Let The Bones Be Charred

by Andy Maslen

  She turned to Lucian.

  ‘Do you do tool marks?’

  ‘I may have a little database, yes. And I have a friend over in West End Central who has a tame expert at Imperial College who’s a forensic engineering consultant. Between us, we’ll pin it down.’

  22

  THURSDAY 16TH AUGUST 9.30 A.M.

  Becky’s trawl through the media companies’ news departments hit paydirt on her ninth call, the first eight all having been met with either vague agreements to ‘check what we shot’ or even vaguer references to ‘getting clearance from Legal’. Don’t you know women are being murdered? she wanted to shout down the phone at them. You ought to, you’re covering them! But no, that would be counter-productive, and Becky was all about efficiency.

  The BBC News producer she spoke to said he had footage of the LoveLife picketing of The Sackville Centre in Mitcham. He listened while Becky explained what she wanted and then told her he had some footage of the crowd of onlookers and the counter protesters. What he called, ‘the B-Roll. Stuff we cut away to when we want to vary the viewpoint.’ He promised to burn it onto a DVD and courier it over and he’d been as good as his word. An hour later a bike messenger dropped off a padded envelope marked:

  DS B. HU

  PADDINGTON GREEN POLICE STATION

  LONDON W2

  A uniformed PC brought up the envelope and Becky ripped the flap open, in her hurry shedding fluffy grey padding all over her keyboard.

  ‘Shit!’ she said. Then again in Cantonese: ‘Lā shǐ!’, which felt more satisfying.

  Having blown the soft grey fluff off her desk, she inserted the DVD into the PC and waited for it to load. A simple viewing program launched itself automatically and she clicked the play button.

  Almost immediately, a crowd of protesters filled the rectangular pane on her screen. These were the ones in favour of women’s reproductive rights. Niamh Connolly’s supporters could be seen off to one side, some praying, others hurling abuse back at the yelling women who carried a variety of placards. The closest to the camera read, ‘A woman’s right to choose comes first!’

  The footage lasted for twenty minutes. She nodded her thanks as someone placed a mug of coffee at her elbow, though as she didn’t look away from the screen she didn’t know which of her colleagues was feeling generous this morning.

  Eventually, the video froze on a woman screaming directly into the camera. Becky finished her coffee then took the video back to the start and watched it again, this time at half speed.

  When she saw him, she paused the video, wound back a few seconds then noted the time stamp from the top-right corner: 5’17’.

  She hit PLAY and watched the young man who’d caught her eye for the three seconds he was in view.

  He was the kind of man eye-witnesses usually described as tall/short, skinny/well-built, blond/mousey/brown hair, beige windcheater/green jumper/grey hoodie. Mr Average, in other words.

  In fact, Becky put his height at about five foot eight. His lower half was obscured by other protesters, but his torso, Becky could see, was well-muscled. Wide shoulders and a broad chest beneath a dark-grey sweatshirt, no hood. And his hair was best described as dirty blond. None of which interested Becky greatly, though it would help when they came to tracking him down. No, what had caught her eye was a placard he was holding.

  DEATH TO

  NIAMH CONNOLLY!

  YOU CAN’T KILL

  WHAT DOESN’T LIVE!

  She printed a copy of the frozen video image and went looking for one of the DIs.

  Roisin saw Becky approaching her desk and signalled with an upraised finger for her to hold on.

  When she finished the call, she turned to Becky.

  ‘What’ve you got?’

  Becky showed her the blurry black and white printout.

  ‘It’s from the BBC’s news footage of the last LoveLife demo. The one Niamh Connolly got killed after. Look at his placard.’

  Roisin peered at the image for a few seconds. Really? You interrupted me with this?

  ‘Just another crank, Becks,’ she said finally. ‘Our guy’s hardly likely to advertise his intentions on a bloody placard, is he?’

  Becky clearly hadn’t expected a putdown. Well, that’ll teach you to be a bit more discerning, won’t it?

  ‘But, look at his expression. It’s like there’s nothing there. The others are all yelling, screaming. They look like they’d like to throw stuff. He’s so calm.’

  It was true, Roisin had to admit. The guy looked oddly relaxed. Though there was something around the eyes that made her uncomfortable. Where had she seen it before? She closed her eyes, willing herself to flip through the dozens of cases she’d worked since joining SIU.

  All the killers, rapists, terrorists and paedophiles that had marched into her working life, and sometimes her dreams, before being arrested, charged and convicted. She mentally reviewed her internal mugshot book now. Then she had it.

  Of them all, there was only one who’d really frightened her. Arthur Gregory Chater. He’d abducted, raped and then strangled five-year-old female twins from a housing estate in Camden. When they’d finally caught him, he’d seemed almost surprised. He couldn’t really understand why they would be so concerned. ‘They were only kids,’ he’d said to her calmly, in the sort of middle-class accent she associated with doctors and teachers. ‘Hardly worth all this fuss, surely? There are so many more running about all over the city.’

  Chater had had the same look as the unnamed guy in the grainy still in front of her. As if he were looking at sheep, or even something inanimate, like packing cases, rather than living, breathing, feeling human beings.

  She opened her eyes to see Becky standing there, watching her closely, perhaps hoping some of her investigative powers would rub off on her. Not today, sweetie.

  ‘Look, it’s a long shot, but leave it with me, OK? I’ll have a think, but honestly? Like I said, killers don’t tend to go around holding up signboards that say, “I’m your man!”, do they?’

  ‘No, I guess not,’ Becky answered, eyes downcast before turning away and retreating to her desk.

  Roisin knew she had a solid lead. But she wasn’t about to run off to Stella with it. This was her lead and it would be her collar. She’d bring him in on her own and make sure everyone, right up to Callie, knew that it was she, Roisin Mary Griffin, who’d found him, and not the golden girl, Ms Back-From-The-Dead Cole.

  Now, how to track you down, sunshine, hmm?

  Her first call was to the organisers of the counter-protest outside The Sackville Centre. The main body of them had been carrying placards with a pink and grey logo reading WAGSARR. A quick search revealed that the acronym stood for Women and Girls’ Sexual and Reproductive Rights. The group’s website claimed on its homepage that WAGSARR was ‘standing up to the Patriarchy and its gender-traitor accomplices in the fight for abortion and sex education on demand’.

  She read a few blog posts and watched a couple of videos and formed the impression that these were women (and a few men) who were more than happy to get physical with ‘the enemy’ as their overheated prose referred to anyone opposed to abortion, from Catholics to conservative intellectuals.

  Roisin had had an abortion herself as a seventeen-year-old, travelling alone from Belfast to Liverpool after being raped by an uncle. She’d never told a living soul about either the rape or the abortion. But despite this, she began to tire of the strident rhetoric that permeated each page on the WAGSARR site.

  ‘Jesus Christ! All right, we get it!’ she said, exasperated at yet another impassioned attack on anyone who might wonder whether a foetus was indeed a human being and not just a vestigial organ on a par with a woman’s appendix.

  She picked up the phone.

  ‘WAGSARR,’ a young woman announced. She sounded like she was issuing a challenge, not welcoming an enquiry.

  ‘Hi. This is Detective Inspector Roisin Griffin, from the Metropolitan Police. I need to speak to so
meone about the LoveLife event you guys were picketing last Friday.’

  Instead of meekly complying and putting her through to the CEO or events director, the young woman went on the offensive.

  ‘Roisin. That’s an Irish name, isn’t it? You sure you’re not with the Catholic Church, doing a bit of digging?’

  Roisin’s eyes widened at the cheek of it. A few choice replies fizzed through her mind and one almost made it past her lips, but if she was going to get anywhere then tact would have to take precedence.

  ‘Here’s the front desk number for Paddington Green Police Station: 020 7321 8517. Call me back.’

  She hung up, staring at the desk phone malevolently.

  Two minutes passed, then it rang.

  ‘DI Griffin.’

  ‘It’s the front desk here. I’ve got a Nancy Blakeney from, I didn’t quite catch the company. It sounded like, wagser?’

  ‘Thanks, put her through,’ Roisin said, already warming up one of the responses she’d toyed with a few minutes earlier.

  ‘DI Griffin.’

  The young woman’s tone was completely different. The spikiness had gone from her voice, leaving a much younger-sounding person altogether.

  ‘Oh, er, hi. It’s Nancy from WAGSARR? We were just speaking?’

  She had the annoying habit, now spreading even into the Met, of making every simple sentence sound like a question. Roisin decided to play on it.

  ‘Are you asking me or telling me, Nancy?’

  ‘Oh. Telling? I mean, you, like, know that, right?’

  ‘Yes, Nancy, I do. Now if you’ve finished wasting my time, I want you to put me through to –’ she nearly said, ‘a grown-up’ but swerved at the last second, ‘– someone in charge.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Sure. I’ll, like, find Eleni? She’s our boss?’

  The line clicked. But the silly girl hadn’t put her on hold, just put the receiver down on her desk. Roisin could hear the ensuing conversation clearly.

  ‘Shit! I’ve got the cops on the phone? They want to speak to Eleni?’

  ‘What do the pigs want with Eleni?’

  ‘I don’t know! She, like, went all official on me? Maybe they know about, you know, the rally? Maybe they’re going to, like, film it or whatever?’

  ‘Tell her to piss off and come back with a lawyer.’

  ‘I can’t! They’ve, like, probably got a file on me? You know I got fined for possession last year? Where is she?’

  ‘Eleni’s in her office. I wouldn’t bother her if I were you. Tell the pig she’s out at a meeting.’

  Roisin heard a rustle of papers then the muffled sound of the receiver being held against Nancy’s cheek.

  ‘Er, hi. Yeah, I checked but Eleni is, like, out at a meeting? So I can take a message?’

  Roisin had had enough of being jerked around by this bunch of clowns.

  ‘I heard everything you just said, Nancy. So put me through to Eleni right now,’ she raised her voice, ‘or, like, this pig is going to come down there right now and arrest you for obstruction of justice. Three seconds.’

  She heard a swift gasp, then silence as the line was cut.

  Swearing, she was reaching for her bag when the phone crackled.

  ‘This is Eleni Booth. To whom am I speaking, please?’

  ‘DI Griffin, Metropolitan Police. I’m investigating the murder of Niamh Connolly. I want to show you something. If you’ve got any meetings – real ones, that is – please either cancel them or be prepared to take a break. I’ll be with you in half an hour.’

  ‘I’m not sure I care for your tone, DI Griffin,’ Booth calmly replied. ‘I may well have to go out shortly. Can’t this wait?’

  So much for sisterhood, Roisin thought. Guess it doesn’t cut across ideological lines.

  ‘I’m sorry if my tone offended you Ms Booth. But I have just been lied to by one of your staff and called a “pig” by another. So you’ll have to forgive me for being a little impatient. As I said, I am investigating a murder.’

  ‘Very well,’ Booth sighed. ‘Do I need a lawyer?’

  What you need is someone to teach you some manners, Roisin thought.

  ‘I can’t advise you on that.’

  Fearing she’d explode if she had to listen to any more of the woman’s casually patronising questions, Roisin ended the call, grabbed her bag and car keys and headed out.

  ‘Where’re you off to in such a hurry?’ Baz asked as she marched past him.

  ‘Interviewing a potential witness. Probably turn out to be a waste of time.’

  And she was gone.

  By the time she arrived at the offices of WAGSARR, her earlier anger had dissipated, to be replaced with a determination not to let Eleni Booth get under her skin again.

  The group had their offices in Bow on the fifth floor of a narrow office building sandwiched between a pub and a boarded-up shop. A grubby aluminium intercom to the right of the plate-glass door had six names on slips of paper beneath plastic covers. Roisin jabbed a finger at the button beside the WAGSARR logo and held it for a count of three.

  ‘Hello?’ a tinny, suspicious voice squawked from the grille.

  Roisin rolled her eyes. Very professional.

  ‘DI Griffin to see Eleni Booth.’

  The latch buzzed and Roisin pushed her way in. She looked around for the lift and was dismayed to see only a plain concrete staircase.

  ‘Oh, you have to be joking,’ she groaned.

  Adjusting the shoulder strap on her bag, she started climbing. She could feel her determination to stay calm growing more fragile with every half-landing.

  Sweating after the climb, and hating whoever had designed the building on the cheap without leaving any money for a lift, she pushed through the door labelled with the WAGSARR logo and looked around for a reception desk.

  In that, she was disappointed. No seating area for visitors, no obvious receptionist, just half a dozen women of various ages between twenty-five and sixty clicking away on keyboards or talking on the phone. She was just about to tap the nearest twenty-something on the shoulder, hoping it was the suddenly-helpful Nancy, when a door at the far end of the room opened.

  Out strode a woman of striking Mediterranean appearance – large dark eyes and a mane of luxuriant, glossy black hair. Her black dress was severe yet sexy and Roisin found herself wondering, inappropriately, what such a beautiful woman was doing in such a scuzzy office block.

  The woman, Eleni Booth, she assumed, came towards her. No smile. No outstretched hand. OK, so this is how you want to play it? Fine. I can do formal.

  Not giving Booth time to speak, Roisin hit her with her best officialese, making sure her voice carried to every corner of the room. She was gratified to see that all heads had turned towards her.

  ‘Ms Booth? I’m Detective Inspector Roisin Griffin, Special Investigations Unit, Metropolitan Police. I’m investigating the murder of Mrs Niamh Connolly, former CEO of LoveLife. Do you have somewhere private we can talk?’

  There! Suck on that, you snotty cow!

  ‘Er, yes. Of course. My office, I think.’

  Booth’s office was a small, square, glass-walled cubicle about eight feet to a side. Books and magazines lined the walls, crammed onto white metal shelves. In contrast, her desk was an exercise in minimalism. All it held was a silver MacBook, a desk phone and a lamp, a thin, angular affair with an oval head housing a bright LED bulb.

  Without waiting to be asked, Roisin sat down in the white plastic chair in front of the desk and waited for Booth to make her way past boxes of papers that sat on the grey carpet between her and her own chair.

  23

  WEDNESDAY 15TH AUGUST 10.45 A.M.

  Lucian sat at his workstation with the length of rope in front of him, still in its evidence bag. He wanted to get going but he needed to set wheels in motion on the tool marks first. Doctor Craven had emailed him high-resolution photographs of the wounds to Niamh Connolly’s breasts and rib cage.

  Seen in extr
eme close-up, the flesh resembled a hellish landscape of reds, purples, blacks and yellows. As he moved the image around on his screen, enlarging one section, adjusting the brightness and contrast on another, different topographical features swam into focus. Here, a sharp-pointed mountain peak, there a valley with creased sides. A serrated ridge, a flat plain, a gouge as if a meteorite had ploughed into soft red earth.

  Then he found it. A distinctive pattern where the blades had sheared through a muscle and clipped a bone. He magnified the section and altered a control to render the image in black and white. His iMac screen was almost three feet across, and the resolution of Doctor Craven’s camera meant Lucian could zoom in until even the landscape disappeared and all that was left was a vast abstract image: straight lines, curves, patches of light and shade.

  The section of the image that interested him was a series of parallel lines – cut marks – scored into the anterior surface of a rib. He counted them: a closely spaced group of seven plus a further three a little way out. The edges of the cuts were rough and pockmarked.

  He switched the display back to colour. Scattered along the cuts, like autumn leaves, were dark-brown particles. He’d read Craven’s comment about the presence of rust particles. Now he could confirm it: the crystalline structure of the iron oxide was unmistakable. He made a note to request a sample for testing.

  Next, he zoomed out in small increments, watching the shape of the lines change. After five clicks of the mouse, he found himself looking at a slight change to the pattern. The lines were still parallel but now they exhibited a distinct if shallow curve. The curves meant the tool was hinged. A small, but significant breakthrough.

  Holding a key down, Lucian clicked the cursor on one end of the longest cut then on the other end. He selected the line, copied it, and pasted it into a geometric analyser program he’d written himself.