by Val McDermid
Vance had pinpointed three places where he could stage the next part of his plan. It all depended on traffic. He didn’t want any witnesses, not at a stage in his escape when he had no weapon to defend himself. So far, one van had passed them, going in the opposite direction, but there was nothing in sight ahead of them as they climbed a long steep incline. He shifted in his seat so he could catch a glimpse in the rear-view mirror, making it look as if he was taking in the view. ‘Bloody lovely round here,’ he said. ‘You forget, inside.’ Then he jumped, genuinely startled. ‘What the hell is that?’ he demanded.
The cabbie laughed. ‘How long have you been away? It’s a wind farm. Giant windmills. They catch the wind and make electricity. Plenty wind up here, so there’s plenty windmills too.’
‘Jesus,’ Vance said. ‘They’re bloody enormous.’ And, fortuitously, their conversation had made the driver less attentive. The moment was perfect. They were approaching a T-junction, the first of Vance’s possible attack points. The car drifted to a halt, the driver pausing to point out more windmills on the horizon before checking for oncoming traffic.
In a split second, Vance smashed the forearm of his prosthesis into the side of the cabbie’s head. The man yelped and threw his hands up to protect himself. But Vance was remorseless and his artificial arm was a weapon far more solid than the bone and muscle of a human limb. He brought it down again on the man’s head, then swiped it hard against his face, smiling as the blood gushed from his nose. Vance used his other hand to release his seat belt so he could gain more leverage. He moved forward and cracked him across the head again, so hard he bounced off the window. The man was screaming now, hands clawing at Vance.
‘Fuck this,’ Vance hissed. He got his arm behind the driver’s head and rammed him face first into the steering wheel. After the third sickening crunch, the man finally went limp. Vance unfastened the driver’s belt and freed him from its constraint. Still pumped with adrenaline, he jumped out of the car and hustled round to the driver’s side. When he opened the door, the driver slumped towards the road. Vance squatted down and got one shoulder under his torso. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to his feet. All those hours in the gym had been worth it. He’d made sure to build strength and endurance rather than exaggerated muscle; he’d never seen any point in being obvious.
Vance staggered as far as the hedgerow that bordered the road. Breathing heavily, feeling his heart hammer in his chest, he dumped the driver on to the top bar of a metal field gate, then tipped him over on the far side. He grinned at the startled expressions on the faces of the nearest sheep as the cabbie tumbled to the ground, arms and legs flailing weakly.
He leaned against the gate for a moment, catching his breath, letting himself recover from the overdose of fight-orflight hormones. Then he returned to the car, this time to the driver’s seat. He cancelled the right turn on the indicator, slipped the car into drive then turned left, the opposite direction to Evesham Fabrications. He reckoned it would take him about forty minutes to make it to the service area on the motorway and the next stage of the plan.
He couldn’t help wondering how long it would take before someone noticed Jason Collins was still on the Therapeutic Community Wing. And Jacko Vance wasn’t. Before they understood that one of the most notorious and prolific serial killers the UK had ever produced was on the loose. And keen to make up for lost time.
This time, his grin lasted a lot longer than a few minutes.
9
Paula shuffled her papers and stifled a yawn. ‘I’m ready when you are,’ she said, moving closer to the whiteboards that lined one wall of the cluttered squad room. Carol wondered whether she’d managed any sleep at all. Paula would have had to hang around at the crime scene to make sure everything was being done according to the Major Incident Team’s protocols. Then she’d have had to go back to Northern HQ with their detectives and set up the programme of actions for the morning shift to carry out, again according to Carol’s specifications. And now she was charged with delivering the morning briefing to this close circle of colleagues who had learned each other’s ways with as much acuteness as they’d ever paid to a lover.
This was the squad Carol had hand-picked and built into the best unit she’d ever worked with. If James Blake hadn’t walked into the Chief Constable’s job with a personal mission to cut costs to the bone long before the idea occurred to the Prime Minister, she’d have been happy to stick with this bunch till she was ready to collect her pension. Instead, she was about to take another of her leaps into the unknown. Only this time, it felt like she was following instead of leading. Not the most reassuring prospect she’d ever faced.
‘Briefing in five,’ she shouted, giving them time to wind up whatever they were doing. Stacey Chen, their computer specialist, invisible behind her array of six monitors, grunted something inarticulate. Sam Evans, deep in a phone call, gave her the thumbs-up. Her two sergeants, Kevin Matthews and Chris Devine, raised their heads from the huddle they’d been forming over their cups of coffee and nodded.
‘Got all you need?’ Carol asked.
‘I think so.’ Paula reached for her coffee. ‘Northern sent me everything from the first two deaths, but I’ve not had time to go through it in detail.’
‘Do your best,’ Carol said, heading for the coffee maker and fixing herself a latte with an extra shot. Another thing she’d miss. They’d clubbed together to buy the Italian machine to satisfy everyone’s caffeine cravings. Apart from Stacey, who insisted on Earl Grey tea. She doubted there would be anything comparable in Worcester.
And speaking of missing, there was no sign of Tony. In spite of his bold promises, it looked as though he hadn’t managed to deliver. She tried to dismiss the disappointment that threatened her; it had never been a likely outcome, after all. They’d just have to wrestle their way through the case without his help.
Carol crossed back to the whiteboards, where the rest of the team were gathering. She couldn’t help admiring the exquisite cut of Stacey’s suit. It was clearly bespoke, and expensively so. She was aware that the team geek had her own software business independent of her police job. Carol had never enquired too closely, believing they all had a right to a private life away from the shit they had to wade through at work. But it was clear from her wardrobe alone that Stacey had an income that dwarfed what the rest of them earned. One of these days Sam Evans was going to notice the almost imperceptible signs that Stacey was crazy about him. When Sam the superficial put that together with her net worth, there would be no stopping him. But by the looks of it, Carol would be long gone before that happened. One drama she wouldn’t be sorry to miss.
Paula cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. There was nothing bespoke about her creased jeans and rumpled brown sweater, the same clothes she’d been wearing when she’d picked Carol up the night before. ‘We were called in last night by Northern Division. The body of an as yet unidentified female was found in an empty warehouse on the Parkway industrial estate.’ She fixed two photographs to a whiteboard, one of the whole crime scene with the crucified body at the heart of it, the other of the woman’s face. ‘As you can see, she was nailed to a wooden cross then propped up against the wall. Upside down. Gruesome, but probably not enough to involve us on its own.’
She stuck three more photographs on the board. Two were identifiably tattooed human wrists; the other could have been any scrap of material with letters written on it. In each case, the letters spelled ‘MINE’. Paula turned back to face her colleagues. ‘What makes it one of ours is that it’s apparently number three. What links them is the tatt on the wrist. That and the fact that they’ve all been found on Northern’s patch, which isn’t necessarily where you’d expect to find dead sex workers.’
‘Why not?’ Chris Devine was the team member least familiar with the nuances of Bradfield’s social geography, having originally moved up from the Met.
‘Most of the street life happens around Temple Fields in the city centre. A
lso most of the inside trade,’ Kevin said. ‘There’s a couple of pockets on the main arteries out of town, but Northern’s pretty clean on the whole.’
‘My liaison at Northern’s a DS called Franny Riley,’ Paula said. ‘He told me they’ve had a hotspot lately round the new hospital building site. Half a dozen or so women working the area where the labourers park up. He thinks they’ve mostly been East Europeans, probably trafficked. But our first two victims were both local women, so maybe not connected to that.’ Another photo, this time of a worn-out face with sunken eyes, prominent cheekbones and lips tightly pressed together. Nobody ever looked good in a mugshot, but this woman looked particularly pissed off. ‘The first victim, Kylie Mitchell. Aged twenty-three. Crackhead. Five convictions for soliciting, one for minor possession. She mostly worked on the edges of Temple Fields, but she grew up in the high flats out at Skenby – which is bang in the middle of Northern’s patch, Chris. She was strangled and dumped under the ring-road overpass three weeks ago.’ Paula nodded to Stacey. ‘Stacey’s setting up the files on our network.’
Stacey flashed a smile so quick anyone who blinked would have missed it. ‘They’ll be available at the end of the briefing,’ she said.
‘Kylie’s the usual depressing story. Dropped out of school with no qualifications and a taste for partying. Soon graduated to sex for drugs, then moved on to working the streets to support her crack habit. She had a kid when she was twenty, taken straight into care, adopted six months later.’ Paula shook her head and sighed. ‘As far as the sex trade is concerned, Kylie was a bottom feeder. She’d got to the point of no return. No fixed abode, no pimp looking out for her. Easy meat for someone looking for the worst kind of thrill.’
‘How many times have we heard this story?’ Sam sounded as bored as he looked.
‘Too many times. Believe me, Sam, no one would be happier than me if we never had to hear it again,’ Carol said. The rebuke was clear. ‘What do we know about her last movements, Paula?’
‘Not a lot. She didn’t even have any of the other girls looking out for her. She was notorious for taking no care of herself. She was up for anything, didn’t care about using a condom. The other girls had given up on her. Or she’d given up on them, it’s not entirely clear which way round it was. The night of the murder, she was seen around nine o’clock on Campion Way, right on the edge of Temple Fields. We think a couple of the regulars there warned her off their pitch. And that’s it. Nothing, till she turns up under the overpass.’
‘What about forensics?’ Kevin asked.
‘Traces of semen from four different sources. None of them on the database, so that’s only going to have any value once we’ve got someone in the frame. Other than that, all we’ve got is the tattoo. Done postmortem, that’s why there’s no inflammation.’
‘Does that mean we’re looking for a tattoo artist? Someone with professional skills?’ Chris asked.
‘We need to get some expert opinion on that,’ Carol said. ‘And we need to find out how easy it is to get hold of a tattoo machine. Talk to suppliers, see if we can get a list of recent purchases.’
Sam got up to study the tattoo photos more closely. ‘It doesn’t look that skilled to me. But then, that in itself could be deliberate.’
‘Too soon to speculate,’ Carol said. ‘Who found her, Paula?’
‘Couple of teenagers. DS Riley reckons they were looking for a quiet spot to neck a bottle of cider. There’s an old stripped-out Transit van down there, the nearest the local kids have to a youth club. She was shoved in the front end. Where the engine would be if there was an engine left. No real attempt to hide her. Northern already did a door-to-door locally, but the nearest houses are a good fifty metres away, and it’s their back sides that face the crime scene. No joy at all.’
‘Let’s do it again,’ Carol said. ‘She wasn’t beamed down from outer space. Paula, sort it with DS Riley.’
‘Will do.’ Paula pinned another mugshot to the board. ‘This is Suzanne Black, known as Suze. Aged twenty-seven. Half a dozen convictions for soliciting. Not quite as far down the scale as Kylie. Suze shared a flat in one of the Skenby tower blocks with another sex worker, a rent boy called Nicky Reid. According to Nicky, she used to pick up her tricks in the Flyer—’
‘What’s the Flyer?’ Carol interrupted.
‘It’s a pub round the back of the airport, near the cargo area. An old-fashioned roadhouse kind of place. It dates back to when the airport was just Brackley Field aerodrome in the war,’ Kevin said. ‘It’s not a place you’d take the wife and kids for Sunday lunch, but it’s a couple of steps up from a dive.’
‘Nicky says she had a few regulars,’ Paula continued. ‘Cargo handlers at the airport, mostly. Like Kylie, she had a habit, though her drug of choice was heroin. Nicky says she’d been using for years, that she functioned pretty well. Also like Kylie, she didn’t have a pimp. He says she had a long-standing arrangement with her drug supplier – any trouble with anybody trying to muscle in on her business, he’d sort them. She was a good customer.’ A wry twist lifted one corner of Paula’s mouth. ‘And she put other custom his way too.’
‘When did Nicky last see her?’ Carol again.
‘Two weeks ago. They left the flat together. He went into Temple Fields, she was heading for the Flyer. Next day when he got up, she wasn’t there. No sign that she’d been back. He left it a couple of days, in case she was off with one of her mates or her regulars, though that would have been unusual for her.’ Paula shook her head, faintly bemused. ‘The way Nicky describes it, they had this really domesticated set-up.’
‘Who knew?’ Sam sounded contemptuous.
‘So on the third day, Nicky tried to report Suze missing. His nearest police station happens to be Northern Divisional HQ. To say they were not interested would be a profound understatement. Nicky had a come-apart in reception and nearly got arrested himself. But no action was taken. The body turned up four days ago in the Brade Canal in the course of an angling competition. According to the pathologist, she’d been drowned, but not in the Brade.’
Paula clicked a button on the pointer in her hand and a video window sprang to life on the whiteboard. Dr Grisha Shatalov, the pathologist, smiled out at them in his scrubs. His warm voice with its soft Canadian accent was stripped to tinnyness by the cheap speakers. ‘When we have an apparent drowning, the first thing we look for is whether it really is a drowning. Especially if the victim is, like this one, a drug user. Because sometimes a drug overdose can look like a drowning, the way the lungs fill up with fluid. But I can tell you for sure that, although Suzanne Black was a heroin user, this was not a drug overdose.
‘So now we have to figure out if she was drowned where she was found. Have I told you about diatoms before? Doesn’t matter if I have, I’m going to tell you again. Diatoms are microscopic creatures, a bit like plankton. They’ve got shells made of silicate, and they live in open water. Fresh water, salt water. Lakes and rivers. Every body of water has different diatoms. They’re like a fingerprint, and they also vary according to the time of year.’ His smile grew wider. ‘You guys are fascinated, right? OK, I’ll cut to the chase. When you drown, the diatoms make their way into your tissues. Lungs, kidneys, bone marrow, that kind of thing. We dissolve the tissue in acid and what’s left is proof of what river or lake you drowned in.
‘Well, we did the analysis and there are no diatoms in Suzanne Black’s body. That means one thing and one thing only. She did not die in the canal. She died in tap water. Or filtered water, maybe. We ran some tests on her lungs and we found traces of soap, which to my mind narrows it down to a bath or a deep sink. I hope this little lecture has been helpful.’
Carol shook her head. ‘Smooth-talking bastard. One of these days I’m going to get the prosecution to play one of his cheery little vids to the jury. However, this is really useful information. We’re not looking for a struggle by the canal, we’re looking for wherever he took her for a bath.’
‘May
be he took her home with him,’ Kevin suggested.
‘He seems to be careful,’ Carol said. ‘I don’t know that he’d have risked that. We need to find out where she took her punters. OK, on you go, Paula.’
‘She was fully dressed when she was found,’ Paula said. ‘She wasn’t weighted down, but the body had snagged on the usual canal debris, so she’d been in the water a while. They didn’t catch the tattoo at first because the skin was so degraded.’
Carol winced at the word. No matter that it would have been used by Grisha himself; it still felt like an adjective that had no place being applied to a human body. ‘But there’s no doubt about it?’
Paula shook her head. ‘Dr Shatalov is clear. It’s a postmortem tattoo and it looks very similar to the ones on Kylie and our Jane Doe.’
‘If she drowned in a bath, there’s a chance someone saw her with her killer. He had to take her somewhere with a bath. A house, a hotel or something,’ Chris said.
‘That’s right. We need to get her photo on the local news, see what that brings out of the woodwork. Kevin, talk to the flatmate, Nicky. See if he has any photos of her.’ Carol frowned, considering. ‘Let’s keep a lid on the connection for now, if we can. Penny Burgess has been sniffing round, but Dr Hill sent her off with a flea in her ear. She talks to any of you, do the same.’ She gave Kevin a direct look, but he was ostentatiously scribbling in his notebook. ‘We’ll get DS Reekie to do the press call, keep MIT out of the picture for now, let the media think this is his. If our killer thinks he’s not caught our attention, it might provoke him into breaking cover.’
‘Or killing again,’ Paula said, shoulders slumped. ‘Because, right now, we’ve got almost nothing you could call a lead.’
‘Any chance we could get Tony to take a look at this?’ Everyone froze at Kevin’s query. Sam stopped fidgeting, Chris stopped taking notes, Stacey stopped tapping on her smartphone and Paula’s expression was fixed at incredulity.
