McKenna stabbed the button for the fifth floor and the lift doors closed. Denning felt the claustrophobia grow stronger. He needed some fresh air, or strong coffee: ideally both.
‘There is one option we haven’t yet looked at,’ McKenna said. ‘Maybe Leanne Wyatt didn’t know her killer.’ She let the words hang in the air for a second, then added, ‘Maybe it’s time we explored the possibility that she was killed by a stranger. In which case, we really are up shit creek.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
The path ran tight along one side of the Regent’s Canal in Hoxton. It was a disparate landscape: breezeblock factory units and tired looking council flats sat adjacent to streamlined modern apartment blocks and trendy bars. Tall buildings reflected their elongated shadows onto the canal’s glassy surface. Parts of the path were overgrown with untamed foliage, thick and verdant in the summer heat. Other parts had been cultivated, adorned with wooden benches and surrounded by neatly cut grass. Local gangs had graffitied their tags onto the sides of walls and buildings.
The body had been spotted by a couple of joggers. Half-submerged in the water not far from a bridge, they’d first assumed it was a binbag full of rubbish. Then one of them thought he saw an arm sticking out. Curiosity had encouraged them to take a closer look, and it was only then that they realised they were looking at a decomposing corpse.
Denning was trying not to sweat in the close-fitting snugness of the plastic forensic suit. It was unbearably hot that afternoon, and the lack of air wasn’t helping. A police cordon had already been positioned around the scene, offering a flimsy protection barrier. A line of onlookers snaked along the parapet of the bridge, gazing down on the scene below with a mixture of horror and excitement. A white forensic tent stood by the water’s edge.
The body had been pulled onto the canal bank by the CSIs. It was a young woman. Denning would have said she was older than Leanne Wyatt, maybe late twenties to early thirties, but it was difficult to tell from the state she was in: her face was bloated and swollen, blackened around the eyes and with extensive bruising around the mouth. It was impossible to say how much had been caused by being in the water and how much had been inflicted just before she died. Damp, dark hair clung to her scalp like an otter’s fur. There was dried blood behind one ear and an ugly scratch mark on her forehead. Decomposition had already started, and the skin had a withered and puckered look about it.
Inside the forensic tent, Elizabeth Gorton was in conversation with the pathologist; not the same pathologist as last time – who had no doubt been kicked into touch after his staggering failure to tell male from female – someone Denning didn’t recognise. Denning removed his forensic suit and quickly wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
‘Detective Inspector Denning, this is Dr Baker,’ Gorton said, nodding in the direction of the pathologist. Baker was in his early fifties, his mostly jet-black hair looking like it was the result of a partially successful dye-job. He had a ruddy complexion and was sweating considerably as he climbed out of the pale blue forensic suit. ‘Body’s been there for a while, I’d say,’ he commented, cursing momentarily as the elasticated ankle cuff of the plastic suit got caught on the heel of his shoe. ‘At least a few days, possibly as long as a week.’
Gorton smiled at Denning. ‘Never rains but it pours, inspector. I have to say, this must have all come as something of a baptism of fire for you.’
Denning smiled a curt response at her, and turned to Baker. ‘Surely she would have been spotted before now? This path is popular with walkers and joggers, especially in the middle of summer. Half of east London must have been along here over the past week or so.’
Baker had climbed out of his forensic suit now, and was folding it neatly into a large briefcase. ‘A body can stay immersed in water for weeks in some cases. It all depends how long it takes for decomposition gasses to bring it back to the surface. In reasonably warm water such as this,’ he gestured towards the smooth, dark water of the canal, ‘it won’t take that long for the decomposition gases to form once the internal organs start to disintegrate. That would cause the body to rise to the surface sooner or later. It is possible it was initially weighed down with something, in which case it could have been down there a lot longer, though there’s nothing to indicate that was the case here.’
‘We’ve ruled out accidental death by drowning?’ Denning asked. Even as he spoke he knew the chances of this death being anything other than suspicious lay somewhere between slim and non-existent.
‘A precursory examination reveals extensive bruising to the neck as well as further bruising to both forearms,’ said Baker. ‘I can’t say for certain at this stage, but I suspect the body was already dead when it entered the water.’
Denning nodded quietly. ‘What about that mark on her forehead?’
Baker shrugged. ‘Could have been caused post-mortem; she could have hit something when she went into the canal. A more detailed examination on the table will give us a clearer picture.’
‘The injuries don’t look as extensive as those on Leanne Wyatt,’ Gorton offered, as if reading his thoughts, ‘but if what Dr Baker says is right, then it’s likely this young woman was killed before Leanne Wyatt. Possibly anything up to a week before.’
‘You think this is the work of the same man?’ Denning asked. They were only a few streets away from where Tanya Russell had been attacked, and less than a mile to the east, Haggerston Park basked in the afternoon sun. He was hoping for an answer in the negative, but he wasn’t holding his breath.
‘Well, I wouldn’t like to fall into sexist generalisation, DI Denning, but yes, my professional guess would be that it looks very likely the same person was responsible for both murders.’
Denning gave this a moment to sink in. He didn’t want to think it, but it looked like Betty Taggart was right and they had been looking for their murderer in all the wrong places.
‘How certain are you?’ he asked.
Gorton nodded slowly and deliberately. ‘There are too many similarities for this to be just coincidence: the extensive facial bruising for one thing, the extreme use of force for another. And, again it looks as though the victim was killed elsewhere and then the body dumped somewhere public. If we find evidence of sexual assault, then I’d say it’s too much of a coincidence. It’s certainly a direct link with Leanne Wyatt. Possibly Tanya Russell too.’ She looked up at Denning, trying to offer him a sympathetic smile. ‘It looks like you’ve got a madman out there killing women.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Denning took a sip of lukewarm coffee from a paper cup. He swallowed the tepid liquid and tried not to grimace at the acrid taste. He couldn’t dodge the inescapable feeling that Gorton was right, and there was a killer out there they hadn’t considered, especially when combined with Betty Taggart’s comments about the likelihood of Leanne Wyatt having been killed by someone other than Gregor Kane or Daryl Bailey. Added to that, there was now the real possibility that Tanya Russell could have potentially been part of that mix too, though there wasn’t much to connect those killings other than the sheer brutality.
He could see the looks on the faces of his team; a team already tired and despondent from two murder investigations, now facing the unwelcome prospect of a third.
The only tiny glimmer of light this time was that it looked as though they had an ID for the victim.
‘Sandra Blake, twenty eight, a secretary at Queen Mary University.’ Denning addressed the room. ‘According to Missing Persons, she was reported missing by her flatmate, Wendy Latimer, just over a week ago. As yet, there’s nothing to connect Sandra Blake with Tanya Russell. However, there are marked similarities with the murder of Leanne Wyatt: too many for this to be a coincidence. We also have to consider the possibility that Tanya Russell was similarly targeted by our killer, even though the circumstances are slightly different. The fact that all three victims were, to all intents and purposes, single women is a likely connecting factor in all three case
s.’
‘Are you saying there’s someone out there targeting single women?’ Trudi asked.
‘A serial killer?’ It was Kinsella this time. His face seemed to morph into a parody of Munch’s The Scream.
The room broke into a series of muttered conversations punctuated by the sound of someone’s mobile ringing. Denning raised a hand to hush them. The mobile stopped ringing, and all eyes were back on him.
‘OK, I appreciate this isn’t something we want to consider, and at this stage it’s nothing more than a possibility, but there’s a strong chance all three murders are the work of the same person.’
Denning nodded at the whiteboards. There were three sets of photos there now: three victims with their names scrawled above their images in black marker pen. The only photo they had so far of Sandra Blake was one taken post-mortem: it would have to suffice until they could get something showing what she looked like when she was alive – pretty, Denning reckoned, just like Leanne Wyatt. The scored cross was clear on her forehead.
A map of east London pinned to the board had red stickers indicating the locations where the bodies were found, all depressingly close together. Next to the map was a jumble of photos showing pictures of the sites: they were all open spaces, accessible to members of the public and easily overlooked. The first two victims had been killed elsewhere, then dumped in a public place; Tanya Russell was killed out in the open, suggesting their killer was getting bolder, or more desperate.
Denning felt like they were being taunted; as though whoever was responsible was playing a sick game with them.
‘If we work on the assumption that whoever killed Tanya Russell was unaware she was a crossdresser, then this does look like someone is targeting single women.’
‘With respect, we don’t know that our latest victim was single,’ Ryan said.
‘Agreed, but she was reported missing by a flatmate rather than a husband or partner, so until we know otherwise, it’s a fairly safe assumption that she was single. And if that’s the case, we need to find out how he’s finding them and where.’
‘The Fleur de Lys in Islington is a good place to start,’ Trudi said. ‘We know that’s the last place Leanne Wyatt was seen.’
‘What about Tanya Russell?’ someone else asked.
‘Tanya’s last known whereabouts are still not known,’ Denning said. ‘CCTV footage shows her walking down Dalston Way shortly after midnight, then she disappears. Presumably that’s when she was dragged into the car park behind KFC. It’s probable her killer followed her and waited for a convenient opportunity to strike.’
‘So we’re assuming Tanya didn’t know her attacker?’ Neeraj asked.
‘It does look to be more opportunistic than the other two murders,’ Denning said. ‘But I still think she was deliberately targeted. It is possible she’d met her attacker earlier that evening in a bar or club somewhere and was followed as far as the KFC car park where she was then attacked. By all accounts Tanya was quite lonely, but enjoyed male company whenever it came her way.’
‘Something she shared with Leanne Wyatt,’ Trudi said.
Denning looked at the photos on the board. That was a good point: both women were lonely and didn’t have a wide circle of friends. They didn’t yet have much information on Sandra Blake’s background, but he was willing to bet she’d fall into the same category.
‘Focusing on our latest victim for now: there’s limited CCTV on the footpath beside the canal, and some on the bridge that overlooks the canal. The footage is being emailed over ASAP, but until we know exactly when she was dumped in the canal, we could be looking at hours and hours of CCTV. Also, we need witnesses. We need to speak to everyone who uses that path regularly: joggers, dog-walkers, even people who fish the canal. Then there are the flats that overlook the canal: get uniform doing door-to-door in the area.’
‘What about the press?’ Trudi asked.
‘DCI McKenna is going to issue a press release this afternoon, but at this stage we’re not officially linking the murders. Until we get the results of the post-mortem, the latest killing is being classed as suspicious but nothing more. We need to try and keep a lid on this, and not create a full-scale panic.’
‘Shouldn’t we warn women that there’s a serial killer out there and they might be at risk?’ The question came from Ryan. Denning had to admit that it was a good point, but McKenna had already stamped her mark on this, insisting they weren’t going to start talking serial killers until they were one hundred per cent sure of their facts. It seemed the Assistant Commissioner was breathing down her neck, as much as she was breathing down his.
* * *
Molly was sitting at her desk. She was tying up the loose strands that needed clarifying before the CPS would proceed with the case against Kane, when Trudi texted suggesting she join her for a fag break. Molly had gone almost twenty-four hours without a cigarette and was hoping she could now claim to be on top of her addiction. But if anyone could put any truth to the rumours she’d heard about a serial killer on the loose, it was Trudi.
The sun wasn’t as strong as previous days, but it was still warm in the station car park. Trudi was half leaning against the cool brick wall that ran the length of the ground floor. She raised a hand in acknowledgment when she saw Molly approaching.
‘Is it true?’ Molly asked. She took a cigarette from her top pocket and looked at it for a moment or two, before deciding to have one last final puff before giving up for good.
‘Is what true?’ Trudi asked. She was already halfway through a B&H, dropping ash onto the ground with an indifferent flick of her fingers.
‘That there’s a serial killer out there. Leanne Wyatt, that bloke the other day, and now this body that’s turned up this morning.’ She was aware she was speaking quickly, like an overexcited child. She tried to relax, drop her shoulders and take a deep breath. ‘Is it true that they’re all the work of the same man?’
Trudi stared at her cigarette. ‘I can’t discuss that with you, Moll.’ She tried to offer a conciliatory smile, but it came out more like a nervous twitch. ‘We’re all stressed to the eyeballs up there trying to get on top of things. I can’t discuss it.’
‘He marks them with a cross on the forehead. The killer, I mean. There’s a cross on the forehead. Just like there was twelve years ago.’ She looked at Trudi. ‘It’s the same man.’
Trudi opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.
‘So it is true…?’ Molly didn’t even need to ask. She could tell from Trudi’s reaction that she was right. That she had been right all along. ‘Trudi, I have to speak to DI Denning. There’s something he needs to know.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Wendy Latimer lived in a two-bedroomed maisonette in an area estate agents liked to call ‘Crouch End borders’. In reality it was part of a bland seventies block that overlooked the railway line just north of Finsbury Park. The flat itself was tidy, but slightly soulless, as though its occupants only lived there for part of the time.
‘Thanks for coming,’ Wendy Latimer said, showing them into a square, white-walled living room on the first floor. Modern furniture filled the space, and the open windows allowed a cool breeze to enter. ‘I’m guessing you’re here about Sandy.’
She indicated for Denning and Neeraj to sit down. They both declined her offer of tea, and sat on a low wood-and canvas sofa that faced the large picture window with a view of her neighbour’s back garden.
‘I saw on the news about the body found in Hoxton. I’m guessing it’s not a coincidence that you’re here.’
Wendy Latimer was dressed in a plain white t-shirt and a pair of dark grey Levi 501s. She was in her mid-thirties, with dark auburn hair, smooth olive skin and a toned physique, suggesting she was no stranger to a gym. Her hazel eyes bounced between the two detectives, twinkling with concern.
Denning nodded, and confirmed that they were there in connection with Sandra’s murder. ‘Can you tell us about Sandra?’ Denning asked
.
She nodded, sitting forward on a smart wooden armchair, her hands clasped in front of her body. ‘We used to work together at Queen Mary. I left last year to join a PR company in the city, but I kept in touch with Sandy. When my marriage ended at the start of the year, I asked Sandy if she wanted to move in. She was always looking for a place to stay and I thought it would be nice to have a bit of company. And, of course, the rent came in handy.’
Denning smiled at her, trying to encourage her to continue.
‘She didn’t have many friends; she was a bit shy.’
‘What about family?’
‘She’d moved down here from Macclesfield when she was seventeen. She told me she didn’t get on with her mother and stepfather, and she hadn’t seen her dad for nearly ten years. She didn’t really seem to be close to anyone, and, to be honest, I felt a bit sorry for her.’
Denning nodded. The family would have to be notified, naturally, as they were still her next of kin, irrespective of any lack of closeness over the years.
‘Do you have a photo of Sandy?’ he asked. He tried not to think of the one pinned to the board back in the office.
She shook her head. ‘No. That was what Missing Persons asked when I reported her missing a week ago, but she didn’t have any photos of herself lying around the place. There should be a photograph of her on the staff page of the university’s website. She worked in the Faculty of Arts.’
Denning made a mental note to check it out when he returned to the office. ‘Why did you report her missing, Miss Latimer?’
Know No Evil Page 17