by Alison Bruce
‘When did you see him last?’
‘Last summer, I suppose: probably around July 2010.’
Gary opened his notebook and flicked through a couple of pages. ‘What about his ex-girlfriend, er …’
‘Marlowe?’ offered Julie.
‘Thank you. Is that a first name or a last name?’
‘First,’ Julie muttered.
‘And what’s her last name?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where can I find her?’
Julie surveyed him for several long seconds, the redness gathering around her throat again. Her jaws clenched and unclenched before she spoke. ‘How much do you know about your ex-girlfriends’ ex-boyfriends? I don’t really care about Marlowe, Pete or anyone else who might be giving you the run-around. I don’t stick my nose where it doesn’t belong. I made a resolution to put him in the past and, as far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of it.’
The rain was again beating hard on the roof of his car as Gary pulled out of the parking bays situated outside Gilmerton Court. Murky figures hurried home in the dirty gloom. His wipers swooshed back and forth accompanying the voice in his head which kept repeating, ‘Marlowe-Marlowe-Marlowe.’
CHAPTER 48
FRIDAY, 3 JUNE 2011
The offices at Dunwold Insurance were deserted; even the cleaners had finished for the weekend. Fridays usually saw all but the keenest leave by 5.30, and the last stragglers out by 6 p.m.
And, bar one person, this evening was no exception.
At 7 p.m. Peter Walsh still occupied his desk, but only a fraction of his thoughts were on his work. He didn’t realize that a full ten minutes had passed since his last touch of the keyboard, until his screensaver flashed on.
He knew that his biggest mistake had been to pick someone from work but, as ever, it was easy to be wise after the event. He’d compounded the error by dating a receptionist, which meant there was now no privacy for him. Every time he passed through the foyer, to go in or out of the building, she knew about it.
Even if she wasn’t there, she’d be informed by her nosy-parker colleague. Even Marcus ‘bean-counter’ Bagley from Accounts had given him a knowing smile. And he never smiles, Pete thought glumly. It seemed that everybody knew about him and Donna, and he now felt under constant scrutiny.
He nudged his mouse to clear the screensaver and continued working. Almost immediately his PC bleeped at him. ‘Shit,’ he muttered. Three times he’d made mistakes in entering straightforward details on a new car-insurance policy. Silly mistakes that confirmed how much his mind was elsewhere.
But he knew that already.
He pushed back from the desk and snatched up his mug. At least everyone else had gone, as the last thing he needed was more conversation about Donna. He’d never meant it to be serious. He’d made that very clear, dammit. But now it seemed that half of his colleagues were waiting for an engagement announcement, whilst the other half hovered in the ‘said it wouldn’t last’ camp for it to end.
He slung his fresh coffee into the sink, after barely tasting it.
He needed space to think – away from work and away from Donna. Perhaps she wouldn’t be too put out if he cancelled tomorrow. He could spend the day getting his thoughts straight, and see her on Sunday instead. He could explain the situation then.
Pete turned from the kitchen, back towards his desk. He’d phone her straight away. He almost walked past the first bay of workstations without noticing the figure waiting in the last swivel chair. But, as he realized that he wasn’t alone, he also realized that Donna’s unexpected appearances were becoming repetitive.
‘Donna, hi,’ he muttered and forced a smile. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to see you,’ she purred, smoothing her hair with one hand whilst leaving the other draped along the armrest. ‘I thought you might like company.’
‘I need to catch up.’
She pouted a little, ‘But, Pete, you’ve worked hard all week.’ She uncurled herself from the chair and smoothed her short silky skirt over her bare tanned thighs. She slunk towards him, but Pete turned and continued back to his desk.
‘Donna, I really must catch up.’ He took in a breath and released it in a slow huff. Sunday he reminded himself, as he dropped into his chair. When he spoke again, his voice had softened slightly. ‘I was going to ring you. I need to work tomorrow, too. Can we make it Sunday instead?’
She stopped following him and stood with her arms folded across her low-cut top, and with her mouth set in a less than seductive pout. ‘Why?’ she challenged.
‘Because,’ he began, keeping his tone at its most even, ‘for the third time, I’m really busy.’
‘So, am I supposed to go home now, or what?’ A deep angry frown creased her forehead and petulance poisoned her voice.
She was so tense that it appealed to him for a moment. He smirked at her and winked. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Have you ever done it in the office?’
Pete studied her. The temptation palled in an instant, evaporating like spit in a bonfire. It was so contrived, so predictable. He knew that she’d left work early. Gone to wash and change and manicure her nails, no doubt. Yes, she’d gone to town on it: long, pink false nails and just enough make-up to act the part of a seductress.
‘No.’ He didn’t bother to add, Have you? because he couldn’t see the point.
She crossed the office towards him and stood in front of his chair, leant forward and whispered in his ear. ‘All day I think about you being up here, and I think how I’d love to work upstairs with you, and screw you in the kitchen while everyone else’s working out here.’ She ran her tongue along his cheek until it brushed his ear. ‘But, as we’re alone now, I’d like to get on my hands and knees for you, so you can fuck me from behind.’
Pete remained silent. She assumed his primary motivation was sex; that he was as easy as she was.
His right knuckle was being manoeuvred up her inner thigh. She wanted sex on the office floor. How many times had she done this kind of thing in the past? Anger surged through his bloodstream as he considered it.
She’d probably been planning this all day, telling that tart that she worked with – Karen or Sharon or whatever she was called. And what if they did it now? Would everyone know about it on Monday?
He stood up abruptly, so she tottered backwards on her high heels as she struggled to maintain her balance. ‘I’m sorry, Donna. I’m not in the mood.’
CHAPTER 49
WEDNESDAY, 8 JUNE 2011
Constable Pearse received the call to Brookfield Farm as he returned from his weekly trip to investigate the Brinkley Close dustbin arsonist. As ever, there were no clues, no witnesses and no damage apart from Mrs Cameron’s galvanized dustbin, which grew blacker on each visit.
The dustbin and its week’s worth of cremated newspapers vanished from Pearse’s thoughts as the controller advised him to attend the farm where a newly discovered body waited.
Pearse’s adrenalin accelerated, along with his squad car, as he swung sharply left and raced the last half mile to Mr Anderson’s farm. He could hear the ambulance approaching too, probably followed by another patrol car.
Mr Anderson and his wife were both waiting outside their stone farmhouse. Mr Anderson paced back and forth beside a parked VW Estate, whilst Mrs Anderson leant inside the open car door, near the body slouching in the driver’s seat.
Pearse parked on the opposite side of the farmyard and burst from the car, spurred on by a rising panic that warned him to stop Mrs Anderson disturbing the body. ‘Come away from the car, please, Mrs Anderson,’ he called out.
She stepped back. ‘Oh, I’m so glad you’re here. It seems ages since we phoned.’
Now centre stage, Pearse knew he had to secure the scene but, just as he began to usher the Andersons back indoors, a husky voice muttered, ‘She’s in the field.’
He turned back to the VW to find his ‘body’ was an ashen-faced m
ale.
Just then an ambulance pulled into the gap behind the VW.
Pearse dismissed the desire to announce that this was also his first time with a fresh corpse. Instead he said with forced authority, ‘Right, did you find the body?’
The man nodded.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Mr Rodgers, Marlon Rodgers.’
Pearse made a note. ‘OK then, Mr Rodgers, I’ll take some more details in a moment. Now, please show me where.’ He turned to the paramedics. ‘Follow me, but wait as we get nearer to the body, and I’ll call you if you’re needed.’
And so Pearse led the way along the perimeter of the first two crop fields and, through a gap in the hedge, into the third. Marlon Rodgers followed, directing him in a wavering voice. ‘She’s just along there,’ he pointed straight up along the furrow they currently followed, ‘but to the right when you reach that clump of hawthorn jutting out.’
‘OK, wait here.’ Pearse walked on alone. He felt the urge to run, in case the victim wasn’t dead, but was desperately in need of help. So he maintained the same pace, careful to disturb as little of the ground as possible.
The rape-seed crop rose to waist height from deep furrows of soil. Its yellow flowers unleashed a dirty odour that attracted plenty of insects, but Pearse knew he was approaching the right spot, for his nostrils braced as a new smell began to greet them. The crop ahead was buzzing with an even more intense population of bluebottles.
He felt he needed a deep breath of fresh air but, as he parted the stems and spotted her body, the sharp inhalation filled his lungs with the stench of rotting flesh.
He hurriedly retreated. Don’t be sick, don’t be sick, he pleaded with himself. And by the time he rejoined the others, he knew he could safely speak without the likelihood of vomiting. ‘You won’t be needed,’ he informed the paramedics, and quickly turned his attention to his radio. ‘Confirm dead body, white, female, aged twenty to thirty.’
Pearse and Marlon Rodgers rejoined the Andersons at their front door. They watched the departing ambulance in silence.
Pearse wondered if the others also felt the creeping presence of the corpse looming over their shoulders. He wanted to go back to look at her again. He tried to recall her injuries. Her hair sprouted from bloated raw flesh which seethed with busy insects. He closed his eyes briefly, hoping to see the corpse as a photograph projected on the back of his eyelids.
Nothing.
But he was sure his memory served him well, and in that brief glance, he’d seen no dried black blood, no ligature marks around the neck and no ripped garments. Just as he’d read in the station copy of the Police Gazette, it appeared that she had been bound and gagged but otherwise unharmed.
Except that she was dead.
CHAPTER 50
WEDNESDAY, 8 JUNE 2011
‘Where are we going, Gary?’
‘I’ll fill you in in a minute, Sue. Let’s just get in the car and I’ll explain on the way.’
Gully gathered up the folder and a pile of loose notes from her in-tray and slipped her digital camera into her bag. Goodhew had already put all he needed in the car, and Gully hurried to catch him up.
Only as they reached the M11 did Goodhew finally begin to explain. ‘The article in the Gazette may have paid off. I had a call this morning from a PC in Essex who’d read it, and he was waiting alongside a newly discovered body even as I spoke to him. It sounds like a matching MO, but we won’t know until we get there.’
‘So who is she this time?’ Sue asked.
‘There’s no ID as yet, and the PC that rang me didn’t think he’d be thanked for tipping us off, so we’ll just have to wade in once we get there.’
Gully smiled as the implications of this tip-off hit her. ‘Oh, I see, now you want me to ring Marks, explaining that we’re well on the way there, and can he smooth the politics for us so we get a bit of cooperation at the scene once we arrive?’
‘Spot on, Sue.’
She pulled her mobile phone from her pocket and threw it into Goodhew’s lap. ‘I think you should do it. I just can’t ask.’
‘Oh yes, you can. Say I insisted, and you can’t get hold of me now, and I’m sure he’ll rise to the challenge.’
‘He’ll guess I’m in the car with you.’
‘Hang on then.’ Goodhew pulled off the motorway, on to a slip road, and switched off the engine, then passed the phone back to her. ‘Just think about it – he can’t demand that I come back if I’m not here, can he? Tell him you’re passing Stansted, and I’m ahead of you somewhere in a separate car. Say it’s the last thing I said to you before my phone battery went flat.’
‘You’re a devious git sometimes.’ She tapped out the number, and turned her usual shade of embarrassed pink as she made her call to Marks. ‘He said he knows you’re sitting next to me, and he doesn’t want you wasting your time in Essex.’
Goodhew grinned. ‘We won’t waste any time. If there’s no obvious connection, we’ll head back straight away.’
‘He said that, too – and that he’ll ring ahead and square it with their murder squad.’
The area around the body site was sealed off, and the concrete courtyard in front of the Andersons’ farm was milling with official murder business. Goodhew parked behind a police patrol car and straight away they found themselves approached by a uniformed officer with his arms spread wide, like he was rounding up geese.
Goodhew showed his badge, and was directed towards the entrance to the first field, now cordoned off with phosphorescent tape. Beyond the tape, a series of figures in sterile overalls and matching gloves, hoods and shoes could be seen moving with meticulous care through the field itself, and the next one, and probably also the one beyond. One of these detectives now approached the gateway.
‘You must be the two from Cambridge. I’m DC Janice McNamara. Get yourselves suited up and I’ll take you on through.’ McNamara carried on talking to them while they dressed. ‘The police surgeon’s been down there for some time, and I haven’t yet heard when he reckons she died. You know how it is: we don’t know anything definite yet.’
‘Have you actually seen the body?’ Goodhew enquired.
‘No, she’s in the third field, and I’ve been posted in this one the whole time.’
Gully felt the simultaneous lurch of trepidation and adrenalin. Her head buzzed from the atmosphere of intense concentration that enveloped the entire farm and even permeated her lungs. McNamara was now addressing her, but she’d missed the question and stared back blankly.
‘For the preservation of evidence, I was saying that it would be better if only one of you approached the site of the body.’
Gully’s face flushed with disappointment. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘There’s plenty else you can do here to keep yourself busy,’ McNamara told Gully. She turned and smiled at Goodhew. ‘Ready?’
‘Actually,’ he lied, ‘it’s Gully here who’s the crime-scene expert.’
‘Oh,’ McNamara looked uncertain, ‘I just assumed …’
‘Bad habit for a detective,’ he commented and turned to Gully with a wink. ‘Do you think you should handle this one?’
‘No, Gary, I think you’ll do OK. I have a lot of background stuff to be getting on with.’ As Goodhew set off after McNamara, she added, ‘Just ask me if there’s anything you’re not sure about.’ She then followed them as far as the nearest field, where she’d start doing a bit of investigating of her own.
By this stage, only one item of significance had been found on the body. Constable Pearse passed the evidence bag containing some form of security badge to Goodhew, who held it up to study more closely through the clear plastic.
‘Stephanie Palmer, Network Rail Staff,’ he read out. ‘Has it been confirmed yet that she’s missing?’
Pearse shook his head. ‘Last I heard was about fifteen minutes ago, when McNamara had a call from Network Rail’s HQ, saying that she’s not been in today. But apparently that’s not u
nusual, as she’s erratic with her attendance. They’re going to ring back once they’ve found out more. I think it looks like her, though, don’t you?’
Goodhew held the ID card between himself and the corpse, and compared the two faces. ‘Looks very likely,’ he agreed. He passed the evidence bag back to Pearse.
‘It was found inside a little money pocket tucked into her waistband. Obviously the killer missed it.’ Pearse waited until Goodhew turned back to him, before continuing. ‘Can I ask you something?’
Goodhew nodded. ‘What’s that?’
‘Is this likely linked to the others?’
Again Goodhew nodded, but more reservedly. ‘It appears that way.’
Goodhew caught sight of Gully now standing just beyond the police tape. She had soon changed back out of her overalls, and appeared detached from the main thrust of the search as she scribbled notes on whatever she had observed.
‘It’s a really good place to hide a body,’ she muttered as Goodhew later joined her, doubtless hoping to provoke him into comment.
But he didn’t speak or even move, and for several minutes they stood side by side on a grassy knoll, surveying the same patch of ground in the neighbouring yellow field.
Eventually he muttered an irritable, ‘Why?’
And Gully, whose thoughts had moved on, replied, ‘Why what?’
He scowled. ‘Why is it such a good place to hide a body?’
‘Well, it already stinks, for a start. Smells as bad as a men’s toilet. It’s rape-seed, you know.’
‘Yeah, so?’
‘Well, even the name’s hardly romantic, is it? No couples likely to go strolling around here hand in hand, are they?’ She turned towards him. ‘And stop being so ratty.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You bloody well are, Gary, and you know it. How could you have found her? How could anyone, when no one even knew she was missing? We don’t even know it’s the same killer, so don’t start getting pissed off because we wasted valuable time keeping Andy Burrows locked up.’
