Make You Sorry

by Christine Rae-Jones

  Morgan stopped. ‘What team? I haven’t chosen a team.’

  Johnson’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I’ve done it for you. Your predecessor thought highly of them all so I don’t expect you to be disappointed.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. That’s very helpful.’ This time he got as far as the door and managed to open it before Johnson spoke again.

  ‘And DI Morgan... I’m transferring Dave Spence from Operation Heartwood. He’ll be your Deputy SIO. He’s gobby and overconfident but there’s very little goes on around here that he doesn’t know about and that’s the background you’re lacking.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir I don’t know what Operation Heartwood is.’

  Johnson examined Morgan closely as if checking for sarcasm. ‘Operation Heartwood is the suspicious death at Cliffside House,’ he said, then looked back down at his notes, ‘and I can also tell you that your Abigail Slater case has been allocated the name Operation Siren.’

  Walking back to his office Morgan mused that in Greek mythology, the Sirens sang to lure their victims on to the rocks. He hoped to avoid the same fate.

  Chapter 21

  Monday 10th February

  While he was waiting for her parents at the mortuary, Morgan used his phone to access news reports and social media posts about Abigail Slater. The local paper concentrated on her status as a “bride-to-be,” and they had put up a modest reward for information leading to her safe return. Social media posts were more brutal. Many implied that Abigail had developed a reputation as a “party girl” who was a regular at the local clubs and who often went straight from the dance floor to interview rooms at the police station when she was duty solicitor. #she had it coming was trending. Morgan empathised with her parents. If it wasn’t bad enough having to identify the body of your daughter, you had to put up with all this shit as well.

  He went outside and paced in front of the building. The rain and wind had stopped but the temperature had plummeted. His breath was condensing in the still air. He knew it was wrong to assume that the body in the bridal gown was Abigail, but realistically, who else could it be? Once they had confirmed it, he hoped the Slaters would be able to provide some authentic information about their daughter which would give him somewhere to start. As it was, he had nothing but rumour and speculation. He decided that if it was Abi, he would stay for the postmortem.

  When the duty technician came out for a second cigarette, he asked her about the sparkly white dress which the body had been wearing.

  ‘I haven’t seen it, DI Morgan,’ she said. ‘CSI removed it and bagged it at the scene.’

  ‘That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?’

  ‘She wasn’t actually dressed in it. It’s difficult to explain, but I believe her arms had been put through the straps so it might look as if she was wearing it, if you weren’t up close.’

  ‘Okay. I understand.’ A thought crossed his mind. ‘Can you cover up as much of her as possible so that only the tattoos are visible, please?’

  The look she gave him was withering. ‘This might not be London, but we have done it before.’

  His smile was apologetic and he raked his hand through his hair. ‘I know and I’m sorry. It’s my first day and it’s turned out to be quite the baptism of fire.’

  She held out a hand which he shook. ‘Annie Geeson,’ she said, ‘and I already know who you are. We dealt with your unwanted lodger on Friday.’

  When Mr and Mrs Slater arrived their faces were rigid but their eyes reflected how much crying had been done during the journey. Morgan introduced himself and led them through to the viewing area.

  ‘I want to see her face,’ said Mrs Slater the tears now flooding her eyes again. Her husband took her hand but continued to stare straight ahead at the viewing window. When Annie Geeson raised the blind, Morgan saw it had been difficult to present enough of the body to aid identification without exposing the damage caused by decomposition and forest wildlife. The face had been covered completely and another white sheet was draped so that they could see two tattoos: a ring of yellow sunflowers around the bicep of the discoloured left arm and a pair of wrists in handcuffs above the left breast.

  ‘It’s not her!’ Mrs Slater seemed on the point of collapse. Her sobbing got louder.

  ‘I need to see the inside of her right wrist,’ said Mr Slater. ‘There should be a small red diamond and heart and black symbols for spades and clubs. She had it done in her first year at university. Said the cards were stacked against her.’

  Morgan lifted the phone by the window and asked Annie to check the wrist. When she came back to the phone she told him that only two of the symbols remained.

  ‘I need to see for myself.’ Mr Slater’s resolve stiffened his posture.

  ‘I’d really advise against it, sir,’ said Morgan. ‘There’s damage to the arm.’

  ‘I won’t believe it’s her until I see it.’

  Morgan gave the instruction to Annie who walked back to the trolley and with obvious care, held the arm at the elbow. The right hand had gone and the skin was ragged around exposed bone. In the cold white light of the mortuary, they could all see a small red heart and black club on the inside of the wrist joint.

  Mrs Slater howled and punched her husband hard in his side. ‘You had to do that, did you? That has to be my last memory?’

  ‘It’s her,’ said Slater. ‘It’s Abigail.’ He continued to stare at the viewing window after Annie had lowered the blind. He made no move to comfort his wife who was leaning against the wall wringing her hands and moaning softly. When he turned at last to Morgan, his face was grey. ‘I don’t recognise the flowers and handcuffs, sorry.’

  Morgan nodded. ‘I’m no expert, but the colours look quite fresh. They may be recent.’ He looked at both of them and could see they weren’t up to answering any of his questions. ‘Have you brought a bag, or are you planning to go home tonight? I can send an officer to get statements in a day or two.’

  Slater looked at his wife before replying. ‘We’re going back tonight. We have people to call and arrangements to make. We’d be better in our own home. When do you think they’ll let us take her?’

  It was a question Morgan dreaded. He didn’t want to tell him that the body would be kept frozen until they caught the murderer whose legal team would want a second postmortem. ‘It’s hard to predict, sir,’ he said. ‘And it’s quite likely that the media will be on your doorstep when you get back. They may even be there already. Are you sure there’s nowhere you can stay where they won’t be able to find you?’

  The expression on Slater’s face hardened again and Morgan caught a glimpse of suppressed anger. ‘It’s not for us to be hiding away, DI Morgan. We’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. Anyway, thank you for your concern, but I’m accustomed to dealing with intrusion from the media.’ He shook hands and led his wife back out to the waiting car. Morgan watched it exit the mortuary gates and disappear into the darkness.

  By the time he returned, Abigail Slater’s body had been wheeled into the dissection room and Dr Hugh Mackenzie was adjusting the microphone to suit his height. When he noticed Morgan, he flicked the switch that allowed him to communicate with the viewing gallery.

  ‘I’m impressed DI Morgan. Many of your colleagues would have delegated attending the victim’s examination to a lower rank, especially this late in the day. Is this how it’s done in the Met?’

  Morgan shrugged. ‘I feel the need to be at this one Dr Mackenzie. There is a lot of interest and I don’t want to be wrong footed by not having the answers.’

  Mackenzie nodded before completing the recording system sound check and telling Annie Geeson that he was preparing to make the first incision.

  Chapter 22

  Monday 10th February

  Nick Morgan arrived home, tired and hungry. Everyone had gone to bed without leaving a light on to welcome him. He opened the fridge and poured the remains of a bottle of white wine into an unwashed glass. He would have preferred red, but the bot
tle at the side of the sink was empty. He glanced at three takeaway containers in the fridge but didn’t open them. One of them would contain rice. Abigail Slater’s stomach contents showed she had ingested rice a short while before death and it would be a couple of days before he was ready to incorporate it back into his diet.

  The door to the hallway opened and Sam padded into the lounge in her bare feet. She was wearing her outdoor coat over the strappy negligee she had packed for their romantic nights at The Riverview Hotel and Spa. She sat beside him and put her hand out for the glass.

  ‘It’s late. Where have you been?’ she asked swallowing a large mouthful of the wine.

  ‘I met the family who came to ID your body in the woods, then I stayed for the PM.’

  ‘Don’t you have staff to do that?’

  ‘Don’t start, Sam. Is there anything to eat?’

  ‘There’s the remains of a Chinese in the fridge.’ She handed back the wine glass.

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘I can boil you an egg and toast you a muffin but that’s about it until I get to a supermarket. And by the way,’ she pointed to the glass, ‘that’s the last of the wine.’

  He nodded. ‘Come on. Bedtime.’ He drained the glass and started to get up from the sofa.

  ‘You left me a message,’ she said. ‘You left me a message about making a statement.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll ask one of the team to get in touch tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re missing the point, Nick. Your wife and children came across a dead woman today and your first thought was to get a statement.’ Morgan’s expression would have served as a warning to anyone other than his wife but she continued, undeterred. ‘Your second thought... Yes, your second thought was our wellbeing. You promised me that, once we moved, you would prioritise family time. You’ve been here one day and you’ve broken that promise already.’

  Morgan dropped back on to the sofa and closed his eyes. ‘First of all, you discovered a garter, not a body. Secondly, you left the scene before we could get someone to take a statement. If you weren’t married to the SIO, then someone would be having a serious word with you about that. Now I’m not looking for an argument, Sam. I’m tired and I’m going to bed. I left that message in work time as the SIO in what could well be a murder. The message was for a witness who had found evidence and then left the scene without my permission. Yes, my priority was a statement, but that’s not to say I didn’t want to hug and comfort you all. You just didn’t wait for me to do that.’

  ‘I went to see Mum after I left the woods.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘She’s asked me to manage the business until Steven turns up and I’ve agreed. I’ll take the twins to her tomorrow morning and whoever finishes work first can do the shopping. If I were you Nick, I’d make sure it was you. And don’t forget the wine.’ She left before he could summon the strength to reply.

  Chapter 23

  Tuesday 11th February

  DI Nick Morgan made his way to the briefing room to meet the team he had been given. He was just in time to see DS Dave Spence arguing with the woman he had seen leaving Cliffside on the day he’d discovered Carl Raynor’s body. Morgan ducked back into a doorway and listened.

  ‘I want to stay with Operation Heartwood, ma’am. I was at Raynor’s autopsy and I know I’ll bring a lot to the investigation.’

  ‘You heard what DCI Johnson said at my briefing, Dave. He’s calling it tactical team redeployment, but what he means is that he thinks DI Morgan needs your local knowledge more than I do. I don’t want to lose you, but I can see his point. Anyway, when he came to tell me he was moving you, he made it clear that there was no room for negotiation. You need to be at the Operation Siren briefing. No excuses. Please make sure you hand over all the enquiries you were making for me when you get back.’ When she walked away, Morgan heard Spence follow, continuing to plead his case.

  The briefing room was empty. Morgan looked at his watch, exhaling through clenched teeth.

  Johnson called from the doorway. ‘DI Morgan. I’ve spoken to DI Patel and she’s happy to release DS Spence. He’ll be at your briefing.’ Johnson looked across at the wall clock. ‘Where is everyone? Did you rearrange the time?’

  ‘No, sir, I expect they will be here soon.’ Johnson nodded his reply before disappearing. Morgan walked to the door and was closing it when DC Jenny Smart slipped through. She seemed surprised to be first. ‘I thought I was late. Sorry. Where is everyone?’

  He shrugged, his face expressionless. ‘You tell me. Will you close the door please?’

  She looked down the corridor before doing as he asked, then sat at the back of the room. Morgan shook his head and pointed to a chair much closer to where he was standing.

  ‘That’s where your deputy should sit,’ she said ‘That’s how we do it in this room, sir.’

  ‘I’ve been told...’ he emphasised the last word, ‘that DS Spence is my deputy. If he wants to sit with the grownups, he’ll have to show better time keeping skills.’ He pointed again to the chair nearest to him.

  ‘I have to work with him, sir. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll sit here.’

  Morgan’s blue eyes glittered like shards of shattered mirror in the shaft of sunlight coming through the window. He was about to reply when a noisy group of men and women, some in uniform and others not, burst in. They settled into chairs before looking up, their faces expectant. DS Dave Spence was not among them.

  ‘For those of you, who I’ve not already met, I’m DI Nick Morgan and I’m SIO of Operation Siren which is our investigation into the death of Abigail Slater. Her body was found yesterday in woodland at the edge of Gullhaven Park. I was with her parents when they confirmed the identification and I attended her postmortem last night.’ He paused to let those who were taking notes catch up. ‘Dr Hugh Mackenzie’s initial findings are that she died of manual strangulation, or was throttled, if you prefer. The killer was face to face with her. There are thumb sized bruises on the front of her neck so it’s obvious that this is a murder investigation. The pathologist won’t commit to a time of death, or even in this case, speculate as to a date of death, but he has indicated that he doesn’t think she was alive for long after she disappeared over two weeks ago. He told me that the condition of the body was consistent with being out there for that length of time but that the cold weather and the fact that she was quite protected by the bushes around her would have helped preserve her a little. He also noted damage caused by wildlife to her face and her extremities.’ As he spoke, he walked across to the empty chair designated for his deputy and wheeled it into a corner. ‘Any questions so far?’

  ‘I heard she was wearing her wedding dress,’ Morgan looked in the direction of the speaker who held up his pen. ‘I’m Leo Jenson, sir. DC Jenson.’

  ‘Thank you, DC Jenson and you’re right... sort of. Abigail, or Abi as she preferred, left the offices of Fletcher, Armstrong and Gault early to pick up her wedding dress. She had a final fitting at 3pm. We’ll need someone to go to the shop and take a statement to that effect now that she’s been found.’ DC Jenson held up his pen again and Morgan nodded his thanks. ‘This was on the 23rd of January, according to the informal enquiries carried out, some by us, some by the media. Since then, there have been no sightings and no contact with friends or family. That’s nothing seen or heard for over two weeks.’

  Brian Bingley, the Crime Scene Manager, caught Morgan’s eye. ‘I have the initial findings from the scene, if that would help.’

  As Morgan nodded and gave him the floor, the door opened and DS Dave Spence entered, his face flushed. All eyes turned to look, first at him and then back at Morgan. Those who had noticed Morgan moving the chair now understood. To get to that chair, Spence would have to walk around the room and cross in front of the projection screen. It would bring a whole new meaning to “the walk of shame.” Everyone waited. It was clear that some were enjoying Spence’s discomfort but others looked embarrassed.


  ‘Please carry on, Brian,’ said Morgan ‘I’m sure DS Spence is okay standing at the back.’ The atmosphere in the room relaxed again as Brian Bingley’s first photograph was projected on to the screen.

  ‘This is the best shot we have of the whole scene. Abigail was leaning against a dead tree trunk which was about five feet high. The wedding dress you mentioned was mostly laid over her body. She was actually dressed in a pale pink jumper and blue denim leggings. The wedding dress was backless and someone, most likely the murderer, put her arms through the shoulder straps. That’s why, from the distance the photo was taken, she looks as though she’s wearing it.’

  There were nods and murmurs around the room and more notes made. Morgan watched Jenny Smart. Her notes were detailed while most of the others jotted headings.

  ‘This closer photo is of the upper torso and her lap.’ Bingley used a laser pointer to put the picture into context. ‘This is the dress neckline which has crystals and embroidery and this area is her hair, hanging loose across it. The pink area is her jumper. But this is what you need to see.’ The red dot of the pointer traced around something darker in colour which was resting in the white folds of the dress.

  ‘Are we any closer to knowing what it is?’ asked Morgan who wondered if Brian Bingley might be enjoying the attention of an audience a little too much.

  ‘It’s a piece of corrugated cardboard.’ The pointer outlined the darkened area again. ‘And these are her fingers... or rather, what’s left of them. The right hand is missing altogether. From the way the arms are posed here, it looks as if the hands may have both been holding the card when the body was dumped.’

  ‘I don’t understand what the cardboard’s for?’ said Jenson. Others in the room were twisting their heads at different angles in an attempt to make more sense of what they were seeing.

  ‘Couldn’t it have just been blowing about in the woods and got trapped there?’ asked Smart.