by Parker Bilal
‘Nice to see you, Archie.’
‘Try to restrain yourself,’ muttered the pathologist. ‘You know I can’t stand emotion.’ Archie had known Drake since he was a DC, stumbling around his first crime scene like a drunk in a glass factory. It was taking time for him to adjust to Kelly Marsh.
‘Where is she, then, our Lady of the Northern Line?’
‘Step this way, DS Marsh.’
From where she was standing Kelly could still not see the object in question. It was fenced in by shields and technicians.
‘Give us a little room here.’
When Archie gave an order, people jumped. The forensics team generally gave him a wide berth. The pathologist was not someone you wanted to get on the wrong side of. Many of them had felt the wrath of his tongue. On the scale of PC etiquette, Archie was about as off the charts as you could hope to get.
‘Not a lot to work with, eh, doc?’
Archie shot her a glance. Oddly, he found he was developing a soft spot for Marsh and so he held his tongue.
‘There’s enough. Dental records. Earrings. They look old, could be valuable, or second-hand. That’s a diamond stud in her right ear. New. Might yield something. Traces of make-up, also shampoo. We can run DNA tests, see if that throws up a match. One thing I would lay a small wager on …’
‘What’s that, then?’ Archie had a twinkle in his eye.
‘Eastern European.’
‘I’m impressed. How can you deduce that?’
‘Pink teeth. It’s the result of a type of amalgam used by dentists in the Eastern Bloc countries.’
‘A veritable wiki-feast,’ Marsh muttered to herself. Archie disappeared as she bent down for a better look.
Alongside the head was a portable refrigerator unit to keep it cool and try to delay the process of decomposition. The temperature inside the train was high enough for Kelly to feel sweat beads popping on her forehead. The head was lying on its left side. The eyes were half closed. The woman, and it was clearly a woman, still wore faint traces of green eyeshade. The head was distorted in shape. Marsh turned to the crime scene officer, who was bagging and tagging the pile of rags and newspaper that the head had been wrapped in.
‘Anything in there that might tell us who she was?’
The CSO shook his head.
‘How much longer do you need?’
‘As soon as we can get things bagged, we’ll get the carriage moved somewhere we can work.’
‘Sounds good.’
Milo tapped her on the shoulder and jerked a thumb towards the platform. ‘Chief.’
Marsh leaned out through the doors and saw Superintendent Wheeler making his way along, accompanied by an entourage that included DCI Pryce and the stationmaster.
‘Christ, that’s all we need! And he’s brought his pet poodle with him.’
‘Now, now,’ chided Archie, who was just within earshot.
Wheeler took up a position outside the carriage, arms folded.
‘Okay, DS Marsh, what have we got?’
‘One severed head, sir. Female. IC1. Age somewhere between thirty-five and fifty. No distinguishing marks. No signs of identity.’
‘Where was she?’
‘In a bag, sir.’ Kelly indicated the bright blue bag that was being folded by two SOCOs before being packed away in a sealed evidence envelope. ‘A blue nylon IKEA bag.’
‘A what?’ Wheeler’s face clouded.
‘It’s a furniture chain, sir.’
‘Good grief! Does nobody care about raising the alarm? A bag left on a crowded tube?’
‘You know what commuters are like, sir. Everyone’s minding their own business.’ Kelly glanced over at Pryce and saw the familiar cold, flat look in his eyes. She knew what he was thinking. He was trying to decide if he wanted the case for himself.
‘What about witnesses?’ Wheeler asked.
Milo tapped his notebook. ‘A carriage full. Uniforms are processing them, but so far it’s slim pickings. The person who found her was a nine-year-old boy. He and his mother are being treated for shock. I’ll be going over the CCTV footage as soon as we get back.’
‘I can’t believe nobody thought to raise the alarm.’
‘No, sir,’ Marsh sympathised. There was nothing to understand. Most commuters were dead on their feet and wouldn’t notice a bomb if it had cartoon wires and a Mickey Mouse clock attached.
Milo cleared his throat. ‘A couple of passengers said they assumed it belonged to them, sir, to the woman with the children, I mean.’
‘DC Kowalski, is it?’
‘That’s correct, sir.’ Milo looked pleased to be noticed.
‘Right, well, you know the drill. We need to identify the victim and we need to know how this thing got onto the train and where.’ Wheeler turned back to Pryce. ‘What’s your feeling?’
‘To be honest, I’ve got a full plate right now. I’m happy to leave it to your team for the moment. If it turns out to be too much, we’ll be glad to take over.’
Kelly did her best not to smile. She had guessed that Pryce wouldn’t want to saddle himself with a murder that had so little going for it the chances of getting a conviction were close to zero. Pryce was a numbers man, always thinking of his clearance rate. He wouldn’t touch this with the proverbial barge pole. She became aware that Milo was tugging her sleeve. She threw him a look of impatience and returned her attention to the two senior officers, although they appeared to have forgotten about her. Wheeler and Pryce were discussing something else in low voices that she couldn’t quite make out.
‘Carry on, DS Marsh,’ Wheeler said. ‘I shall expect a report by the end of the day.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She turned to Milo. ‘Okay, you’ve got my attention.’
‘I think you should see this.’ Glancing over his shoulder, Milo led her back towards the carriage. As they stepped inside Milo indicated for the SOCOs to step back. ‘Give us a moment, would you?’
Crouching down, Milo held up the evidence bag containing the crumpled newspaper the head had been wrapped in. At first Marsh couldn’t see what Milo was on about, but then she read the headline over the article.
‘Shit!’ she muttered.
5
Crane and Drake were issued with day passes at the reception desk by the entrance on Kingsway. The nervous young man stood wringing his hands while they were signed in before stepping forwards to lead them through the library to the lifts. As they rose through the building they were afforded a view down through the circular hoops of the staircase that wound around the central atrium.
Doctor Janet Lempel, the faculty dean, was in her forties. Slim and keenly intelligent, she shook their hands and thanked her assistant before dismissing him. They followed her to a small office with a narrow window that offered a view of the dome of St Paul’s. The dean sat down and linked her fingers together on the desktop.
‘I understand this is a private investigation,’ she said, looking them over. ‘Why isn’t it being handled by the police?’
‘I can’t answer that,’ Crane said.
‘I suppose they have better things to do with their time.’
‘Most missing persons cases turn out to have a perfectly simple explanation,’ Drake offered. ‘People disappear of their own free will and come back when they are ready.’
‘Mr Drake is a former detective inspector with the Met,’ explained Crane.
‘Ah.’ The dean nodded. ‘I understand, but I’m still not sure how I can help.’
‘Our starting point is Howeida’s safety. It’s important that we form a picture of her. What kind of person she is, what her habits are. For that we need to speak to people who know her.’
‘I haven’t had much contact with her. I tend to be up to my neck in administrative tasks, but I do remember meeting her and being impressed by how single-minded she was. She’s doing a master’s degree and we are hoping she will carry on to do a doctorate. Certainly, I got the impression she wanted to make the most of her time her
e.’
‘At the LSE?’ Crane asked.
‘In London, in this country.’ The dean held her hands wide as if to emphasise her point. ‘Considering her background, I think it’s safe to assume she values her freedom.’
The dean picked up her telephone and pressed a button. ‘After your call I took the liberty of trying to round up a few of her friends. They’re waiting for you.’
There were three of them. All young women in their mid twenties. They occupied a table in the café in the plaza next to the library. Drake decided to take a backseat and let Crane handle things at this stage. The conversation was dominated by the odd one out of the trio. While the other two spoke in quiet, measured tones, it was the gregarious American who set herself up as the authority. Savannah was the only white girl out of the three. Skinny, with voluminous red hair that hung down over her shoulders. She shared a flat with Howeida.
‘Howie’s just awesome. And I mean, super intelligent.’
‘Howie, that’s what you call her?’ Crane glanced at the others.
‘That’s what I always call her. It’s just easier.’
‘Right.’
While Savannah rushed on, the other two nodded and murmured monosyllabic responses but said little. When Crane tried to engage them they would demurely agree, giving way to another torrent of excited chatter from their self-appointed spokesperson.
‘I mean, I’m just a little old girl from Virginia, and then I meet her and she comes from this totally, like, medieval place where she can’t go out without a male cousin to chaperone her and she knows so much!’
None of them had any idea of where Howeida might have gone, or why. She had simply vanished.
‘One day she was there and the next, she wasn’t. It’s so strange.’ The smaller of the other two was Adela. She had a round face framed by dark hair that made her resemble a cat.
‘You were hired by Marco?’ Crane detected a certain degree of suspicion in her tone.
‘Do you know him too?’
Adela and the South Asian woman, Meena, exchanged looks.
Crane smiled. ‘Whatever you tell us is confidential.’
‘We only met him a couple of times,’ said Adela, glancing at Savannah. ‘He’s a little older.’
‘A little?’ Meena blurted out, only to immediately fall silent again. Crane turned to her.
‘Did that make things uncomfortable?’
‘Not uncomfortable.’ She was struggling to find the words. ‘Just a bit awkward. I mean he was trying really hard to be nice, but too hard, you know?’
Drake noticed how Savannah had fallen silent. They talked for a while longer but it was clear the girls were eager to get away, citing classes or assignments. Drake stepped in to take their contact details while Crane handed out business cards.
‘Please, if anything springs to mind, no matter how trivial, just give us a call.’
‘I always wondered what went on in places like this,’ said Drake once they were safely outside in the plaza behind the college.
‘We need to talk to them separately.’
‘Agreed. What did you make of the dean?’
‘She’s trying to protect herself.’ Crane nodded at the building behind them. ‘These places receive so much overseas sponsorship they are sensitive about bad publicity.’
‘Howeida’s background.’
‘Exactly. Our friend the dean is motivated less out of a concern for her safety than for the dent this might put in the university’s reputation. She doesn’t want to scare people off.’
‘Which explains her eagerness to cooperate. What did you make of the girls?’
‘A lot of animosity between them. We need to break them up.’
‘Agreed. You can have Miss Savannah all to yourself. Our Virginian friend.’
‘Thanks a lot.’ Crane looked up and down the street. ‘Not a bad place to be.’
‘You’re thinking of what the dean said, about this being an opportunity for Howeida?’
They turned and began walking in the direction of The Strand. Students wandered by them going to and from lectures, meetings, lunch.
‘I wonder if there is anything to that, the idea of new found freedoms.’
‘The dean said she was smart. Would she risk throwing that away?’
‘Considering her wealthy background, we have to assume that her parents are liberal enough since they allowed her to come to London alone to study.’
‘So not the most traditional types. But what about this uncle Foulkes was talking about?’
‘You’re still not over your initial distrust of the man.’
Drake shrugged. ‘It’s just instinct.’
‘Right, your old police sixth sense.’
‘You can laugh, but I’m telling you, nine times out of ten …’
‘Have you any idea how twentieth century you sound?’
Drake was momentarily nonplussed, but he did his best to recover. ‘It’s human nature. Some things don’t change.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Crane. ‘So much for evolution. Where are you headed?’
‘I’m going to take a look at our favourite writer.’
‘Well, don’t forget that he’s also our client, Cal. Never upset the customer, or whatever.’
‘Whatever is right.’
6
On the radio a man with a French accent was speaking: ‘Ze irony is zat ze people who were elected to parliament to defend ze best interests of ze country ’av been outvoted by zee ignorant masses. I yuze zis word with a measure of irony, yes? Zey are ignorant, and zey are proud of zis fact. Zey do not care what comes next, so long as it is defferent from what zey ’av now.’
Impatiently, Drake reached over and flicked the voice off.
It was late afternoon and he was growing restless. Across the street, he could see the subject of his surveillance through the windows of the wine bar in Fulham. Marco Foulkes was drinking with an unidentified man. They were seated at a counter that ran along the front window, which was convenient for Drake. He had followed them here from a snooker club close to Fulham Broadway station. That had posed its own challenges. Getting close had been difficult. He had cautiously followed the two men inside and then hung around the bar, keeping his back to the tables. Luckily the place was both big and dark, but after about twenty minutes he was getting leery looks from the heavies who were minding the place. He decided not to risk any kind of altercation and left, crossing the street to some kind of health food place that served fair trade coffee from the Honduran Highlands. The owner of the place, a sexagenarian with aspirations to sainthood, explained this patiently then watched over Cal as he took a sip, just to make sure of his approval. Drake took up residence at the single table outside, where he could keep an eye on the narrow doorway across the street.
Another hour went by before they emerged. Drake followed them to the wine bar, then went to fetch the car. He was lucky enough to find a parking space in a side street from where he observed them drinking something that looked like imported beer out of bottles. There was a lot to dislike about Foulkes, he decided. The silk scarf draped around his neck. The scruffy beard, carefully crafted to give him a bohemian, yachtsman type look. The tweed jacket and unkempt hair. If he hadn’t been a writer he would have perfectly fitted the cliché of one as described in one of his novels.
On the seat beside him was one of Foulkes’ books, The Clandestine Countess. He wasn’t making much progress. It had something to do with a retired barber remembering the Holocaust. There was the mysterious countess of the title, a fair amount of weird sex and voyeurism, but beyond that Cal simply couldn’t get into it. He didn’t care what happened to the characters. What the book didn’t tell him was how anyone made a living from this racket, or maybe you didn’t have to worry about that when you were Marco Foulkes.
Throwing the book aside, Drake reached for the half bottle of spiced rum that sat in the door pocket next to him. He took a sip to warm himself up before screwing the to
p back on. He liked to think that he was drinking less these days. Getting out of the Met and on to this freelancing gig had been something of a leap of faith, but once he’d taken the decision he had experienced a feeling of relief.
‘You’ll die of boredom,’ Kelly Marsh had said. ‘Ten to one you’ll be back here in three months.’
But he hadn’t died, of boredom or anything else, and he hadn’t gone back. True, there were moments when he missed the excitement of the old days, but they were easily outweighed by the feeling that he no longer represented an organisation he had stopped believing in years ago.
Drake was curious to know who Foulkes’ friend was and what they were talking about. From what he could see the conversation seemed to be getting more animated. Drake sat up in his seat as the other man suddenly got to his feet and headed for the door. Foulkes thumped his fist on the counter to the annoyance of the couple sitting next to him.
Drake shifted his focus to the friend. He got out of the car, locked it and followed on foot, trailing the man on the opposite side of the street. The man, who was in his late forties, was slimmer and more nervous-looking than Foulkes. He had thinning hair and grey, unhealthy-looking skin. Fulham Broadway tube station loomed up ahead out of the gloom and Drake watched as the man passed the barrier and descended the stairs towards the eastbound line. There were enough people milling around to make Drake less worried about being spotted. Also, whoever the man was, he was paying no attention to the other passengers. A District Line train arrived and Drake stepped into the next carriage, positioning himself with his back to the end of the train. Through the separation doors he could see the man sitting down and taking out his phone to scroll through his messages before slumping back and turning his face upwards to close his eyes. Drake took the opportunity to have a better look at him. A long face, narrow jaw and grey eyes. He was wearing a Barbour waxed jacket over a pullover and white shirt. Alongside Foulkes he was the boring friend who could always be relied upon to have time for you.
