by Tania Carver
‘Not a dogger?’ said Sperring. ‘Get our fair share of those round here.’
‘Must be committed to be out in this weather,’ said Imani. ‘Or need committing. No, this dog-walker saw the body in one of the locks. Supposed to be drained. No chance in this weather.’
‘Did they give a statement?’ asked Phil.
Sperring nodded, thought about having a sip of his tea. Thought better of it. ‘Yeah. Don’t think we’ve got much there. Didn’t see anyone else, anyone acting suspiciously, running away. Nothing. Spotted something in the lock. The dog almost went in looking at it. A woman. Mid to late twenties, as far as we can tell. That’s all we know at the moment.’
Phil nodded. ‘What else do we know about this dog walker?’ he asked.
‘Office worker in the city. Little dog, yappy kind, lives in those posh flats over there by the roundabout. Exercising it so it doesn’t crap all over the carpet while she’s out at work. Didn’t seem the kind to be involved.’
‘They never do,’ said Phil.
At that moment his phone rang. Phil jumped, his heart skipping a beat. He took it from his jacket, almost dropping it in his haste to look at the display. He sighed. No, he thought. He put it to his ear, listened, nodded. Ended the call.
‘That was Jo,’ he said to the other two. ‘She’s ready when we are.’ He stood up. ‘Come on.’
The other two did likewise, Sperring not without difficulty.
Phil felt the wet denim tightening against his legs once more as he moved towards the door. Even worse than when he had entered. The wall of cold air hit him as he stepped outside, but he was chilled from more than the weather. He crossed the road, not looking forward to the sight that was waiting for him.
5
‘So what have we got?’ asked Phil.
Jo Howe straightened up, stared down at the body in front of her. The rain high-hatted on the plastic-sheeted roof, a never-ending irritating drum solo, especially inside Phil’s head. ‘Look for yourself,’ she said. ‘Ask Esme. Her department.’ The way she phrased the words told Phil she was glad she didn’t have to deal with that side of things.
Kneeling beside the body was the pathologist, Esme Russell, arrived while Phil had been over the road. Young, pretty, her hair scraped back into a ponytail, she looked and sounded to Phil more like a debutante at her coming-out party than a professional corpse-prodder at a crime scene.
‘Hey, Esme,’ he said. ‘Good to see you.’
She glanced up at him, nodded, went back to examining the corpse. ‘We’ll have to stop meeting like this. Someone will talk.’ She gestured to the body in front of her. ‘Not this poor creature, though.’
Phil came over, his paper-wrapped boots already threatening to dissolve, clanking wetly on the raised metal CAP. He knelt down beside Esme, as near as he dared to go to the body. His first instinct, even after all his years as a front-line detective, was to look away. Not out of horror. Perhaps decency. But he knew that wasn’t the correct approach, the professional one. Resurrecting this person as a living, breathing human being would come later. Right now, whoever this had been was, just for a few moments, not as important as who – or what – the body was now. A mass of clues. A way in. The climax to a story that he had to write the beginning to. A whodunnit for him to solve.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘She didn’t go easily…’
‘No,’ said Esme. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got. Female. Perhaps in her twenties, thirties, judging by what’s left of her.’
Phil studied the body as dispassionately as he could. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘What’s left. Not to mention what the water’s done to her.’
‘And the things in the water,’ said Esme. ‘Where exactly was she found?’
‘Just outside. In the lock, floating. Someone called us.’
‘Good job she was lying face down,’ said Esme, ‘or whoever found her would have lost their breakfast.’
‘Can you work out what’s been done to her pre- and post-mortem?’
‘Do my best,’ she said. ‘But it’ll take time.’
Phil nodded in agreement, studied the body. It was difficult to differentiate between what her killer had done to her and what had happened in the water. Difficult but not impossible. He made some preliminary judgements.
The woman was white, or had been. Death had discoloured her, the water bloated her. Her face looked bruised and purple. Small chunks of flesh were missing, ragged holes all over.
He pointed to the marks. ‘Rats?’
‘And whatever else was in the water with her.’
Phil shuddered, tried to convince himself it was just the cold and the damp.
Her legs and arms were cut and scored. He peered closer. Small round patches on her skin.
‘What are they?’ he asked Esme.
‘Look like burns to me,’ she said examining them. ‘See here, on her thighs and arms. Mostly her inner thighs.’ She looked closely. ‘I’ll run some more tests later, but it looks like they’ve been allowed to scab over then been burned open again. Hard to tell, everything’s so wet.’
Phil felt his stomach lurch. He swallowed it down, concentrated on the professional, analytical part of his brain.
‘So this was done, what? Over time?’
Esme shrugged. ‘Looks that way.’
‘Can you —’
Esme smiled. ‘I know what you’re going to ask me. And no. I can’t give you a time of death. Not yet. I couldn’t even hazard a guess.’
‘Worth a try,’ said Phil.
Another smile, equally as grim as the first. ‘You should know better than to ask by now.’
‘I know.’ He turned his attention back to the body. ‘What d’you think caused those?’
The other wounds on her arms and legs were deep, straight slices.
‘A knife, I would say. Straight blade, sharp. No serrated or jagged edges. Swift cuts. All done with force, and judging by the depth of the wounds – that one cuts right down to the bone –’ she indicated the right arm, ‘there was a degree of emotion behind the thrusts.’
‘I can guess what kind of emotion,’ said Phil. ‘And what about that?’
Finally. He had kept the biggest till last.
There was something about the body that neither of them had yet mentioned, but it was the one feature they couldn’t ignore. The defining one of the woman’s fatal injuries. The gaping hole in the centre of her body.
‘Well,’ said Esme, ‘I’d say her heart’s been removed.’
‘Yeah,’ said Phil, distracted by the sight. ‘I agree. And it certainly wasn’t the rats.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not unless they were strong enough to crack open her ribs, bend them back and cut the heart out.’
Esme sat back, exhaled. Phil kept staring at the body, hoping it would give up its secrets. He became aware that Esme was watching him. He turned to her. She smiled.
‘Any news?’
Phil frowned, surprised. ‘How did you…’
‘Oh, come on. It’s all over the station. Everyone knows, I’m afraid. Sorry.’
Phil said nothing.
‘How are you?’
Phil felt another shudder inside him that was definitely nothing to do with the cold or the body. ‘I’ve got my work,’ he said. ‘I’m fine.’
She straightened up, face just beside his. ‘If you want to…’ She sighed, almost shook her head, but continued. ‘If you’d like a drink one night, or… I don’t know, dinner… just as, you know. Just as friends. Or…’ A shrug. ‘Friends.’
Phil dredged up a smile. ‘Thank you, Esme, but —’
‘Can we come in yet?’
They both turned. Sperring and Imani were standing at the flap of the tent, getting drenched. The umbrellas they held seemed ineffectual.
‘Sorry,’ said Phil, standing up as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He was aware of Esme moving swiftly away from him. ‘Got caught up. Careful where you stand when you come in.’
/> They entered, saw the body.
‘Jesus,’ said Sperring, ‘Deep breaths all round.’
‘Oh my God…’ Imani screwed her eyes tightly closed.
‘Look at it out of the corner of your eye,’ said Sperring. ‘Like stargazing at night. That’s the way you see constellations and that.’
They all stood in silence, taking in the sight before them.
‘Suppose ID’s a bit too straightforward to hope for,’ said Sperring.
‘There are a couple of tattoos on the body,’ said Esme, ‘One looks like a name. Perhaps her? Or a child?’
‘We’ll check with MisPers,’ said Phil. ‘See if they’ve got anything outstanding that might fit.’
‘So,’ said Imani, ‘what kind of person we looking for? The man that did this?’
‘You think it’s a man?’ asked Phil. ‘Jumping to conclusions.’
Imani shrugged. ‘Well… if it is a man, it’s a man who…’ She couldn’t finish.
Phil kept staring at the body. Nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said, eyes never moving from that gaping wound. ‘Whoever they are, they certainly hate women.’
6
Janine Gillen took a seat slowly, lowered herself carefully. She failed to quell her shaking as she crossed her legs and placed her hands on the armrests. Then she quickly, jerkily smoothed down the front of her blouse. It was Primark but good. Clean, well looked after. She always liked to look her best coming here. Liked to have something to dress up for, to take pride in her appearance. Even this. She took a couple of deep breaths. Tried to relax, or at least look relaxed. Failed.
The man in front of her, Keith Bailey, smiled. Janine relaxed slightly, finding the smile comforting.
‘Just you this time?’ asked Keith.
Janine nodded. ‘I… I tried to…’ She snuffled, drew in a ragged breath through her nose. ‘Just me.’
‘Okay then.’ Keith nodded, smiled once more. Casually dressed, a soft plaid shirt and chinos, blonde hair nicely styled. Glasses. He had notes on his knee but he didn’t consult them. He was familiar enough with Janine’s story. She had been seeing him for a few weeks now. Mostly on her own, which wasn’t ideal, but… that was the way it went sometimes. Unfortunately.
‘So…’ Keith paused, allowed Janine to gather herself before the talking began in earnest. ‘How are things with Terry?’
Janine sighed. The shaking in her hands began again. ‘The… the same. He…’ She took her hands off the armrests, uncrossed her legs. She hugged her arms close to her body, aware of the increasingly violent trembling in her hands, especially the left one. Always the left one. ‘He…’ She sighed. ‘I… I thought things would get better. After, you know. After he came here.’
Keith nodded. He had heard these words – or similar ones – before. Too many times.
‘But he… he… Well, things were okay for a few days. After, you know. The first time. He was… mindful of things. Of me and the twins. He… would think before he… he did things.’
Keith nodded, shifted slightly in his seat. ‘And did he ever seek counselling on his own? Contact the therapist I gave him the number of?’
She shook her head. ‘No. He, he said he would. And I think he meant to, I really do. But he… he didn’t.’
‘Right.’ Keith nodded, made a couple of notes on the pad in his lap. ‘Right. And how is he with the twins?’
The trembling in Janine’s left hand increased. She pushed it tight against her body. ‘He… he started to get angry with them again.’
Keith leaned forward, professional concern in his eyes. ‘Has he hurt them? Attacked them in any way?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Not…’ Another shake of the head, more emphatic this time. ‘No.’
‘You sure?’
She nodded, not making eye contact.
Keith sat back. He had been a marriage counsellor long enough to know when someone was lying to him. And not just lying, covering something up. Something unpleasant. ‘Are you sure, Janine?’
Still she couldn’t make eye contact.
‘Janine?’ Again Keith leaned forward. His voice dropped. ‘Has he hurt the boys?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
Keith sat back, understanding. ‘Has he started hitting you again, Janine?’
She nodded. And that was when the tears, long dammed, erupted.
Janine Darvill had thought she had found the perfect man when she met Terry Gillen. Tall, dark and handsome, with a glint of the roguish bastard twinkle in his eye. As she eventually found out, it wasn’t just a twinkle. And she wasn’t the only one to fall for it. Unfortunately, she was married and pregnant by then.
It had sounded quite romantic, or at least she had made herself believe it was. Meet a handsome man, have kids, be happy ever after. Her friends had stayed on at school, got A levels, gone to college or even, in a few cases, university. And Janine had intended to do that, or something like that. Go to college. Learn hairdressing or beauty, whatever. Get trained. Get a job. Meet a man, have kids… She had done that all right. A mother at seventeen, married at eighteen.
Terry was the first real boyfriend she had ever had. He was a few years older than her and had been around a bit, but she knew that. Liked it even; it made her feel special that such a man of the world had chosen her.
Except he hadn’t. Once the twins were born, he was back out at nights, drinking, disappearing for days on end sometimes. He was a roofer by trade, when he was working, and he sometimes ‘forgot’ to leave her housekeeping money.
Janine was spending more time on her own. Or rather on her own with two squealing babies that she didn’t know how to look after, barely more than a kid herself. And no friends to turn to. They were all in work or at college.
Her mother would help when she could but she also had to look after her stepfather, who was on long-term sick. Janine knew it was alcohol and obesity-related diabetes but her mother insisted he had been injured at work.
Janine couldn’t cope. She had told Terry he had to stay in more, take more responsibility. And that was when he first hit her.
She didn’t know what had happened. He had smacked her across the face, told her to shut her whingeing fucking mouth. She was so stunned that she burst into tears and just lay there. Terry had stormed out. Later, when he returned, he was drunk and tearful. Told her he didn’t know what had happened, that he had never hit a woman before and that he never would again. That men who did that were the worst kind of scum. He begged and begged her to forgive him. So she did. And things got slightly better.
Until he did it again.
And again.
The same treatment, the same drunken remorse afterwards.
And as everything spiralled downwards, Janine tried to work out how her life had come to this. How her romantic ideal had come crashing down around her. She wondered what she had done wrong, how she had displeased him. Couldn’t find anything but knew there must be something. Eventually she told her mother, who said she had to leave him.
She tried. Told him she was going, taking the kids with her. He hit her again, even harder. Told her that she was his, and not to forget it. And hit her again, harder than ever this time. That was the first time the police were called.
After that, things changed. For a while. Knowing that the police would be keeping an eye on him, Terry agreed to marriage counselling. He started to come with Janine to see Keith. And things seemed to be better. But deep down Janine knew it wasn’t peace. It was just the pause before reloading.
And then he started getting angry again.
‘So…’ Keith was saying, ‘he doesn’t hurt the children.’
She shook her head.
‘Is that because he’s taking it out on you instead?’
She felt that she could tell Keith anything, that he would understand. He was a reasonable man, a good man. She wished all men were like him. Or at least the one she had married. She nodded.
‘Right. And is there a pattern to this beha
viour of his? Is he drunk when he does it?’
‘Usually.’
Keith sighed.
They talked for nearly an hour, the whole of the session, Keith being as professionally concerned as he could, Janine sobbing over what had happened to her life. Eventually he opened the file on his lap, took out a card, handed it over.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take this.’
Janine took it, looked at it. Safe Haven, it said. And a phone number.
‘Legally I’m bound to tell the police. And social services. There’s a crime being committed and your children are in danger.’
‘No, please…’ she said between sobs. ‘Please don’t. That’ll just… just make things worse.’
‘Perhaps in the short term, but in the long term it’ll make things better. In the meantime, you need to get out of that house. It’s a toxic environment for you and the kids.’ He looked straight at her, steel in his eyes. ‘You don’t have to put up with this. You deserve better. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.’ He sat back. ‘Think about it. Think about it hard.’
She nodded, clutching the card close to her.
It was time for her to go. They both stood up. Janine was reluctant to leave the room, to go back to her life.
‘Call that number,’ Keith said. ‘They can help you.’
‘Thank you.’ Almost sobbing again.
‘And do it straight away. Things aren’t going to get better with Terry. He’s not going to change. Get out of there as quick as you can.’
Janine nodded once more and the tears started again.
She waited until they had subsided, then, aided by copious amounts of tissues from the often-replenished box in Keith’s room, made her way outside, the card clutched tightly in her hand.
Terrified, but ready to make a positive change to her life.
7
Seedy. It was a word that Phil had, of course, often heard and often used. He knew its original meaning – gone to seed, no use any more – and its more recent connotation – the above but with an added layer of sleaze – but he had never seen such a perfectly apt example of both definitions sitting in front of him.
