Past Mortem

by Ben Elton

  ‘Because he hadn’t finished with her.’

  ‘The hair?’

  ‘Yes, the hair.. If he’d done that before he bleached her it’d be white too, and as you can see it certainly isn’t white.’

  Farrah Porter’s blond hair had been almost as famous as her gorgeous skin. Now all that was gone.

  Her hair was dyed bright orange. Even the tiny soft tuft of pubic hair, all that in life Farrah Porter had allowed to remain upon her waxed, polished and pampered groin, had been turned a sickly, electric, chemical orange.

  Newson could not remember a stranger-looking corpse. It was like something out of a Batman comic.

  ‘How did she die?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to get her on the table. I doubt that the acid killed her. It would if you soaked in it long enough, but that would have taken days and obviously the killer just wanted to ruin her skin. It would have been pretty unpleasant, but at the point when the killer drained the bath Porter would still have been alive.’

  Newson and Wilkie walked back through the dressing room, pausing to peek into immaculately constructed drawers and cupboards that stretched from floor to ceiling on all sides. It was not only shoes that Ms Porter had in abundance. Her dresses and suits hung in deep, glittering rows, and drawer after drawer was filled with exquisite lingerie.

  ‘This was a girl who thought that matching bra and knickers were important,’ Newson observed.

  ‘I think most girls do,’ Sergeant Wilkie replied. ‘It’s just harder for some of us to keep up standards.’

  Newson wasn’t sure Natasha was right about this. Shirley, his ex, certainly hadn’t been concerned with such matters. But even in the midst of the horror that should have been consuming him, Newson could not help but grasp greedily this tantalizing snippet of personal information that Natasha had revealed.

  In the sitting room all was in perfect order. Books and objets d’art were scattered about on the polished surfaces, giving an impression of exquisitely managed disorder. Two vast white sofas stood on either side of a low, carved-mahogany coffee table, upholstered with big, luxurious, down-stuffed cushions, the type that need regular plumping by a maid. On each sofa was an indentation that had yet to be replumped. It seemed reasonable to assume that Farrah Porter and her killer had sat here, facing each other.

  On the mahogany table stood a half-full bottle of white wine. Two glasses had been poured, but only one remained; the other had been wrapped in newspaper and crushed heavily underfoot, a simple and effective method of dispensing with fingerprints. The killer had left the crumpled paper filled with tiny shards on the table.

  ‘He’s getting cheeky,’ Newson remarked. ‘Wants us to know just how easy we are to beat.’

  ‘I knew the minute I saw her that you’d stick this in with the others,’ said Natasha.

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so, but, God, I wish we could find some proof.’

  ‘I think that perhaps he’s getting frustrated too,’ Newson mused, leaning over the table to inspect the other wineglass, beside which stood a small bottle, its screw top lying next to it. He hovered over the bottle and sniffed. ‘No scent, but I think we’ll find this is Rohypnol,’ he said.

  ‘You think he raped her?’

  ‘Dr Clarke will check that out, but I doubt it. Rohypnol’s good for more than date rape — it’s a lot easier to restrain a person in preparation for torture if they’re unconscious.’

  Having checked that the table had been photographed, Newson put on a pair of plastic gloves and carefully replaced the lid on the little bottle. He then lifted it by the neck with a pair of tweezers and put it in a plastic Ziplock bag.

  ‘Better check, although I imagine we can dust that bottle till it’s worn away and it won’t reveal any prints. Our man wants us to know how easy it is to kill and that we can do absolutely nothing about it.’

  ‘Ed, there’s no he yet,’ Natasha remonstrated. ‘We still have absolutely no proof whatsoever that the murders you’ve connected in your mind are connected in reality. We have five deaths. Don’t you think it’s strange that we’ve found no specific links?’

  ‘They’re connected, Natasha. The link is simply eluding us. Just look at what we have here: another effortless stalking followed by a grotesquely specific manner of death.’

  ‘You don’t know how this woman died yet.’

  ‘My guess is that he made her drink the acid.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘He manages to make every form of torture fatal. It’s not always easy, but he puts in the effort. It’s obviously important to him that how they suffer is also how they die. In Willesden he was forced to use an anticoagulant to make the spiking fatal. In Manchester the clothbound books killed a fit young soldier after what must have been many hours of effort. Angie Tatum died contemplating the effects of her torment, as did Neil Bradshaw, although I don’t know whether it was the starvation or the fact that he was forced to stare up the skirt he had been made to wear that was the significant feature in the killer’s mind. Now we have Farrah Porter turned from a tanned blonde into a pasty redhead by means of dye and bleaching acid. The killer wanted her dead but he couldn’t simply slit her throat because slit throats weren’t part of the punishment required. It has to be connected. Hence my guess that he finished her off with some of the bleach that destroyed her skin.’

  ‘It always sounds reasonable enough when you explain it, but all this is still just conjecture.’

  ‘Of course it is. That’s all this killer leaves us with. Conjecture.’

  They Went into the bedroom. The large, expensive bed with its crisp, pink cotton sheets appeared to be untouched. The pillows were plumped and the covers had been smoothed by an expert at the job. Newson inserted a pencil into the drawer handle of the bedside cabinet and pulled it open. Inside were a packet of condoms and a vibrator.

  ‘Very superior rabbit,’ Sergeant Wilkie observed. ‘You wouldn’t find that in an Ann Summers shop.’

  Once more Newson was unable to prevent himself from grabbing at this observation and storing it away in his mind for later. Another personal nugget to be savoured. She was familiar with vibrators. Did that mean she had one? He couldn’t help finding that thought thrilling.

  ‘These condoms are French,’ Natasha added. ‘Very exotic. Ribbed, assorted colours. She was one in-control lady.’

  ‘Not in her last hours, she wasn’t. Somehow this highly intelligent, super-tough politician was persuaded to give up all control.’

  ‘The bastard drugged her.’

  ‘But her guard was down, she let him in. Why? Who was he? Why do they always let him in?’

  It felt strange to Newson, as it always did, to be party to the most private parts of a total stranger’s life. Just a day before, Farrah Porter alone had known the contents of the drawer in her bedside cabinet. If she shared that knowledge with anyone it was at her discretion. Now two people she’d never even heard of were peering into it as if it was their own. Newson always felt uncomfortable with this. It left the victim with nothing. The murderer had taken the life, and the police then laid immediate claim to anything that was left.

  He found himself thinking of Dr Haynes, the Manchester pathologist who attended victims’ funerals. Then he thought of Warrant Officer Spencer with scarcely a soul to mourn him save his parents, his pathologist and some irreverent squaddie playing the Last Post on a kazoo.

  They returned to the bathroom, where the initial onsite investigation had been completed and Dr Clarke was preparing to remove the body. Newson glanced around the spacious room. Farrah Porter had lived in luxury. The large double-basin unit had gold taps and the surrounding console was loaded with carefully arranged lines of expensive-looking bottles.

  ‘Apart from around the bath very little has been disturbed,’ Newson observed. ‘She didn’t struggle at all.’

  ‘She may have been bound,’ Dr Clarke replied, ‘but the skin has been so damaged by t
he acid I won’t be able to tell for sure without a microscope. You saw the bottle on the coffee table. Rohypnol, I should think. My guess is that she woke up in the bath and then the torture began.

  ‘She was conscious for that?’

  ‘I think probably so. She seems to have thrashed her head about quite a bit.’

  The floor at the head of the bath was surrounded by towels, all of which had been damaged by the acid.

  ‘Why didn’t she thrash about more?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he held her down with a broom or something.’

  Newson glanced around the bathroom. He inspected the toilet with its thick polished-wood seat. Next to it was the bidet, which had more gold taps. Thick white towels hung from shiny heated chrome rails, and spotless mirrors gleamed within Italian mosaics.

  ‘Whoever did this had tremendous nerves and the steadiest of hands. He’s scarcely disturbed anything at all.’

  ‘Perhaps he put it all back afterwards.’

  ‘Either way, pretty cool.’

  Newson opened the glass door of the shower cubicle, a luxury installation with both overhead and side-mounted faucets. All gold, all polished since the last time they were used, not a single dried watermark to be seen. A shelf held bottles of shampoos and conditioners and a soap dish, containing a brand-new bar of soap, a shell-shaped cake of perfect, pristine, untouched soap — except not quite perfect, because on it Newson discovered a pubic hair. Taking a small eyepiece from his pocket and looking more closely, he could see that someone had deliberately stuck this hair to the brand-new bar of soap.

  The hair was orange.

  Had the killer plucked it from his victim and planted it on the soap in the shower? It seemed the only explanation. If so, was this just another bizarre aspect of the murderer’s ritualistic needs, or had the killer left it as some sort of message to the police? Was he trying to tell them something? Newson was a ginger. Was the killer trying to tell Newson something?

  Behind him Dr Clarke had been supervising the police team’s lifting of the body from the bath. When she spoke Newson noted emotion in her usually professional tones.

  ‘Inspector Newson,’ she said. ‘I think I may be able to tell you why the woman did not thrash about in her bath, why only her head created a disturbance.’

  Newson guessed what was coming. He knew about bodies on which only the head could move.

  ‘I can’t say for sure, but by the way this cadaver lifts I think the spine is broken.’

  ‘Fuck.’ Sergeant Wilkie had joined them in the bathroom.

  Dr Clarke ignored the interruption. ‘He wanted her conscious,’ she continued, ‘but he didn’t want a struggle.’

  ‘You’re speculating, Doctor,’ Newson reminded her. He had not seen Dr Clarke so visibly upset at a crime scene before, and it made him uncomfortable.

  ‘It’s not speculation, Inspector,’ she continued. ‘It’s common bloody sense. I know a broken back when I see one. This…this animal…wanted a nice still body to soak up the acid. So he drugged her with Rohypnol and while she was unconscious he paralysed her.’

  The room was silent for a few moments. Eventually Sergeant Wilkie spoke. ‘I’ve found her appointments diary.’

  She led Newson back into the sitting room, past the sofas to an antique dresser, which Porter had used as a bar. It was piled with bottles of single malt whiskies, ancient Cognacs and exotic liqueurs. In front of these lay an appointments diary, a beautiful one, of course, like everything else in Farrah Porter’s life, with the exception of its end. The book was leather-bound, padded and richly embossed with the initials FP. Each page covered a single day, with all the very important appointments of a very important political life listed in Porter’s confident scrawl: hair…make-up…television.., radio…photo shoot…more hair…more make-up…more TV.

  Except that the day of the murder was missing.

  ‘He tore it out,’ said Wilkie. ‘Well, very carefully cut it out, in fact.’

  Using the covered end of a pen Newson turned the pages and sure enough on close inspection he could just see the severed edge of a page nestling deep in the binding of the book.

  ‘I never saw a man so neat,’ Newson murmured.

  ‘His name must have been on that page,’ Wilkie observed.

  ‘Or perhaps a number, an observation, something that might have identified him,’ Newson replied. ‘So he made an appointment with her. She noted it in her diary and let him into her home. She either knew him or else he was able to produce a convincing reason for her to see him. Just like the others.’

  Sergeant Wilkie stared at the diary. ‘She made a date in her diary for her own death.’

  THIRTEEN

  She was there! Christine Copperfield was there! In the twenty-four hours since Newson had last looked, the Shalford Grammar School class of ‘88 virtual reunion had been increased by one. The most golden one of. all. Christine had added her name to the list. Newson had not really expected this. He’d scarcely dared hope that someone as wonderful as Christine Copperfield, someone as cool, confident and popular as the class Girl Most Likely had not got better things to do with her fabulous, exciting, fulfilling life than log on to Friends Reunited. But she had. And what was more (Newson’s hand trembled on his mouse), there was a little ‘I’ icon beside her name. She had left information. Newson had only to click on it to hear the authentic voice of the best-looking girl in school, the girl he had once got off with. Not wanting the moment to end, he waited a whole minute before clicking on the icon.

  Yay gang! I’m here! Yeah! I’ve been watching you guys for weeks, thinking about making myself known and when I saw that you’d joined up Ed well I had to get involved. How ARE you guys! Yes ifs Christine here. Christine Copperfield, yeah that’s right DAVE! I’m STILL laughing at that one twenty years on. So what’s been HAPPENING to you all??? I’m fine, I love my life. YAY! You remember I wanted to be in the media? Of course you do, I never SHUT UP about it Well guess what? I nearly made it, and I will yet! Yeah, I’m in PR which is the next best thing and TERRIBLY glamorous DAAAARLING! Who would have thought when I headed up the Christmas Disco Committees three years straight I’d end up coordinating VIP guests for way cool events like THE MOTOR SHOW at EARLS COURT! How cool is that! I love it and I get to travel loads, mainly in Britain but sometimes abroad. We recently did a corporate function on the Observation Deck of the QM2 which was soooo fabulous, it was only docked at Southampton but it sure as hell beat SHALFORD SCHOOL HALL! Ha! Yay! So. What else? Well I’m NOT married and I DON’T have kids (YET!!!!). There’s been some significant others of course but sadly not the ONE. Hey, I can’t help it I’m choosy. Well I guess some of you boys remember THAT. Any old way, better go, lots to do. I’ll keep looking at the site. Who knows, maybe I’ll organize a reunion! Just don’t expect the QM2!!! Byeeeeee!

  Newson pondered this missive for some time. Part of him felt disappointed. Christine had lived in his memory for twenty years as the personification of cool; beautiful, confident and effortlessly superior. A girl who stood casually at the apex of the prestige pyramid without appearing to try at all. Yet there was no denying that this long-awaited update on the progress of her golden life was not very cool at all.

  Viewed dispassionately, it was not the letter of a confident, effortlessly superior person. Newson knew that were Sergeant Wilkie to read it she would instantly dismiss his old flame as a prat. But then Sergeant Wilkie was going out with Lance, so what did she know?

  After all, why shouldn’t Christine want her old classmates to know how happy she was, how well she was doing? And she had mentioned him specifically. His had been the only name she’d picked out from that long-dispersed group of classmates. In fact, she’d only left her profile at all because he’d done so before her. Newson felt once again the ancient stirring. Christine Copperfield had picked him out just as she had done at the Christmas disco in 1984. Was this the cyber version of that moment when she had asked him to dance? Was he to get lucky a
gain? It seemed too much to hope for, and yet she had picked him out.

  As he stared at Christine’s name on the screen with its ‘I’ for information, a second icon popped up beside it. She had added a photograph to her profile! She was doing it at that very moment! Eagerly he double-clicked on the icon and moments later Christine was smiling back at him. She was gorgeous. The same big, wide smile that had broken so many juvenile hearts. The clear blue eyes, long blond hair and tan were there too, but now they decorated a sophisticated woman instead of a girl. She was pictured at some kind of promotional party, standing in front of a board that said ‘Gotex Aviation Fuel’. She held a champagne flute and wore a short black cocktail dress, and her legs were the same as ever! Slim and athletic, although if Newson had been honest he might have conceded that they had perhaps become a little bony over the years. Her cleavage was magnificent. The dress was clearly designed with big tits in mind, and it flattered Christine’s beautifully. Newson did wonder about the tits, which appeared to have undergone some kind of late growing spurt. On the other hand, he didn’t wish to jump to conclusions. Natasha had once told him that a good push-up bra could turn lemons to melons without the aid of the knife. All in all, Christine looked lovelier than ever. Cool, confident, stunning. A major player in the glamorous world of PR The guys at the Police Club would certainly be surprised to hear that a girl like her had left a message in cyberspace for a man like Newson. Not that he would ever tell them, of course.

  He looked at his watch; he’d have to hurry. He was due to meet Helen Smart at the Pitcher and Piano on Dean Street. He changed hurriedly and set off for the tube station. He’d been looking forward to the meeting with some pleasure, but he couldn’t deny that now Christine Copperfield had re-entered the scene an evening with a thirty-five-year-old Helen Smart did not seem quite so exciting.

  The Pitcher and Piano was a classic example of the new style of city pub, and Newson’s heart sank the moment he entered. The guts had been torn out of whatever the building had been in its previous life and been replaced with a vast, soulless steel-and-plastic torture chamber in which hundreds and hundreds of people in their early twenties drank and shouted. They had to shout because they couldn’t hear themselves speak, let alone anyone else, there not being a single soft or absorbent surface in the place, only steel, glass and more steel. It was like trying to hold a conversation inside an enormous bucket. Music blared on top of this. No one was listening to it, no one could hear it and yet on it played.