stacks of dry, charred paper. The paper was now nothing more
than tiny fragments of its original form, but the volume was confusing.

  Prescott picked up the longest of four fire pokers, and gently nudged the top layer of paper away in the hope of getting to some less burnt samples underneath. He tried not to damage any of the delicate paper. Eventually, he spotted a single, intact piece, no more than one centimeter in length, showing the instantly recognizable pale blue-green pattern from the bottom left hand corner of an old five pound note. Prescott carefully picked up this fragile piece of evidence and placed into the palm of Sally’s gloved hand.

  “It’s cash, Sal. These stacks o’ paper . . . it’s all cash.”

  Jack Warr was a strikingly attractive man. Thick, dark hooded brows hid the deepest brown eyes. He had a cleft chin, which showed the permanent shadow of impending stubble and, when he smiled, two long dimples appeared on either side of his mouth, running from his chin to his high, pronounced cheekbones. He had an effortlessly athletic physique that looked great in anything.

  Maggie, his partner, always said it was a good job that his body was so amazing as he made no real effort with the clothes he dressed it in, but she fancied the pants off him no matter what he wore. It was those eyes that had got her in the first instance, though. Eyebrows down, Jack’s eyes would express such incredible intensity that if he told you he could take on David Haye and win, you’d believe him. Eyebrows up, he looked like a delicate, innocent soul that any woman would love to care for. This balance between man and boy was why Maggie loved Jack so much. He was her protector and her lover, her rock and her friend.

  “Where’s the jacket that goes with this shirt you’ve put out?” Jack shouted from the master bedroom. He liked to call it the “master” bedroom, regardless of the fact that it was exactly the same size as the spare bedroom. The view over Teddington was what made it masterful, according to Jack.

  Maggie didn’t answer, so Jack was forced to go into the kitchen to find her. On the breakfast bar was a bowl of cereal and a cup of tea that she’d put out for him, on the back of his chair was his jacket and underneath were his shoes. Maggie’s crooked smile said, “Why do we do this every morning?”

  Jack kissed and hugged her tightly. He never tired of just holding Maggie in his arms. She felt the same today as she had when they first met. Jack would maintain that Maggie’s exceptional body was effortless, but she tried her very best to go to the hospital gym during every lunch break and, when Jack had the car for work, she’d leave herself enough time to walk to the hospital. For Maggie, this daily exercise was not only good for her body, but also hugely therapeutic, as it took her away from the stresses, pressures and horrors of being an F1 Doctor. Both Jack’s and Maggie’s jobs weren’t always easy. Shift patterns and heavy workloads dictated that junk food was sometimes on the menu and, when they did get a rare day off together, they loved nothing more than going out for dinner, accompanied by casual drinking and a movie.

  Maggie exercised to stay beautiful for Jack, and Jack did absolutely nothing to stay fit for Maggie. She was a health-conscious, thirty-four-year-old and he was a slobbish thirty-six-year-old. Maggie, in stark contrast to Jack’s “Heathcliff” look, had blonde hair and blue eyes. Jack adored the way she looked when she rolled out of bed in the morning, with her hair ruffled and her pale, flawless skin unhidden by makeup. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and would ever see. He had eyes for no one but her.

  Maggie had just come off a night shift on the Orthopedic Ward at the New Victoria Hospital. She was three weeks into her new rotation and, regardless of always coming home exhausted, she still got Jack ready for work before she went to bed. By the time he got home that night, she’d be gone again, so this hug had to last him at least twenty-four hours. Jack nuzzled Maggie’s neck. He normally hated the way she smelt when she came home from work—the horrific combination of alcohol hand sanitizer, that chemical smell that hangs in the air in hospitals, moth balls and, occasionally, vomit—but this morning he was running late, so she’d already had time to shower and, therefore, smelt of tangerines.

  Fourteen months previously, Maggie and Jack had agreed that moving from Devon to London was the right thing to do for her career. His career, in his words, wasn’t as big a deal as hers. Maggie knew she wanted to be an Orthopedic Surgeon, whereas all Jack really knew for sure was that he wanted to be able to go and watch Plymouth Argyle whenever they played at home. Jack wasn’t lazy, but rather discontent. Restless. And, as he explained it, at a cross-roads.

  At thirty-six, Jack should, by now, have been a Detective Inspector at least, rather than a lowly DC. When Maggie had asked Jack if they could move to London for her career, he’d said, “Sure. Gang wrangling will be a bit like sheep wrangling, I expect. Only with knives.” Maggie had asked Jack what it was he truly wanted, and all he could come up with was “You,” which, although lovely, wasn’t very helpful. Then he’d answered more seriously, “I want that look I see in your eyes when you put that stethoscope round your neck. You’re proud of what you do, Mags. You’re excited. I want to feel excited.”

  London was, in fact, a huge risk, both emotionally and financially, but Jack’s commitment to Maggie made it the right decision. They knew no one in the South East and, although Maggie could make a lifelong friend in a supermarket line, Jack was more standoffish. He didn’t care about friends—he had Maggie—but the money was a worry. They went from having both time and cash to spend at the end of the month, to being skint ships that passed in the night. And they had to plan two months in advance for any extra expenditure—for example the car’s MOT. Maggie dealt with all of this, though. She was the organizer, and she was the one who never panicked when the account turned from black to red.

  Jack had agreed to make the life-changing move because he’d always known that Maggie was destined for greater things, and his indecisiveness couldn’t be responsible for holding her back. As it happened, Jack’s current boss, DCI Simon Ridley, had heard on the grapevine of Jack’s transfer and had done a little digging. Jack’s reputation in Devon was as a solid foot-soldier with an exceptional eye for detail and a natural ability to talk to people, read them and work out the best way to get what he needed from them. His interview technique was greatly admired, just never pushed to its limits in the small town of Totnes. Ridley had decided to give Jack the opportunity to find his path with the Serious Crime Squad, but very quickly worked out that Jack not being stretched in his previous role was less to do with the location and more to do with Jack’s own lack of ambition. However, he was diligent and got on with his work, so Ridley had kept him on . . . for now.

  It was Jack’s turn to have the car that morning which, as he sat in a tailback on the A3 near Battersea, he was deeply regretting. His work mobile danced on the passenger seat, pinging and vibrating away as message after message came through, some from the App version of HOLMES, as case related information was shared, and some from DCI Ridley. HOLMES was the Bible for the police force and was normally installed and issued on tablets for use in Court or on cases. But the technology was unreliable, so many officers invested in top of the range mobile phones and installed HOLMES on them instead. It was allowed—just about.

  As the pinging and vibrating continued, Jack smiled and shook his head as he imagined Ridley’s messages. They would be perfectly spelled and punctuated instructions for the day. Jack knew that Ridley was in meetings all morning, which was why being a little bit late was no big deal. Jack would make the time up at the end of the day anyway, seeing as Maggie would be on her next night shift and he’d be going home to a cold bed.

  Ridley led a divisional team of twelve Serious Crime officers. The case that Jack was currently working on started out with one young dad, who happened to be an engineer, realizing that the baby monitor in his daughter’s nursery was sending a signal to three devices, rather than the two he expected. The monitor had been hacked and an unknown person or persons were watching his daughter sleep.

  Once the police had the geography of the
rogue signals pinned down, the legwork had begun. Hundreds of hours tracing, interviewing, ruling-in and ruling-out every known pedophile and associate in the area. Over several months, they had discovered hundreds of hacked baby monitors, all within the same fifty mile radius. They visited 756 pedophiles, their friends and their families, and they narrowed the field to thirty-two. Then to one, a Donal Sweeney, who shared a cell with a man whose never-convicted pedophile nephew sold baby monitors to highstreet stores.

  It was 8:45 by the time Jack walked down the battleship gray corridor toward CID’s shared office. There was nothing remotely dynamic about this part of the station. He paused in the canteen doorway, inhaled the coffee-bean air and diverted inside.

  Jack slowly worked his way through all of his text messages and emails over an espresso and a croissant dipped in honey. Jack only drank coffee at work, because Maggie hated the smell and taste of it when he kissed her, and seeing as kissing Maggie was more important than caffeine, Jack did without coffee when he was at home. But Jack needed caffeine to get him through this bloody fraud case.

  The canteen was bustling with uniformed officers. Some ate heavy meals, some light breakfasts, depending on where they were in their shifts. As Jack made himself a to do list from Ridley’s text messages, he giggled through his croissant, sending a fine spray of loose puff pastry across the table. Ridley had written:

  Laura’s post-8 p.m. report overwrites yours, rather than adds to yours from yesterday morning. Please amend in the system. Print in triplicate and leave on my desk.

  Ridley was the only man in the world who texted in full sentences. Jack sat back in his chair and, wiping the stubborn, buttery crumbs from round his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked around the canteen. He could hear snippets of conversations as officers talked about the cases they were on, the arrests they’d just made, the raids they were about to make. The amount of adrenalin and testosterone flying around Jack was dizzying, and hugely disappointing, because none of it was his. Jack knew that his team would be at their desks, focused and driven to find the dirty bastard who was watching other people’s kids sleep. So why was he late and sitting by himself in the canteen? The truth was that, no matter how friendly and welcoming Ridley’s team was, Jack still kept them at arm’s length.