Sergeant Wilson half turned and gestured with a backwards flick of her head. “Don’t know about a full body, Scarlett. Body parts are what we’ve found at the moment. Certainly a couple of arms and most of a leg in a bin liner. I asked Communications to contact you because I know you’re dealing with a dismembered body fished out of the Thames. Didn’t know if it could be connected.”
Scarlett met Abbie’s gaze, “It won’t be ours. Our body was minus her head and her hands.”
“Oh, sorry about that. I wasn’t aware.”
“Never mind, Abbie. We’ll take a look while we’re here.” Scarlett set off towards the mooching group of uniformed officers. Tarn and Abbie stepped in beside her.
She began unfolding her forensic suit as she walked. “Have you requested a senior investigating officer, Abbie?”
“No, not yet. I just put in a call and asked for your team to be informed. I’ve got forensics and CSI on their way.”
“Okay, no problem. I’ll see what we’ve got first, then ask for an SIO to join us.”
Tarn said, “We’re absolutely sure they’re human body parts?”
Sergeant Wilson glanced sideways and nodded. “Absolutely. Seen them myself. One of my team came to the call. Climbed into the dumpster thinking it would be a false alarm. A mannequin or something. But then when he ripped open the bin liner he saw that the parts were real. The arms have been severed just below the shoulder and the leg has most of the thigh attached. Right shock for him, I can tell you. He threw up everywhere. I’ve sent him back to the station.”
Scarlett asked, “How were the parts originally found? Who put the call in?”
“One of the residents,” Abbie answered, dipping her head toward the low-rise redbrick block they were approaching. “This is Beattie House. A guy who lives on the top floor found them. Had a new TV delivered this morning and had brought the packaging down to dump it. He says the bin liner was right on the top of the rubbish when he opened the dumpster lid. It had a small tear in it and one of the hands was sticking out. Freaked him out, as you can imagine, and he rang us straight away.” Sergeant Wilson stopped as she rejoined her group. She stared beyond them and said, “The dumpster is just around the side of the building. It’s the one with the lid open. You can’t miss it, there’s a few officers guarding it. It’s the refuse area for this block and the next. We’ve sealed the area off as well.”
Scarlett began climbing into her protective suit. “Thanks Abbie, we’ll take a look and see what we’ve got.”
Thirty-three
Skender showered – his second shower of the day. The first had been eleven hours earlier, just after midnight, when he had arrived home after killing her.
Usually he had someone else to take care of the problems but he had decided to deal with this one himself, especially after the last fuck-up.
He had made the decision after the phone call late last night. He’d been in the house in Wandsworth when he’d taken it, and immediately rang Arjan and told him to pick him up. They had cruised the streets where he knew she was likely to be and it hadn’t been long before they had spotted her. She was on her own, beneath the long railway arch, tapping her six-inch heels rapidly on the glistening cobbles in an effort to stave off the cold. They did a quick circuit to make sure no cops were about and then returned to the spot where she was standing.
Her look had been one of nervousness when he had pulled up beside her. He had witnessed it so many times in his girls. He liked to keep it that way. It gave him the edge. He had told her to get in and he had sensed the slight hesitation as she’d climbed into the back. “It’s okay,” he had said. “You not in trouble.” In his rear-view mirror he had watched her give him an uneasy smile as she belted up.
“Where are we going?” she had asked.
“I have a little job for you. A friend of mine I want you to meet,” he had replied and they had driven her back to the house in Wandsworth.
She had put up a little fight as they had dragged her down to the basement, but she wasn’t much of a match for them and it hadn’t taken too long for him to kill her once he’d got his hands around her throat. Then, before he had got Arjan to drop him back home at his flat, he had left instructions, with Henrikas, as to what he wanted happening to the girl. “I don’t want her finding this time,” he had commanded. “Do I make myself clear?” He had left Henrikas at the bottom of the basement steps nodding away anxiously.
When he had been dropped off, the first thing he did was to strip off his clothes and put them in the washing machine. Then he’d poured himself a large vodka, downed it in one and climbed into the shower. Wringing his hands in bleach he’d cleansed himself thoroughly, and then he’d gone into the bedroom and woken up Maria, ordering her to the lounge, where he lined up a small bag of coke on the glass-top coffee table and snorted it with her. The hour following he had screwed her until he’d collapsed.
****
Stepping out from his second shower, he dried his upper body and towelled his hair, then dropping the damp towel onto the bathroom floor he picked another off the heated rail, wrapped it around his waist and made his way into the open living lounge.
Maria was cooking, looking sexy in a tight black vest and lacy black thong. He could smell omelette.
He flopped onto the leather sofa, snatched up the remote and clicked on the 50-inch TV mounted on the wall. The news was on. A pretty, dark-haired newscaster stared back. He saw from the information running along the bottom of the screen that she was speaking live from Battersea. Behind her he could see it was a housing development of high-rise buildings and there appeared to be a lot of police activity in the background. He turned up the sound.
“A series of body parts, believed to be those of a woman, were found this morning in refuse bins in one of the flats behind me. Police and Forensics are currently on scene trying to determine the identity of the victim. As yet we have no information as to how the woman met her death. The police ask that anyone who saw anything suspicious around this complex, especially over the last twenty-four hours, contact them on the incident room number provided. All information will be treated in the strictest of confidence.”
It took a few seconds for him to take in what the newscaster had said, but the information running across the bottom of the screen summarised what he thought she had just announced. For a split second his stomach emptied. He took a couple of deep breaths as he stared at the TV. The news had moved on to an update about the Russian plane crash at Karzan International Airport he’d been following; a cousin, on his father’s side, had been among the dead. The last few days he’d hardly been off the phone to his family. Dealing with their sorrow had diverted him from his business affairs and last night had been his way of a sending a message that he was back on top of things.
But he hadn’t expected this. Tightening his grip around the remote, as if he was squeezing the very life out of it, he could feel the anger within him beginning to rise.
Fucking half-wits. Someone is going to pay for this!
Thirty-four
By mid-afternoon every dumpster in the sealed-off refuse area next to Beattie House had been searched. In four of the bins, crime scene investigators had found and recovered seven black bin liners containing body parts. Each of these had been carefully opened and the gruesome contents logged and photographed.
In one bag they had discovered the torso. Its left shoulder had a branding mark in the shape of a crescent moon and star. It was an old scar. It created a huge stir among the team and Scarlett put in a call to DCI Diane Harris.
She arrived at the scene just as they were opening the last black sack. In it was the bloodied head of the woman.
For a brief moment Scarlett was dumbstruck – she thought she recognised the face from yesterday’s briefing. She studied the features for a few more seconds before aiming a look at her boss.
Pointing, she said, “Does that look like who I think it is?”
Diane Harris’s face took on a
mystified look.
“Does that look like Greta Aglinsky?”
The DCI’s look changed. Her eyes widened. “Do you know, Scarlett, I think it does.”
****
It was early evening and the Homicide and Serious Crime Unit were assembled in the Major Incident Suite.
“This changes everything,” announced DCI Harris, sweeping her gaze around the room.
Behind her, onscreen, were the various body parts found that morning in the refuse bins. They had been loosely assembled into a recognisable female torso.
The DCI gave a backwards flick of her head. “Fingerprints confirm this is Greta Aglinsky. And, when I say it changes everything, I don’t just mean in terms of our investigation, but our whole future approach as to how we plan our moves and what we circulate.” Deepening her troubled look, she continued, “A couple of things concern me with this find. Firstly, I think we were onto something with our enquiries into Greta Aglinsky. This tells me someone needed her out of the way. And permanently. It’s my belief that Greta either knew the person, or people, involved in the murder of our, as yet, unknown victim in the suitcase, or had information which would identify them.” She tapped the palm of her hand. “There are several things that make me say this. The first is the exact same branding mark on her shoulder as our headless victim. We have already heard that Greta was an illegal, brought in for the purpose of prostitution. And we have also heard that the gangs who bring them in brand them to identify them as their property. This suggests the likelihood that Greta and our headless victim were involved with the same gang. The other thing is the complete lack of any defence injuries on her body. She put up little or no resistance prior to being killed, suggesting that she was more than likely comfortable in their company and had no idea this was going to happen to her.” Pausing for a moment she explored the room. Happy that she had everyone’s attention, she continued, “The other thing the post mortem has revealed is that while her death was caused by strangulation, the pathologist has identified that, as in the case of our first victim, a knife with a serrated edge and a small angle-grinder was used to sever the limbs. Swabs have been taken from the severed areas to determine if there is any transference of DNA from our headless victim. That way we will definitely know if our victim’s have been cut up by the same tools.” Tightening her mouth she tapped her palm again. “I said there were a couple of thing which concerned me. Well, the second is that we have a leak!” She slowly checked the room. “I don’t necessarily mean a deliberate leak, but it’s fair to say that sensitive information from our enquiry has got out which has resulted in the death of Greta Aglinsky. For me, it’s too much of a coincidence that one day after she crops up in our investigation she turns up murdered. And don’t think for one minute I’m pointing the finger at any of you. We also shared this information with Immigration and Vice. So, more to protect ourselves, from now on every bit of information which needs to go out from this room will be scrutinised and logged.” She aimed a direct look at DI Taylor-Butler. “Hayden, I want you to take responsibility for this.”
The DI returned a quick nod and made a note in his journal.
Then she switched her gaze back to her team and added, “If you need to talk with anyone outside of this incident room about this case you run it past the DI first.” She picked out a number of nods of approval and then continued, “Okay, now let’s double-check on what we have in relation to this latest murder. At roughly ten-forty-five this morning, a thirty-two-year-old man was disposing his rubbish in a large refuse bin at the side of Beattie House, where he lives on the fifth floor, when he discovered a black bin liner containing two dismembered arms and a leg. A later search by us found a further six bin liners containing body parts which make up our victim, twenty-year-old Greta Aglinsky. We have also found another bin liner containing female clothing, which is bloodstained and which we believe is hers. Other than how she was killed, which I have already mentioned, that at the moment is all we have.” While she spoke, crime scene photographs of Beattie House and the refuse area to the side of the flats appeared onscreen. Pausing again, she flashed a quick look behind her, took in the pictures and then returned her gaze to the squad. “Right actions in respect of Greta Aglinsky. It’s imperative we find out where she was living, or where she has been staying during the last eleven months since she left the B&B in Dover. Who were her friends or associates she was in daily or regular contact with. We go back through her Immigration file. I also want to know where she was from and who her family are. They’ll need to be informed. Go through Interpol when you do that.” She took a deep breath. “The bloodstained clothing, which we believe is hers, is with Forensics. I’m hoping to get that fast-tracked. Also, we haven’t found where either our two victims were killed.” The imagery onscreen behind her disappeared. A couple of seconds later, photos of their headless victim and a 3D aerial shot of the river bank and woods at Ham appeared. “Right, now back to our first victim. We still haven’t discovered who she is despite our media appeals. That is our main priority.” For the first time since she began her conference a smile emerged. “On a more positive note, we may have a lead on the black four-by-four we circulated. A uniformed officer from Putney contacted the incident room yesterday. Apparently late afternoon, the day before our victim was found, she took a report of a hit-and-run involving a black Audi Q7, which ran into the back of a van. Witnesses have told her that after the accident, and before the Audi drove off, they saw the driver in a violent struggle with a young woman inside the car. The police woman is currently off duty but is back tomorrow morning. I’ve left a message for her to contact me the moment she comes on duty. I’m also hoping the incident has been captured on CCTV. Once I get the exact location I can ask for checks to be done with ANPR.”
Breaking from her speech again she watched several members of the team exchanging knowing looks with one another. She knew they were having the same thoughts as her – this could be a breakthrough. ANPR automatically reads vehicle number plates and logs the movements of vehicles on almost every main road in Britain and the images are held in computers for two years. She clapped her hands and brought their gazes back to meet hers. “Okay that’s it everyone for today. Tomorrow morning, collect your actions and let’s get out there first thing. And one more thing: I don’t need to remind everyone that these are very dangerous people we are dealing with. They’ve already killed twice, and brutally. Everyone needs to be diligent. Any suspicions you have you call in without hesitation.”
Thirty-five
On the third floor of Beattie House Scarlett took a moment out from her house-to-house enquiries. Resting folded arms on the balcony she surveyed the housing project’s communal area below. Beyond an expanse of threadbare grass, inside a fenced-in basketball court, she spied a dozen or so male teenagers playing raucously with a ball. She smiled to herself. There’s a lot of male testosterone flying around inside that court. Although not as rough as them, she had empathy with their competitiveness. As a junior champion and a university runner she had always given it her all, and still pushed herself whenever she went out running, even though the majority of the time she was alone.
She brought back her gaze and pushed herself upright. Close by, at the periphery of her vision, she caught sight of Tarn, about to knock on another door. The next flat on, DCs George Martin and Ella Bloom were trying to get a foot in through a partially opened door. She and her team had been tasked with pressing doorbells and knocking on doors on the Patmore Estate, and so far it had not been an enjoyable experience. The ones who had answered their doors weren’t exactly falling over themselves to talk. She remembered that she had encountered the same reaction two years earlier following a drive-by shooting outside Stockwell tube station. Four gang members from another estate nearby had killed a rival in front of the police and the car they had been driving crashed near here following a chase. One of the gang fled into the estate and a few residents had helped in randomly scattering the evidence. Although
it was all eventually recovered, and the shooter arrested, feelings between the police and the residents were strained and led to high-visibility patrols for some time. It had taken high-level mediation between community leaders and the local district command team to get things back on an even keel.
Half turning, Scarlett was about to join her team when her BlackBerry beeped. She dug it out from her jacket pocket. It was a text from Alex.
“Can you ring me?”
“Busy, ring you in 1 hour”
Seconds later it beeped again.
“It's important.”
She drew in a sharp breath through gritted teeth. Alex had something, just when she didn’t need it. She swung her gaze towards Tarn and caught his attention. Holding up her phone and giving him a look indicating she needed to make a call, she set off towards the stairwell, dialling Alex’s number as she walked.
It was answered after the first ring.
On a hurried note Alex said, “Sorry about this Scarlett, you know I wouldn’t ring you at work unless I thought it was important.”
“Is it Rose?”
“No.” He paused. “It’s about your mobile. Someone just activated it. I know where it is.”
It took a few seconds for what Alex was telling her to sink in. “How do you know this?”
“Don’t ask. It’s another favour I called in. I got a call ten minutes ago and I knew you were at work but I thought it would be something you would want to know. It pinged up early this morning and it’s still on. My contact’s located it to a specific address in Wandsworth.”
Scream, You Die Page 14
