by Alison Bruce
Goodhew reached out and gently turned Gully back to face the rape field. ‘It is the same killer. The rope’s the same, tied the same, and she was gagged the same way, too. And you’re right, it’s a brilliant place to hide a body. That sign down there says “KEEP OUT – Pesticides in use”, and the place is muddy and crawling with bugs. No fun for kids playing or dog walks or secluded sex. And if you were abandoned out there, trussed up like that,’ his hand swept an arc in front of them, ‘just in the fields we can see, how long do you think it would take me to find you?’
She wasn’t sure how big the field actually was, but guessed that the yellow swathe of rape-seed crop, which descended from the distant hills into the level ground at her feet, must run into hundreds of acres. And, besides, the crop stood at least three feet high. ‘I doubt if you could even find me there unless you waded through it row by row.’
‘Exactly – and this is just one location. There are places like this all over the country. Even the smell of a decomposing body would be masked by the stench of this yellow stuff.’
‘So how was she discovered?’ she wondered.
‘Some guy called Marlon Rodgers had been taking aerial shots of farmland from a microlight aircraft. When he had the pictures developed, there she appeared as a bright blue blob. But over twenty-four hours intervened between yesterday morning, when he took the photos, and when he came back to have a look today.’
‘She wasn’t still alive in the photos, was she?’ Gully asked in horror.
‘Can’t tell for sure till we get the pathology report. I suppose it’s possible since, after all, she probably only disappeared on Saturday.’
‘Three and a half days ago, hmm.’ She thought of Kaye Whiting and Helen Neill and she shuddered. ‘Kaye lasted a lot longer than that.’
Goodhew nodded. ‘Yeah, and in much colder weather, too. This Marlon guy’s beside himself, of course. He’s desperate to know whether he could have saved her. I told him I thought she must have been already dead by then.’
‘You got a close look at the body?’
‘Yeah.’ Goodhew grimaced. ‘It’s really rotten already, so I reckon she must have died on Sunday or maybe Monday. There’s discoloration around the face, spreading down on to her chest, and she’s started to balloon.’
‘Beetles eating the skin yet?’ she asked.
‘Yup,’ he replied.
‘More like Sunday, then.’
CHAPTER 51
WEDNESDAY, 8 JUNE 2011
Andrew Hansen arrived at Colchester police station at exactly 7.15 p.m. He wore a blue suit and carried an iPad as well as his mobile phone. He was escorted straight through to DC Pugh and DC Goodhew, who were both waiting for him in the identification lounge.
A group of armless, mustard-coloured chairs were positioned in a semicircle around a low table. A water-dispenser stood in a far corner, and to one side of the group of chairs a large television set was bolted on to a chest of drawers.
That was all there was in the room, apart from three boxes of Kleenex tissues, one at each end of the table and one on top of the water-cooler.
DC Pugh introduced both himself and Goodhew. ‘Thank you for volunteering, Mr Hansen.’
‘That’s OK. I guess it gets difficult when a victim hasn’t got any relatives in the country.’ He put his laptop on the nearest seat, and rested the phone on top of it. ‘She’s from Australia, you realize?’
‘Uh-huh,’ nodded Pugh. ‘First I need to take some of your details. Like your full name and date of birth.’
‘Andrew John Hansen, eighth of April 1969.’
‘And your relationship to Miss Palmer?’
‘She’s one of my staff, an administrator.’
‘And your job?’
‘I’m a senior projects manager based at the Network Rail office in Euston Station.’
‘And how long has Miss Palmer worked for you?’
‘Last week was only her seventh.’
‘Would you say you knew her relatively well?’
‘Fairly well. As well as anyone else in this country, I suppose.’
‘OK, that’s great. I’ll be requesting some more details if the identification is positive. A close-up of the victim’s face will now appear on the screen, so take as long as you like. It is vital you only give us a positive identification if you are one hundred per cent sure. Do you understand?’
‘Yes. I’m ready when you are.’
DC Pugh paused while pointing the remote control at the TV set. ‘I must warn you first that, whilst we’ve done what we can to make the face presentable, it isn’t a pleasant sight.’ He pressed play.
Andrew Hansen’s naturally jovial face was fixed on the screen as a mottled image took shape. The man waited for the true horror to hit home. ‘Yes, that’s her,’ he mumbled. He kept staring, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. The blisters and fissures of decomposition, the bloating of a once pretty face. No, it didn’t seem real. ‘Yes, that’s her,’ he repeated again, but louder.
CHAPTER 52
THURSDAY, 9 JUNE 2011
A pile of dirty clothing slouched in a hungover heap in the corner, as if infused with too much alcohol and tobacco smoke to be able to party any more.
‘Halfway between a whorehouse and a squat,’ announced DC Pugh cheerfully, as he introduced Goodhew to Stephanie Palmer’s eight-foot-square bedroom. ‘Fingerprints haven’t been collected yet, so don’t touch anything. But I don’t need to tell you that, do I?’
Goodhew shook his head silently and stepped into the room.
Pugh meanwhile chatted on. ‘The forensic guys will be up to their ears in these dirty knickers for weeks.’
The bin brimmed with grease-spotted takeaway cartons and swigged-out cans of Tennant’s Extra, all of them decorated with several brands of cigarette ash and dog-ends.
‘Sex wasn’t the only thing she had an appetite for, by the look of things.’
Goodhew glanced up. ‘Did she?’
‘Did she what?’
‘Did she have an appetite for sex, or is that just based on observation of this lot?’
‘The flatmates said it was one after another, two at once on at least one occasion. She was no nun, that’s for sure. And if she was killed by your guy, would she have been raped too?’
A duvet and pillow hunched together on the sagging single bed, providing the only two items in the room that belonged together.
‘No, not unless he’s changed his pattern. Might not even be a he, as it happens, but I expect it is.’
Three unopened letters lay on the bedside table, two of them the inevitable junk mail and one from Barclays. A statement, Gary guessed. He’d know for sure later, once the forensics were done.
Pugh still waited by the door. ‘Do you think the killer was here?’
‘Unlikely.’ Goodhew pivoted slowly, absorbing the room into his consciousness, trying to forge a link between its recent past and the present. He lodged its smell and silence in its own little memory compartment, and watched as glittering dust particles floated in a shaft of bright sunlight above the bed.
That’s when he saw it, hidden under the mattress – like a schoolgirl might do.
Stephanie’s diary.
Her self-portrait, and Goodhew’s introduction to another girl too late to be saved.
Thursday
Had letter in the post from Mum today, wants to know why I’m still in London and not seeing more of England. Still picking holes. If she knew how expensive it is here, she’d get it. It’s easy for her to sit at home thinking I’ve got it easy.
Out of the hostel now, thank God. Moved yesterday but got too pissed to write it down. Sharing flat in Lewisham with three others, Cherie, Jody and Grant. Going out with Jody at weekend (another piss-up).
Friday
Temping work due to finish today but they want to keep me for another month, so won’t be seeing the ‘glorious’ English countryside in June either. Just as well, with my asthma, I’ve been wheezing non-
stop. Sucked on my inhaler more than I’ve sucked on anything else this week. I guess that makes a change!
Don’t see how I’ll ever travel round anyway, it’s too expensive here. Can’t afford to keep my flat while I travel and bought too much stuff to take with me.
Tuesday
God it’s Tuesday. Didn’t write anything at the weekend. Guess why! Me & Jody stayed out all night on Saturday with two lads we met at the Walkabout. Nothing happened; just a good laugh. We’re doing it again next weekend (drinking, that is). Will write in my diary at the time, however rat-arsed I am.
Wednesday
Work was shit today, too much to do, nobody helped out. Didn’t even get time for lunch. If people think it’s glamorous working in these London offices, they don’t know what they’re talking about. Spent hours doing the same thing, and it just gets filed away at the end of it. What’s the bloody point? That’s what all the girls said, so we went down the Euston Flyer, the nearest pub apart from that shitty one at the station with all the winos. Guess what? Pissed again! I’ll put that as a skill on my CV, can still write drunk. Ha!
Friday
What’s so clever about walking round with FCUK splashed across your chest? If I want to say ‘fuck’, I’ll just come right out with it.
And if I want to do it, I just do.
These girls walk around with innocent expressions plastered across their faces, flirting around some worthless guy, inviting him to enjoy the advertising slapped across their cleavage, and then complaining when he wants more.
Complaining that they’re not like that! Hypocritical bitches base their whole purpose in life around their ability to get a bloke and hang on to him. And for what? They’re all the same.
Users. Foul-mouthed, dirty-minded liars.
I love it when I use them for sex, when all the time they think they’re using me. Half the time, I lie there bored out of my mind. It’s like going to the cinema, the chance of catching a classic film keeps you going back, but usually it’s all pretty forgettable.
Like that bloke last night, Alex or something. He looked all right and kissed pretty good too, but the sex was boring, boring, boring. While he was at it, I kept chanting it in my head, ‘boring, boring, boring.’ I don’t think I said it out loud, though. He would have mentioned it, I think. Lol.
He was one of those small-minded types, assumed when it was over for him, it was over for me too, like all I wanted out of it was to make him come! What a fucking honour!
And then it’s always the same, they say they’ll ring, and they know they are saying it because it’s what they think you want to hear. Or maybe because they don’t want to face the fact that they’re addicted to performing such a basic bodily function, but are too tight to pay for it.
Told him I didn’t want to see him. Ha! I should have taken a photo of his face, that would have been a top souvenir!
He didn’t know what to say. Hope he’s not there tomorrow! Don’t think he will be!!
CHAPTER 53
THURSDAY, 9 JUNE 2011
Diving into the water cleared his head and purged that dirty feeling that had increasingly infected him during the previous twenty-four hours. Goodhew thought as he swam, but it was not focused thinking. Disconnected thoughts followed their own drifting course around his consciousness.
The woods, the lake, the rape-seed.
What was the motive?
The case had changed gears, accelerating from missing persons through abduction and ending in murder. With each new scenario, the stakes had been raised, and now the race appeared to be on with a serial killer.
But, however distorted the motive had become, there had to be a reason and a trigger.
Goodhew executed a swift turn in the water, propelling himself back towards the deep end. Why would I kill? he asked himself. He swam the length with his head down and his eyes open, watching the little mosaic tiles on the bottom of the pool flash by in a liquid blur.
Love and greed were the commonest motivators. Love, greed and madness, he corrected himself. Maybe I’d kill for revenge, if someone I loved was hurt. Do I have anyone I love that much? he mused. And I wouldn’t murder for passion or money, he was sure. I’d have to be mad. He surfaced and took long steady breaths of chlorine-filled air that he slowly exhaled through several determined strokes. But then he spotted Shelly watching from the viewing gallery. Now, there’s someone I could kill, he thought, and I could definitely plead insanity. He immediately scolded himself. It was a bad joke.
But she didn’t let it rest.
So he pretended he hadn’t seen her.
Shelly was leaning over the railing in a short skirt and a stretchy blue crop-top. The same shade of blue that Stephanie Palmer had worn. The colour took on the shape of that rotting torso, and his irritation at Shelly swelled into anger.
He swam several more lengths, pounding the water with ruthless efficiency. His anger spurred him on.
Where are the clues?
The bodies, the locations, the dates, the anonymous caller.
Find the pattern, find the killer.
He left the pool quickly, glanced at the spectators’ stand to find Shelly had gone.
Home, he hoped.
His car was parked in the last bay on the third floor of the adjoining multi-storey; unfortunately so was Shelly. She’d positioned herself with her dainty bottom, in its daintier skirt, perching on the edge of his bonnet. One bare leg extended to the tarmac, while the other was curled barefoot around it. Her missing shoe dangled from her crooked right index finger by its thin ankle strap. The moment he saw her, Goodhew rushed towards his car.
‘Surprise.’ She beamed.
‘Yes, I can see that.’ Goodhew scowled.
‘Do you want to give me a …’ she flicked her tongue out from behind straight white teeth ‘… lift?’
‘No, but I will.’ He pressed the remote to release the central locking and left a safety zone of several feet between them as he strode past her to yank open the passenger door. ‘Get in and stop flirting.’
‘I’m not,’ she cooed indignantly, and slid from the bonnet to the ground. ‘Why can’t you be more fun, Gary?’
Goodhew held the passenger door open until the second she’d folded her legs inside. He slammed it shut and marched around to his side of the car, swung himself inside and slammed that one too.
Shelly stared at him, astonished and bewildered. ‘What’s your problem, Gary?’
‘You have a dangerous combination of assets, Shelly. Good looks and stupidity.’ He poked an angry finger at her. ‘What do you think you look like?’
‘Shit, you sound like my fucking mother, Gary.’ Shelly unclipped her seatbelt and reached for the door. He thumped the central-locking control switch and she slouched back into her seat. “‘You can’t go out looking like that!”’ she mimicked her parent.
‘No, I sound like a fucking policeman who’s just spent the last two fucking days picking over the remains of a girl who didn’t have enough sense to care about who she was screwing. Seatbelt.’
‘Fuck off, Gary.’
Shelly glared in defiance from her position leaning against the side window. He reached across and tugged the seatbelt back round her, started the car and pulled forward, towards the exit.
‘What do you actually know about me, Shelly?’ he demanded, but she didn’t reply. ‘Well, I’ll tell you then,’ he shouted. ‘Nothing, that’s what. And at what point do you stop and ask yourself who you’re really with?’
‘Stop it!’ Shelly spat. She grabbed the door handle and released her seatbelt again. ‘Let me out. I’m going to walk.’
Goodhew ignored her.
‘At what point, Shelly? Before sex, after sex, or when you suddenly realize you’re staring a killer in the face?’
Goodhew slowed as he approached a junction. Shelly tugged at the door release. ‘Let me out now, Gary,’ she screamed.
Goodhew slapped his foot down hard on the brake and they lurched to a
halt. He released the central locking.
‘Why are you such a bastard?’ she yelled, spluttering back tears, before she slammed the door behind her and strode away.
Goodhew lowered the electric window. ‘Don’t trust anyone, Shelly,’ he shouted after her.
CHAPTER 54
THURSDAY, 9 JUNE 2011
A splinter of guilt tumbled over and over inside Goodhew’s stomach. Every few minutes it gave him a little prod until he picked up the phone and left a message on Bryn’s answering machine.
Bryn responded soon after by appearing on Goodhew’s doorstep. He followed Goodhew up to his flat.
‘Coffee or tea?’ Goodhew shouted from the kitchen.
‘Tea, cheers,’ Bryn replied as he poked his head around the door. ‘What’s up?’
‘Shelly again, but my fault this time.’
Bryn rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘You haven’t!’
Goodhew tossed a teabag into each mug. ‘Be serious, Bryn. Of course I haven’t.’
Bryn opened the food cupboard and grabbed a packet of custard creams. ‘Shame really. I bet everyone else has.’
‘I bet they haven’t, actually, and that’s no way to talk about your own sister.’ Goodhew handed a mug of strong tea to Bryn. ‘You’re supposed to stand up for her.’
‘You can say that, because you don’t share a house with her. She’s a pain in the backside.’ Bryn took a sip, then put his mug back on the worktop. ‘Go on, then, what have you done?’
‘Well, I’ve had a go at her for flirting, for a start. And then I made her cry.’ Goodhew dunked a biscuit in his tea. ‘I’m sorry, Bryn. I know I should’ve handled it better, but I’m not going to apologize – except to you. She needed to be put straight.’
