‘So he knows what he’s doing.’
‘It looks that way, yes.’
Cass logged the information in his brain to mull over later. Why hadn’t the killer just used coke or crack or H- something that would be much easier to come by and much harder to trace? All of those would be equally lethal if injected in the right quantities.
The profiler was coming in later. Maybe he’d be able to shed some light on that. Cass looked up. Farmer looked tired. Blackmore looked slightly bored. Cass didn’t care. Maybe he could have read all this in the files, but if they wanted him up to speed he preferred to see for himself, and to actually hear the information. That was how he worked best; that way he could ferret out all sorts of nuances he might miss just reading the report.
‘What else?’
‘As with the others, there’s no evidence of any recent sexual activity.’
‘And yet he strips them naked?’
‘And why he does that is your job to find out,’ Farmer pointed out. ‘Maybe it’s a kinky thing, or maybe it’s just practical. He doesn’t want to leave any evidence.’
‘Maybe.’ Cass looked at the corpse and for a moment saw Carla Rae reanimated, her weighed and analysed organs back in her torso, all functioning perfectly. He could see her in that grimy Newham flat, terrified, slowly peeling off her clothes with trembling fingers and hoping that whoever it was standing watching in the shadows would just get it over with, do what they wanted with her and leave. Unfortunately, he did.
‘And her eyes?’
‘Ah. Here is the very interesting bit.’
Blackmore suddenly stood upright, his attention engaged.
‘I found the eggs, right in the corners of her eyes. The tricky little bastards were slipping round to the back . . . although if I’d left them another couple of hours they’d have come wriggling out all by themselves.’ He waved Cass over to his microscope.
‘Musca domestica eggs. The common housefly. The eggs are like tiny grains of rice when they’re laid, one and a half to two millimetres in length at most. They normally hatch within six to eight hours - that’s when they turn into the maggoty larvae we all know and love. In two or three days they begin the transition to pupae, developing a harder, browner shell, and then they finally hatch into flies. Obviously all this is weather-dependent. The hotter it is, the quicker the process.’
The doctor stopped, looked at Cass and smiled wryly. ‘Trust me, I already knew quite a bit about the common or garden maggot before this bastard showed up, but over the past two months I’ve become a world-class expert. Once you’ve had time to take a good look at the other three case files you’ll see this vic is the first one we’ve found so early. Jade Palmer had been dead approximately one week, Amanda Carlisle six days, and Emma Loines three days - some of the larvae were turning into pupae when she was found. Have you seen the photos?’
‘Only in passing. I’ll take a proper look after them when we’re done here. Carla Rae’s the freshest - that makes her the most important if I want to catch this fucker.’ Cass couldn’t help feel a twitch of disgust as he pulled away from the lens. He wasn’t keen on flies, but maggots revolted him, and knowing that these little white grains would soon be wiggling around in the poor woman’s eyeball was enough to turn his fragile stomach. ‘So what was the interesting bit?’ he asked once he’d gathered himself.
‘The eggs I found in her eyes were perfect. Any damage done to them was by me, I’m afraid to say.’
‘And?’ Cass wasn’t sure what the doctor was driving at. ‘Spit it out, man.’
‘It looks as if they were laid there. I have absolutely no idea how someone could have placed them so perfectly without damaging a single one.’ The ME frowned. ‘I’m going to have a go at it this afternoon, when my irritating little shit of an assistant gets his act together and brings me some eggs, but I wouldn’t lay bets on me to succeed.’
‘Maybe he did get a fly to lay them there,’ Blackmore said.
Both Cass and Farmer turned to look at him.
‘I’ve heard of flea circuses too, Mat, but they’re like Santa. They don’t exist. It’s all just a trick.’ Cass looked over at the ME. ‘Figuring out how he did that is down to you. Maybe get that assistant of yours—’
‘—Eagleton. Josh Eagleton,’ Farmer interrupted. ‘I suppose we can’t go on referring to him as “that little shit” for ever. And I fear he’ll probably be around for a while. Under that thick layer of stupidity he’s surprisingly clever. He’s started to use his initiative too. Had the swabs done on this one before I’d even got my scrubs on.’
‘Then maybe get Eagleton to pick you up a few flies to play with too. See if you can find a way to get them to drop the eggs so precisely.’
‘You make it sound so easy.’
‘I’m sure for a man of your capabilities it’s child’s play.’
Farmer’s perma-tanned skin was like worn leather, and with his long grey curls he looked like an ageing hippy, but Cass reckoned he could see the ME’s colour fading as they spoke, as if his body knew it wasn’t going to be going near a sunbed or swanning off on a quick weekend to the Costa del Crap any time in the near future.
He sighed and returned to the subject at hand. ‘And the writing on her chest? That was done in blood, yes?’
‘Ah, “Nothing is Sacred”,’ Farmer said, ‘although I can’t see what was possibly sacred about this girl to begin with.’
Cass’s irritation with the doctor rose again, but he bit it back and let the man continue.
‘Yes, it’s written in blood and it’s a DNA match with the others. It doesn’t belong to any of the victims - not the ones we’ve found thus far at least.’ Farmer shrugged. ‘It could be his own, of course, but it’s not on file so I can’t give you anything from that. We’re still running a comparison against trace evidence found at the scenes, but he’s not exactly leaving these girls in clean environments. There are hairs and body fluid residues all over the squat this one was found in, from dozens of people. But we’ll do our best.’
‘Maybe next time he’ll fuck up and leave us something. In the meantime, do what you can with what you’ve got and stay in touch.’
‘You think there’ll be a next time?’
‘That’s why they call them serial,’ Cass said, dryly. ‘Because they just keep on coming.’
By the time they got back to Paddington Green the profiler was waiting for them. Cass took the case files and sent Sergeant Blackmore to make copies for the profiler to keep. He grabbed two coffees from the machine and strode along the corridor towards the far end stairs up to the third floor, where there were a number of small conference rooms.
As he passed the Incident Room - his Incident Room, now - it looked like everyone was working. Officers at both ends of the room were on the phones, and bits of paper and files were being passed around. He hadn’t expected anything less. Murder Squad officers were not known to be slackers - aside from the passion for the job most of them shared, the official bonuses were too good if they actually scored a conviction. And it wasn’t as if the two units didn’t have enough to be working on.
The Miller and Jackson team were using the new information in the grainy film to build a more accurate timeline of events. That would help them piece together Macintyre’s movements, as well as the two boys’. They still desperately needed to find out how the shooter had known Sam Macintyre would be in Formosa Street at that precise time. Someone must have grassed him up, but getting any information from anyone Macintyre associated with would be like getting blood out of the proverbial. No one wanted to look like they were in on the hit, but nor were they wanting to be seen talking to the filth. Sorting that timeline was going to be a long and painfully slow process.
On the far side of the room he spotted Claire, hunched over a phone by the window. He’d told her to find the cabbie who’d dropped Macintyre off outside the Café de la Seine, and he imagined that was what she was doing. She probably had a name for him by now.
He was most likely a daytime driver, so he could be anywhere in the city right now. By the time she got the man in, she’d have a file an inch thick on him, his life, his family, and whatever bad habits he might have imagined hidden from view. If he was in any way associated with Sam Macintyre’s firm, then his sergeant would know before the driver even realised he was getting pulled.
Cass gritted his teeth as coffee slopped over and burned his hand. Bowman’s lot had plenty to be getting on with too. First they had to dig around in Carla Rae’s life, get an idea of who she was and how she lived, and track her last movements as precisely as possible. After that, they’d have to cross-reference all the new information with what they had for the three prior victims. What they needed were links between the four. So far, all they had in common was that they were all female, relatively poor, and now dead. Hopefully, Carla Rae’s death would give them a new piece of the jigsaw puzzle. Time would tell. Unfortunately, in any murder case, time was the killer of conviction.
Blackmore spotted him and came over, pushing the heavy swing door from the other side. ‘Let me take that, sir,’ he said, reaching for the thick file that was wedged under Cass’s armpit. He added it to his own pile. ‘I’ll bring these up. Do you need me in with you, sir ?’
‘In an ideal world, yes, but in this one I need you in the Incident Room more,’ said Cass. He transferred one coffee cup to his other hand and led the way up the stairs. ‘I’ll tape what he says and give you a copy before we brief the team.
I want you on that pentabarbitone. I want to know where our killer scored it.’
‘I’m on it, boss.’
The first body had been found two months ago, and Bowman had already had the team on the phone to just about every vet, hospital and pharmacy in London chasing reports of stolen or missing barbiturates, but so far they’d come up blank. Now Cass wanted the search widened, starting with the greater London region, but going further if necessary. They knew fuck all about their killer - he could be a pharmaceutical rep or travelling salesman, or maybe a relief vet, stealing what he needed as he went. But it was more likely he’d have gone for one big steal, rather than risk getting arrested for something as ordinary as theft. Somewhere, someone was missing a substantial quantity of the drug. They just needed to find out who.
‘And keep on Forensics for anything the CSTs might have found in trace that links with any of the other crime scenes. You know how slack some of these techies can be - they’re not police, they’re paid by the bloody hour. Make sure they’re working.’
‘You got it, sir.’
As they passed under the bright strip lighting, Cass noticed the dark shadows under the sergeant’s eyes. Maybe Blackmore wasn’t sleeping so well either. Changing to a new DI in the middle of a case like this couldn’t be easy, especially when you were sleeping with - or at least intending to sleep with - the boss’s sergeant - and not just his sergeant, but someone the DI had history with. What a bloody nightmare that must be.
‘And thanks for the file,’ Cass added, ‘I’ll be up to speed by the end of the day.’
‘You seem pretty on the ball to me, sir.’
Cass silently wished he were. He could feel the fingers of the dead women and the two boys tugging at his clothes, demanding justice. Their touch brought a cold chill to his soul. Common as murder had become in these times when tempers were frayed and money was tight, Criminal Murders, as these they were now classified, were rare. Most killings were committed by civilians, ordinary people caught in a moment of madness, taking their frustrations out on those they loved or had grown to hate. Both these cases were different. These were calculated, beyond a quick fix. And somehow he’d ended up with both of them.
It didn’t come as a surprise. God, if he existed, had long ago stopped being a friend to Cass Jones.
He lifted one cup and sipped. He needed to concentrate on the here and now. His nose itched at the scent of cheap coffee. At least the dry soreness left by the strong powder was fading.
Although what was left in the wrap was too light to feel, Cass was suddenly aware of it, lying hot and heavy in his pocket as if it were truly the weight of his shame, all his guilt folded carefully into the shiny piece of magazine. As soon as he could, he’d get to the bathroom and tip it away. Enough was enough. Until the next time, a small voice in the back of his head whispered. Cass ignored it. Maybe there would be a next time, but it wouldn’t be until after these cases were done. The grip of those dead fingers was far too strong. They’d drown him in blood if he let them.
‘So you’ve got a serial on your hands,’ said Dr Tim Hask, the sentence a statement rather than a question. His green eyes twinkled out of his heavy face as he smiled and a network of fine veins crackled across his full cheeks to a kind of a purple peak on his nose. If the profiler’s body and face had been criminal evidence, Cass thought, they would reveal the sin of gluttony: a love for good food and good wine, and plenty of it. Cass wondered if his own face betrayed his sins in the same way. He hoped not.
‘How can you tell?’
Hask got to his feet with surprising energy for a man of his proportions. He was a few inches shorter than Cass’s six foot, and oval, his body expanding massively at the waistline and tapering down through almost womanly hips to his neatly shod feet. His full head of light brown hair was brushed to one side in an untidy parting, and there were no hints of grey in it. Cass reckoned Tim Hask to be no more than forty, but he didn’t believe that he was likely to see fifty. Morbid obesity was on a sharp rise in England and this man could easily be its poster boy.
‘Nothing clever, I’m afraid.’ He grinned warmly, causing his jowls to wobble alarmingly. ‘My services are rather expensive. It’s rare for the police to be able to afford me.’
‘I’m afraid we can’t afford decent coffee either.’ Cass passed him the cup. ‘So I apologise in advance to your taste buds.’
Blackmore had told Cass that Bowman had wanted to call in a profiler after the third body had turned up two weeks previously, but it took the fourth death, Carla Rae, to get the headshed to authorise the expense. Hask was considered top of his field in Britain, and was well respected across Europe and the United States; he didn’t come cheap.
He looked at Cass. ‘I occasionally help out the Feds, but much of my time recently has been spent psychologically evaluating employees for big companies, and being an expert witness in cases of fraud or industrial espionage. While I obviously deplore the need, it will be nice to get my teeth into something meaty again.’
‘The original pictures are in that folder.’ Cass passed it over. ‘There’s a copy here for you to take with you.’
The profiler shook his head, his eyes growing serious as he pulled the photos out. ‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I’ve already had the file faxed over to me.’ His fat hands carefully arranged each set of photos on the table in the order of the vics’ demise, and then placed the secondary shots of the crime scenes above each pile.
‘Maybe we should have done this over the phone, then,’ Cass said, feeling a little put out.
‘Absolutely not.’ Hask moved the picture of Carla Rae’s abused body an inch to the left. ‘I so rarely get to work on something that actually means anything these days.’ A small shard of a smile twitched at his cheek. ‘And this is as much about your brain as mine, DI Jones.’
‘Call me Cass.’
‘Cass, then. My point is: I can’t catch the person who did this. I can only give you suggestions about the person and their motivations. If you get any hunches, then I will probably be able to tell you if you’re headed in the right direction.’ He spread his hands wide across the pictures. ‘These girls need your brain as much as mine - more so, in fact. We have the best chance of catching him if our minds work in some kind of synthesis.’ He paused. ‘Plus, I’ve been hankering after some time in London. I haven’t been back for a while, and all the better if it’s on someone else’s dime.’ He chuckled.
‘Well, any help yo
u can give us will be greatly appreciated.’ The two men examined the pictures in silence. Cass had seen them before, briefly, when the case was still Bowman’s, and then in a hurried flick through of the file before heading home the previous evening, but this was the first time he’d really looked at them. Hask might already be seeking out clues, and evidence of method and similarities, but Cass wanted to see the people these bodies had been before their lives had been stopped so unexpectedly. He wanted to know them a little, to recognise them. He shivered, as if he felt the cold touch of their fingers on his.
Jade Palmer, twenty-two, was the first to die, a week before her body was found in a boarded-up repossession two streets away from her family home just off St John’s Wood Road. The derelict house was only a mile or so from where Cass was standing now, and part of him was wishing the killer had struck in Newham first, and made all this someone else’s problem.
Jade smiled up at him from the photo on the desk. Her thick shoulder-length hair was braided in cornrows, and the stud in her tongue glinted in the reflected shine of the camera flash. It was a healthy smile, full of life, but Cass thought he could see a hint of wary shadows creeping into the corner of her eyes where only a few months later a crazy man would plant fly eggs. Until her body turned up, found by some council housing officer inspecting just how much - or more probably how little - work needed to be done to make it habitable, no one had reported her missing. Apparently, she had a habit of just taking off, so none had been worried by her absence.
With no permanent job and few qualifications that meant anything, it appeared that pretty Jade Palmer’s life consisted of taking up with one unsuitable man after another, drawn, like so many others, to danger and excitement without realising that there was always some kind of price to pay. Even though she would now be forever twenty-two, Cass thought echoes of those exciting, dangerous men had already made tracks on her soul. Downstairs some unfortunate constable was trawling through lists and hunting all those men down. Maybe one of her boyfriends had suddenly turned psycho - but Cass doubted it. He knew how those gangsta-boys liked to work, and it wasn’t like this.
A Matter Of Blood (The Dog-Faced Gods Trilogy) Page 6