Читать книгу An Imperfect Killing - Luke Delaney - Страница 6

Detective Sergeant Sean Corrigan parked on the edge of the police corden surrounding the car park, in front of the shimmering glass building of the television studio. He’d received a phone call informing him of the shooting less than an hour ago when he was still at home and had made his way straight to the scene. He shivered a little against the deepening cold of winter, pulling his thin raincoat closed with one hand as he flashed his warrant card to the two uniform constables and gave them his name for the crime-scene log book. He ducked under the blue and white tape, pausing to look around and assess the situation – already imagining what the scene would have looked like a little more than an hour ago, when someone had ended another person’s life. He didn’t know much yet, other than that the victim was female and that she’d been shot. Shootings were still rare enough to warn a detetecive that they were dealing with something more than another domestic murder or gang-related killing. The victim had been pronounced dead after the crash unit at the nearby Guy’s Hospital had failed in all attempts to revive her. One thing he immediately noticed was the unusually large volume of uniformed officers guarding the scene and the ever-increasing number of TV crews and journalists who were gathering close by. Clearly word had already got out that the victim was a somebody.

Sean strode across the tarmac to where he saw DCI Alan Featherstone standing with another detective from the team, DC Zack Benton, who always took pride in being the most smartly dressed detective on the team. Today was no exception. His clothes had been carefully selected to complement his dark, mahogany-coloured skin, and even his spectacles were a designer brand. As Sean grew close it was Featherstone who spoke first.

‘Morning,’ was all he said.

‘Morning, Sarge,’ Benton added before returning to look at the detritus of emergency medical care the paramedics had left behind.

‘Do we know who she is yet?’ Sean asked, ignoring their pleasantries.

‘Sue Evans,’ Featherstone answered mournfully.

‘The TV presenter?’ Sean checked.

‘The very same,’ Featherstone confirmed. ‘Good-looking woman, smart too. Damn shame. What a waste.’

‘And the shooter?’ Sean forged ahead.

‘We’re checking CCTV, but it looks like he came round the back of the building from the Southbank, ambushed her here in the car park, shot her and fled the way he came,’ Featherstone explained. ‘Dressed in a black boiler suit and balaclava. From what we know there was only one shot.’

‘There was a witness?’ Sean asked.

‘Not as such,’ Featherstone told him. ‘A security guard heard a gunshot, came out to investigate and found the victim on the ground. He checked the studio’s security CCTV system once she’d been taken to hospital. That’s pretty much where all our information’s coming from.’

‘Sounds like a professional,’ Sean suggested.

‘It does,’ Featherstone agreed. ‘Only who would want to hit a TV presenter?’

‘She did consumer affair shows, didn’t she?’ Sean pursued his own emerging theory. ‘Maybe she pissed off the wrong people?’

‘Did you ever see any of her shows?’ Featherstone asked.

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Not my sort of thing.’

‘All pretty tame,’ Featherstone explained. ‘This vacuum cleaner’s better and cheaper than that vacuum cleaner. We’re not exactly talking organized crime here. Other than that she did “how to do up your house” crap – again, not the sort of thing to warrant a price on your head.’

‘Something else then,’ Sean acknowledged.

‘A domestic?’ Benton offered.

Sean and Featherstone both looked around the large open-air car park, shaking their heads. ‘I don’t think so,’ Sean told him. ‘Domestics are spur-of-the-moment outbursts of madness. This was planned and the use of a firearm—’

‘Not just a firearm,’ Featherstone interrupted, ‘a handgun – which pulls us back to a professional hit, despite the current lack of motive.’

‘Early days,’ Sean reminded them.

‘Early days indeed,’ Featherstone agreed, ‘but the vultures are already gathering.’ He looked over towards the gathering media. ‘The powers-that-be will want a quick and clean result on this one. No excuses. I seem to recall the last time a TV presenter got shot the investigation dragged on for a year before anyone was charged. Let’s not let that happen here.’

‘You already got someone gathering up the CCTV?’ Sean asked.

‘As we speak,’ Featherstone assured him.

‘Then I’m no good here,’ Sean told him. He turned and began to walk away.

‘Going somewhere I should know about?’ Featherstone sarcastically asked.

‘The mortuary,’ Sean answered, surprised Featherstone hadn’t guessed.

‘Good idea,’ Featherstone nodded once. ‘Let me know what you find. I’ll be briefing the team back at Peckham in a couple of hours. I’d appreciate it if you could try and be there.’

‘I’ll be there,’ Sean promised and headed back towards the edge of the cordon and his unmarked car. He was calm on the outside, but inside his mind was already spinning with possibilities: had she pissed off the wrong person, despite what Featherstone had said? Or had she attracted a deranged stalker? Or was it a lover, a rival, a business partner? Right now he didn’t have enough to even make a calculated guess. He needed more information and he knew exactly where to start.

***

Sean walked through the alleyways formed by the buildings at Guy’s Hospital, close to London Bridge. This was a part of the city that very few members of the public would ever see, the buildings that housed the huge laundry, the boiler rooms, the clinical waste incinerators and the place he was heading to – the mortuary. He’d been there before, but only ever as a detective constable – a bag carrier and note taker for whichever DCI or DI was heading up the case. As a DS this would be the first time he’d be able to ask his own questions without having to watch what he said – the first time he could let his imagination guide those questions. He pushed his way through a large set of oversized, floppy plastic swing doors and only took a few steps before he had to push his way through another set – the brightness of the mortuary ahead lighting his way. He strode into the large, clinical-looking room and took in his surroundings. The mortuary assistant who had been mopping the floor looked up first – the pathologist a few seconds after, giving Sean a glance of annoyance at having been disturbed from examining the battered and bloodied body that lay on the stainless steel table in front of him.

‘Can I help you with something?’ he asked impatiently.

Sean scanned the other stretcher trolleys in the mortuary, wondering under which green sheet Sue Evans’ body lay. ‘Doctor Canning, isn’t it?’ he asked as he walked towards him uninvited, pulling his warrant card free as he approached.

‘Do I know you?’ Canning demanded.

‘We’ve met before,’ Sean told him, standing on the opposite side of the operating table that looked more like a giant shallow sink, ‘although perhaps you don’t remember. DS Sean Corrigan. The last time we met I was a DC assisting the OIC at one of your post-mortems.’

‘You’re right,’ Canning agreed. ‘I don’t remember you, but I take it you’re here for a reason.’

‘Female gunshot victim,’ Sean explained. ‘Brought here this morning. Died in the Critical Care Unit after attempts to keep her alive failed.’

‘You mean the television presenter.’

‘Yes,’ Sean confirmed. ‘Her name was Sue Evans.’

‘Then I’m a little confused as to why you’re here,’ Canning frowned. ‘I haven’t scheduled her post-mortem yet and it almost certainly won’t be today. I have this unfortunate fellow to deal with first,’ Canning swept his hand across the corpse in front of him, ‘and then at least one more before I can get to your victim.’

‘I’m not here for the post-mortem,’ Sean assured him.

‘Then why are you here?’ Canning asked.

‘I wanted to see her,’ Sean explained. ‘Seemed the right thing to do.’

Canning sighed. ‘Maybe I can let you see her for a moment,’ he conceded, ‘but I need to finish here first.’

‘What happened to him?’ Sean asked, looking down at the severely injured body of a white man in his mid-thirties.

‘Fell from a twenty-second floor balcony of a local tower block,’ Canning answered. ‘Question is – did he jump or was he pushed?’

‘Drunk?’ Sean questioned.

‘By the look and smell of him when they brought him in, I’d say so.’

From the state of the corpse Sean could tell the man had probably been a semi-vagrant wanderer, housed in an unwanted council flat in a soon-to-be-demolished tower block. His death would be mourned by few.

‘He can wait,’ Sean told the pathologist coldly.

Again Canning sighed and began to pull his soiled latex gloves from his hands. ‘Very well,’ he relented, removing his surgical apron. ‘I’ll have to scrub up and put some new kit on. We wouldn’t want any cross-contamination, would we?’

‘No,’ Sean agreed, ‘and I appreciate you doing this.’

After several minutes Canning was washed, re-equipped and ready to show Sean the body. ‘I believe she’s over here,’ he said and headed towards the stretcher trolley in the far corner of the mortuary. Sean followed, standing on the opposite side of the covered body to Canning, who pulled the green sheet down just enough to reveal her head and upper shoulders. Sean could immediately see the extent of her injuries: severe burns covered her face, neck and the exposed areas of her shoulders – her eyelashes and brows had been burnt away, as had part of her fringe, and her entire face was a waxy red colour. Both of her partly opened eyes were weepy and haemorrhaged and her mouth was slightly open, as if she was still trying to speak. The ten-pence-piece-sized hole under her right eye was unmistakable, but it was the smaller black holes in her skin that really caught Sean’s attention.

‘Our information is that she was shot once,’ he explained, ‘with a bullet fired from a handgun. But these wounds look more like she was shot with a mixed round from a shotgun – one larger projectile packed into a cartridge with standard buckshot. The burn marks mean she was shot at very close range, so again it looks more like the weapon was a shotgun. Probably a sawn-off one at that judging by the spread of her injuries.’

‘It’s the first chance I’ve had to take a look at her,’ Canning nodded, ‘but I tend to agree with your hypothesis. Are you sure the weapon was a handgun?’

‘I’ve not seen the CCTV footage myself,’ he admitted, ‘but the security guard is apparently adamant it shows the suspect firing a handgun, not a shotgun.’

‘Then perhaps the gun misfired,’ Canning suggested, ‘or perhaps the bullet was a faulty dum-dum bullet – only instead of exploding inside the body, this one exploded inside the gun’s chamber, sending these tiny pieces of lead flying through the air and into the victim’s face.’

‘Or maybe it was a badly prepared homemade bullet that started to disintegrate as soon as it was fired,’ Sean countered.

‘Also a possibility,’ Canning agreed, warming to the young detective sergeant the more they discussed the dead woman’s injuries.

‘I need the bullet,’ Sean blurted out. ‘I need to take it with me today – now.’

‘That’s impossible,’ Canning laughed. ‘You’ll get the bullet at the post-mortem. You’ll have to wait until then.’

‘It can’t wait,’ Sean insisted. ‘I need the bullet now.’

‘I understand the bullet is important,’ Canning sympathized, ‘as it would be to any murder investigation, but why can’t it wait?’

‘Because if it’s a dum-dum bullet gone wrong then I’m probably looking for a professional hit-man, and every second I waste is another second for him to make good his escape back to wherever it is he came from.’

‘And if it’s a homemade bullet gone wrong?’ Canning asked.

‘Then maybe we’re looking for a boyfriend we don’t know about yet – one who as we speak is scrubbing the firearms residue from the exposed parts of his face and burning the boiler suit and balaclava. This is going to be a very high-profile case, doctor. If the news media find out we wasted a day at the most critical stage of the investigation they’ll be like a dog with a bone. It won’t reflect well on any of us.’

Canning blew out deeply through pursed lips. ‘Very well, if you insist. But this is most certainly not the usual procedure.’

‘I understand,’ Sean assured him, ‘but I don’t need a full post-mortem – I just need the bullet.’

‘So be it.’ Canning called across the large clinical room to his assistant. ‘Justin, can you prepare the operating table for a new cadaver, please. I need to examine Miss Evans here.’ Justin just shrugged and set about removing the body already on the operating table and preparing it for the next – his well-practiced hands working quickly and efficiently.

‘He shan’t be long,’ Canning promised. ‘He doesn’t say much, but he knows his job inside out.’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Sean answered.

‘I think we’re about ready,’ Canning said after a few minutes. ‘Justin, if you could grab the digital camera, please. We’re not performing a complete post-mortem, but I still need to have everything documented. Just photograph what I tell you to.’ Justin nodded without speaking. ‘Very well,’ Canning told the room, turning on his trusty Dictaphone before taking a new scalpel from the tray of surgical tools and leaning over the body. ‘Take a photo of her face before my initial incision please, Justin.’ He duly obliged, the camera flashing and whirring twice, after which Canning took hold of the victim’s forehead with one hand and cut through the skin in two directions across where the main bullet had entered, forming a cross pattern. Very little blood seeped from the wound – her heart having long since stopped pumping it around her body. Next he used the scalpel to separate the skin from the facial muscles and peeled it back with a pair of surgical tweezers to reveal the damage underneath. Sean could see that the muscle around the entry wound had been turned to pulp and knew from previous cases that the deeper the bullet travelled, the worse the damage to the muscle would be.

‘Another photograph, please,’ Canning asked, Justin following his commands without question. After the camera’s flash Canning cut deeper with his scalpel until he hit bone and began to shake his head. He swapped the tweezers for a long, thin pair of forceps, using them to extract pieces of bone that had shattered and splintered as the bullet had passed through the upper part of the victim’s maxillary bone before travelling under the orbital socket and sending out shock waves that ruptured the blood vessels in both eyes, causing the haemorrhaging that had turned them a dark maroon colour.

Canning pushed the forceps through the pulped muscle and bone deeper inside the skull into the brain, trying to follow the path of the bullet as best as he could. ‘Dear oh dear,’ he shook his head. ‘The damage to the skeletal structure of the victim’s face is significant, as is the damage to soft tissue surrounding the entry point.’ He pushed the forceps still deeper. ‘The bullet I suspect was a fairly large calibre to have caused so much damage – .38 inch at least.’ Again he shook his head. ‘The damage to the right side of the brain is also very significant. On first examination I would estimate at least one quarter of it has been totally destroyed, with further significant damage being caused by the shock waves that would have been emitted by the projectile. Death would have been almost instantaneous. Even if the Critical Care Team had been able to keep her body alive, her brain was already dead. She couldn’t possibly have survived long term.’

‘Then we should thank God for small mercies,’ Sean told him.

‘Indeed we should,’ Canning replied.

‘And the bullet?’ Sean asked.

‘Give me a minute,’ Canning insisted. ‘With this amount of damage to the soft tissue the bullet could have moved significantly from where one might expect it to be.’

Sean waited impatiently as he watched the pathologist nimbly and diligently working the forceps inside the victim’s skull. ‘Ah ha,’ Canning suddenly smiled. ‘Be ready with the camera,’ he warned Justin, before slowly pulling the forceps clear and holding them closer to the lights. He spoke to Sean without looking away from the small, bloody object held firm in the tiny teeth of the surgical instrument. ‘I believe this is what your heart desires, Sergeant.’

Sean leaned in for a closer look, but the bullet was still in too much of a mess to see anything clearly. ‘Can you clean it?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’ Canning carefully dipped it into a small stainless steel bowl of water – very gently moving it back and forth until he was satisfied it was clean enough to be examined and then placed in an evidence bag. He lifted it from the bowl and again held it to the light. ‘Not much to see,’ he declared, twisting the shapeless metal object so he could see it from all angles. ‘Looks like lead.’

‘A manufactured bullet wouldn’t lose its shape that badly,’ Sean told him, ‘and it’s definitely no dum-dum bullet.’

‘Homemade then,’ Canning deduced.

‘That would be my guess,’ Sean agreed.

‘If the bullet was made,’ Canning surmised, ‘then the gun probably was too – a re-commissioned replica no doubt.’

‘Most guns out there are,’ Sean explained, ‘but we won’t know for sure until ballistic forensics examine it. I need to take it with me.’

‘Of course. Do you have an evidence bag?’ Sean produced a small plastic bag from his pocket and handed it to Canning. ‘I see you came prepared.’ The pathologist took the bag and filled in the required details with a pen he’d pulled from underneath his apron as if it was a magic trick. He used his initials and the fact it was his first exhibit to label the bag: RC/1. He signed it, sealed it and handed it to Sean. ‘Good luck,’ he told him with a slight raising of his eyebrows. ‘I think you’re going to need it.’

‘Thanks,’ Sean told him and headed towards the exit without ceremony. ‘I’ll let you know what ballistics find.’

Canning watched him disappear through the plastic swing doors. ‘An interesting fellow, don’t you think?’ he said to Justin, who just pulled a face of disinterest and shrugged. ‘I’ve got a strange feeling we’ll be seeing a lot more of DS Corrigan.’

***

When Sean arrived back at the Murder Investigation Team’s office, Featherstone was already briefing the rest of the unit as to what they’d discovered so far. Images of the CCTV covering the car park played on a large roll-down screen behind Featherstone, who provided a commentary of the events that led to the death of Sue Evans. Sean used the relative darkness of the room to approach unnoticed and stand at the back of the gathered detectives. Featherstone used a long wooden ruler to point at the things he wanted his audience to pay attention to.

‘Now we see the victim’s car approaching the entrance,’ he continued. ‘She swipes her ID card to raise the barrier and drives in. Here we can see she drives around to her named bay and parks up. There’s a delay for a few seconds while she does something inside the car – we don’t know what – probably gathering up her bits and pieces.’ He swept the ruler to the top of the screen. ‘While she’s still in the car the suspect appears from around the side of the studio building and jogs across the car park.’ Sean watched the small figure of the man dressed all in black as he headed towards the victim’s car. Where had he been hiding before he appeared from the corner? Or had he simply walked along the Southbank in the boiler suit, putting the balaclava on just before he came into view?

‘He stands slightly to the rear of the car,’ Featherstone explained, ‘presumably so the victim can’t spot him and waits a few seconds until she climbs out and sees him, by which time he’s already pointing the handgun at her head …’

‘She says something,’ Sean found himself saying too loudly before he could stop himself.

Featherstone hit pause and searched in the dark for the source of the question until he squinted in Sean’s direction. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I think she says something,’ Sean repeated sheepishly.

Featherstone looked at the screen and then back to Sean. ‘And if she did?’

‘Must have been a hell of a shock – to step out of your car and see a man pointing a gun at your face. Yet she still managed to say something. As if she …’

‘As if she what?’ Featherstone pushed him.

‘As if she knew him,’ Sean finished. ‘If she knew him, maybe she tried to appeal to him – asked him not to pull the trigger. I don’t think she would have spoken if she didn’t know him.’

‘Interesting,’ Featherstone tried to play along, ‘but how could she have recognized him? He was completely covered.’

‘Not his eyes and mouth,’ Sean pointed out. ‘She recognized his eyes. She recognized his lips. Maybe she said his name.’

There was a silence in the room for a few seconds before Featherstone spoke again. ‘Maybe. Let’s get a lip reader from somewhere and see if they can’t tell us what she said. If we’re lucky DS Corrigan may be right and she said this bastard’s name. Make life easier for us. Any more questions?’ The room was silent. ‘Good. And if we could hold our thoughts until the end of the footage that would be helpful.’ Sean felt the eyes of the room burning into his skin as Featherstone pressed play. A split second later a bright flash burst from the end of the revolver, but also from the front and back of the chamber, accompanied by a huge smoke cloud that momentarily obscured both figures until it drifted away in the light breeze, by which time Sue Evans was already lying on the ground breathing her last breath. A few moments later the shooter ran off in the direction he’d come from, disappearing around the corner of the studio.

‘As I’m sure you all noticed,’ Featherstone told them, pausing the footage, ‘that was a hell of a flash and a shitload of smoke for a revolver. My guess is it’s a re-commissioned replica, just like every other gun out there, and it couldn’t handle the charge in the cartridge.’

Sean cleared his throat self-consciously, remembering he was supposed to keep his thoughts to himself, but needing to share what he had learnt.

‘Something else to add that couldn’t wait, DS Corrigan?’ Featherstone asked.

‘Sorry,’ Sean apologized. ‘It’s just I went to see the victim at the mortuary and …’ he cleared his throat again, ‘managed to persuade the pathologist to recover the bullet.’

‘You did what?’ Featherstone asked, his back stiffening.

‘I didn’t think we could wait until the post-mortem,’ he tried to explain. ‘With all the media attention I thought we needed the most important piece of evidence immediately.’

‘And what did you discover – if anything?’

Again Sean could feel the eyes of the room boring into him. ‘That the bullet’s homemade too and not very well. Forensics have promised to get back to us as a matter of urgency.’

‘A homemade bullet and a re-commissioned replica or poorly made blank-firing revolver,’ Featherstone spoke his thoughts out loud. ‘I guess we can rule out a professional hit then.’

‘Maybe it was all the hit-man could get?’ one of the gathered DCs suggested.

‘Maybe,’ Featherstone half-heartedly agreed, ‘but his approach and escape are all wrong too. No decent hit-man is going to risk covering that sort of ground to the victim. A shooting out in the open – why isn’t he riding pillion passenger on a motorbike, or at least riding one himself? That’s the norm these days isn’t it? Ride up, pull the gun out, fire the shots and speed off. Simple. Clean. This is all too much of a mess.’

‘She was very attractive,’ Sean changed the direction of their communal thinking. ‘Beautiful, even and a celebrity. She must have attracted her fair share of unwanted attention.’

‘The flame that drew the moth, eh?’ Featherstone nodded. ‘I’ve already got DC Benton checking it out. Will someone turn the bloody lights back on please? Can’t see a damn thing.’

A few seconds later bright light from the overhead fluorescent tubes flooded the room just as DC Zack Benton hurried in looking like a man who’d made a great discovery. Featherstone noticed it immediately.

‘You got something for us, DC Benton?’ he asked.

‘Looks like we have a possible suspect,’ he announced to the listening detectives.

‘Possible suspect?’ Featherstone queried.

‘She had a stalker,’ Benton explained.

‘And does this stalker have a name?’ Featherstone pressed.

‘Yes sir,’ Benton told him. ‘She reported him for harassment about four months ago and had a restraining order issued preventing him from approaching her in person or by letter, email etcetera – the usual stuff. Suspect’s name is Ruben Thurlby.’

‘And what do we know about Ruben Thurlby?’ Featherstone demanded.

‘IC1,’ Benton began, using the police racial code for white/European, ‘six foot three inches tall, heavy build, forty-two years old with some learning difficulties. Apparently he likes to dress in combat clothing and has a generally unkempt appearance. He has no previous convictions other than the harassment charge, although he was arrested for breaching the restraining order only a few weeks ago. Home address is a council flat on the Rockingham Estate, SE1. He lives alone.’

‘So,’ Featherstone nodded, ‘he just couldn’t stay away from our victim eh?’

Sean could already see Ruben Thurlby in his mind – sitting alone in his council flat, dressed in filthy combat clothes, surrounded by cuttings from magazines and newspapers of Sue Evans as he made the homemade bullets to fit the reactivated replica or blank-firing revolver he’d probably had for years. He could almost hear Thurlby mumbling to himself as he prepared the weapon he’d use to take his revenge on the woman who’d so cruelly turned down his love and betrayed him to the police.

‘What do you reckon, Sean?’ Featherstone sought his opinion, dragging him back to the real world. ‘Sound good to you?’

‘Sounds like we need to speak to him,’ he agreed.

‘Good,’ Featherstone confirmed. ‘Put a team together and let’s have him nicked, but use SO19 to take him down. As far as we know he’s still armed. The shooting was only hours ago so he’s probably still a forensic goldmine. The sooner we have him in the better chance we have of preserving the evidence that’ll convict the bastard. I’m beginning to smell an early result people, so let’s get on it.’ He rubbed his hands together with glee. ‘As soon as he’s nicked let me know.’

Sean nodded and turned to Benton. ‘Grab four people you trust – full body armour, just in case. You never can tell which ones want to go out in a blaze of glory.’

***

Sean and Benton sat in the unmarked car parked in Tiverton Street on the Rockingham Estate in Southwark – a sprawling, brown brick monstrosity built in the 1950s to replace bombed-out housing from the war. They were far enough away from Thurlby’s fourth floor flat so as not to be too obvious, but close enough to be able to see him if he came out of his front door and onto the communal balcony-walkway that led to the stairs and lifts. Several of the local youths had already clocked them as police – keeping a watch on them from a distance like a group of meerkats tracking a snake in the grass. Sean hoped that Thurlby’s learning difficulties meant he wouldn’t be as alert as the local neighbourhood police watch. But even they hadn’t noticed the nondescript satellite-dish installation van and another disguised as a self-drive rental. Each contained half a dozen heavily armed SO19 officers who were just waiting for the word that the target was out and in the open from the observation point in an empty flat in the block opposite Thurlby’s. As soon as that happened all hell would break loose.

‘D’you think he’s our man?’ Benton asked.

‘Looks about right,’ Sean shrugged, ‘but I won’t know for sure until I see him – until I speak to him.’

‘You mean until we interview him?’ Benton thought he’d corrected him.

‘Yeah, sure,’ Sean lied. ‘Until we interview him.’

‘You were a DC on an MIT too weren’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ Sean answered sounding uninterested.