‘When did you last see her?’
‘Must be a month ago. I’d just given her my rent. She put it in her bag and said she’d pay it in to her bank while she was out.’
‘Do you know if she did?’
‘Did what?’
‘Pay it into her bank?’ Jo wasn’t sure if Tate was being particularly obstructive or was just dense.
‘No idea. I never saw her again.’
Jo nodded. They could check with her bank statements. If she hadn’t paid it in maybe she’d been mugged for her money at first. But no, that wouldn’t fit. She didn’t think the God of Death would be much interested in a few hundred quid.
‘When did you start to worry about her?’
Daniel leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘Dunno, after a couple of days I suppose.’
‘What did you do about it? Ring the police?’
‘No, I rang her parents, in case she’d gone to see them and forgot to tell me. We lived separate lives, you know, she didn’t need to tell me what she was up to in detail.’
‘So her parents contacted the police?’
‘Yeah, someone came out to the flat and took a statement from me, but I don’t think he was very interested. Kept saying that 9 times out of 10 missing adult persons return home. Just needed a few days out of their life, maybe. He told me not to worry and then left.’
Jo couldn’t fault the officer who’d said that. It was standard procedure with missing adults. Unless it could be proven it was completely out of character, or they’d last been seen with someone that the police wanted to identify and question.
It was Daniel she was cross with. For not caring enough for the person he shared a flat with. He seemed to be viewing the whole thing with studied indifference. And Jo didn’t like that. Not at all.
Whereas the overriding impression Jo got from the Professor was one of arrogance, with Tate it was a feeling of danger.
9
‘Look, why are you here. What’s going on?’ Daniel Tate gave Jo a laconic stare. If he was trying to intimidate her, it was never going to work.
‘We’ve found Alison.’
‘Oh,’ Daniel tipped his head. ‘Is she OK?’
‘Not so you’d notice, no. She’s dead.’
Daniel nodded. His only reaction. Was that because he already knew she was dead? Because he’d killed her? Jo had no idea. She was finding it hard to read the young man.
‘We need to look in her room.’
Again he nodded.
‘Where is it?’ This bloke was seriously getting on her tits.
He indicated the room opposite where he was sat.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Jo said, laden with all the sarcasm she could muster.
Jo and Byrd went into Alison’s bedroom. Byrd closed the door behind them. Jo sat on the bed and tried to get a sense of the girl as Byrd started going through drawers. A clothes tree stood in the corner with various bits of clothing on it, including several multi-coloured scarves. Handbags were lined up on the floor against one wall and her shoes displayed neatly at the bottom of the wardrobe. All the items of clothing in the room screamed ‘safe’. Alison clearly wasn’t a rebel anymore. There was nothing provocative to wear, but no sense of a style of her own, either. A dressing table was topped by a mirror with photographs slotted into the frame. A couple with girl friends on a night out, but mostly of Alison alone. So she didn’t seem to have a boyfriend.
Jo heard Byrd rustle papers and looked over to where he was examining the contents of a chest of drawers.
‘Got her personal papers here, Guv.’
‘Great, bring them all and we’ll take them back to the station. Let’s see what’s under the bed.’
Jo got down onto her knees and lifted the duvet cover. There were several piles of books, which Jo slid out. Sifting through them she saw mostly fiction, chick lit and romance, with one or two non-fiction books. Mostly cookery with two on the Egyptians. Jo did a double take.
Clambering to her feet she said to Byrd, ‘Here, look what I’ve found,’ and she brandished the books.
‘Egyptians, eh? Wonder why she’s got them?’
‘Dunno, let’s try and find out.’
Jo walked back into the living room and asked Daniel about the books.
‘They’re definitely Alison’s. I think she had a passing interest in Egypt once. But I’ve never taken much notice of it, nor has she talked about it.’
Jo hadn’t expected much information from him about them and it turned out she was right.
‘You sure?’
‘Course I am.’
Jo put the books on Egyptology on the coffee table as Byrd came out of the bedroom carrying a couple of box files. ‘Found some more personal papers on top of the wardrobe,’ he grunted under the weight of them.
Jo turned to Daniel. ‘That’s all for now. We’re taking Alison’s personal papers with us. They’ll be returned when we’ve finished with them. Thank you for your co-operation, sir.’ Jo couldn’t resist another sarcastic dig. She really didn’t like Daniel Tate at all.
Once out of the flat Jo said, ‘Make sure we do a full background check on him. I don’t trust him, nor do I believe him. Let’s see what that turns up.’
‘If anything, Boss.’
‘Alright, if anything, but do it anyway.’
‘Yes, Boss. Um any chance of a bit of help here?’ Byrd asked.
But Jo was already clattering down the stairs and didn’t hear him.
Jo didn’t get a chance to think about Daniel Tate for the rest of that day, as Alison’s parents had been located. They lived in Dorset, having moved there on their early retirement from teaching. Maybe that explained Alison’s work in a high school, she would have been used to that environment from her own education and her parent’s jobs.
Jo met them at the mortuary in St Richard’s, Chichester’s district general hospital. She couldn’t begin to understand what they were going through and that was the first thing she said to them, as well as offering her condolences. They looked decent, upright people, smartly dressed despite the occasion. She guessed they were of the generation that had to keep up standards, no matter the circumstances. They were well spoken, with Mrs Rudd’s voice surprisingly quiet for a teacher. Mr Rudd was more verbose with a clipped middle-England accent. They were certainly not of the background where you regularly found members of your family turning up dead. Jo couldn’t get over the fact that Mr Rudd was wearing a tie. He must always wear one, come hell or high water. Jo thought that finding out your daughter had been killed was definitely the kind of day where you would forget to put one on. But each to their own.
‘Alison was such a lovely girl,’ her mother said, dabbing her eyes. ‘She was kind, generous and honest to a fault.’
‘She was brought up the right way,’ Mr Rudd said.
‘I’m sure she was,’ murmured Jo. She always found the mortuary made her whisper. She didn’t want to wake the dead. Nor did she want their pleas in her head, for that would be to open a pandora’s box, containing a cacophony of voices, that she’d have trouble shutting the lid on.
‘’Mrs Rudd, would you like to sit here, while your husband does the identification?’
‘Oh no,’ Mrs Rudd said indignantly. ‘I need to see my daughter as well.’
‘Are you sure you both want to do this?’ Jo was rather alarmed by that. She would have preferred just Mr Rudd do the identification.
‘Oh yes,’ Mrs Rudd said quickly, before her husband could speak. ‘I shan’t believe it until I see her.’
‘Very well. You’ll see Alison on the other side of this window. Someone will come and take the cloth off her face, then replace it once you’ve identified her as your daughter.’
‘Or not?’ said Mrs Rudd and Jo could hear the hope in her voice.
‘Or not. Of course,’ Jo nodded. ‘Ready?’
Mr and Mrs Rudd both nodded and Jo pressed a button hidden behind the curtain on the window into the viewing room. The c
urtains slid open with barely a swish and there was the body on a trolley with a mortuary assistant stood next to it. The cloth was then folded over and removed from Alison’s face.
Mr and Mrs Rudd gasped at the sight of their daughter, all chalk-white face and bloodless lips.
It was Mr Rudd who spoke. ‘Yes, that’s our daughter Alison.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jo.
The curtains closed and that was what broke Mrs Rudd. She collapsed onto the floor sobbing. Her husband took her in his arms, lifted her up and placed her on a chair.
‘She’ll be alright,’ he said to Jo. ‘She just needs some time.’
‘Of course. Where are you staying?
‘Your office have booked us a room at the Premier Inn.’
‘Do you need a lift?’
‘No, we have a car.’
‘Very well,’ Jo slid Mr Rudd a card. ‘I’ll be in touch tomorrow.’
‘Thank you. And now if you don’t mind?’
Jo could take a hint as well as the next man and she slipped away, leaving the Rudd’s to their grief.
Walking down the hospital corridors away from the Mortuary and towards the exit, images and sounds followed her. It start out as one or two. But as she passed wards and then the Accident and Emergency rooms, she collected more and more dead souls who, for one reason or another, had been unable to move on.
There were screams. Sighs. Agony. Women pleading for help as they died. Men sobbing.
Tell my husband I still love him.
Can you help find my daughter? My son? My wife?
Where am I? Why can no one hear me?
Help. Help. Help.
Each one a pitiful plea that tore at her heart. Each one landing like lashes, flaying her skin.
She couldn’t help them. But she couldn’t outrun them either, although she tried. She hurried along the corridors, tears running down her face. It was only when she burst out of the doors at the main entrance and into the fresh air that the entreaties stopped.
Apart from one, that followed her for the rest of the day.
Big, bad wolf.
10
Lindsay and Archie had agreed to go to the press conference on Monday morning, together. Lindsay didn’t have any lectures. Her timetable was pretty empty so as to give her time to research and write her dissertation. Lindsay was already waiting for Archie outside the police station when he turned up. They queued up with the other ‘hacks’ and going through security Archie said that Lindsay was with him and the Argus.
Never having been to a police press conference before, Lindsay was wide-eyed. A large table was set up with four chairs behind it and microphones on it. They had been given a press pack on arrival, but it didn’t say very much. Just gave the location of the body and confirmation that it was a young woman with jet black hair cut into a severe bob. A sketch of her face was included. Lindsay was grateful it wasn’t a photograph of her dead.
She had been named as Alison Rudd, an employee at a local school.
‘Recognise her?’ Archie asked.
‘No. You?’
‘Nah, never seen her before. Name doesn’t ring a bell either.’
Three police officers arrived, and the room settled, the noise fading as they all sat.
‘Good morning,’ the older man said. ‘Thank you for coming. I’m DCI Crooks and with me are DI Wolfe and DS Byrd. In your press packs you have most of the information we hold on the victim. We would appreciate your co-operation in getting her description out there and ask that any members of the public who have any information to get in touch with us. We want to speak to anyone who knew Alison or saw her recently.’
Lindsay looked appreciatively at DS Byrd and figured that if all policemen were as attractive as he was, then she couldn’t wait to join the force. A bit like drooling over fire fighters and the thought made her smile. Remembering where she was, she adjusted her features into a grave expression.
‘Archie Horne, Chichester Argus.’
Lindsay realised Archie was speaking and tuned back in.
‘How was the body found?’
‘By a dog walker early in the morning.’
‘And what was the state of the body?’
‘Wrapped in bandages.’ The speaker was the woman police officer, DI Wolfe.
‘I beg your pardon,’ Archie stammered.
‘Wrapped in bandages,’ Wolfe repeated.
‘As in a mummy?’ Lindsay said and then blushed as she realised she’d spoken out loud.
‘Yes, as in a mummy.’
The room erupted and Lindsay felt the thrill that comes from investigation, no matter if you were a policeman, a journalist, or a criminal psychologist. Maybe she had chosen the right career after all.
11
As they filed out of the press conference, Archie took a phone call. All she heard was a mumbled conversation, as he’d turned his back on her. Once free, he confided to Lindsay that the Argus was determined to be THE local paper for coverage on the murder and that Archie was tasked by his Editor with finding out about the practice of mummification. He wanted to know from Lindsay what would cause someone to want to kill a young girl and then wrap her in bandages.
‘Um, well…’
‘Um, well, what, Lindsay? Can you help or not?’
‘There’s no need to be like that, Archie. Yes, I can help but I need to go home, write some ideas up and then email them to you. Deal?’
‘Yes, deal,’ said Archie. ‘But don’t take too long, deadlines are looming.’
‘Deadlines?’ Lindsay was beginning to wonder what she’d got herself into.
‘Yes, Lindsay, deadlines. We need to get the copy filed by 3pm this afternoon for the evening edition.’
‘Crikey, right.’
‘So I need your insight by 2pm. Okay? It doesn’t need to be an essay, just a few helpful insights that I can weave into the story. See you later.’
Archie walked away leaving Lindsay quite stunned. But that wasn’t achieving anything, so she turned and ran for home. This was her chance to put all her hard work into practice. She better man-up and get on with the job.
She didn’t have far to go to get to her house. Shedding her coat and pulling her pen and pad from her bag, she wanted to read the notes she’d managed to get down. She had meant to record it on her phone but had forgotten as she had quickly become fascinated by the event.
Lindsay opened her laptop and then grabbed a couple of books off her shelf. Her initial thought was Paranoid schizophrenia with delusions and possibly hallucinations. She opened the International Classification of Diseases produced by the World Health Organisation which is the reference that is used by NHS doctors.
So if their killer was schizophrenic then the first question she needed to answer for Archie was what caused it? Nobody knew exactly what caused schizophrenia as it was possibly the result of several factors. Brain chemistry, genetics and birth complications could cause schizophrenia. Some people could develop the illness as a result of a stressful event, such as the death of a loved one or the loss of a job. Stressful life events and moving to a new town or country could also trigger symptoms of psychosis and schizophrenia. There was also a solid link between the use of strong cannabis and the development of schizophrenia.
Looking at the mummification angle, their killer could have delusions. Fixed beliefs which did not match up to the way other people saw the world. Mummification was strongly linked to a practice in ancient Egypt and Lindsay therefore thought the delusion of the killer could be that he was a character from that era.
All of that, of course, was speculation, but that was the information Archie wanted. What they did with it was up to the Argus. She pressed ‘send’ before she could change her mind.
Lindsay went and grabbed a copy of the paper later that afternoon and found out what Archie had done with her diagnosis. Splashed all over the front page was the story about the mummified body. He’d also used her diagnosis and decided to name their killer. Anubi
s: an Egyptian figure known as the God of Death.
ANUBIS
Once he’d cleaned himself up it was time for Anubis to perform the ritual of weighing the heart of a deceased person against Ma'at, the ancient Egyptian goddess of truth, justice, harmony, and balance, who was represented by an ostrich feather.
The brass scales glinted in the lights Anubis had set up around the metal frame so he had the best possible lighting as he carried out the tasks on his victim’s bodies. The hanging balance scales were the nearest he could get to a replica of the ones used in Egypt all those centuries ago, with large bowls, big enough to hold a human heart. This was the way Anubis dictated the fate of souls. Hearts heavier than the feather, i.e., sinners, would be devoured. If the heart was lighter than a feather, then those souls, free of sin, would ascend to a heavenly existence with their heart intact.
‘What do you think?’
‘What?’
‘What do you think? Is she a sinner or not?’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake, shut up. And stop peering over my shoulder, it’s getting on my nerves.’
As Anubis placed the ostrich feather on one side of the scales he began to shake with anticipation. Would the girl’s heart be free of sin? Or would he have the pleasure of devouring her heart and condemning her to the underworld for all eternity? He lifted the heart high into the air, saying a short prayer to Osiris, and then brought it down to place it on the opposite bowl.
It was heavier than the feather. Just as he thought. He had been right. As he always was.
12
The next morning Jo decided to interview Daniel Tate again. This time at the nick. She looked at her watch 9.30 am. ‘Where does Tate work, Byrd?’
Eddie riffled through the files on his desk. Finding the right one he opened it and read, ‘He’s a trainer at Chichester Leisure Centre.’
‘Fitness motivator.’
‘Sorry, Guv?’
‘That’s what they’re called at Westfield Leisure Centre. Fitness motivators.’
Touching the Dead Page 4
