by Sarah Flint
‘No. Just that they wanted to speak to you.’
‘It must be about the car being stolen,’ he suddenly remembered his plan, hoping it had worked. His wife looked terrified. He stared at her pretty face, suddenly nervous himself. Although she’d lost something of her initial lustre, she was still so pure, so natural, so exquisitely beautiful. Now, he might be bringing shame on her and her family. ‘Go down and let them in. Tell them I’ll be down in a minute,’ he said, smiling towards her and buying a little more time.
She rushed off downstairs obediently, her eagerness to please him immediately stirring his anger. It was all her fault. She did nothing for him. Her looks might be perfect, but they didn’t physically attract him. She was boring and mundane, as was his life, and because of her banality he was now at risk of losing everything. He’d told her about the car, and she’d accepted every word. He’d blamed his swollen lip on walking into a pillar, and she’d shown him pity. He could say anything and she would believe him. There was no challenge, no excitement.
The crackle of the police radios brought him to his senses. He could hear the officers moving into the living room as she offered them a cup of tea. The silly bitch! Hopefully they would refuse. The sooner they were out of his house the better.
Pulling a dressing gown on, he checked himself in the mirror, frowning at the face that stared back. He looked rough; sleep lines still etched into his cheeks and his chin peppered with two days’ dark stubble. He descended the stairs, knowing that before he’d even set eyes on them, he was the underdog, ill-prepared and at a disadvantage.
‘What can I do for you, officers?’ The Punter entered the room, full of charm.
The police officers straightened, one pulling his notebook out from his trouser pocket and leafing through it to the last page of writing. ‘I do apologise for waking you at this hour, but we like to come in person in these circumstances.’
He held his breath.
‘Did you report your car as being stolen, yesterday morning?’ The officer read out the registration number.
‘Yes I did. I left it outside a client’s house while I was offering financial advice and when I came out it had been stolen. Have you found it?’ He tried to stay as casual as possible.
‘Well yes, we have, but unfortunately it’s been burnt out. From what I gather, there’s nothing much left of it.’
‘Oh no. What a bloody nuisance, excuse my language.’ He feigned shock. ‘I need my car for work. Have you any idea who might have done this.’
‘Probably joyriders,’ the second officer piped up. ‘They think nothing of torching a car once they’ve finished with it. Perhaps they got up to something in it before setting it on fire. We’ll have to see if anything gets flagged up later.’
The Punter relaxed. So clearly nothing had stood out so far.
‘Would you know whether any of my belongings have survived?’ He had to know for sure that all the incriminating evidence was gone. ‘There were a few items of clothing, you know, designer stuff in the rear. Cost a fair bit.’
‘Sorry, sir. The information I’ve received is that it’s a blackened shell. The fire has destroyed all your property and any available forensics.’ The first officer was speaking again. ‘We’ll mark up the crime report that you’ve been informed, but unless anything else comes to light, there’s not much more we can do.’
The Punter shook his head in mock dismay, but underneath he wanted to laugh. He was in the clear. There was no reason he shouldn’t get a full insurance payout and buy a better car, a bigger one that would make people’s heads turn; a classy motor that would overtly display his success. He swallowed hard, thinking of the other benefits that would follow. With a new car he’d be free to go out cruising the streets again.
The first officer snapped his notebook shut and eased it back into his pocket. ‘Check with your insurance company though. If you’re lucky they might cover the extras.’
‘Thank you, officers,’ he replied, showing them to the door and ushering them out. ‘I’ll do that.’
Chapter 22
Dimitri’s wallet was thin. It was not the way he liked it to be, but at least it wasn’t locked into the property store of a police station. They had been lucky by all accounts. Bloody lucky. His girl from the care home had phoned to ask where he was, reporting back that she’d been to the house and there were police crawling all over it. She was worried something had happened, that he’d been arrested, that the girls had all been taken into detention. Her voice had sounded panicky, desperate even, and that had pleased him. It wouldn’t be that much longer before she would give herself to him fully, her defences were falling, he could tell.
The information that had been disclosed, however, was displeasing. What had caused the police to come so quickly? Surely they could not have found Tatjana’s body yet; and even if they had, how would it have led them to the house? Or the baby; maybe the baby’s body had been discovered, but why would it bring police straight to him? There should be no link, even if DNA or fingerprints had been found.
In fact, the very existence of the brothel should have been unknown to police. The girls were kept within its walls and no one had ever been stopped, searched or arrested, Albertas and himself included. He pulled out a pack of Ziganov cigarettes and lit one, inhaling its strength, bringing with it the vague memory of a distant bar in St Petersburg, the air dense with smoke, and girls, young and innocent, gyrating nakedly on individual plinths.
No, it had to be the neighbours. There could be nothing and no one else; just nosy, interfering busybodies who campaigned for prostitution to be legalised but not if it meant on their own doorsteps. It was just pure bad luck, but now he had to be extra careful. Now the authorities were aware of the set-up, they might try to establish the identity of some of the girls, or Albertas, from past misdemeanours. Not him though. He would be safe because he was known only as Dimitri in this country. No one knew his true identity. He would just create a new one if necessary, and move on, again and again.
The new house was almost ready. It had been prepared for just this eventuality. He always liked to be one step ahead. It would open its doors the following night and his girls would have to be ready. A two-day break was enough for them to have become idle and restless. They needed to be put back to work. They were asking questions. Why had they moved so suddenly? Where was Tatjana? Why was she not with them?
He had explained that he’d taken her to hospital, where she had stated her wish to return to Russia after discharge. The authorities would help. She was not coming back. Hanna had disbelieved his words, but she would say nothing. Still, he would have to watch her closely, ensure she was not getting too influential amongst the other girls. She would be put to work hard, kept from Albertas and his familiarity, made to service the new men who would arrive, the risky ones who would try their luck, the ones who liked to dominate. She would keep her mouth shut or it would be shut for her. All the girls had to know who was in charge. There could be no dissent.
He took another drag on his cigarette and checked the padlock on the back door. It was securely in place. The house smelt perfumed; incense sticks wafting oriental aromas around the hallway, stairs and communal areas. Each girl had chosen her favourite scent for the privacy of her space. He could identify each one by their lingering fragrance. He pulled out his mobile phone, changed the SIM card and typed out a message:
Your wish is our command. Doors open tomorrow night. Phone Dimitri.
He pressed ‘send to all’. It was not too obvious but his regular customers would recognise his name. They would know to save the new number. He had made a habit of changing both his address and number regularly and he never moved too far. They would travel. They always did.
Now though, he had to plan. There were two rooms empty that required filling. His contact in Eastern Europe was working on it. A new young piece of Russian meat, or Lithuanian, or Slovakian would do nicely; a vulnerable girl, with few family members requiring cash
, but enough whose safety could be threatened if she refused to comply. He felt his erection stir at the thought. The nubile young girl would be his at first, to do with as he pleased. She had to learn who was boss… and he looked forward to teaching her.
It would only be a matter of days before a foreign replacement would be on her way. They were poor, desperate and two a penny. His journey to France would be solitary, but his return trip to the new address in Lewisham would be accompanied. He loved the EU; free movement of girls from East to West, with or without their consent. Passports were irrelevant if they were stamped with the EU emblem. Nobody checked. Two people in a car or on a shuttle were waved through without a second glance and if the young, excitable female companion was destined to become a young prostitute, well, who knew… and who cared?
He stamped his cigarette out in an ashtray and picked up the van keys. There were lots of things that had to be done: a replacement van was required, a new house needed to be chosen and prepared, just in case they had to move on again, and a new set of ID papers created. You couldn’t survive in this business without being organised and he was no fool. And, later on, as the evening approached, he would be waiting outside the large house in Norbury where his care home girl lived. A few more gifts and a little more persuasion and she would be occupying the last room.
He liked to give his customers a choice of home or away.
Chapter 23
Charlie parked outside the mortuary, with Hunter silent beside her. Her day was well and truly mapped out for her and it wasn’t one that she was looking forward to. The post-mortems of both Redz and the baby were to take place. They needed to get as much information as was possible before the weekend. As she walked towards the entrance, the thought of seeing the tiny body laid out for examination made her feel physically sick. Every part of the sight she would soon be witnessing was wrong.
Dr Reggie Crane was also subdued on their arrival, his usual enthusiasm to establish the cause of death and obtain evidence as to how it had come about curtailed by the smallness of the body on the vast stainless-steel examination tray.
They shook hands and nodded seriously. There was no need for small talk. They all knew what had to be done.
The nameless baby girl’s body was already prepared. Her weight had been recorded at just under 2lbs and she measured fourteen inches in length. With no placenta available, Dr Crane examined the cord and took blood and tissue samples, before painstakingly checking the exterior of her body and examining the internal organs for any signs of why the baby had died.
‘She’s about twenty-six weeks in gestation, so her death will be classified as a stillbirth,’ Dr Crane explained. ‘We’ll have to wait for the results of blood and tissue samples to be checked, but at present, I can see no clear reason why the baby was miscarried. There are no deformities or signs of infection, nor are there any obvious puncture marks or contusions, but then at this stage of development she would have been well protected within the amniotic sac. It is unlikely that any blow to the mother would penetrate through to the baby. She seems to have been developing as she should and, as far as I can see, would have been born a perfectly healthy baby.’
It was as Charlie had expected. At the back of her mind she had hoped the PM might have thrown up a valid medical or natural reason for the loss, but the truth confirmed everything she’d feared. Although not absolutely conclusive, it appeared that the baby’s early birth was likely to have been caused by force.
At the conclusion, a cloth was placed over the body. At over twenty-four weeks the baby was past the stage of legal viability and would require a burial or cremation, but it would remain to be seen if her existence would ever be acknowledged by a parent or whether her tiny form would be disposed of anonymously, with no tears shed for her loss.
The body of Grace Flaherty was brought out next and the mood, although still sombre, took on a different feel. This was an adult, and there was no doubt the woman had been murdered, therefore, they could view the requirement for evidence on a professional, rather than purely emotional level.
Whilst they awaited the formal identification, Charlie’s thoughts turned to the investigation. Redz was dead and they had a suspect for her murder, a good suspect, but one who they’d frustratingly had to release. Clinton Roberts, Razor, fitted the bill and had been close to the scene. He was a man who regularly used violence to maintain control over his girls, but had he gone too far this time, lost control, beaten Redz too hard and for too long until there was no going back? They needed more… and after his last taunts, Charlie and the team were determined to find it.
To that end, while she and Hunter were at the mortuary, Naz and Sabira were arranging an identification parade for Maria Simpson and two other witnesses who had been found. With the darkness and distances involved, the chances of a positive ID were improbable, but they had to try.
Bet and Paul were scanning further CCTV, as well as researching the two alibis. Caz was unlikely to be deemed a credible witness, but could still cast some doubt on the prosecution evidence, but what would Viv say? Would she assist Razor, or help them?
Charlie herself wanted to speak to Caz, as well as Dutch and some of the other sex workers. If Razor was involved, by now the rumours would be flying, but would anybody be willing to put their words into writing? Apart from Caz, it was doubtful. What the team needed was good hard evidence and forensics was therefore likely to be their best hope.
Her thoughts were disturbed by the entry of the young cop who’d travelled with Redz to the hospital. He came in, looking ashen-faced and confirmed for continuity purposes that the body was indeed the same girl he’d accompanied from the murder scene. As he gazed at the waxy, blood-spattered remains, his cheeks paled and he bolted from the room.
Charlie watched sympathetically as the door slammed shut behind him. It was never easy seeing a young person lying dead on a tray and Redz was probably an equivalent age to a sister or girlfriend.
‘I remember doing that myself the first time I saw a dead body,’ Dr Crane chuckled, his eyes following the fleeing officer. ‘After dealing with several thousand of them by now, it’s just as well I’m used to it. Poor guy looked like he’d seen a ghost.’
‘He looked like he’d almost become one,’ Hunter added. ‘Judging by the colour he went.’
The atmosphere had lightened slightly and they got ready to start. Dr Crane moved around the table measuring, combing, scraping and swabbing every inch of Redz’ naked body. He spoke into a Dictaphone, detailing verbally every birthmark, blemish, tattoo, scar or visible injury, painstakingly working his way from head to toe, while Charlie assisted with the sealing, recording and labelling of every item and exhibit. The process took several hours and Charlie was appalled by the sheer quantity of injuries, both recent and old, added to the list.
After the external examination came the internals. Blood samples were taken to be analysed for the presence of legal or illegal drugs and alcohol. Swabs were taken from inside the mouth, nose and ears, cuttings and scrapings from the fingernails and swabs from the vaginal and anal areas. As she labelled the exhibits, Charlie wondered despairingly how many different DNA samples would be found on – or in – her body.
Finally Dr Crane was ready to investigate the methodology and the time and cause of death. He moved up towards Redz’ head, bending down to concentrate.
‘I mentioned when conducting my initial observations that our victim had injuries to her scalp and some of her hair was missing.’
‘We’re told she had long hair before the attack.’ Charlie bent forward too, explaining, ‘Her nickname was Redz because she had long red hair.’
Dr Crane moved his fingers through her hair, separating it into strands. Some of the strands were still long and untouched, but others were short, lying in untidy clumps of varying lengths. Dr Crane pointed to an area on the side of Redz’ head.
‘This area is devoid of hair, and the skin is inflamed, as if her hair has been pulled out by t
he roots.’ He pointed to a different area. ‘But in this area the hair is short, with the roots still attached to the scalp. In other words, the hair looks to have been cut off.’
‘With a sharp implement, such as a razor?’ Hunter clearly had their suspect in mind.
‘Could be,’ Reggie Crane confirmed. ‘Or anything sharp.’ He bent further forward until his face was almost touching Redz’ head and gazed at the end of the hair through a magnifying glass. ‘Yes,’ he confirmed. ‘The remaining ends of the short hairs look to have been clean-cut very recently. There are no rounded or split ends as you would expect if they had been cut a while ago and left to grow like the longer strands.’
‘So whoever has done this has pulled some of her hair out, but also cut some off?’ Charlie queried.
‘It’s pretty hard to pull hair out by the roots,’ Dr Crane stood back up. ‘You can pull small clumps out, but if you were after a large amount, especially if you wanted it quick, you’d have to cut it.’
‘But why would anyone want to cut off a prostitute’s hair?’ Charlie was perplexed.
‘Perhaps to take as a memento?’ Dr Crane raised his eyebrows. ‘Many people keep locks of hair from their babies or loved ones as mementoes. Hair evokes memories… but there are also plenty of people out there with hair fetishes. People love hairpieces, hair extensions and wigs. Hair is big business.’
Hunter was still staring down at Redz. ‘Or, as a means of punishment, especially to a woman who loves her long hair. Cutting it off would be an extremely callous way of stamping your authority over someone.’
Charlie had to smile at the obvious slant of Hunter’s words, but she had to admit things were stacking up against Razor. Some hair had been found in his car, after all.
‘It seems you have someone in mind then?’ Dr Crane had clearly understood her boss’s comments. He turned back to the body. ‘Right, let’s get down to the cause of death.’
