by Tania Carver
‘Raped?’ asked Cotter.
‘Looks that way,’ said Phil. ‘Or at least it was attempted. Either by him being very careful or by using something else.’
‘Maybe he couldn’t get it up,’ chimed in Sperring.
‘It’s a thought,’ said Phil. ‘Then he cut out her heart before dumping the body.’
‘Was that the cause of death?’ asked Cotter.
‘Probably not,’ said Phil. ‘Her body just gave up under all the abuse, it looks like. The heart-cutting took place post-mortem.’
‘Find the heart, find the killer,’ said Cotter.
Phil nodded, even though he could have done without the interruption.
‘So far,’ he said, ‘we’ve been looking at the husband, Roy Adderley. DS Sperring and I paid him a visit at his place of work, Birmingham International, yesterday. He ran when we tried to question him. Now he’ll only talk with a solicitor present.’
‘Feelings?’ said Cotter.
‘Seems like a good fit. He’s got previous for assault and actual bodily harm. There’s also been a history of disturbances at the Adderley household, and while there were no charges, he’s been cautioned for spousal abuse and domestic violence. But he says that’s all in the past and he’s found God now.’
Sperring put his hand up. Phil nodded at him. It hurt to do so.
‘Now he’s just battering for Jesus,’ said Sperring. ‘I spoke to DS Ellison yesterday, who handled the initial MisPer inquiry, and he fancied him for it too. The daughter was a witness but she was inconclusive as to whether he was the one who drove her mother away. We can’t rule out the idea that he could have paid someone to do it.’
‘Has he an alibi for the night of Gemma Adderley’s disappearance?’ asked Cotter.
‘Said he was at a Bible study group for his church,’ said Sperring again. ‘But that was a lie, may God forgive him. He was with his mistress. I’ll talk to him today, see if he can elaborate on that.’
‘He still looks the likeliest suspect at the moment, but we can’t rule out someone else,’ said Phil. ‘The body must have been dropped in the canal sometime on Sunday night. We’ve set up a mobile incident room on site, but so far no one’s come forward.’ He turned to a young Asian woman sitting by a computer. ‘How’s the CCTV going, Elli?’
Elli looked slightly nervous to have all the attention of the room focused on her. She was even more relaxed in her dress than Phil, taking the laissez-faire he had introduced to an extreme. It was tolerated because she was the team’s resident expert on all things computer-related. Today’s T-shirt was advertising a 1950s Bela Lugosi movie, Bride of the Monster. The garishly rendered monster on the front was a visual representation of how Phil felt.
‘Slowly,’ she said. ‘I’ve requisitioned all the footage from cameras in the area, but nothing so far. We’re still looking for vans.’
‘Or a boat,’ said DC Imani Oliver.
Phil looked over to her. She was young, local, black and ambitious. But not ambitious in a political, careerist manner, just to be the best detective she could be. Working-class, university-educated. That dedication to the job had made her enemies in the department. But Phil liked her – and more importantly, trusted her – enormously.
‘Good point,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ said Imani.
Phil nodded in acknowledgement, making the room spin once more.
‘This sounds like the work of a full-on nutter,’ said Imani. ‘Ripping the heart out, taking a boat down the canal, or a van, all that. I mean, he must have somewhere he’s taken the victim to… do what he gets up to. That takes planning, forethought. Would it help to have a psychologist on board to give us a profile, or at least some clues on how to proceed?’
Phil didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. He shivered, his stomach tumbling from more than the hangover.
In the silence, Cotter answered. ‘Good idea, Imani. Might be helpful, but for the moment we’ll keep on with what we’re doing.’
Imani nodded in response.
‘Right,’ said Cotter. ‘There is one other thing that I was only made aware of just before this briefing.’
She looked round the room, ensuring she had everyone’s full attention.
‘There was a killing last night in West Bromwich.’
She paused. Sperring was about to go for a funny remark, so she cut him off.
‘And there may be a connection with Gemma Adderley.’
‘What d’you mean?’ asked Phil.
Cotter drew herself up to her full height, looked at the team once more. ‘A young mother. Janine Gillen. Killed in what seemed like a hit-and-run. But the car was used more as a murder weapon. She was chased off the road into Oakwood Park, where the driver seems to have deliberately targeted her. Mowed her down, and then, just to make sure she was dead, ran over the body several times.’
A ripple of disgust went round the room.
‘So how does that link in with this case?’ asked Imani.
‘The on-duty pathologist noticed something odd about the body,’ said Cotter. ‘Despite the extreme damage, the driver seems to have gone back and removed something. Guess what?’
‘The heart,’ said Phil.
‘Right,’ said Cotter.
Phil felt that thrill run through him. He knew this was something, the strands of the inquiry knitting together. His pulse quickened; adrenalin kicked through the nausea. ‘A car,’ he said. ‘Any idea what time?’
‘Last night sometime,’ said Cotter. ‘No more details yet.’
Phil could almost feel his body vibrate with excitement. ‘It’s him,’ he said, barely able to get his words out.
‘Who?’ asked Cotter.
‘Adderley. Definitely. It’s him.’
She turned to him, a genuinely quizzical expression on her face. ‘Why d’you suppose that?’
‘He went out in his car last night,’ said Phil. ‘Didn’t come home until after three in the morning.’
‘And how d’you know this?’
Phil looked round the room. The team were waiting for an answer. He paused, thought up a more convincing answer than the one he had been about to give.
‘I… got someone to follow him. Find out where he went, what he did.’
Silence from Cotter. Phil felt himself reddening once more.
‘After yesterday, I thought…’ He shrugged, tried to make it natural. ‘He was a person of interest. Maybe even the prime suspect. So I got someone to follow him. That’s all.’
‘Who?’ asked Cotter.
‘A…’ Phil thought quickly once more. ‘Confidential Informant. Owed me a favour. Got him to sit outside Adderley’s house, see if anything happened. Good job too.’
‘What state was the car in when it came back?’ asked Imani.
‘Don’t know,’ said Phil. ‘We can send someone over to assess it after we bring him in.’ He looked at Cotter hopefully.
She returned his look, but it held more questions than answers.
Phil swallowed hard. Like rocks in his throat. ‘Shall we, then?’ he said. ‘Bring him in?’
‘Do it,’ said Cotter. ‘But don’t jump to conclusions. And remember, he’ll have his solicitor with him. We don’t want the interview stopped before it’s started.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Phil. He turned to his team. ‘Right. Here we go. Imani, you go to West Bromwich, see what you can find out about last night.’
Imani nodded.
‘Ian, you’re coming with me. We’re going to pick up Mr Adderley for a little chat. Elli, keep on keeping on. See what you can turn up.’ He looked at the rest of the team. ‘Right. Let’s get this guy.’
‘Remember what I said,’ said Cotter. ‘Find the heart, find the killer. Bear that in mind. And quick. Once the press makes the connection – even if there isn’t one – between these two murders they’re going to be all over us. The last thing we need.’
Orders given, the team moved their chairs back, made ready to
get on with the day. Cotter looked at Phil.
‘A word, please,’ she said. ‘In my office.’
Feeling nauseous all over again, Phil followed her.
24
It was useless. No, worse than useless. There was no connection. It meant nothing to him at all. Nothing.
He held the heart in his latex-gloved hands, stared at it. Crushed and broken, the blood congealed and hardened on its surface. He felt nothing for it at all. Might as well be some butcher’s offal.
He scanned the room, searching for the right box, the correct final resting place for the heart. But nothing spoke to him. The one he’d had planned, a dark wooden Indian box decorated with carvings and inlaid ivory, wouldn’t do now. He had chosen that box specifically. The right box designed to invoke the desired memories. He had then planned to work as he usually did. Acquire the body, spend the right amount of time preparing it, remove the heart, leave the body in the correct place and alignment, then, once alone, undertake the breaking ritual. And afterwards experience what the ritual intended: the healing.
But not this time.
He looked round his room. The boxes were all in their places on the shelves. All hand-chosen, carefully considered. Some were already filled. But many more were still awaiting their contents. And that was understandable. Because this room held his life, his inner life. His real life. All his fears and rejections, his darkest secrets and disappointments. And he hadn’t finished dealing with them yet. Hadn’t finished working through them.
And now this. West Bromwich. West fucking Bromwich. What had that place to do with him? Ever? Nothing. No connection at all. Totally wrong.
He had panicked, that was what had happened, what he had to admit to himself. He had seen her body lying there and had thought quickly. His car had made plenty of noise, leaving the road and taking to the park, and her screams had been shrill and plentiful. Both those noises would have eventually brought people over, no matter how reluctant most of them were to step outside their doors at night. So he had knelt down and got to work.
A few cuts, some deeper incisions. Wasn’t hard this time. Wasn’t much of her left. His car had done the job for him. She looked more like a carrier bag of badly wrapped butcher’s meat, crushed, dripping and splitting all over the place, than a human being. Her ribs smashed where the wheels had gone over her torso. He had snapped on the latex gloves, pushed inside her body. Her heart, or what was left of it, came out easily.
Then in his car and quickly away before anyone came. He had scanned the windows as he drove out of the park once more. Nothing out of the ordinary, no one watching. Or no one that he could see. He had kept his lights off and driven slowly. Coming quietly down the grassy ridge, finding a space in a row of parked cars. Well away from the street lights, he had parked up, watched.
Nothing. No one. Either he hadn’t been heard, or no one wanted to get involved. Knowing human nature, he knew which one he believed.
Once he was certain he wasn’t going to be discovered, he simply put his lights on and drove carefully away. The car was a bit of a mess, though. The front bent and bashed where he had hit her, the wheel wells and sides blood-splattered. He would have to get it cleaned. Repaired, even. Or perhaps just dump it, torch it and report it stolen. For now it was garaged, but he’d have to take it out at some point. He needed time to think about that. For now, he had more pressing matters to attend to.
The police, for one thing. What had he left at the scene? No fingerprints, as he was wearing gloves. Fibres? DNA? Could he have done that? He was always so scrupulous, so controlled about every aspect of his work, hated to let anything get out of hand, hated any variables he couldn’t account for. Everything was meticulously planned.
Usually.
But last night… Had he done the right thing in taking the heart? Maybe he should have just left it there. Let them put her death down to a hit-and-run. Okay, a chase, hit and run, but nevertheless. Had he left footprints in the blood? On the grass? Could they get prints from that? Catch him from it? What about his car tyres? He didn’t know. Didn’t know anything.
He felt himself becoming agitated. No, he told himself, keep calm, keep controlled. He closed his eyes. Think. No matter what they had, witness statements or DNA, they had to find him first. Make a match. And he wasn’t on file. That was the thing to keep in mind all the time. Plus his face had been covered. And his number plate was obscured and unreadable. Precautions. Control. He was all about that. And he had to keep reminding himself of that when the other moods threatened to take over.
He looked at the heart in his hands once more. Then at the box he had prepared for it. He had to do something, had to try… He closed his eyes. Tried to summon up the memories, the images, get the ritual started.
Nothing.
He sighed, opened his eyes. Felt anger rising within him. This wasn’t right. Wasn’t right…
Closed his eyes, tried again.
Waited, waited…
Nothing.
Anger welled inside him once more. Typical. Bloody typical. Just like all women. Leading him on, getting him to make mistakes. Even when they were dead…
‘You coming?’
The voice came from outside the room. It hit him as swift and hard as a wrecking ball swung into his chest.
‘I… I’ll be along in a minute.’
‘Well, hurry up, then. You know what the traffic’s like at this time in the morning. Shall we take my car?’
‘Yes.’ Too quickly. He took a breath, calmed himself. ‘That’s fine. We’ll take yours.’
Reluctantly he placed the heart in the box allocated for it, then stripped off his gloves, dropping them in the bin.
‘Mustn’t keep her waiting,’ he said, feeling that familiar nub of anger inside him once more. ‘Mustn’t keep that cunt bitch waiting…’
He turned off the lights, locked the door and, forcing himself to stay controlled, made his way back into the real world.
25
‘Come in. Close the door behind you.’
Phil did so. He eyed the seat before Cotter’s desk, but, tempting though it looked, didn’t sit down on it.
Cotter seated herself behind the desk, looked up, noticed Phil was still standing. ‘Sit down, then.’
He did so.
Cotter had the senior office, the corner office. The room was a reflection of her personality: sleek, uncluttered, efficient. The only traces of a life beyond work were an unostentatious framed photo of herself and her partner, Jane Munnery, a city lawyer, and a squash racquet and gym bag in the corner of the room.
She regarded Phil with the kind of scrutinising stare she usually reserved for the interview room. In his fragile state, he felt himself begin to wilt under it.
‘I was going to ask how you were,’ she said, ‘but I can see that for myself.’
Phil didn’t reply. Just looked at his feet. This room wasn’t spinning quite so much as the previous one, but it was still enough to make him feel queasy. That and the expectation of what Cotter was going to say.
‘You were a shambles out there,’ she said, pointing to the main office. ‘You stink of booze and you can barely stand upright. And you’re white as a sheet.’ She scrutinised him further. ‘Are you white? Or are you green?’
‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ said Phil, as steadily as he could. ‘I’ve… had a few personal issues to take care of.’
‘I’m well aware of that. And I’m not unsympathetic. You’ve got some leave coming up. I think you should take it.’
The words, while hardly unexpected, still hit Phil hard. ‘But I’m in the middle of an inquiry. I’m CIO.’
‘Look at you. Stumbling all over the place —’
‘I had a bad night.’
‘Don’t interrupt me.’ Cotter’s eyes shone darkly. ‘Look at the way you’re dressed. I’ve always given you a certain leeway in regard to this department’s dress code, but you’ve gone too far. A T-shirt and jeans? And when was the last time your fac
e was acquainted with a razor?’
Phil sighed, found he couldn’t answer back to anything she had said. ‘Sorry.’
‘I should imagine you are.’
He held up his hand. ‘Could I just say something?’
Cotter sat back, waited. Clearly she had been expecting this. ‘Go on.’
‘In there.’ He gestured to the main office. ‘The briefing. Was I out of order? Did I handle it badly?’
‘You looked terrible. You smelled drunk. That’s unprofessional.’
‘With respect, ma’am,’ said Phil, choosing his words carefully, ‘I’m not the first copper to turn up hungover and I definitely won’t be the last.’
‘True.’
‘So did I handle it badly? The look and the smell aside, of course.’
Cotter thought. ‘No. I suppose you didn’t. Overall. Other than a little slurring of words.’
Phil said nothing.
Cotter leaned forward. ‘Look, Phil. You’re a bloody good detective. One of my best. You’re unconventional at times and, Ian assures me, a pain in the arse. But I tolerate that because you get results. But not this time. Take time out, Phil. Get some help. We can provide you with someone through the department. Work things through. Then, when you’re ready, come back to work.’ Her words were straightforward; her voice, while professional, was not unkind.
‘But like you said,’ said Phil, ‘I was all right in there. In the briefing.’
‘Yes, all things considered, I suppose you were.’
‘Last night was bad. I drank too much. But I’m still focused on this case. I’m still in charge. I can still do it.’
