By the time Geraldine and Ian arrived at the derelict lock-up where Daryl had been killed, a cordon had been set up to prevent members of the public contaminating the scene. A young man was standing outside the police tape taking pictures on his phone. It was a pointless exercise, since the garage was out of sight around a bend that led past a row of disused garages due to be demolished.
‘Is this a murder scene?’ the young photographer asked, darting forward to intercept them, his eyes alight with excitement.
Geraldine returned his gaze coldly. ‘I suggest you leave immediately. There’s nothing to see, so there’s no point in loitering here.’
‘You can’t tell me there’s nothing going on because I can see they’ve put up a forensic tent. It’s all going on over there, isn’t it? Can’t I just have a quick look? One photo is all I’m asking, and then I’ll be out of your hair –’
Ian interrupted the speaker firmly. ‘If you put one foot over this line, you’ll be leaving here in police custody. Consider yourself cautioned for wasting police time.’ He nodded at a constable who was standing nearby. ‘Take down this man’s details and send him packing.’
‘Oh, forget it,’ the youngster snapped. ‘I can find out what’s happened without your help. It’ll be all over the internet by tonight. There’s no way you can hush it up if there’s been another murder.’
‘Nothing’s being hushed up, we’re just doing our job –’ Geraldine began, but the disgruntled young man was already hurrying away.
‘Shall I go after him, sir?’ the constable asked.
‘No, stay here. And make sure no one gets past you.’
‘Sir.’
Turning a corner in the driveway, Geraldine saw the furthest door stood open. After pulling on protective clothing she approached the garage where scene of crime officers were already occupied, photographing and collecting evidence. Although Daryl’s death had been reported as an accident, the place was being treated as a crime scene.
She put a hand on Ian’s arm to stop him at the threshold.
‘You don’t think we’re in any way responsible for this, do you?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Daryl told us where to find him, and now he’s dead,’ Geraldine said.
Ian didn’t answer.
‘What if they found out Daryl had informed on them?’
‘How?’ Ian replied with a worried frown. ‘He was hardly going to tell them, was he? And no one else would’ve known what he did.’
‘But what if he told someone? There was a girl, wasn’t there? He might’ve told her.’
‘Then he would’ve been even more of a fool than we thought,’ Ian snapped.
‘He wasn’t exactly Brain of Britain. But the point is, if Carver and Nelson learned how we discovered their hideout, and their knives –’ She paused.
Ian stared back at her uneasily. ‘I don’t suppose they found out what he did.’
‘But they killed him,’ she protested. ‘Why else would they have done it?’
Ian shook his head. ‘We’re talking about vicious thugs, high on drugs and booze, obsessed with knives and violence. This was bound to happen sooner or later. Come on, let’s get this over with.’
The dead boy was lying on his back, arms and legs outstretched. One side of his spotty face was scored with tiny jagged scratches where he had been lying on broken glass, and his throat was hidden beneath a choker of dried blood. A larger pool of blood formed a dark halo around his head, and specks of dust and dirt flecked his clothes. Geraldine drew near and stared down at him. Despite his lacerated face he looked younger than when she had last seen him, jittery and nervous at his mother’s side. He couldn’t have experienced much of life. It was deeply disturbing to see him lying dead at her feet when he had been facing her across a table only three days before. For an instant she felt a rush of rage against his two friends, but they too were barely adults. And besides, it was possible they had been telling the truth and Daryl’s death really had been an accident.
‘What terrible lives they all led,’ she said out loud, to no one in particular.
A scene of crime officer standing nearby turned to look at her. ‘Sorry, were you talking to me?’ he asked, pausing in what he was doing.
Geraldine shook her head and he returned to his work, scrutinising, judging, and bagging evidence.
‘Have you found anything interesting?’ Geraldine asked him.
He raised his eyebrows and jerked his head in the direction of the body. ‘Isn’t that interesting enough for you?’
She gave an uneasy smile. ‘You know what I mean. Have you found anything that could help us to establish exactly what happened here?’
‘You already know the boy died from a wound inflicted by a broken bottle?’
Geraldine drew closer to him and lowered her voice, even though her question was hardly confidential.
‘What we’re trying to ascertain is whether this was an accident. Is it possible he was attacked? We know one of his friends went around with a knife.’
The scene of crime officer shook his head. ‘This was no knife wound.’
‘I know that. But I’m asking if this wound could have been inflicted deliberately.’
‘Well,’ her colleague paused and gave the question some thought before answering. ‘Either someone smashed a bottle and went for him intending to kill him, in which case you’re looking at the victim of a vicious assault, or else he had an extremely nasty accident.’
‘Is it possible to tell which it was?’ Geraldine asked patiently.
The scene of crime officer shook his head. ‘Not from where I’m standing.’
Geraldine sighed. She could see he was trying to be helpful, but she wasn’t learning anything from talking to him. So far the other two boys who had associated with the victim had independently stated that Daryl had been drunk and had tripped and fallen on to Nelson, who had been holding a broken bottle in his hand at the time. It was plausible, if unlikely, but although Geraldine didn’t believe their account, it was difficult to disprove. If their claims were true, the death of their friend had been a terrible accident. They were both clear about what had happened and, in the absence of any other witnesses, it might be impossible to disprove their statements.
Geraldine gazed around the dingy garage. Even under bright forensic lights the place looked grey, with heavy cobwebs obscuring every corner of the grimy walls. According to Nelson’s statement, on discovering the garage was empty Carver had established himself there, securing the door with a strong lock. Although the garage had temporarily been his illegal hideout, Carver had refused to add to this account. Nelson claimed the three boys had used their den for drinking and smoking cigarettes and storing their collection of knives. He had insisted that none of them had ever taken a knife out of the garage.
Discoloured with rust and dirt, the cabinet where the knives had been stored stood empty, its door hanging loosely on one hinge. Stepping carefully along the established approach path, Geraldine went as close to it as she could. Even though it was empty there was something horribly depressing about it. She turned and gazed around. The broken bottle had been sent away for forensic examination, but fragments of glass still littered the floor. Among the splinters an occasional blood spot glowed, a ruby among diamonds that twinkled like scattered stars under the brilliant lights.
36
Jonah looked up and heaved a sigh that seemed to shake the whole of his body. Geraldine had met the tubby pathologist several times, but never had she seen him looking so solemn, his face under the bright lights almost as pale as Daryl’s. Without his usual cheeky grin, he was an unattractive little man.
‘He hadn’t even outgrown his adolescent acne,’ Jonah said, shaking his head mournfully. ‘Look, his face is covered in it. You might not believe this, but I had acne just like that when I was a te
enager. Terrible, it was, terrible. To be disfigured like that at such a self-conscious age, hiding at home, when all you want to do is go out and impress girls.’ He heaved another sigh. ‘It’s very hard. And now this poor lad will never have a chance to get past it. He dies with his pimples emblazoned on his face.’ He paused and took a step back, frowning with concentration as he studied the dead boy’s features. ‘I could probably cover it up, make it less obvious. At least he could lie here with some dignity. Oh well,’ he went on, more cheerfully. ‘Only the good die young, eh? I should be around for a while then.’ He gave a low laugh. ‘Can’t help feeling sorry for him though. Still, I guess it looks worse than it is, highlighted under these lights.’
‘He won’t care about his acne now,’ Geraldine said. ‘And if he could think about anything, I dare say that would be the least of his worries. This is all very well, your reminiscing like this about your tortured adolescence, and it’s beautiful the way you’re empathising with the victim, really beautiful. I had no idea you were such a sensitive soul. But I wonder, could we possibly postpone this touching nostalgia and get back to the business in hand?’
Jonah held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Far be it from me to waste your valuable time.’
‘Can you add anything at all to what we already know about how he died?’ Geraldine persisted, ignoring the good-natured jibe.
Jonah nodded and heaved another sigh. ‘It’s not a nice thing to suffer, that’s all I’m saying. But now, OK, let’s get down to the business. You know you’re a hard task master, Sergeant. Steel by name, steely by nature.’
Geraldine was relieved to see Jonah had returned to his usual positivity. She wondered whether he was so relentlessly cheerful at home, or if he was more at ease dealing with the dead than the living. With a shiver, she realised that such a characterisation might apply to her. Dismissing the gloomy thought, she forced herself to focus on what Jonah was saying.
‘Well, you know the tox report’s not back yet, but even a stuffed-up nose can detect there was a quantity of alcohol in his bloodstream, and there wasn’t much food in him either. I’d say our boy hadn’t eaten since lunchtime – a kebab that must have looked rather nasty even before it was ingested – and he knocked back a fair amount of liquor about six hours later. So, basically, our boy was drinking heavily on an empty stomach.’
‘And he was quite possibly not yet a hardened drinker. He was only sixteen,’ Geraldine added.
‘So I gather, and physically immature. I’d have hazarded a guess at thirteen.’
‘You say he’d drunk a fair amount of liquor? Is it possible to be more precise about what he was drinking just before he died?’
Whatever it was, she hoped it had numbed the pain when he had received his fatal wound.
Jonah wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘From the smell, I’d say he was drinking whisky.’
‘The murder weapon was a broken vodka bottle.’
‘Drinking one spirit doesn’t preclude drinking another,’ Jonah replied.
‘So he was drinking whisky and vodka, and he hadn’t eaten much that day. And the cause of death was that blow to his throat?’
‘More of a cut than a blow,’ Jonah replied.
‘Was there more than one injury?’
‘No, just the one.’
‘Does that mean the defence that he fell on a broken bottle is feasible?’
Jonah nodded, frowning.
‘Is it likely he would have fallen in such an angle that the bottle would have slashed his neck like that?’
Jonah shrugged. ‘A drunk toppling over can land awkwardly. It’s not impossible. He would have to have fallen with some force, but he could have tripped and hurtled forwards, rather than toppling over.’
‘And that injury killed him?’
Jonah looked thoughtful. ‘The laceration is deep, but it wouldn’t necessarily be severe enough to be fatal.’
‘What are you saying? How did he die then, if not from a severed artery?’
‘Blood loss,’ the pathologist said. ‘It’s true the external carotid artery was severed but, had he received immediate medical attention, he might have survived. It’s possible, anyway.’
‘How immediate would the medical attention need to have been?’
‘A matter of minutes.’
‘So the death could have been the result of an accident.’
‘Oh yes, it’s certainly possible. Boys get drunk, they start fighting, in the scuffle a bottle is broken, someone grabs hold of it and another boy slips in his drunken state and falls over –’
They stood gazing down at the dead boy, silently considering the circumstances of his death.
‘And don’t forget we haven’t got the tox report back yet,’ Jonah added. ‘Who knows what else was floating around in his blood stream, before he lost so much of it. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn this incident was fuelled by more than alcohol. Not that it makes any difference.’
Geraldine nodded. The thought had occurred to her. Teenage boys, drinking and smoking cigarettes, were likely to have been using controlled drugs as well.
‘We didn’t find anything at the scene,’ she said. ‘But the other two boys might have got rid of the evidence, if there was any.’
‘Well, I’ll tidy him up,’ Jonah said, suddenly brisk. ‘I guess you’ll be wanting to bring someone along for a viewing shortly?’
‘Yes, he lived with his mother so we’ll invite her to formally identify the body when you’ve finished with him. Will you be much longer?’
‘No. I’ll do something about his face, conceal those scratches and try to improve his skin, at least superficially. It’ll be a challenge, but I’ll make him look better dead than he did when he was alive.’
Geraldine shrugged. Daryl’s bad skin was of no consequence now.
37
Geraldine rang the bell and waited. After some delay, the door was opened by a dowdy grey-haired woman who peered suspiciously at her, brushing hair off her face with the back of a hand. Geraldine wasn’t sure whether the woman recognised her, although it was only a few days since they had last met. Geraldine had certainly not forgotten how Daryl’s mother had hit him for getting in trouble with the police.
‘Mrs Bowen, we met at the police station,’ she said, holding up her identity card. ‘Can I come in?’
‘He’s not here,’ the woman replied. Her voice was hoarse from heavy smoking.
‘I know –’
‘I don’t know where he is and I don’t know when he’ll be back.’
‘Mrs Bowen, Daryl won’t be coming back. May I come in?’
‘What? You gone and locked him up?’ She snorted and reached to close the door. ‘Nothing to do with me what he gets up to. I done my best to be a good mother, but he was always trouble, that one.’
‘Mrs Bowen, please, can we go inside? I have some bad news for you.’
At last the woman seemed to take in what Geraldine was hinting at.
‘Has something happened to my Daryl?’ she cried out, her irritation with her son forgotten. ‘Where is he? What’s happened?’
Geraldine despaired of persuading the woman to go inside the house. Standing on the doorstep, she told Daryl’s mother as gently as she could what had happened.
Mrs Bowen shook her head. ‘What?’ she said staring blankly at Geraldine as though she had been speaking a foreign language. ‘What did you say? Where’s Daryl?’ Her eyes seemed to glow, too large for her narrow face.
All at once she broke down in sobs that shook her whole body. Lunging forward, she grasped Geraldine’s shoulders and clung to her, weeping.
‘My boy,’ she sobbed, ‘Daryl. He was my boy.’ She sniffed and straightened up, wiping her nose on her sleeve. ‘He wasn’t always an angel, but he was my son.’ She broke down in tears again. ‘I want to see my son, I want to see my son.
’
Gently Geraldine disengaged herself from the weeping woman and ushered her into the house.
‘Let’s put the kettle on and make some tea, shall we?’
The door opened on to a square living area with two doors leading off it. A shopping channel was playing on a television in the far corner of the room. Picking her way across the room between ragged magazines, a laundry basket with a broken handle, dirty cups and plates, empty bottles and other detritus of slovenly living, Geraldine pushed open the first door and found the kitchen. Having cleared away several dirty plates to reach the kettle, she emptied the stained sink of food-encrusted plates. There was no washing up liquid and the two mugs she had managed to find felt greasy after she washed them. There were no tea bags in view. Abandoning her attempt to make tea she returned to the living room. Mrs Bowen was slumped in a chair swigging from a bottle.
Seeing Geraldine, she put the beer down. ‘I was thirsty,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s for the shock.’
Geraldine cleared a pile of magazines from a chair and glanced at the screen where an energetic presenter was promoting a complicated kitchen appliance.
‘Shall we mute the television?’
Mrs Bowen raised her eyebrows as if this was an outlandish suggestion. Without waiting for an answer, Geraldine made her way across to the corner and switched off the television.
‘What happened to my boy?’ Mrs Bowen asked in a hoarse whisper.
‘We’re trying to find out. We think he was in a fight.’
Mrs Bowen let out a sob and mumbled something about ‘boys’.
‘Who did it? Who was it?’
‘He was with two other boys, Andrew Nelson and Billy Whitelow, who the other boys called Carver. Do you know them?’
Daryl’s mother shook her head, muttering. ‘That Nelson was always trouble.’
‘We’re going to need you to come and formally identify the body.’
Mrs Bowen raised her head, her expression suddenly hopeful. ‘You mean to tell me you don’t know it’s him?’ she said. Her voice hardened. ‘You don’t even know who it is, and you come here telling me my boy’s been killed. There ought to be a law against people like you. What the fuck are you doing here? Get out of my house. Go on, get lost.’ She sounded tipsy. ‘My boy’s all right. I’d know if anything had happened to him. He’s my son. It’s you lot that have scared him off, that’s what it is. You been hounding him and he’s run off, scared, poor lad. Why don’t you get lost and leave us alone? We don’t want you here.’
Rogue Killer Page 17
