by Rick Murcer
‘Well, if you’re going to puke, go outside. This is bad enough without the stench of your vomit.’
‘I’ll be all right. It was just the initial shock.’
He’d known Verona Izatt; she’d been trying her hand at crime fiction to pay the bills and used him as a so-called expert to bounce ideas off. He turned back, glad that he had a mask covering most of his face. The body lay on the bed in an ocean of blood. Her lips had been sewn together, and she’d been opened up like a fish for gutting.
‘What have you got for me?’
‘I’ve never seen anything like this.’ She stood up straight and stared in his eyes until the guilt made him look away. ‘Apart from what you can see with your own eyes, she’s had her heart torn out. And when I say ‘torn out,’ we’re not talking about a nice neat job for organ transplant, I mean ripped from her chest.’
He pointed to the splinters and jagged edges. ‘What about the ribs?’
‘I’d say a bolt cutter, or something of that nature.’
Morgan shook his head in disbelief.
‘She’s been sexually abused front and back, but the scary thing is that she was conscious while all this was going on. Whoever did this is a real piece of work.’
‘Conscious?’
‘I know, don’t ask me how she could just lie there while he did this to her, but that’s what appears to have happened. More than likely a drug, but I don’t know what yet.’
‘Time of death?’
‘Early hours of this morning. I’d say about four thirty when he’d finished with her, and ripped her heart out. I’m going to get the body back to the mortuary now. Post mortem about four this afternoon. I’ll let you know more after that.’
‘Thanks, Jess. I’ll be there.’ He checked the time as he wandered from the bedroom. It was eleven fifteen.
***
‘Tig?’ he called as he walked down the stairs.
‘Here, Sir.’
Detective Constable Tigris Griffiths was his partner, had been for eleven months. He knew that she was originally from London, but had called Pembrokeshire her home for a number of years. He didn’t think the name Tigris suited her. Told her it was the name of a river, so he decided to call her Tig instead, but sometimes he called her Tigger just because he could. She didn’t seem to mind when he’d given her the news, merely shrugged her shoulders and said, ‘Whatever.’
‘Well?’
‘The window cleaner came today. He found her. Saw her through the window. Nearly fell off his ladder. Phoned us.’
‘Did he come inside?’
‘No.’
‘Entry?’
‘Open kitchen window. Climbed in. Let himself out through the back door.’
Shortly after she’d first arrived, he had asked her why she spoke like a notebook.
‘Saves time,’ is all she’d said.
‘It makes you seem like a cold fish.’
She’d shrugged, and that was as far as he’d got. After eleven months, he didn’t really know much about her past.
He’d had no input into her appointment, but if he had, he would have chosen her anyway. She was extraordinarily beautiful with thick, bouncy, blonde hair past her shoulders, a fabulous smile, and a body made for Hollywood blockbusters. The trouble was, she didn’t like men in any shape or form. She had a thing for women – although that didn’t stop every man she met from trying to get her into bed.
‘Anything else?’
‘Made coffee. Washed up afterwards. Had a shower. Forensics examining plug hole for hair. Footprint outside could be the killer, plaster cast taken.’
‘You’re looking good this morning.’
She dismissed his compliment with a toss of her head. ‘I always look good.’
‘Yes, you do, but I thought I’d mention the fact this morning.’
‘No need. I have a mirror.’
He gave up. ‘I don’t suppose anyone saw anything?’
‘Unlikely. House on its own up here. Plods asking questions in the village.’
He wandered through the open front door and stared out over the bay. The cottage was perched on a grassy hill overlooking the village, which enclosed the beach in a semi-circle. The sky was a clear blue, the sun had nearly reached its zenith, and the sea lapped lazily against the sand. To his right, the hordes of holidaymakers were already pressing the sand in search of the perfect tan; some were swimming in the cold Atlantic to ward off heat stroke. Was the killer a holidaymaker, or a local? He couldn’t believe it might be someone local. Even though he worked out of the Divisional Headquarters at Haverfordwest, this was his patch, had been for twenty years. It was a short trip up and down the B4341. He lived here and knew everyone, for God’s sake.
What had Verona Izatt done – or not done – to attract the attention of a killer? Why had he sewn her mouth up? Why had he ripped out her heart? Was there some symbolic reason behind the barbaric way he had killed her?
‘Thoughts, Tig?’
‘Someone from her past. Came here three years ago. What do we know about her?’
‘Good. We’d better find out who she was before.’
Tig wore a cream satin top tucked into her black trousers. If he’d strained his eyes, he would have been able to see the lace pattern of her bra and the gentle curve of her breasts, but he didn’t. For one thing, she was twenty-seven and he was fifty-nine – one year away from retiring. Also, she was his partner, and partners were a protected species. There were other reasons as well, which the monster on his shoulder would have recounted in lurid detail had he even thought about Tig in a non-partner way.
Tig had her notebook out. She was the flip side of him. He rarely wrote anything down anymore. ‘What was she working on?’ she said. ‘Could have upset someone.’
‘We’ve taken her notebooks and laptop into custody?’
‘Forensics examining them. We’ll get them this afternoon.’
He stretched his neck, closed his eyes, and bathed his face in the sun. ‘You don’t think it’s someone local?’
‘Didn’t say that. Could be. Depends what she was working on. Everybody’s got a past.’
He certainly had. The landscape of his past was littered with the rotting carcasses of failed relationships, and resembled a Salvador Dali painting. After he and Jess drifted apart seven years ago, he had tried dating again. It didn’t last long. Now, he preferred not to look backwards into the darkness. ‘What’s in your past, Tig?’
She ignored him as she always did. Wouldn’t let him in. They were partners at work, and that was all. They fitted together like two jigsaw pieces when they were working on a case, but beyond that they were ships passing in the night.
‘So, we’re looking at her past, and what she was working on. What else?’
‘Random.’
He thought about the possibility of it being a random killing. Little Haven had a population of 807, soon to be 809 when Vic and Nicola Trowell’s twins were born. Yes, there were villages and towns all around, but the killer had come prepared. Knew exactly what he was going to do before he set foot in the cottage. That wasn’t random, it was pre-planned. ‘Random doesn’t fit what we’ve got here. If it is random, then we’re wasting our time.’
‘Maybe victim is random, but killer isn’t.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘A serial killer? Have you been drinking?’
‘You know I don’t drink.’
‘Why don’t you drink, Tig?’
‘Even serial killers need a holiday.’
It didn’t matter how many personal questions he asked her, she never answered any of them. She’d told him a while ago – in no uncertain terms – to keep his nose out of her private life. Tig was definitely an enigma. On the one hand, the detective in him wanted to investigate her thoroughly, so that he knew everything about her. On the other hand, he wanted to respect her privacy, as he hoped people would respect his.
‘We can check for similar killings, but I’m betting a pint of lager you’re
wrong.’
As well as not drinking, she didn’t bet either. As far as he knew she had no vices... if, of course, one believed that a woman having a relationship with another woman was normal. He thought the prudent course of action in that respect was to sit on the fence until his arse hurt so much that he fell off.
A half-smile wrinkled her freckles. ‘Tempted, but you know I don’t bet.’
He saw Jess come out of the cottage. She followed the paramedics carrying Verona Izatt’s body on a stretcher and headed towards her car as the paramedics slid the corpse into the back of the ambulance and shut the doors. They would take the body to the mortuary at Withybush Hospital on Fishguard Road, which was only a hop, skip, and a jump from the police station. She still looked good. Mind, she was ten years younger than him, so she should. But, even after all this time, he would have gone running if she’d clicked her fingers. The sad fact of the matter was that he still loved her, but there was a universe between them now – a universe that neither of them had the technology to cross.
‘Let’s get back to the station then,’ he said.
***
Tig had put out a call for similar murders across England and Wales, and sent a request to Interpol for them to carry out a database search.
They were sitting in the incident room either side of the table. Forensics had finished with Verona Izatt’s notebooks and laptop. He had the notebooks, and Tig had the laptop. She’d been brought up on gadgets. Whereas he was an old dog trying to learn new tricks, but failing miserably.
‘No memory stick.’
He knew what a memory stick was – barely. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Thankfully, no password. Word processor, click on last document, not there. Says, ‘Path not found.’ She used a memory stick.’
‘Haven’t forensics got her memory stick?’
She shrugged, stood up, and left. Not only did she speak in notebook form, but also if there was no need to say anything, she didn’t. Inigo knew where she was going, and she knew he knew.
In her absence he rifled through the notebooks. There were seven of them, and Verona Izatt had written her notes in another language. When he examined them more closely, he realised he’d seen the lines and squiggles before.
He got up, opened the door, and walked along the corridor to the clerical office. There were seven women and a man in there, who all looked up when he entered.
‘Who can read shorthand?’
Three hands went up.
One hand belonged to the man – Declan Munro, his identity tag stated. The world could call him a dinosaur, but Inigo wasn’t comfortable with a man who could read shorthand. Another hand belonged to a middle-aged woman with a green streak in her hair. She looked like a badger from Mars. Her ID tag stated that she was Emma Harris. He also didn’t feel comfortable with a woman who found it necessary to spray-paint her hair green.
‘Sheila,’ he said to the woman in possession of the third hand. He knew Sheila Cooper, had spoken to her a few times before. She’d been doing the Clerical Manager’s job for a number of years. ‘Can you come and help me?’
She followed him back to the incident room.
Tig had returned and was interrogating the laptop. ‘No memory stick.’ She smiled and said, ‘Hi Sheila.’
He guided Sheila into a chair. She was probably in her mid-fifties with brown-grey, frizzy hair falling to her shoulders, dark bags under her eyes, and an upside-down smile. Her mouth made him think of other people’s mouths. How – at rest – a mouth probably reflected a person’s personality. He guessed Sheila was a miserable person – maybe she had good reason to be. If he’d had a mirror, he would have examined his own mouth to see where it came to rest. Was he an old misery like Sheila, or maybe a wishy-washy, sit-on-the-fence type of person with a straight mouth? He doubted he was the life-and-soul-of-the-party guy with a mouth that said, ‘Eat me.’
‘Hello, Tigris,’ Sheila said, but there was no smile in return.
As he shuffled round the table to sit down, he said to Tig, ‘What’s on the hard drive?’
‘Rubbish.’
He didn’t question Tig’s interpretation of rubbish. She knew what she was doing, which was more than he did.
He directed his gaze at Sheila. ‘I’ve got these seven notebooks belonging to a victim, which appear to be written in shorthand. Can you take a look?’ He slid one of the notebooks across the table to her.
The notebooks were what an old stereotypical reporter might have used, with the ring binding at the top of the page and a thick card for the back cover. Now, of course, they used electronic devices. He’d seen them in the press briefing, tip-tapping with tiny sticks onto tiny screens and muttering into small boxes like crazy people.
Sheila opened the notebook and began to read aloud. ‘The post mortem of Hilary Weekes revealed...’ She put the book down and peered at Inigo. ‘Are they all like this?’
He hadn’t really looked, simply assumed they were. He laid them side by side and opened each one up at a randomly selected page. One after the other revealed shorthand symbols similar to the notebook Sheila had in her possession. ‘Yes, they’re all the same.’
‘Well, I could sit here all day reading to you, but I don’t think the Chief would be very happy with either of us. Let me take the notebooks away and type them up in plain text for you. I have a mountain of work, but I’ll try and fit you in somewhere. ‘
He could understand the logic of what she was saying. ‘You’ll guard them with your life?’ he said closing each notebook and putting one on top of the other.
‘I hope that won’t be necessary, Inspector, but I’ll certainly keep them safe.’
He slid them across the table as if they were the only copies of the Dead Sea Scrolls in existence. ‘I’ll trust you.’
‘Most generous.’
‘Can you...?’
‘No, I don’t know when I’ll have them done by. As I said...’
He held up his hand in submission. ‘I’d be grateful if you could get them to me as soon as possible.’
‘Grateful? How grateful?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, there’s probably about ten hours work all told in these notebooks. That’s a day and a half. I’m all for doing people favours, but this is a bit more than a favour. So, when you say grateful, what exactly do you mean?’
‘I see, you want money?’
‘No, I don’t want money. Although a pay rise would be very welcome, but I don’t think you have the power to do anything about that.’
‘No, I’m a minor cog in the bureaucratic machine. So, what is it that you want?’
‘You could take me out for a meal?’
His eyes narrowed and his heart rate increased. ‘What, you mean like a date?’ A date with miserable-faced Sheila would be a step too far in the wrong direction, and what the hell would she want him to do after the date? God forbid!
‘No, I don’t think my husband would approve of that. Just a meal will do.’
Relieved, he said, ‘I could manage a meal.’
She thrust an outstretched hand towards him. ‘Deal.’
He was about to grip the hand when he had a thought. ‘By tomorrow lunch time?’
‘As you saw, there’s three of us in the office that can read shorthand, I’ll have to give each of them two notebooks to be able to complete the job by then. It’ll mean three meals with puddings.’
He shook her hand. ‘Deal.’
Sheila scooped up the notebooks and left.
Tig had a wry smile on her face.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Should have been a hostage negotiator.’
***
‘So there’s nothing on the computer?’
‘No.’
‘What was the document called?’
‘WIP.’
He didn’t say anything, but rested his chin on his balled fist and stared at her.
‘Work In Progress.’
‘Very
informative. So, you think it was on a memory stick, and the killer took it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which would suggest that the motive might be about what, or who, she was writing about.’
‘If there is a motive.’
‘Even serial killers have motives. Have we found out what she did before she came here?’
‘Do that now?’
‘That would be good.’
Tig left.
He stretched back, put his hands behind his head, and interlocked his fingers. He ignored the stabbing pain in his left shoulder, and hoped he was going to last a few more years into retirement. He had no idea what he was going to do when he had nothing to do. Maybe he’d do nothing.
What the hell did he have here? A thirty-one-year-old woman named Verona Izatt arrives three years ago after her aunt dies and leaves her the cottage. Why didn’t he know what she did before? Usually, it would have cropped up in conversation, but it hadn’t, and that was strange in itself. He’d only been conversing with the woman for a little over three months. Bumped into her in the village, because that’s where he lived. It wasn’t by accident; she’d found out he was a murder detective and wanted to pick his brains. He’d been flattered – old fool – so he’d answered her questions. She’d been particularly interested in what the police procedures were when there was a murder, and he’d been more than helpful.
Tig came back. ‘Name’s not Verona Izatt.’
He squinted at her.
She shrugged. ‘Better have another look in the cottage.’
‘Why isn’t her name Verona Izatt? I don’t understand. That was what Kathryn Brinck’s niece was called.’
‘Verona Izatt died three years ago.’
His mind began racing with a hundred and one questions. ‘So, this woman, whoever she was, became Kathryn Brinck’s niece? Why? Did she murder the real Verona Izzat? We need to get hold of Verona Izzat’s post mortem results. Was there a post mortem? How did she die? And how...?’
‘Don’t know any of that.’
He stood up. ‘Okay...’ He checked the time on the wall clock. It was twenty past three. ‘Meet me at the cottage at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. We’ll go through the place with a magnifying glass and see what we can unearth. In the meantime, I want you to find out everything you can about Kathryn Brinck and Verona Izatt. I’ll...’