“Yeah, that’s about right.”
“Geri Harding. I apologize, Anton. She hounded me all morning, and she must have followed me here.”
“Ah. Her. What does she want?”
“More money for her promotions and her commissions. She showed up at my office with a list of properties and subsidiaries. Southwark was one of them. And Brent Park. She implied she’d talk to R&C if she didn’t get what she wanted.”
“And should she get what she wants?”
“It might not hurt to throw her a bone. Especially if Brent Park is involved.” Greene rose from his chair. “I’ll go take care of it.”
“No, Nilo will take care of it. Nilo, go tell her that I’m sorry, I can’t meet with her right now, but I will be happy to talk with her, ummm, at two PM. Monday.”
“But you’ll be in . . .” The young man glanced at Greene. “You won’t be here.”
“Tell her what she wants to hear, set an appointment. I’m sure you can charm her. Then see her on her way.” He looked up at Greene. “Is there anything else you want to discuss? No? Why don’t you avoid a confrontation and leave down the back stairs.”
SEVENTEEN
Elaine’s Monday started with a status meeting. Paula and Simon were unable to interview Geri Harding, the estate agent. She apparently hadn’t been into the office, nor had she called. The receptionist at the business center implied that it wasn’t the first time. They had left a request for her to call as soon as she arrived and would check again Tuesday.
Evan Cromarty had done excellent work. He had succeeded in identifying eighteen similar unsolved cases in various cities around England, including three in London. The correlation between the cases was striking, and two of the victims in London had the signature slashed cheek. Elaine set an action to call the investigating officers and track down the London victims, both of whom who had survived the assault.
Cranwell called her to his office after the meeting adjourned. “I have something for you. This came today.” He handed her an envelope. “I suggest that you open it now.” Elaine took the envelope and ripped it open. “Congratulations, DCI Hope. A little bird told me last week, but I was sworn to secrecy.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s been one of my goals ever since I began with the force.”
“Well, I’m very pleased with you. I think the committee made an excellent choice. Now tell me what’s new with Sheila’s case.”
He listened as she explained the team’s progress. When she told him about the similar crimes they had found, he held up his hand. “That makes three unsolved crimes with a similar signature. Serial Crime won’t be happy if we don’t report it to them.”
“Sir, I think we can hold off doing that until we can investigate further. There’s no definite connection between any of the incidents. If we establish one—and if there’s a strong indication the attacker is the same person—then let’s make that decision.”
“You know as well as I do that I can’t delay. It’s the regulation, and they carry a much bigger political stick than I do.”
“I’d like it better if you’d keep what we’ve found to yourself until we know more.”
Cranwell considered. “Look at it this way. Let’s suppose you don’t have enough evidence to draw a solid connection. That it’s speculation, a working hypothesis . . . which it is right now, right?” His voice trailed off and he looked at her askance.
She returned his gaze. “Of course it is, sir. Speculation. Nothing solid at all. And I’ve heard Serial Crime is stretched even thinner than we are.”
“Right. Let’s let them make the decision now, while they have a choice. Pull together what you have and I’ll notify them.”
She nodded. “Right away, sir.”
“You seem to already have a good feel for the DCI role, Elaine.”
“Thank you, sir.” She rose to leave.
Back in her office, Paula, Bull, and Liz stared at Elaine across her desk. Their downcast expressions portrayed the disappointment she knew they each felt about turning the case over to Serial Crime. Perhaps they felt a bit of betrayal as well. She had set the table and then had thrown the meal in the bin as soon as they had sat down. It couldn’t be helped. “Pull together what we have. Facts only, though. No interesting conjectures or speculations. Serial Crime will make a quicker decision that way. Now why don’t we adjourn and you can start that after lunch. Food’s on me.”
A noise caused her to look up. Jenkins stood at her office door, his fists clenched at his side, his face contorted with anger.
“You’re finally doing it, aren’t you, bitch!” Jenkins hissed. “You and the other cunts! Filing disciplinary complaints. You’re getting me sacked! Do you want to know what I think of that?”
Elaine rose from her chair and walked around her desk to confront him. “I don’t care what you think. It’s high time you left. You’ll go to your hearing and you’ll be sacked. But you did it to yourself. It’s all catching up to you.”
“I won’t be going to any bloody hearing. I’ll quit before I let a whore like you run me out.” He took a step toward Elaine.
Bull leaped up and moved in front of Elaine. Jenkins appeared unfazed. He looked up at the huge man towering over him. “Right, Bull. You always were a suck-up.”
Bull bristled. Elaine put her hand on his arm. “You can sit down, Bull. I can handle him.” She leveled her gaze at Jenkins. “If you’re going to quit, do it. The sooner the better. Now get out of my office.”
Jenkins turned but hesitated at the door. “You think you’re rid of me, Hopeless. You’re not.”
EIGHTEEN
DC Prameela Patel pressed herself against the wall of the entrance foyer to let a hurrying constable pass on his way down the stairs. No sooner had she turned to resume her climb than she heard the sound of retching behind her. So it’s one of those, she thought, and she readied herself for the inevitable sensory onslaught.
Her partner, DS Andy Stockbridge, stood on the first-floor landing, consulting his notes. “The deceased is Geri Harding, age thirty-two, real estate agent. At least, that’s who lives in the flat. We found a purse with ID in it, although it’s hard to tell given the state of the body. It’s female, anyway.”
“Decomposed?”
“More like dissolved. She’s been lying in a bathtub full of bleach for at least two days, according to the forensic examiner. You’ll need one of these. It won’t help much; the flat is full of the fumes.” He handed her a filter mask.
She fumbled with the straps of the mask. “Murder or suicide?” she asked and immediately regretted it. “Forget I asked that.” Of course it was murder. A person would hardly commit suicide and then jump into a bathtub full of bleach. “I guess that does it for DNA, then. Cause of death?”
“Doc said probably a broken neck. Do you want to see the body?”
Of course I don’t, she thought. But if she didn’t go look, word would get around that she was weak, probably because she was a woman or Indian. Female, Asian—two strikes, wasn’t that the American phrase? Never mind that no person in their right mind would want to look at half-dissolved human remains.
All the windows were open in an effort to vent the chlorine fumes. She forced a breath and looked around the crime scene. Everything in the flat was spotless. No dust. No sign of struggle in the sitting room or adjoining kitchen. It was the same in the bedroom, even to the extent there were no sheets on the bed. She turned the corner to the bathroom and was assaulted by an even more overpowering odor of bleach.
Two SOCOs were trying to stuff what looked like bed sheets into a large plastic evidence bag. Some kind of grayish goo had run down the side of the bag and puddled on the floor. In the tub lay what was left of a woman. Her head was tilted to the side and turned at an impossible angle but not submerged in the liquid. She had been blonde.
Prameela was able to keep her lunch down only with effort. She rushed out past the landing, shoved her way through the front doors, and was gasping on the pavement whe
n Stockbridge caught her up.
“You going to be okay?”
“Yes. Those fumes. Even with the mask, I couldn’t breathe. Chlorine and curry don’t mix well at all.” Prameela told herself to take deep breaths. “Okay. Thanks. Who found her?”
Fortunately, Stockbridge was one of the more evolved detectives she worked with. He studiously consulted his notebook, giving her a few moments to compose herself.
“The call came in from one Alicia O-ku-chuk-we.” He pronounced the name slowly, then repeated it. “Okuchukwe. I think that’s right. She’s the receptionist in the business center where Harding has an office. It’s one of those places where you can rent an office and the phone, fax, receptionist, Internet, whatever, all come wrapped up with it. Harding supposedly had gotten back on the weekend from a trip to Ibiza, and things were piling up. She hadn’t come to the office, hadn’t phoned, and wasn’t retrieving her calls from her answering machine. She, that’s Alicia, decided to pop ’round at lunch to see if she was okay. On her way over, she walked past Harding’s parked car, so she was expecting her to be here. Harding didn’t answer, so she let herself in. She’s outside in the ambulance, getting some air.”
“She has a key?”
“Yes. She said they were friends, and Geri left one with her to get mail and whatnot. Alicia had collected the mail last Wednesday and hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. Anyway, when she opened the door, the chlorine smell hit her hard. She apparently never went into the bathroom because the fumes overwhelmed her, and she thought there might be a fire or accident or something, so she went back outside and dialed nine-nine-nine.”
“No one went in or out while she was waiting?”
“No. It looks like everyone in the building is out. Probably at work. We’re calling who we can.”
“What did you say the victim’s name was?”
“Harding. Geri Harding, thirty-two, real estate agent.”
“That sounds familiar.” She took out her notebook and began flipping through pages. “Here it is, last week. Liz Barker at Murder Investigation called asking about a Geri Harding. Liz and I were at Shoreditch together a couple of years back and she knew I was in Richmond now. They wanted to ask her some questions regarding that young girl they found murdered a couple of weeks ago.”
“It looks like we found her. Give her a call.”
* * *
Elaine was deeply immersed in a two-inch-thick Neighbourhood Policing report when Liz stuck her head in the door. “How do you like it in here, Inspector? Ooops, I mean, Chief Inspector.” She grinned.
“I’m looking at this decorator’s catalog. I can’t decide if I want marble floors with mahogany and rosewood paneling or minimalist white and Scandinavian pine. What do you think?”
“White and pine. Definitely more you. I thought you’d want to know, they found Geri Harding. Though it might not matter anymore.”
Elaine put down the report. “You say they found Geri Harding? Tell me more.”
“Well, I know it’s in Serial’s hands now, but I thought you’d be interested anyway. Last week when we were looking for Harding, I rang up Prameela Patel, a DC in Richmond. She called me back a few minutes ago. One of Harding’s friends found her in her flat this morning. All signs point to murder.”
“Was she beaten like Sheila? Slashed?”
“I asked Prameela the same thing. No beating. The killer broke her neck and dumped her in a bathtub full of bleach. She’d been lying in it a couple of days before they found her, so there’s not much hope for DNA. She had the slash, though.”
“Raped?”
Liz shook her head. “Don’t know.”
“Right. Let’s pay Patel a visit. Call her and tell her I want to see the crime scene. You come with me. After that, I think it’s time to put some pressure on Greene.”
“What about Serial Crime? We gave it to them.”
“You know me. Ask forgiveness, not permission. Let’s keep at it until we’re told otherwise.” She rang Cranwell on her way out the door.
Elaine’s mobile warbled as she and Liz walked up the pavement just off Onslow Road in Richmond. It was Cranwell ringing back. “We’re at the Harding crime scene. Good news?”
Cranwell sounded buoyant. “Serial Crime won’t take Sheila’s case. They said that it didn’t appear to involve serial predation, and it wasn’t clear to them what the link was between all those crimes Cromarty dug up on the computer, so it didn’t fit their remit. I think it’s mostly because they are as stretched as we are. So we have it. And you’ll get Geri Harding’s murder as well.”
“That’s good news, sir!” Elaine rang off and gave Liz a thumbs-up sign. “Serial didn’t want Sheila, and we’ve got this one as well. Let’s see what we can find out.”
Prameela Patel looked shaken when she met them at the building entrance and took them to the second-floor landing. She brought them up to speed as they donned their scene suits. “Dr. Kumar is removing Harding’s body from the bathtub. It’s a hazmat site, and it’s taken a while to pump all the liquid into containers.”
The odor of chlorine was still strong despite two ventilation fans whirring away near the windows. Several SOCO technicians were at work inspecting furniture and the floor. They stood aside to make way for a stretcher with a body bag on it.
Kumar nodded to Elaine and Liz. “Is this one yours too? If I had known you were coming, I would have left her in the bath until you got here. But here, you can have a look.” He unzipped the top of the body bag, revealing Harding’s shoulders, face, and head.
Elaine grimaced and looked away. “That’s enough for now. Do you have anything yet?”
“Her neck is cleanly broken, and right now, that appears to be the cause of death. The sodium hypochlorite solution most likely destroyed DNA evidence on the body and has obscured obvious indications of violence. Even the fumes are corrosive over time. We’ll process as much as we can. Her face and head are mostly intact. And there’s the slash on her right cheek. It wasn’t submerged in the bleach, so . . .”
“Right. Keep us posted. My suspicion is that this is tied into Sheila Watson’s murder.”
Kumar looked mildly surprised. “It was my first impression when I saw her, but it doesn’t look like there was any beating. Aside from the slash, it’s completely different, I’d say.”
Elaine nodded assent. “Yes, but she—Harding, here—was the leasing agent for the industrial park near where we found Sheila’s body.”
Kumar nodded. “Ah. More than coincidence, right?”
“Right.” Elaine nodded at Kumar, and he followed the stretcher as the attendants carefully maneuvered it down the stairs. She turned to Prameela. “Have you found anything else?”
Prameela pointed. “The bedroom is this way. When we first looked, it appeared that everything in the apartment had been cleaned. No dust, no smudges, nothing. But whoever cleaned up didn’t get everything. We found some blonde head hairs that were most likely from Harding. And beside the bed, we found several dark pubic hairs. There was also a fragment of thin, curved glass on the bathroom floor. Possibly from what he used to cut her with. And we found several grams of what we think is cocaine in the drawer of her nightstand along with the usual paraphernalia. We’ve bagged it all.”
Elaine walked to a corner of the bed and studied it. “Were the sheets on the bed when you got here? Have you bagged them?” She walked to the other corner, then knelt down with her eyes slightly above bed level.
Prameela answered. “No luck there. The sheets were wadded up and in the tub along with Harding and the bleach. We’ve got them, but . . .”
Elaine pointed at the bed. “Here. What do you see?”
Prameela and Liz knelt at her side and scanned the top of the mattress. Both were silent and only looked at Elaine, who pointed again at several places.
“There are two depressions up near the headboard, two depressions farther down, and then two more near them. What does that tell you?”
&
nbsp; Liz and Prameela looked more closely at the mattress. Liz spoke first. “This looks like an old mattress, so it didn’t spring back. Someone was having sex the last time it was used. Doggy-style, I’d say.”
“That’s what I’d say. The knees go deeper.” Elaine pointed to the six hollows. She pointed to each set of depressions as she spoke. “Hands, farther apart. Then knees-knees, so it was vaginal sex. Not much chance of DNA given her bleach bath. Kumar will get mouth and throat swabs. Have the photographer grab some shots of these. Make sure he lights them so they are as distinct as possible.”
Prameela sighed. “Right, ma’am. Sorry I missed those.”
“You won’t next time. I have to show off every now and then. And it’s not ‘ma’am,’ Prameela. I answer to mostly anything else; ‘guv’ or ‘chief’ or something like that works fine. Ask Kumar to check her hair for touch transfer. You never know.”
Prameela turned to go find the SOCO photographer, but Elaine called after her. “Is her friend still here?”
Prameela nodded and pointed toward the street. “She should be, Chief. We told her to stay because we had a few more questions.”
“Okay, I want to talk with her. You stick with the photographer and make sure no one touches this bed until he’s done.”
Alicia Okuchukwe rose from her seat on the bus stop bench as Elaine and Liz approached. She was a tall and statuesque woman, wearing an expensive camel hair coat and shoes that had no doubt cycled through the upscale stalls of Marylebone or a similar street market. “What’s happened to Geri? I saw a body bag . . . is she dead? No one will tell me anything.”
Elaine identified herself. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but yes, Geri’s dead. I have some questions I’d like to ask you, if you don’t mind.”
Alicia sat back down and put her face in her hands. “I want to go home. Please.”
Elaine sat next to her. “It won’t take long, then you can go. How long have you known Geri Harding?”
“A couple of years. Ever since she rented the office in the building.”
Souls of Men Page 13
