by Mark Pearson
‘Defence wounds, I’d say,’ continued the pathologist.
‘Similar to those on Bible Steve,’ said Diane Campbell. ‘What kind of instrument would have caused these injuries?’
‘A baseball bat,’ offered Kate.
‘Possibly,’ Bowman said. ‘Or a policeman’s truncheon.’
‘We call those “asps” nowadays, Derek.’
‘So you do.’
‘And policewomen carry them too,’ added Kate.
The pathologist crossed to an X-ray display and switched on the light. It was an X-ray of the young woman’s arm. ‘Whoever it was that hit her, and whatever it was he …’ he paused and looked at Kate, ‘or she hit her with, they did it hard enough to cause a hairline fracture here.’ He tapped on the image.
‘She had very little padding, mind,’ added Kate Walker. ‘Doesn’t look like she had had a meal for months.’
‘So we do know who she is now, as Derek said,’ said Diane. ‘But that does leave us with another problem.’
‘Which is?’
‘If this isn’t the girl Bible Steve said he killed … then who was he talking about?’
‘Assuming he saw anything at all,’ said Kate.
‘Maybe someone else was taken. Maybe Steve and this girl tried to stop it, got in the way and were beaten off.’
‘Meg ran away to hide from whoever it was, and died in the cold.’
‘Bible Steve was certainly left to die.’
‘Sounds like there might be another body out there,’ said Bowman.
‘This is London, Doctor,’ replied Diane Campbell. ‘You can count on it.’
Kate’s phone trilled in her pocket. She took it out and read the text message. ‘Rip Van Winkle has started to get flashes of memory back apparently.’
‘He’s out of the operation?’
‘Yup.’
‘Is Jack on it?’
‘No. He’s in Harrow.’
‘Come on then, Kate, it looks like the A-team are on the case.’
63.
JACK DELANEY PUSHED the buzzer and stepped back from the door. He was standing outside an end-of-terrace house at the bottom end of the hill in Harrow. Sally Cartwright stood beside him, flapping her arms around herself in a vain attempt to get warm.
‘Aren’t you cold, sir?’ she asked, looking at Delaney who was wearing his customary, battered leather jacket.
‘Not particularly, Sally, I have the love of a good woman to keep me warm.’
‘Bushmills in your veins, more likely.’
After a short while the door opened, as far as the chain allowed, and a woman looked nervously out. ‘Are you the police?’
‘Yes,’ replied Delaney, immediately spotting the resemblance to Stephanie Hewson. Same height, more or less, same build, same hair-colouring. Same haunted look in her eyes and worry lines creasing a handsome face.
‘Can I see some ID?’
‘Of course, Miss Eddison,’ said Sally.
Delaney and Sally held up their warrant cards which the woman inspected before shutting the door and opening it again with the chain clear. They followed her down a small hallway and down into a sitting room off to the right.
It was a furnished simply, with a three-piece suite in floral fabric, a television, a brown coffee table. The curtains were closed and a small gas fire was burning. Delaney opened his jacket as he sat down on the sofa. Sally didn’t.
On the coffee table was a hardback copy of When God Was a Rabbit, with a bookmarker halfway through it and a coffee mug beside it, steam still rising from the surface.
‘Good book?’ Sally asked.
The woman nodded without replying. Delaney hadn’t read it, but Kate had. It spoke of childhood, of happier times, but was also very sad in parts too. But then life was like that. You got dealt a mixed set of cards.
‘We need to speak to you about what happened to you earlier this year, Lorraine,’ he said.
The woman burst into tears.
Kate Walker ignored the stern glances the surgical registrar was giving her. She hadn’t met the woman before but she looked like she only weighed six stones wet, and Kate had never been one to be intimidated by authority.
Bible Steve was sitting up in bed now. He seemed different, his eyes more focused. Not as scared.
‘You say you have been having flashes of memory?’
‘Just fragments really. You know, like a dream. When you wake up and try to hold onto it and sometimes you can’t. Sometimes just bits of it.’
‘You seem a lot more lucid.’ Kate turned to Dr Crabbe. ‘Do you think his memory is returning?’
‘Possibly. As I explained to Steve, amnesia can be caused by a number of things. Shock can often be a part of that. And another traumatic episode can have the reverse effect. He has been through a lot these last few days.’
‘These fragments,’ continued Diane Campbell. ‘Can you tell us about them?’
The old man rubbed his eyes. ‘Just people, faces,’ he said.
‘Do you know who they are?’
‘No. At least, I think I did know them once. And I can see buildings. Tall, granite buildings. And I can see a house. I think it’s possible I might have lived there.’
‘Do you remember the road? The town?’
Bible Steve closed his eyes tight shut, then opened them and shook his head. ‘I can’t, I’m sorry. If I try it just fades away.’
‘Don’t try and force it. Sometimes these things take time,’ said Kate.
‘Can you remember anything of Friday night?’ asked Diane, in a manner that suggested time was something they didn’t have.
‘No.’
‘You were with a young woman. You were both attacked. Did you hurt anyone, Steve?’
‘I can’t remember. Why would I hurt anyone?’
Diane Campbell’s phone beeped in her pocket. ‘I’m sorry, I have to take this,’ she said and went out into the corridor.
‘Make sure that woman doesn’t upset him further.’ The registrar went to check on a patient next door. The intensive care unit was always a bit of a revolving door, Kate knew only too well from her own days on rotation in the department. She didn’t miss them one bit. Beds becoming vacant were not always a good sign.
She sat down on the chair beside the homeless man’s bed.
‘I watched the police footage of you being booked in on Friday, Steve,’ she said. ‘I know that Steve isn’t your real name, but do you mind me calling you that?’
Steve shook his head.
‘In the footage you seemed to recognise the police surgeon who attended to you.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Doctor Laura Chilvers. She has been in to see you.’
‘The blonde lady. The angel.’
‘Yes, you called her that in the station. Why is that?’
‘I don’t know. It just came into my head. I know her, I think.’
‘Where from, Steve?’
‘I don’t know. But I can see her. And there is blood on my hands.’
His forehead furrowed as he tried to remember. ‘Did I try to kill her?’
‘You recognised her before you were attacked, Steve. At the police station.’
‘Did I want to hurt her?’
‘I don’t know.’
64.
KATE WALKER FLIPPED the X-ray transparency onto the light box and clicked the switch.
She looked at the skeletal chest that was exposed and traced her finger across it.
She flicked off the light and stood there looking for a moment, contemplating.
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ asked Dr Crabbe.
‘Yes. I think I did.’
‘Good.’
‘Maybe. I’m not so sure that it is good. Do you think he’ll make it?’
Dr Crabbe considered for a while, then shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think he will.’
Lorraine Eddison held a paper tissue and blew her nose. ‘I’m sorry,’ she
said.
‘You have nothing to be sorry for, Lorraine,’ answered Jack Delaney.
‘Yes I do.’
‘It wasn’t your fault you were attacked.’
‘I shouldn’t have been walking alone at night. I should have got a taxi. I had had too much to drink.’
‘None of that makes it your fault,’ said Sally Cartwright. ‘The man who attacked you is a sick predator.’
‘Did he rape you, Lorraine?’
‘No. But he tried to.’
‘You managed to get away?’
‘He held a knife to my side and said if I shouted out or screamed he would kill me.’
‘Just like Michael Robinson,’ said DC Cartwright.
‘I saw on the news that he had been killed.’
‘That’s right, Lorraine.’
‘But this wasn’t him. I was attacked after he was arrested.’
‘We know. We think there might be two of them. Which is why it is important you tell us exactly what happened.’
‘I told the police before.’
‘You didn’t say he tried to rape you, just that he mugged you and cut you.’
‘I didn’t see the point.’
‘What actually happened, Lorraine?’
‘He dragged me down Church Hill to the back of the theatre there.’
‘I know it.’
‘It was dark. He had me up against the wall, making out we were just kissing, he ripped my knickers off. He unzipped himself but …’
‘But what?’
‘He couldn’t get it up.’ She held a hand to her stomach. ‘Then he cut me with the knife, pushed me over and ran off.’
‘And you didn’t get a good look at him?’
‘He had a hoodie on. It was dark.’
‘But you did say he had curly hair, though.’
‘Yes.’
‘And his voice when he spoke?’
‘It wasn’t rough. Middle class more like.’
‘Educated?’
‘Yes.’
Delaney and Sally Cartwright exchanged a look.
‘What is it?’ asked Lorraine Eddison.
65.
LAURA CHILVERS SAT at the corner of the bar in The Pig and Whistle, the local pub the police mainly favoured, a short stroll from the White City Police Station. She lifted a glass with a large measure of Pastis in it, tilted her head back and downed it in one. She held the glass out to the tall woman behind the bar. ‘Same again please. A little water this time.’
The barmaid handed her a refill and put a small jug of water on the counter. Laura poured a splash in her glass and took a sip. Most offices in London were closed for the weekend, but there were still a large number of civilians in the bar, which was unusual for that time of day. Especially on a Sunday. But Laura figured there were enough workers and shoppers in town to keep all the pubs busy. She had suggested The Pig and Whistle as she thought it would be quiet. Most police workers coming off shift would be heading home for Sunday dinner. At least there was no loud music playing and mobile phone use was actively discouraged. She tuned out the chat that was buzzing around her and stared at the cloudy liquid in her glass. Fifteen minutes later the glass had been refilled, although she couldn’t remember ordering another, and a hand fell on her shoulder. She was startled, then surprised.
‘Oh. It’s you,’ she said.
Emma Halliday leaned back in the car seat and yawned. ‘So what made you transfer out of special ops back into CID?’ she asked Tony Hamilton.
The DI shrugged. ‘Special ops is a good word. Felt more like army than the police. Not really why I joined up. I found it was taking up more and more time, especially with the cutbacks, so I was doing more of that than the detective work that I enjoyed.’
‘So why apply for it in the first place?’
Tony flashed her a quick grin. ‘I like a challenge. What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Why’d you sign up?’
‘I had a thing for men in uniforms.’
‘Really?’
‘What do you think, genius?’
‘I think you’re pretty smart and wanted a challenge too.’
‘I came from a long line of policemen. Pretty much all I wanted to do.’
She leaned back and closed her eyes. Tony looked over at her for a moment or two, a half smile playing on his lips.
Kate Walker took the change from the lady behind the bar and sat on the stool next to Laura Chilvers.
She took a sip of her soda and lime and stared at her colleague for a moment without speaking.
‘What?’ snapped Laura finally.
‘Bible Steve.’
‘What about him? Has something happened?’
‘You knew him, didn’t you? He said you did, and he was right.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I looked at the CCTV footage from that night, Laura. You knew him and you were covering for something. You then went out and got so blind drunk on drugs and booze that you thought you’d been raped.’
‘Well I wasn’t.’
‘You sure of that? You’ve got your memory back? Seems Bible Steve’s amnesia is catching.’
‘You’re not very funny, Kate.’
‘I’m not trying to be. Something’s going on, Laura. I want to know what it is.’
‘You’ve been living with the Irishman too long, Doctor Walker. You’re not a detective.’
‘Bible Steve recognised you.’
‘He was paralytic. He could barely stand up, let alone know who he was talking to.’
‘And yet you said he was fit to be charged and released?’
‘Can you cut me some slack here? All right, I was keen to get off. You know that. I had a hot date. Somebody special, maybe the one. Might be I dropped the ball a little with Bible Steve.’
‘And your date can back this up, can she?’
‘What are you talking about?’
Kate stared at her colleague’s still-bruised knuckles. ‘What happened to your hand?’
‘You think I went out and attacked him myself? Are you out of your mind?’
‘Something happened that night, I don’t know what. But a girl is dead and a man was put in intensive care.’
‘You know what, Kate. I don’t have to listen to this shit!’
Laura drained her glass, stood up and snatched her jacket off the hook.
‘Why are you lying, Laura?’ Kate asked as the younger woman walked away. But she didn’t get a reply. Laura Chilvers was too busy walking out of the door and pulling out a mobile phone.
Sally Cartwright had her laptop open on the back seat of the car, a mobile printer attached to it. Delaney was driving, cursing under his breath as the car slid on the icy road.
‘Here we go, sir,’ said DC Cartwright as the printer chugged out a five-by-seven-inch colour photo of the technical manager of the Ryan Theatre at Harrow School. She had googled the place and found photos of the theatre staff on their webpage.
His name was Christian Peterson.
Delaney pulled the car to a stop outside the address that DIs Tony Hamilton and Emma Halliday had phoned through to Diane Campbell. Delaney got out of the car and lit a cigarette. A few seconds later Sally joined him and gave him a sharp look.
‘Yeah all right, don’t you start. I’m giving up in New Year.’
‘About time.’
Delaney took a couple of quick drags, then dropped the cigarette into the snow. They walked a few yards down the road and up to a mid-terraced house.
On the other side of the road a man slumped down in the seat of his van, ran his hand through a tangle of curly, dirty blond hair and watched. His eyes were blue, and intent. Filled with hate.
Delaney rang the bell and a woman in her late thirties answered the door. Michelle Riley had dark hair, cut in a bob to her shoulders. She was above average height and wore little make-up.
‘Why don’t you come in, detectives?’ she said.
<
br /> ‘Don’t you want to see some ID?’ asked DC Cartwright.
‘I know who you are. I have seen the inspector in the papers and on television.’
Delaney and Sally followed her down a narrow hallway and into a medium-sized front room. It had a desk, shelves full of books and files, a small sofa and a number of plastic chairs stacked atop one another against the side-wall. On the wall beside the desk there was a poster with the words RAPE SURVIVORS ONLINE with a web address underneath it.
Michelle Riley moved a stack of files from the sofa. ‘I’m sorry for the mess. This doubles as my office.’ She dumped the files on the desk and perched on the chair beside it as Delaney and Sally sat on the sofa, rather squashed.
‘That’s fine, Miss Riley, we’re not the tidiness police,’ said Delaney.
‘Just as well.’
‘We’re here to talk about Andrew Johnson.’
‘I know. Your deputy superintendent told me. It was all a long time ago. I can’t see why you’d need to revisit the incident. And what I did wasn’t a crime.’
‘No one was suggesting it was, Miss Riley.’
‘Michelle, please.’
‘That money he paid wasn’t fair compensation, but it was some compensation. It helped me set up the support group, for one thing. We used to meet here, I’d fund a counsellor. But it’s all online now, money is tight and … anyway I can help more people this way. Victims talking to each other can be the best kind of help, I have found.’
‘Yes, I imagine so,’ said Sally Cartwright.
‘I can’t say I shed a tear, though, when I heard that he’d jumped in front of a train.’
‘How long had you worked for Andrew Johnson before he assaulted you?’
‘Just over a couple of years.’
‘In that time did he have any particular friends or associates?’
‘Not that I recall. Can I ask what this is all about? I have to visit my mother in Watford this evening. I’ll be delayed as it is, what with the weather. And you know how the elderly are – they like everything to a routine.’
‘Andrew Johnson didn’t commit suicide, Michelle,’ Delaney said. ‘We believe he was murdered. We believe the same person also killed Michael Robinson the other day.’
‘I saw that on the news.’
