Читать книгу DI Sean Corrigan Crime Series: 6-Book Collection: Cold Killing, Redemption of the Dead, The Keeper, The Network, The Toy Taker and The Jackdaw - Luke Delaney - Страница 14

It was hot in the way only a giant metropolis can get. The heat mixed with the fumes of four million cars, taxis and buses. It made the road warp.

It was Friday morning and Sean was late. He had a briefing to give at ten and had wanted to be at work at least an hour and a half before that to prepare his thoughts. Thanks to the traffic along the Old Kent Road and his three-year-old daughter Mandy, who’d decided to throw a tantrum because of Sean’s broken promise to take her to Legoland, he would barely have time to read through his incoming emails. He’d tried to read them on his iPhone as the traffic staggered forward, but after almost driving into the back of the car in front of him for the third time he’d thought better of it.

His team had been assigned initial tasks the previous day − now he hoped those tasks had progressed the investigation. The briefing he would soon be chairing was an opportunity for the team to tell him what they had discovered so far. DS Roddis and his forensic crew had finished at the scene and he would be present to detail their findings. Findings that could be critical to the investigation.

He rang Sally to let her know he was running late.

‘I’ll be there within half an hour if this traffic starts moving. Briefing is still at ten unless I call again.’

‘Do you want everyone in the briefing room?’ Sally asked.

‘Er … no,’ Sean answered after a second’s thought. ‘We’ll do it in our incident room, there’s more space.’

‘No problem.’ Sally had more to say and knew she would have to speak quickly or Sean would already have hung up. ‘Guv’nor …’

He heard her just in time. ‘What?’

‘I thought you should know some wit’s come up with a name for our killer.’

Sean knew he wasn’t going to like this. ‘Go on.’

‘Some of the guys have christened him “The Fairy Liquidator”.’

There was silence from Sean. He sat stony-faced, thinking about what the family would say if they knew the police investigating their son’s death were calling the killer ‘The Fairy Liquidator’.

After five seconds he spoke. ‘Let them know in advance that from this second onwards anyone using that name will be off the team, back in uniform and directing traffic in Soho just as soon as they can get measured up for a new helmet. Take this as a first and final warning, Sally.’

‘I understand. I’ll make sure it’s not used again.’

‘Good.’ He hung up and continued his tortuous journey through the unbreathable air. Before the murder of Daniel Graydon he’d planned to take the day off and make it a long weekend with his family, doing normal things that a normal family would do – the sort of things he never did as a child. More promises made to his wife and children broken. His stomach tightened with the sense of sadness that suddenly engulfed him – an almost panicked longing to be with his family. He shook the feelings away as best he could, chasing them from body and mind as if they were a weakness he couldn’t afford to carry with him to his work. Besides, there was nothing he could do about it. It was the nature of the beast. It was his job.

Sean and his team were back in the open-plan office that was their incident room and second home. Desks were scattered about, mainly in groups of four, and most were adorned with old oversized computer screens and, if the owner was lucky, a corded telephone. Murders in London were still being solved in spite of the equipment available rather than because of it. Sean stared through the Perspex into the room on the other side, watching the detectives: most preferring to sit on the edges of their desks talking in groups, while others moved with purpose, gathering last-minute stationery or squeezing in one final phone call ahead of Sean’s arrival.

The incident room was already changing as the investigation developed. Where there had been blank whiteboards and bare walls the night before, now there were photographs of the scene, the victim, the initial post-mortem results, pinned up in no particular order. The name of the victim had been confirmed: Daniel Graydon. It adorned a piece of white card and was stuck above the photographs of his mutilated body and violated home. Sean noted they’d been put up in one corner of a wall only. The rest of the wall had been left empty. Clearly someone on his team believed there could be more photographs. More victims.

The whiteboard listed tasks, ‘actions’ to be undertaken and which detective was allocated to each. All were numbered and when complete a line would be drawn through it, so if the investigation was failing the board would tell the tale. It never lied. No progression meant fewer and fewer tasks to be placed on the board, causing Sean’s seniors to grow ever more anxious, more desperate and more likely to interfere; but such concerns were for later. The first couple of days would be busy enough just collecting and preserving evidence. The early days were crucial. Evidence missed now could be lost for ever.

Sean walked the few steps from his office into the main body of the incident room and waited for the detectives to become still and quiet − the noise level fading as surely as if he’d turned the volume down on an amplifier. He spoke: ‘Right, people, before we get into this let’s be clear that if anyone uses the term “Fairy Liquidator” on this inquiry they’re gone. Understood?’ Silent nods of agreement all around the room. ‘Good. Now that nonsense is out the way, we can get down to business.

‘Firstly, you all need to know that in light of the autopsy I no longer believe this is a domestic murder. Dr Canning tells me that the victim would have been incapacitated with the first blow to the head, meaning there was no violent struggle.’

‘What about the broken furniture and the blood spray patterns suggesting a fight?’ Sally asked.

‘Staged,’ Sean told her. ‘Cleverly staged, but staged all the same. He’s trying to throw us off the scent. The stab wounds have the appearance of some sort of ritual killing, not a frenzied attack.

‘Most of you know DS Andy Roddis here, the forensic team leader. Andy’s kindly given up his time to bring us all up to date on any findings from the scene.’

‘That’s very fucking nice of you, Andy,’ Donnelly interjected, to the amusement of his audience.

‘All right, all right,’ Sean hushed the room. ‘I strongly suggest you pay attention to what he’s about to tell you.’ He turned to DS Roddis, gesturing with an open hand for him to begin. ‘Andy.’

DS Roddis walked to the photographs of the scene pinned to the wall behind him. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He paced back and forth as he took up the story. ‘Most of the exhibits from the scene have been taken up to the forensic lab, so we won’t know the full picture until they’ve been examined. That’ll take another few days. Scientists don’t work weekends, so we won’t know much until Tuesday at the earliest.’ There was a small ripple of laughter in the room.

‘In addition to staging the scene, we believe the suspect is forensically aware. There were no obvious signs of semen, saliva or anything else that could have come from the suspect.’

The team listened intently without interrupting. Roddis knew everything about the scene there was to know and they knew nothing. This was the time to listen and learn, not to question and disagree. That would come later, once they knew what Roddis knew, but until then time to honour the ancient detective code: keep your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open.

‘There’s a lot of blood, but I’m betting it all belongs to the victim. Initial tests show it’s the same blood type that matches the victim’s. DNA confirmation will take a few more days. We found several head hairs about the place, but they also look like they came from the victim. The body was swabbed before removal from the scene, so you never know your luck – we may yet, under lab examination, find some body fluids belonging to the suspect. That’s our best bet for getting the suspect’s DNA.

‘No murder weapons found yet, but it’s possible the suspect cleaned them after use and placed them somewhere in the flat. All possible weapons have been sent to the lab to see if they match the victim’s wounds.

‘The fingerprint search was completed using chemical treatment. We sealed the flat and pumped it full of gas. For the uninformed, we use a chemical that causes any fingerprints to reveal themselves. Much easier than crawling around the place with a brush and aluminium powder. We expected quite a lot of people’s prints to flash up, which is usual for this kind of search, but we were surprised to find only a few different marks. I’m pretty sure the scene wasn’t cleared of prints by the killer. I base that on the fact we found a lot of prints about, but they were predominantly the victim’s.’

Sean intervened. ‘But there were prints at the scene other than the victim’s?’

‘Yes,’ replied Roddis. ‘Unless the victim was a total recluse, you would expect to find alien prints at the scene.’ He paused for a second and began again. ‘Could these alien prints belong to our killer? Well, yes they could, but somehow I doubt it. The killer has gone to great trouble to avoid leaving evidence at the scene, so I think it unlikely he would be so kind as to leave us a nice clear fingerprint.’

He could see Sean was about to jump in again, but he wasn’t ready to surrender the floor just yet.

‘However, the prints we have recovered have already been sent to Fingerprint Branch for searching. At the very least it may tell us something about who the victim associated with. Always useful.’

Sean nodded his appreciation.

‘And last, but not least, we are lucky the carpet in the hallway is new and of good quality. It was nice and deep and we found the scene quickly enough to recover some interesting shoe marks that hadn’t yet degraded.’ Roddis took a series of photographs from his file and attached them to the board like a doctor preparing X-rays for viewing. The shoe marks looked like negatives.

‘This set –’ he pointed to two photographs – ‘belonged to the victim. We matched them easily enough. They belong to a rare type of Converse training shoe and the unique marks on the soles, the scars if you like, matched the individual cuts and marks on the victim’s shoes.’

Roddis took a step to his left and pointed at another footprint photograph. ‘This size ten Dr Marten belongs to the PC who first entered the scene. Fortunately he remembered his training and walked along the side of the corridor the door closes on, so he didn’t destroy what I’m about to show you.’ Again Roddis took a step to his left and pointed to the board.

‘This mark,’ Roddis continued while tapping the next photograph, ‘was made by someone else entering the scene. It was made by a flat-soled leather shoe that was bought recently. We can see by the almost total lack of scars these shoes have hardly been used at all. Even if we recovered the shoe that made this indentation, there wouldn’t be enough unique marks on the sole to be of much evidential value. We would need approximately fifteen unique scars before evidentially we could prove they were one and the same.’

‘Are you suggesting this guy deliberately wore new shoes to avoid leaving a distinctive footprint?’ Sally asked.

‘I’m not here to suggest anything, DS Jones. I’m just here to tell you what we found. Suggestions are your field, I believe.’

Roddis moved to the final set of images. They looked strange even in the photographs. Long scars ran across the sole in all directions and appeared too thick. Roddis touched the photographs, tracing the scars with his finger.

‘We puzzled over this for quite a while,’ he told them. ‘We ran a lot of tests to try and replicate the marks. Nothing. Then, in the absence of any other bright ideas, we tried something. We put normal plastic shopping bags around the soles of a pair of shoes and bingo, exactly the same sort of marks. I’m no betting man, but I’d put my pension on the fact this mark was made by the same shoe as here –’ he pointed at the previous photograph he’d discussed. ‘Only now the shoe has a plastic bag over the sole. You can still see the shape of the shoe sole, and it certainly matches the other sole for size as well.’

Sally spoke again. ‘Why put bags over his shoes? He’s already walked the scene without bags, so why bother to try and hide his prints with plastic bags on the way out?’ The room was silent in thought.

Think simply, Sean reminded himself, break it down. They were jumping ahead – trying to guess the killer in a game of Cluedo before one throw of the dice. Concentrate on the basics. It made no sense to walk into the scene without covering his feet and then cover them to leave. So if he didn’t do it to hide his shoeprints, why did he? Sean’s imagination came to his rescue, taking him back to the murder scene, looking through the killer’s eyes, seeing his hands as he bent over and carefully pulled the plastic bags over his shoes and secured them. Seeing what he saw. Feeling what he felt. The answer leapt into his mind.

‘We’re trying to be too clever,’ Sean said. ‘He didn’t do it to hide his shoe marks. He had the bags over his feet to make sure he wouldn’t get blood on his nice new shoes.’

Sally picked up the train of thought. ‘And if he went to the lengths of protecting his shoes, then it’s probable he protected everything. His whole body.’

She and Sean stared at each other. Everybody in the room was thinking the same thing. The killer was a careful bastard. The killer knew about forensic evidence. The killer knew what the police would be looking for. The killer could think like a cop? Sean broke the silence.

‘Okay. So he’s careful. Very careful. But he will have made a mistake somewhere. We haven’t had the lab results yet, so it’s too early to assume the killer’s left a clean scene. Let’s not give this man too much credit. He’ll probably turn out to be another anorak living at home with his mum, trainspotting and masturbating when he’s not out stalking celebrities − probably watched too many cop shows on the Discovery Channel and now he wants to put all his new-found knowledge to the test.’

The atmosphere in the room lightened. Sean was relieved. He didn’t want a tense team. They mustn’t already fear the investigation could be a sticker, an investigation that dragged on and on without getting anywhere. Failed investigations felt like a contagious disease, infecting all those involved for years, limiting future career options, moves to the more glamorous Metropolitan Police units such as the Flying Squad or the Anti-Terrorist teams.

He spoke again. ‘Sally, did your team finish off the door-to-door?’

‘Pretty much, guv’nor. Nothing to add since last time. Nobody can remember much coming and going from his flat, which fits with the lack of other people’s fingerprints inside the scene. He had the occasional guest, but certainly no parties.’ Sally shrugged. ‘Sorry, boss.’

He moved on. If Sally hadn’t turned up any eyewitnesses, there weren’t any. Sean had no doubt about that.

‘Dave?’ Sean looked at Donnelly, who shifted in his seat.

‘Aye, guv’nor. We’ve been working through the victim’s address book and have got hold of most of his closer friends. The ones who appear frequently in his diary. We’ll track down the remaining friends and associates soon enough.

‘So far, they all say the same thing − victim was a nice kid. He was indeed a homosexual. One of his buddies, a guy called Robin Peak, had a relationship with him in the past. He was pretty sure Daniel was working as a male prostitute. Not hanging around public toilets in King’s Cross, though. Apparently he was relatively high-end, hence the decent stuff in his flat, but this Robin guy said Daniel would hardly ever take clients back there. Only a select few who could afford to pay the extra hundred pound or so he charged for the privilege. He would usually go to their places or a decent hotel, or sometimes he would take care of a punter in nearby toilets, though it cost extra if you wanted him to slum it.

‘His flat was very much a secret hideaway. Only a handful of people knew where he lived, and we’ve spoken to most of them. None of them come across as the knife-wielding maniac type. We have all their details anyway.

‘According to Mr Peak, the victim liked the club scene. The gay club scene. It’s also how he met most of his clients. He’s well known at a number of gay nightspots. We’ll begin checking them out as soon as.’ Donnelly looked around the room.

‘How many?’ Sean asked.

‘About five or six.’

‘Have any of his friends been able to tell us where the victim was on Wednesday night, Thursday morning?’

‘No. But the consensus is that he would probably have been at a club called Utopia, down in Vauxhall. Under the railway arches. His usual Wednesday hang-out.’

‘Good,’ Sean said, before passing out instructions in his usual quick-fire way. ‘Andy – you keep on the lab’s back. I want my results as soon as possible. Sooner.’ DS Roddis nodded.

‘Dave – take who you want and get to work tracking down witnesses who were at Utopia on Wednesday. Start with the employees.’ Donnelly scribbled notes on a pad.

‘Sally – take whoever’s left and begin checking intelligence records for people who have assaulted homosexuals in the past. Not any old bollocks, I mean serious assaults, including sexual assaults. Start with the Met and if that’s no good check our neighbouring forces, and then go national if you have to.’ Sally’s head nodded in agreement as she too scribbled notes. ‘Check the names lifted from the victim’s address book first – you never know your luck.’

Sean threw it open, causing the increasing murmurs to temporarily fade. ‘Can anyone think of anything? Have we missed anything? Anything obvious? Anything not so obvious? Speak now, people.’ No one spoke. ‘In that case the next get-together we have will be on Monday, same time. I need some results by then. The powers that be will want easy answers to this, so let’s find them and finish this one before it turns into a saga.’

The meeting broke up as noisily as a class of schoolchildren being dismissed for the weekend. Sean walked to his office alone, closing the door behind him. He picked up a large envelope waiting on his desk and without thinking emptied out the contents. Copies of photographs of the victim spilled out in front of him. He stared at them, not touching them. He spun his stool around and looked out of the window – the sun still brilliant in the sky. The photographs had caught him off guard. If he had known they were in the envelope he would have taken time to prepare himself before spilling hell across his desk.

Now he wanted to retreat from his world. He wanted to phone his wife, to be in touch with a softer reality for a minute or two − he wanted to hear her reassuring doctor’s voice. He wanted her to tell him unimportant things about their daughters Mandy and Louise. Kate would be getting them ready for a trip to the park. He needed a snapshot of his other, better life, but he delayed a few seconds, long enough for ugly thoughts to rush his mind. He closed his eyes as the image of his father’s fist slammed into his face, the face of his childhood – hot, stinging breath growing ever closer. He pressed his knuckles into his temples and pushed the past away. Once his mind cleared, he reached for the phone on his desk and dialled the number he knew so well, praying it would be answered by a voice that existed in the here and now and not just a mechanical-sounding recording of the person he needed to hear alive. Moments later the phone was answered by a friendly but businesslike voice – the voice of his wife.

‘Hello,’ she said, the pitch of her voice rising on the ‘o’.

‘It’s me.’

‘I guessed it probably would be – the number was withheld.’

‘Aren’t the hospital numbers withheld?’

‘Some are. For a second I was afraid I was about to get called into work for some emergency or another. Anyway – how you doing?’ Sean answered with a sigh she’d heard many times before. ‘That good, eh? Is it a bad one?’

‘Is there such a thing as a good one?’

‘No. I suppose not.’

‘Anyway – what you doing?’

‘In the park with the kids. Too nice a day to be stuck inside. What about you?’

‘In my office looking at … looking at some reports,’ he lied as his eyes fell on the crime-scene photographs. He knew Kate could handle it, better maybe than he could, but such things had no place in the park with his wife and children on a sunny day.

‘Sorry,’ she sympathized, trying to read his voice for signs. ‘Sean?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You sure?’

He sighed again before continuing. ‘Just … the block the crime scene was in reminded me of … you know.’

‘Sean,’ she counselled, ‘a lot of things remind you of your childhood – that can’t be helped. Your past will always be part of you – nothing can change that.’

‘I know,’ he assured her. ‘But the memories, the images are so much more real, vivid when I’m in or close to a crime scene. Most of the time I can almost forget my childhood, but not when I’m in a place like that – not when I’m in a scene like that.’

‘I understand, but we’ve talked about this – many times. It becomes more vivid because you use your imagination as a tool, and when you open the door to your imagination you’re going to allow some demons out, Sean. It can’t be helped, but it can be controlled – you’ve already shown that.’

‘I know,’ he admitted. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Why don’t you come home a little early – have some normal time for a couple of hours – drink too much and fool around?’

‘No chance of that,’ he told her. ‘Not for a few days yet, anyway.’

‘Any idea how long this one’s going to take?’

‘How long’s a piece of string?’

‘That’s not good.’

‘Is it ever?’

‘Yes,’ Kate told him. ‘When you’re at home, with us – that’s good.’

‘When I am there.’

‘Well then be here. Remember all work and no play makes Sean a—’

‘Makes me a what?’ he interrupted, thinly veiled anger suddenly in his voice.

‘Nothing,’ she answered. ‘I was just … nothing. I have to go now – the kids have run off. I’ll see you tonight. Be careful. I love you.’ The line went dead – dead before he had a chance to say sorry for snapping at her – before he had a chance to ask about the girls – before he had a chance to tell her he loved her too.