by Tania Carver
Joanne gave an exaggerated, moody teenager’s shrug. ‘Just… got rid of them.’
‘Why, Joanne? Why did you get rid of them?’
‘They were in the way. Stopping me doing what I wanted to do.’
‘Meet men.’
Joanne nodded.
The case had been all over the media. Joanne Marsh had lived on a remote farm outside Clacton on the Essex coast with only her father for company. She had developed a passion for meeting men through internet sex contact sites, having random, unprotected sex with them. Sometimes in multiples. There was plenty of amateur video footage of her doing so.
She had been on the social services radar for quite some time, dating back to her childhood where there had been allegations of incest and abuse. Her father and other men, some family, some just friends, using the underage Joanne for sex. The allegations were never proven but Joanne had become a person of interest to them. When she had posted a message on a sex site saying, ‘Got rid of the baby out tonit now whers my MEN?’ they became interested.
Upon investigation, they discovered Joanne had been made pregnant as a result of one of her meetings. She hadn’t let this deter her enjoyment, playing with various partners until she was full term. As far as they could gather, the baby had been delivered at home, probably by her father, and Joanne had then been out meeting men the same night.
Anni’s Major Incident Squad had been called in and they had found the corpse of a newborn child buried in a shallow grave just outside the back door of the farmhouse. Suspicions aroused, they had dug up the rest of the land. A further seven tiny corpses had been found.
Now Joanne was in Finnister awaiting psychiatric assessment.
‘So,’ Marina continued, her voice low, her demeanour professional, ‘how did you get rid of the babies? What did you do?’
Joanne looked around the room, bored once more. ‘Dug a hole, put them in.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘Closed it up again. Patted it down.’
‘And then what?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘What did you do then?’
Another shrug. ‘Went out.’
Marina nodded. Swallowed down the revulsion she was feeling, tried, once again, to remain professional.
‘Can I go now?’
‘Go?’ asked Marina. ‘Where?’
‘Home.’
Marina shook her head. ‘Well, Joanne, I think it’s fair to say that, one way or another, you won’t be going home for quite some time.’
8
P
hil stared up at the tower block. Even the bright morning sun and the clear blue sky failed to lift the clouds of despondency and gloom around it. Handsworth was an area of Birmingham notable for its deprivation, poverty and social exclusion. And out of that deprivation rode the usual horsemen: crime, violence, gangs, drugs. Life during wartime.
‘Bet the fuckin’ lift’s out of order,’ said Sperring, also looking up.
‘Stop complaining,’ said Phil. ‘You need the exercise.’
Sperring affected not to hear him. ‘Or if it is working, I bet they’ll have used it as a toilet.’
Phil stared at him. Sperring, reluctantly, acknowledged the gaze. ‘What?’ he said, eyebrows rising in mock-effrontery. ‘Don’t start all that Guardian-reader holier-than-thou liberal bullshit. You know what this sort are like. We deal with them every day. We’d be out of a job if it wasn’t for them. Spend our days helping old ladies across the road and getting cats out of trees. That’d be us.’
Phil kept staring at him.
Sperring flinched under the gaze. ‘What? You know I’m right.’
‘A bit of respect, that’s all. Doesn’t hurt.’
Sperring shrugged. That would be the only answer Phil would be getting.
‘Come on,’ said Phil, walking towards the entrance, Sperring, reluctantly, following. ‘And besides,’ said Phil once they had almost reached the door, ‘helping old ladies across the road? You’d be dead from boredom within a month.’
Sperring didn’t answer.
Letisha Watson lived on the ninth floor of Trescothick Tower. An inner-city Sixties tower block that, like all other inner-city Sixties tower blocks, had promised to be the future of housing. Cities in the sky. And like all other inner-city Sixties tower blocks soon became the exact opposite. The concrete and brick were crumbling, the wind ghosting through the widening cracks. Walkways were sided by wire mesh to stop children climbing off, being thrown off or, like those depressed just by having to live there, throwing themselves off. It had become a textbook sink estate; a dumping ground for the problem families and the socially undesirable, the unwelcome asylum seekers and immigrants. Like a rescue shelter for stray, mistreated and aggressive animals. But unlike the animal shelter, no one would come to release these people, give them a new start, a new life.
Phil had left the crime scene, giving orders as he did so. Khan was to head up the door-to-door, checking to see if anyone in the vicinity had seen or heard anything. Seeing how carefully the crime scene had been left he didn’t expect much. But it was something that had to be done, a cosmetic exercise in hopeless hope.
Imani Oliver was still at the hospital with Darren Richards with instructions to call Phil as soon as he came round.
In the meantime, Phil and Sperring had decided to question Letisha Watson, Darren Richards’ previous girlfriend. Phil didn’t think she would come up with anything useful but it had to be done.
Hopeless hope.
They found the door they wanted. The flat looked semi-derelict; the windows filthy, the surrounds stained and mildewed. The door itself, all dents, scratches, gouges and flaked paint, looked like a failed boxer who had come off second best throughout his fight career. Phil knocked. Waited.
‘Bit early for her sort,’ said Sperring.
Phil looked at him. ‘What are you doing?’
Sperring held up his hands in the process of pulling on latex gloves. ‘Can’t be too careful, can you? Wouldn’t want to put my hand down on some upturned needle. Or anything else, for that matter.’
Phil shook his head, knocked again.
Eventually the door was opened. Phil held up his warrant card. ‘Letisha Watson?’
The woman who had opened the door looked to be still asleep. She was wearing an old T-shirt with a faded gold logo on the front proclaiming how fabulous she was. A pair of equally old pyjama bottoms covered her lower body. Her skin was naturally dark, mixed race, but pallid and unhealthy looking, and she was young but the tiredness and strain in her eyes aged her.
‘Oh fuck,’ she said and walked away down the hall, leaving the front door open.
Phil and Sperring exchanged glances and followed her in, Sperring carefully closing the door behind them.
They followed her into the living room. A fake-leather three-piece suite, worn and stained, cheap wooden furniture with an off-brand flatscreen TV in one corner. There was soiled clothing and other domestic debris scattered about. It looked like the owner had started out with good intentions where upkeep was concerned but found it all too much trouble.
‘What d’you want?’ Letisha Watson said, sitting down in an armchair and lighting up a Rothmans. Phil thought it would take more than a good night’s sleep to displace the black rings round her eyes.
‘Darren Richards,’ said Phil, sitting down on the sofa. Sperring perched on the edge, like he was either frightened of catching something or wanted to make a run for it. Or both.
Letisha Watson sucked down a lungful of air, let it go. It hung in the living room like a miserable cloud, creating its own microclimate around her. ‘What about him?’
‘We believe you were his girlfriend.’
‘I was. Till he got that slag pregnant.’
‘That would be Chloe Hannon?’
‘Yeah.’ Letisha Watson looked between the two men. ‘What’s this about? What’s he done now?’
‘He’s… well, we don’t know,
Letisha. We were hoping you might tell us.’
Her eyes narrowed. Suspicion in her features. ‘Why?’
Sperring stood up. ‘Can I use your loo?’
‘Yeah,’ she said, not even looking at him. Sperring left the room. ‘What d’you want with me? Whatever it is, I didn’t do it. Darren, though, I bet he did whatever it was.’
‘When was the last time you saw Darren Richards, Letisha?’
She shrugged. ‘Dunno. Weeks ago. Haven’t spoken in ages.’
‘And Chloe Hannon?’
Her features darkened. Anger danced behind her eyes. ‘She keeps out of my way.’
‘So it still hurts, losing Darren to her?’
Letisha Watson snorted. ‘He can have the fucking bitch. Made for each other. Wouldn’t take him back now, might catch something. Skank.’
Phil nodded, seemingly in thought. ‘Letisha… how much would you say you disliked Chloe Hannon?’
‘Hated her.’
Phil nodded, didn’t speak. In the silence Letisha Watson became nervous. ‘What’s this about?’
Phil leaned forward. ‘Letisha, Chloe Hannon is dead. She was murdered.’ He waited, scrutinising her features to see what her response would be.
Her eyes widened, suddenly fully awake. ‘You think I did it?’
Phil kept his voice as calm and reasonable as possible. ‘We’re just talking to everyone who knew her and may have harboured a grudge against her. That’s all.’
‘And you think I did it?’ Her voice raised, anger and fear intermingling.
‘As I said, we’re —’
She leaned forward, pointed with her lit cigarette. ‘You come into my home making accusations like that. What proof have you got? What proof?’
‘Can you tell us where you were Monday and Tuesday night this week, please, Letisha?’
She paused, conflicting emotions on her face. ‘I was busy,’ she said.
‘You were here, weren’t you?’ said Sperring from the doorway. Phil and Letisha Watson turned. He continued. ‘Or were you out working? How long you been on the game, then?’
Her face reddened. ‘None of your fuckin’ business.’
‘Just had a look in your bedroom. Not much of a boudoir, is it? Bit bargain basement, if you ask me. You could at least put some covers on the mattress. Hide the stains if nothing else.’ He stepped into the room. ‘You always meet them here, do you? Or do you do house calls? I’d do house calls if I were you. Be hard enough getting a hard-on surrounded by all this bloody rubbish.’
She stood up, pointed to the door. ‘Get out. Now. Both of you.’
Phil stood, irritated at his DS’s behaviour, trying to salvage something from the situation. ‘Look, Letisha, we just want to know —’
‘I said out. And if you’ve got anything further to say to me, you do it through a solicitor.’
‘Bet you’re used to saying that,’ said Sperring. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’
Outside, walking along the landing, Phil was furious.
‘What the hell was all that about? What were you doing? We only went to question her.’
‘I know,’ said Sperring, smiling. ‘And I thought it was as pointless as you did. But there was something familiar about her. That’s why I went for a look round.’
‘Unprofessional,’ said Phil. ‘Just the kind of behaviour that could get a case kicked out of court. Or us in trouble.’
Sperring said nothing until they were descending the stairs.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me what I found?’
Phil sighed. ‘What did you find, Ian?’
He gave a big grin. ‘Plenty.’
9
‘W
hat d’you think?’ asked Anni.
‘Guilty. Definitely.’
‘No doubt,’ said Anni, ‘but is she sane enough to stand trial?’
‘Ah,’ said Marina. ‘That’s the question.’
They were sitting in the staff canteen at Finnister House. All around them sat medical staff and care workers, taking time off, recharging, swapping gossipy work stories that professional etiquette wouldn’t allow to travel further.
Marina leaned forward, looked Anni square in the face. ‘Why did you bring me here?’
Anni looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘To… assess Joanne Marsh. See that she’s sane enough to stand trial.’ Her dark skin flushed.
‘Anyone could have done that, Anni. You could have found someone local, East Anglia, anywhere round here. I know I’m good, but I’m not that good.’
Anni sighed. Before she could reply, another voice spoke.
‘Fiona Welch.’
Marina turned. Detective Sergeant Mickey Phillips was standing behind her. Tall, shaven-headed and well-built, his eyes held an intelligence and compassion that belied his size. He was Anni Hepburn’s partner both in and out of work.
Marina made to greet him with a hug but his words stopped her. ‘Fiona Welch?’
He looked at Anni, then nodded at Marina. ‘Yeah. Remember her?’
‘Of course.’ The previous head of Phil’s team in Colchester had brought psychologist Fiona Welch in to advise on a case during Marina’s absence. Phil hadn’t taken to her on a personal level, which wouldn’t have mattered had he not found her judgement on a professional level seriously flawed. She was eventually revealed to be manipulating the flow of intelligence behind a series of murders that had been committed at her instigation in order to prove her theories on human behaviour correct. She had been adjudged criminally insane but had fallen to her death before she could be taken into custody. ‘Phil’s still got the scars. Literally.’ Marina looked between the two. ‘But she’s dead, so…?’ She let the question hang.
‘Is she?’ asked Anni.
‘Isn’t she?’
‘That’s what we thought,’ said Mickey, sitting down to join them, ‘but – well, Anni’ll tell you.’
Anni leaned forward, across the table. ‘About six months ago there was a murder in the Colchester area. A young guy, mid-twenties, killed his girlfriend. Just a domestic, we thought at first, nothing out of the ordinary, unfortunately.’
‘Our team wasn’t even called in,’ said Mickey. ‘Open and shut. The guy admitted he’d done it, no question. Didn’t seem to have a reason for it, but that wasn’t our problem.’
‘But then,’ said Anni, ‘there was another one a month or so later. Identical. Same age, same everything. The girls even looked a bit similar.’
‘How?’ asked Marina.
Another look between Anni and Mickey.
‘Tall. Dark hair.’
‘Like you, really,’ said Anni. ‘Your looks, in fact. Dressed like you, too.’
Marina, shocked and now feeling more than a little uneasy, said nothing.
‘And that’s when we became involved,’ said Mickey. ‘Our department. Two too much to be a coincidence. We questioned the blokes again, asked them things the original teams hadn’t. Asked about other women. And that’s when the name came up.’
‘Fiona Welch,’ said Anni.
‘Except she’s dead,’ said Marina.
‘Exactly,’ said Mickey. ‘Considering we saw her die and watched her body being taken away. But these guys were adamant that they had met her, knew her. They’d had affairs with her. She’d told them to get rid of their girlfriends for her. She persuaded them to kill.’
‘Manipulated them?’ asked Marina.
They both nodded.
‘But why didn’t this come out at their trials? Why didn’t they say so? They wouldn’t have got off, but they might have lost some years on their sentences.’
‘She told them not to,’ said Anni.
‘And they didn’t.’
‘Had quite a hold on them.’
‘Anyway,’ said Mickey, ‘we tracked down this woman. She’d already chosen her next target. She was working on him to leave his girlfriend for her.’
‘Permanently,’ said Anni.
‘But before that,’ said Mic
key, ‘this Fiona Welch was getting these guys to change their girlfriends’ looks. Hair darker, more curly, your dress sense…’
‘You sure you’re not just flattering me?’
Mickey and Anni said nothing.
‘How did you find her?’ asked Marina. ‘This Fiona Welch?’
‘Simple,’ said Anni. ‘She was a teaching post-grad at the university. Psychology. All the guys had been her students.’
‘So she was arrested,’ said Mickey. ‘We questioned her, tried to break her down… nothing. She stuck to her story. She was Fiona Welch. The one who died was an imposter.’
‘She knew everything,’ said Anni, ‘had her whole life story memorised. Told it like it had happened to her. She was so convincing that we began to think maybe she was right. Maybe the woman who died was an imposter and she was the real one.’
‘We tried everything,’ said Mickey. ‘Everything. Got nowhere. She was Fiona Welch. And nothing we could say or do would shift that opinion from her mind.’
‘So she admitted to making the two men kill their girlfriends? Working on the third one to do the same?’
Anni nodded. ‘Completely. We didn’t even have to prompt her. Like she was proud of the fact. Like she wanted to be caught.’
‘So we could all see how brilliant she is,’ said Marina. ‘How clever, manipulative.’
‘Showing off,’ said Mickey. ‘But it didn’t get her very far. She still got found out. Still got caught.’
‘That’s true,’ said Marina. She frowned, thinking. ‘Strange, though. She goes to all that trouble to pretend to be Fiona Welch. Puts in all that effort. Why? Just to end up being caught?’
Mickey shrugged. ‘We got wise to the original Fiona Welch,’ he said. ‘If she hadn’t died we’d have put her away. And she wouldn’t have been let out. Ever.’
‘True,’ said Marina. ‘But the original Fiona Welch wanted that. Or would have accepted it. Because that way she would have been famous. That was what she wanted. Notoriety. She would have been listened to. Feared, even. She would be a famous serial killer. She would have her writing published. She would be, she thought, taken seriously.’