He watched the white-suited CSIs entering and leaving the sealed-off crime scene. ‘Do you mind if I have a look?’
‘Fill your boots,’ said Gorton. ‘Unless Dr Bevan has any objections.’
‘I’m all done for now,’ Baker said. ‘I prefer to do a more thorough examination on a mortuary slab rather than a public car park.’ He began to remove his forensic suit. ‘I’ll let your DCI have the post-mortem report as soon as I can.’
Denning thanked him and then climbed into a forensic suit for the second time that week.
The body lay splayed between two overflowing food bins, legs akimbo and arms outstretched almost like a crucifix. He could feel himself start to sweat. The stench was unbearable: rotting food and rotting flesh, both crawling with maggots, combined with a sickly-sweet aroma of something acidic, something that made Denning think of bile.
The victim was smartly dressed, in an expensive-looking red jacket and tight black skirt. Her tights were torn, and one of her black shoes was missing.
The face was as Bevan had described it: bruised and bloodied like a rotten plum; uncannily similar to Leanne Wyatt. He checked the face, in particular the forehead, but although there was extensive bruising, there was nothing that looked like a cross. Her hair was straggly and unkempt, seemingly at odds with her otherwise smart appearance. It looked at first glance like a blonde wig. There was something strange about her, something Denning couldn’t quite put his finger on…
He returned to Gorton and climbed out of the forensic suit, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with a flick of his hand. He watched Bevan get into a large estate car parked beyond the police cordon and drive off. ‘Have we used Dr Bevan before?’ he asked Gorton.
‘Technically he’s retired,’ she replied. ‘He’s doing us a favour coming out at all.’
Denning looked around him. The car park was bordered on one side by the brick arches of a railway viaduct. The rear of the restaurant was L-shaped and took up another two sides. An eight-foot high wire mesh fence ran along the final side, beyond which lay a small scrap of derelict land. A short driveway connected the car park with the Hackney High Road, and a narrow alleyway – the likely location of the murder – ran down one side of the building leading to Dalston Way.
‘Was anything found with the body?’
Gorton shook her head. ‘No handbag, no phone. But she was wearing this.’ She handed Denning a clear plastic evidence bag containing a thin sliver necklace with the name ‘Tanya’ engraved on it.
At least this time they had a name.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘There’s no evidence to suggest it’s the work of the same man. I accept there are some superficial similarities, like the level of violence involved in the murder, and the location of the body, but so far there’s nothing to link this victim with Leanne Wyatt.’ Denning was sitting in McKenna’s office, trying not to look at the near-dead cyclamen. She sat opposite him, drumming her nicotine-stained fingers on the desktop, fixing him with her gimlet stare, probably unaware she was doing either.
‘Tanya,’ she said, after a gap. ‘Has anyone called Tanya been reported missing?’
He shook his head. ‘Missing Persons haven’t come up with anything. Though it would be helpful if we had a surname.’
The finger-drumming continued for a few more seconds, then abruptly stopped. ‘Has the name come up during enquiries into Kane and Bailey?’
Denning had to confess it hadn’t.
‘Mid-to-late thirties…?’ She thought for a moment. ‘Do we know what Bailey’s ex-wife was called?’
‘As far as I know she’s called Joanne and now lives in Canada. We’re still waiting for our Canadian counterparts to get back to us with contact details, but it would help if we knew whereabouts in Canada she is.’
‘Mid-to-late thirties,’ she repeated. ‘Roughly the same age as Bailey.’ She looked directly at Denning. ‘I’m guessing Joanne Bailey would be of a similar age?’
Denning shook his head. ‘We don’t know. We don’t know much about her at this stage.’
McKenna sat back on her chair and ran her hand through her hair, unconsciously tugging at a clump with her fist. ‘Theory: what if the former Mrs Bailey wasn’t in Canada after all, but actually here in the UK? Daryl Bailey murders his teenage mistress after she threatens to tell his ex-wife about their affair, then he murders his ex because she found out anyway – threatened to tell the school what a sleazebag he is, maybe even threatened to tout the story round the press?’ She released the clump of hair, which splayed like a raven’s wing on the top of her head. ‘OK, I know it sounds insane, but it’s a theory?’
Denning pulled a face. ‘Until we ID the body, it’s all just speculation. And why kill her in a car park?’ He looked back at McKenna, met her gaze, refusing to be intimidated by any gimlet stare, conscious or otherwise. ‘It’s a bit of a leap of faith to assume this is Bailey’s ex-wife.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I’m still not convinced there’s any connection with Leanne Wyatt’s murder. The MO’s similar, but there are significant differences. Leanne Wyatt’s murder seemed organised, this feels more opportunistic. Random. Plus there doesn’t seem to be a sexual motive here.’
McKenna pursed her lips. ‘Have we ruled out a robbery-gone-wrong scenario? Her bag and phone are missing.’
‘But not her necklace. It looked like solid silver to me. No mugger’s going to leave that behind.’
McKenna clasped her hair again. ‘But we’re not ruling Bailey out for this yet, are we?’
He shook his head. ‘Definitely not. He’s good for Leanne Wyatt, and he’s a possibility for this.’ He wrinkled his brow at her. ‘Should we bring Bailey in for questioning for Leanne Wyatt? Make things official?’
She shook her head. ‘Not yet. Wait until we’ve ID’d our latest victim. If there’s anything, and I mean anything to link Daryl Bailey with this “Tanya”, we bring him.’
* * *
Molly had been surprised to get a phone call from Magda Kilbride suggesting that they meet, and saying she wanted a chat. Molly’s initial instinct was to fob her off with an excuse, but curiosity had got the better of her.
The Pig and Whistle was a trendy gastro pub beside the river in Battersea, not far from the monument to utilitarian architecture that was the former power station. The whole area, it appeared, was undergoing some major urban regeneration.
The pub was busy with a lively throng of lunchtime drinkers: a heady mix of business-people and tourists, all enjoying the summer sun.
Mags was sitting in the beer garden at the back of the pub, which overlooked the river. She was chatting on her mobile phone, but abruptly ended the call as soon as she saw Molly approach. ‘What do you want to drink?’ she asked before Molly’s backside had even made contact with the chair. She was dressed in black, just like the first time they’d met. This time her hair seemed to be a different shade of magenta; lighter and less aggressive, but perhaps the intense sunlight had somehow tempered its fury.
Molly asked for a pint of Kronenbourg. Mags barked their drinks order at a passing waiter: a pint and a sparkling mineral water for herself. Molly briefly wondered if she should have requested something non-alcoholic too: she imagined a clear head might be wise when dealing with someone as slippery as Magda Kilbride.
The beer garden was large and airy and decorated with colourful plants in ceramic pots. Sweet-scented honeysuckle wound its way round a decorative trellis beside their table. Beyond the low wall lay the Thames, snaking its way through the city with a casual indifference.
The waiter returned and placed their drinks on the table. He smiled and asked if they wanted anything to eat. Molly spotted menus on the table. She felt her stomach rumble but suspected Magda Kilbride’s largesse was unlikely to extend as far as lunch. However, she didn’t get the chance to find out as Mags dismissed the waiter with a curt nod of her magenta-topped head.
She raised her glass at Molly. ‘You’ve been rattling cages from what
I hear.’
Molly wrinkled her brow. ‘Sorry…?’
‘Rumour has it your visit to Kenneth Walters has stirred up more than just his Sanatogen.’
‘Really?’
Mags stared at Molly in silence for a moment. She took a sip of mineral water and offered up a vulpine smile. ‘Word is, he’s been in touch with a couple of his old cronies to ask if there’s any truth in whatever tale you told him. I hope you kept your story simple.’ She continued smiling at Molly. ‘I believe he also asked about you.’
‘What about me?’
The vulpine smile remained fixed on her face. ‘Well, that’s what we’d all like to know, isn’t it?’
Molly drank some of her pint: it hit her empty stomach like a boxer’s punch. Molly hoped word hadn’t got back to her DI about her informal investigation into the Ferguson case, and the awkward explanations that would involve. ‘What do you mean by that?’ she asked.
She sensed Mags was playing games with her; hoping to find the right buttons to push.
Mags took another sip of her drink. She looked directly at Molly from over the top of the glass. ‘What’s the real reason behind your interest in Anthony Ferguson?’
Molly shrugged, trying to make it look casual. She couldn’t believe she’d already drunk more than half her pint, and was beginning to regret not having asked for a soft drink. ‘I told you last time we met.’
‘Oh yes, something about new evidence coming to light.’ The vulpine smile returned. ‘Retired old fools like Ken Walters might buy that old tosh, but some of us are cynical enough to know bullshit when we smell it.’
Another silence fell upon the table like a mourner at a wake. After a few moments Molly asked, ‘Who told you about Ken Walters?’
This time it was Mags’s turn to shrug. ‘I have my contacts. And as I’m sure Jon’s told you, a good journalist never discloses her sources.’ She circled a manicured finger round the rim of her glass. ‘Let’s just say I have a mate who owed me a favour.’ That smile again. ‘I presume you mentioned me to Jon? What did he say about me? Was he happy to reminisce about the good old days?’
Molly stared out at the river. It looked blue and clear in the blinding sun, and the word ‘opalescent’ sprang to mind. There were people rowing up the river, heading west towards Maidenhead, where her Aunt Mim lived. On the distant bank builders were encasing another over-priced apartment block in a skeletal cocoon of scaffolding.
Normal things in a normal world.
‘Jon remembers you,’ she said after a moment, then added, ‘he also said you were a fantasist.’
Magda Kilbride threw out her half-cackle, half-bray that passed for a laugh. ‘Ouch. Well that hurts. I mean, I wasn’t expecting him to do cartwheels at the mention of my name, but surely our dalliance meant something.’ She gave another laugh. ‘Well, you can tell Jon I’m disappointed. I thought I meant more to him than that.’ She paused. ‘Does he still have that tattoo of a dragon on his… well, let’s just say, in an intimate area?’
Molly could feel her heartbeat quicken. The alcohol was now swimming round her brain as well as her stomach. Her gut reaction was to get up and walk out. Or rather, throw what was left of her drink in Mags’s smug face, call her a fucking liar, then get up and walk out. But her glass was almost empty and Mags would doubtless claim the gesture as a victory. Instead she took a deep breath and said, ‘Jon’s an adult. I don’t own him any more than he owns me. Besides, we all do things we regret, and I don’t see why I should condemn him for one lapse of judgement, however long ago.’
Magda smiled again. ‘Just one…?’ She held up her drink to her lips as though about to take another sip, but instead just held it there, poised in mid-air. ‘I don’t suppose he’s told you about Melanie Harris…?’ She wobbled her head from one side to the other. ‘No, I didn’t think he would have. In all fairness, it was a long time ago, just after his second marriage went tits up, and she was young and pretty, in a naïve kind of a way. But that didn’t stop your boyfriend mooning round her like a lovesick poodle: sending her flowers, hanging round outside her flat… I mean nobody actually used the word stalking, but you get the picture…’ She gave an indifferent shrug. ‘The paper intervened before the police got involved and the whole thing was hushed up. She was persuaded to drop the harassment case she planned to bring against the paper. Jon kept his job, but he got his wings clipped.’
Another silence followed. Molly was tempted to order another drink simply so she could have something to throw over Mags, but she didn’t want to waste the energy, or the drink. Instead she stood up, grabbed her bag, and said, ‘Well, he was right about one thing: you are a fucking fantasist.’
As she left the bar she was convinced she could hear Magda’s cackle follow her down the street.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘Christ, I’ve known pathologists miss stuff before, but failing to spot a pair of knackers and a Johnson has to be a first.’
Denning was back in the airtight vacuum that passed for McKenna’s office, sweat trickling down his neck. The air in the office seemed to be getting thinner, as though McKenna had had the room hermetically sealed off from the rest of the building.
‘I suppose it was easy to miss at the crime scene,’ he said. ‘The pathologists usually only do a basic examination of the body in situ, and we were all keen to get away from there as quickly as possible. The stench from the bins was rank, to put it mildly.’ He looked at McKenna and rubbed his hand over his right temple. His mouth felt uncomfortably dry.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not excusing Bevan. This is incompetence on his part but, to be fair, I could have done a more thorough check myself. Or at the very least, ensured he’d done a more detailed examination at the time.’
He glanced at the pathologist’s report sitting on McKenna’s desk: the folder was open and the first sentence of the first page revealed the startling news that their victim was a thirty-eight-year-old man. Denning realised now what had struck him as odd when he’d looked at the body, besides the wig-like hair: the hands had seemed too large for a woman.
‘You’ll get no argument from me. But the fact is we’ve all fucked up. Fortunately we held back on the press release, otherwise we really would look like a bunch of twats.’ She sat back in her chair and he could feel her gimlet stare bore into him. ‘So, what are we talking here? Tranny? Pre-op? And is it relevant to why he was killed?’
Denning shrugged. ‘Until we have a name, and I mean an actual name, we can only make guesses.’ He paused. ‘However, we can rule one thing out.’
‘What?’
‘This wasn’t Joanne Bailey.’
‘Unless Bailey was married to a transvestite,’ McKenna said dryly.
‘I think the term is “crossdresser” these days,’ Denning said, ignoring the icy look she shot him. ‘And apparently Joanne Bailey is alive and well. We’ve just heard back from the Canadian Police. Seems she was on holiday in New Zealand and only got back last night. But she can’t shed any light on Bailey’s alleged affairs, claiming it was all a long time ago and she’s moved on. She claims she knows nothing about any flings with underage girls. It looks like we might be back to square one re Daryl Bailey.’ He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice. ‘I think we’re now looking at two entirely unconnected murder investigations.’
McKenna sighed deeply. ‘Fucking bollocks.’ She shot Denning a wry look. ‘No pun intended.’
* * *
As soon as Molly arrived at the hospital she could sense something was wrong. Adam Sloane’s mother was sitting in the waiting area just behind the nurses’ station, her face drained of colour. She was clasping a plastic cup of what looked like tea, staring at it without appearing to register what it was.
‘Mrs Sloane.’ Molly said softly. ‘Debbie…’ She sat down next to her, clinging to the desperate hope that she wasn’t about to hear the news she’d been dreading.
‘He suffered a fatal coronary embolism about an ho
ur ago.’
Molly saw that tears had dried on Debbie Sloane’s cheeks. Her voice was raw, the words leaden and empty.
Molly placed a hand on her arm. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for what you’re going through and I’m sorry we haven’t managed to bring anyone to justice for this. But we will. I promise you.’ But even as she spoke the words she knew they’d be of little comfort.
She nodded. Molly could only imagine her pain. She knew what it felt like to lose someone close, but not a child. That was something beyond her understanding. That kind of grief was something she couldn’t comprehend. How did a mother assimilate that agony?
‘Is there anyone I can call?’
Debbie just shook her head. She seemed in a daze, as though the reality of what had just happened had yet to sink in.
Molly glanced into the room where Adam Sloane had been lying for the previous two weeks. It was empty, the sheets already stripped from the bed. Adam’s body would already be in the mortuary awaiting a suitable slot for a post-mortem. A young life had been snuffed out before he had even had a chance to make his mark on the world. ‘I will need to take another statement from you,’ Molly said gently. ‘But that can wait.’ She looked at the traumatised woman sitting on a hospital chair staring into a plastic cup of cold tea, barely aware of what was happening around her. ‘I’ll ask someone from the family liaison unit to get in touch with you. It’ll be some support.’ Debbie nodded again, like a puppet being pulled by invisible strings.
‘You’ve got my number. If you ever need to talk, just call me.’
There was nothing more Molly could say. It was likely Debbie had already stopped listening to her. What she needed now was time and space to grieve.
Molly headed outside. She reached into her top pocket for her cigarettes, dug her lighter from her bag, lit up, leaned against a wall and inhaled, relaxing her shoulders as she felt the welcome nicotine kick hit her system.
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