by Lisa Hartley
‘What can you tell me, doctor? How did she die?’ Dolan asked.
Jo Webber sighed. ‘Come on, Chief Inspector. I can’t be certain, not until I’ve examined her properly.’
‘Off the record? I’m not seeing obvious injuries.’
‘Don’t quote me yet, but I’m fairly sure she was suffocated.’
Dolan frowned. ‘It couldn’t be an overdose? I notice her left sleeve is rolled up.’
‘Like John McKinley? Yes, she, or someone else, injected something into her arm soon before her death, for sure. No attempt to disguise it. Maybe we were meant to believe it’s what killed her.’
Dolan leant forward, peering at the body again.
‘But it didn’t?’
‘I doubt it. A drug overdose wouldn’t cause bruising around her mouth and nose.’
‘Bruising?’ Dolan had missed it, much to her annoyance. Webber moved close to Jasmine’s body, indicating with a gloved fingertip the marking she was referring to.
‘As I see it, someone held his hand over her mouth and nose until she stopped breathing.’ Webber’s voice was flat, emotionless. Dolan knew Webber was detaching herself from the reality of the situation. It was the only way to cope with the horrors they saw. ‘I’m guessing he waited until the drug had kicked in, and she was nice and relaxed, barely conscious. He sat behind her, put his hand over her face, and waited.’
‘Jesus.’ Dolan was shaken.
‘I know it’s brutal. Also, the position of her body …’ Webber pointed. ‘The way her legs are curled under her, it’s not a natural way to sit. He may have tried to lift her or move her, struggled, and dropped her.’
Dolan was silent for a moment, considering it. She stepped closer to the barrier, looked over the edge. Far below was a small concreted area where a few industrial dustbins languished.
‘Perhaps he was planning to throw her over,’ she suggested. ‘Falling from this height would do some serious damage to a body, wouldn’t it?’
Webber shuddered. ‘I’ll say.’
‘What better way to hide the evidence, if he did smother her?’
‘We’d still have known,’ Webber said, indicating Jasmine’s body. ‘Even before the post-mortem, the signs are there. Petechiae, the blueish tinge to her face, the bruising around her mouth …’
‘Yeah, but it wouldn’t have been as obvious, would it? Not if she fell head first.’ Dolan too was switching off her emotions as she spoke. No point feeling sorry for Jasmine now, no point worrying about appearing cold. They needed to find the person who did this, and quickly. Anyone who could sit calmly while preventing someone from breathing, waiting for their victim to die in their arms, was not a person she wanted out on the streets for long.
38
Lying on her side, her eyes open, Catherine Bishop knew she wasn’t going to sleep. In the bed a few feet away, she knew Ghislaine was still awake too.
‘Are you okay?’ she said into the darkness. Ghislaine shuffled.
‘Worried about Jasmine,’ she replied. ‘She usually lets me know if she’s not staying here.’
‘Where could she be?’
Ghislaine sighed. ‘With her druggy mates.’
Catherine wasn’t sure how to respond, and there was silence, broken by a knock on the door. Ghislaine turned on the light.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, ladies, but you need to get out of bed,’ one of the night support workers told them. ‘The police are here.’
*
Catherine watched Ghislaine’s face crumple as she struggled to process the news of her friend’s death. Stricken herself, she slid her arm around Ghislaine’s shoulders as the younger woman sobbed into her hands. Having broken the news quietly, sensitively, Rafferty stood silent by the window in the shelter’s common room. Zaman had disappeared to make cups of tea. Despite her long-sleeved T-shirt, jogging bottoms and thick woollen socks, Catherine found she was shivering.
Zaman returned, squatting in front of Ghislaine, holding out a mug. ‘Here, Miss Oliver. Drink this.’ His voice was gentle, and Catherine gave him a grateful glance. Ghislaine lifted her face and took the cup, her eyes already red and swollen.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I know you need to talk to me.’
Rafferty moved closer, pulled out a wooden chair from under the dining table and sat. ‘Miss Oliver, we understand you’re upset.’ Catherine looked at Rafferty, narrowing her eyes, silently asking her to continue to be considerate of Ghislaine’s feelings. Rafferty focused on Ghislaine. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you questions when you’ve heard such awful news about your friend, but if we’re going to find the person who did this to her, we need to move quickly.’
Ghislaine sniffed, wiped her eyes and nose on a wad of paper towel Zaman had retrieved from the kitchen. ‘I understand. I want to help, if I can.’
‘Thank you. I’ve explained where Jasmine’s body was found.’
Catherine heard Ghislaine gulp at Rafferty’s words, and wished the interview could wait, but knew their questions had to be asked. Rafferty had glanced in Catherine’s direction several times, but now Catherine avoided eye contact. She didn’t want Rafferty’s sympathy.
Rafferty was speaking to Ghislaine again. ‘Do you have any idea why she would have been in the car park? Especially on the highest level?’
‘No. Obviously, she doesn’t have a car. I don’t even know if she can drive. It makes no sense. Unless …’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m not sure, but … I know in the past, when she was desperate, Jas worked as an escort. I mean, I don’t know how far it went, but …’
‘Might she have gone there with a client?’
Ghislaine glared at Rafferty, colour rising in her cheeks. ‘She wasn’t a prostitute.’
Rafferty held up her hands. ‘I know, I’m sorry. We’re struggling to understand what Jasmine was doing in the car park.’
‘What about her mobile phone records?’ Catherine asked without thinking.
Rafferty frowned a warning at her, and, embarrassed, Catherine dropped her gaze to the carpet. Now was not the time to ruin her cover. More than ever, she needed to remember who she was supposed to be.
‘You might be able to tell if she’d arranged to meet someone. I’ve seen on TV you can …’ Catherine allowed her voice to trail away.
‘It’s in hand.’ Rafferty was curt.
There was a pause.
‘I’m trying to remember the names of people Jas mentioned,’ Ghislaine told them.
‘You’re doing well, Miss Oliver,’ Zaman said. ‘We know how difficult this is.’
Attempting a smile, Ghislaine sipped her tea.
‘When did you last see her?’ Rafferty tried again.
Ghislaine explained they had eaten at the soup kitchen together at lunchtime, but Jasmine had wanted to leave quickly when Rafferty and Zaman had arrived. ‘I followed her yesterday though,’ she said suddenly.
Catherine frowned. She had tried to follow too, but had lost them before being rescued by Knight. She was nauseous, knowing she had failed. The question was, had her incompetence cost Jasmine her life?
‘You followed her?’ Rafferty sat forward. ‘Why?’
Immediately, Ghislaine was defensive. ‘She was acting weirdly, and I was worried she’d gone back to drugs. She was on smack before, and I … Well, I was worried, like I said.’
‘Where did she go?’ Zaman asked.
Ghislaine gave the address – twenty-four Merry Road. Immediately, Zaman got to his feet.
‘Need to make a phone call.’
Catherine knew he would be ringing Dolan to tell her what Jasmine had revealed.
‘Is the address important?’ Ghislaine asked.
‘It could be. We need to check it out,’ Rafferty said.
Frustrated at being in the dark about the significance of the address, Catherine raised her eyebrows at Rafferty, who ignored her. Catherine resolved to have a private word with her and Zaman before they left. She needed
to know what they had discovered.
‘Do you have any idea what Jasmine might have been doing at the house in Merry Road?’ Rafferty asked.
‘Buying drugs.’ The reply was immediate.
‘You sound certain.’
Ghislaine squirmed. ‘Why else would she have gone there? I know what withdrawal looks like.’
‘Which suggests Jasmine was using heroin regularly?’
‘Maybe.’ Ghislaine wiped her eyes. ‘Like I said, I was worried. She denied it, but they always do.’
‘Was Jasmine afraid of anyone? Any threats, violence against her?’
‘In her past, maybe. She’d been abused in some way, I’m guessing sexually. She didn’t talk about her early childhood. Jas was thrown out of home when she was sixteen. Her mum got a new boyfriend, and he said he didn’t like Jasmine’s “sort.”’
Rafferty was bemused. ‘Her sort?’
‘He didn’t like the colour of her skin. Didn’t want her in the house, reminding him of her black dad, he said.’
‘He meant the house Jasmine had grown up in?’ Rafferty asked.
‘Yeah. The one she and her mum paid for. Told Jasmine’s mum to sling her out, and she did. Her own daughter.’ Ghislaine shook her head.
‘And her mum went along with that?’ Catherine was sickened.
‘She’d always thought more of her boyfriends than her kids, from what Jas said.’
Rafferty said nothing, but made a note. ‘We’ll need to contact Jasmine’s mum anyway, as next of kin. Don’t suppose you have an address?’
‘No. Jas hadn’t even spoken to her for a few years. Why would you?’
Zaman returned to the room and sat. When Rafferty looked at him, he gestured with his head, nodding to one side to indicate they needed to leave.
‘Catherine, I need a quick word with you too. Can we go into the bedroom?’ Rafferty asked.
When the door closed behind them, Catherine demanded, ‘Where did Jasmine go? You obviously recognised the address.’
Rafferty strode over to the window again, gazing into the street. Catherine was willing to bet she used it as way of distancing herself from her witnesses and colleagues. Using the space between them as a physical barrier.
Rafferty ignored her question. ‘You realise you could be in danger? Jasmine’s murder means you need to be even more careful about your safety than you have already.’
‘Will you tell me whose house it is?’ Catherine was increasingly frustrated. If they were concerned about her safety, why wasn’t she on her way home?
Turning back, Rafferty ran her hands over her face. ‘We were going to speak to Jasmine. If we’d gone to her first instead of Lee Collinson, if she’d had a chance to tell us where she’d been, even if Ghislaine had … We were too late.’
Uncomfortably, Catherine studied her shoes. If Rafferty had been someone else, someone more approachable, she would have put a hand on her arm, even hugged her close as she had Ghislaine. However, she knew Rafferty would not welcome an attempt to comfort her. Catherine bit back another demand to know who lived at the address Jasmine had visited. If Rafferty didn’t share the information soon, she would phone Dolan herself. How could Catherine keep herself safe, Ghislaine too, if they didn’t know where the danger lay? Rafferty’s face was grey, the shadows beneath her eyes darker than they had been the previous evening. Was Rafferty experiencing guilt because she believed she and Zaman could have prevented Jasmine’s death if they had spoken to her sooner? Catherine was in no position to be sure the assumption was true, but she did understand the corrosive nature of guilt. It could destroy from the inside, worrying at your mind until you submitted. Catherine should know, she’d spent enough time living with it over the past months, both professionally and in her personal life. Thomas was experiencing guilt because he was fine and Anna was not, and Knight … Catherine didn’t know. Did Jonathan Knight lie awake at night, remembering his actions and regretting them? Wishing he had taken a different turn, trodden a different path? It was impossible to guess.
Rafferty turned her engagement ring around on her finger.
‘You can’t blame yourself,’ Catherine told her. ‘Whatever’s happened, it’s not your fault. DCI Dolan makes the decisions.’
Rafferty’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re saying it’s Mary’s fault Jasmine’s dead?’
Catherine took a step back. ‘It’s no one’s fault except the person who killed her. We’re sure she was murdered?’
Rafferty explained how Jasmine had died. Catherine listened, horrified. ‘He sat there holding her, preventing her from breathing?’
‘The post-mortem’s not until early tomorrow morning, but Dr Webber told Mary she’s confident her findings will prove her theory.’
‘Not like Jo to comment before the PM.’
‘I think she was rattled.’
‘Not surprised.’ Catherine took a second to erase the images her imagination was producing of Jasmine’s last moments from her brain. What thoughts had hammered around her head? Perhaps none. Maybe there had been nothing more than a growing darkness. The heroin may have shielded her, cradling her as her life was extinguished. Catherine found it hard to believe, but it was a crumb of comfort. ‘It’s a shit-awful way to die. She didn’t deserve it.’
‘Who does?’ Rafferty was brisk again. The moment of vulnerability, fleeting though it had been, was over.
‘Are you going to tell me who lives on Merry Road?’ Catherine folded her arms at Rafferty’s tone. If she wanted to be dismissive, let her. If she wanted to build a wall around herself, to be unpleasant and snappish, fine. Catherine had no patience with her.
Rafferty glanced at her watch. ‘Stay here, Catherine. We’ll be in touch in the morning.’
‘Can’t I come back with you? I want to help find who did this,’ Catherine heard herself plead. She wasn’t going to beg, not to Rafferty, but she wanted them to know how she felt. Sidelined, shunted out of the way. Where was Jonathan Knight? Why should he be involved when Catherine wasn’t?
Rafferty shook her head. ‘Mary said we still need you here. Adil and I need to get back. DCI Dolan’s organising a search warrant.’
Catherine smothered a scream. ‘A search warrant for where?’
‘The property on Merry Road.’ Rafferty said it as if surprised Catherine hadn’t guessed, as if it were obvious. ‘Danny Marshall’s house.’
39
Pat Kemp’s phone was ringing, but he wasn’t answering. Dolan cursed, slamming her own mobile onto the desk as Kemp’s voicemail kicked in yet again. It was after eleven pm, and she shouldn’t be calling at all, but she believed Kemp knew much more than he had shared with Rafferty and Zaman. She was irritated her two junior officers hadn’t returned with more information, but she knew during an investigation you often needed to know the right question to ask. Returning to witnesses and suspects and questioning them again was a necessary, if frustrating and time-consuming aspect of the job.
‘Kemp’s no doubt in bed.’ Jonathan Knight was in the chair beside hers, his legs crossed, his hands folded loosely in his lap. Dolan rounded on him.
‘I know it’s late, but we need to speak to him. He could be key to this whole case.’
‘Try him again in the morning. He won’t go anywhere tonight.’
‘We hope.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, John McKinley’s dead. If Kemp knows about whatever McKinley was involved in, he could be at risk too, especially since we’ve been sniffing around. Maybe we should go out to his address anyway, to be sure.’
‘Knock on his door to check he’s okay before battering him with questions, you mean?’
Dolan pulled a bottle of water from her bag, unscrewed the cap and drank. ‘No. I’m not intending to speak to him, I want to make sure there are signs of life at the house. Look, I’m sorry I dragged you back here tonight. Dr Webber had to come, but you didn’t.’
‘It’s not a problem. Jo’s going to perform the post-mortem
first thing?’
‘Yes.’ Dolan rubbed her eyes, the image of Jasmine’s slumped body vivid in her mind. Though she knew from spending only a few minutes in Jo Webber’s company that she would be as gentle and respectful as possible in her work, the indignities inflicted on a body during post-mortem were unavoidable, however sensitive the pathologist. ‘Jasmine’s death changes everything.’ She would find him, this man who had casually, callously, ended Jasmine’s life, and she would make sure he was punished. ‘Jasmine knew something, she must have. She might have injected herself with the heroin, though no syringe or tourniquet was found this time. He wanted us to think McKinley’s death was an accidental overdose, but since he made sure Jasmine was dead by smothering her, it didn’t matter if he took the drug paraphernalia away with him. He knew we’d soon see she didn’t die accidentally.’
‘You’re certain her death is linked to the John McKinley case?’
‘Too much of a stretch to otherwise.’ Dolan looked at him. Knight smiled, rubbing a hand over his chin. ‘You don’t agree?’
‘It’s worth keeping an open mind,’ Knight said. ‘We still don’t know who attacked Anna.’
‘Jasmine had met McKinley, but didn’t know Anna. Both Jasmine and McKinley were injected with heroin, had both spent time at Phoenix House. Danny Marshall had spoken to them during his work. We need to have a poke around his house.’ Dolan wriggled in her seat. ‘No chance of our search warrant until the morning either. He could dispose of anything incriminating in the meantime.’
‘You mean you don’t have someone watching him?’ Knight grinned. Dolan tapped her nose.
‘No comment.’
‘Jasmine was out on the street every day. Who’s to say she didn’t have information about who attacked Anna?’
Dolan scrubbed her hands over her eyes. ‘She might have. She might have information about all sorts of people, all sorts of crimes. Until we speak to Pat Kemp and get into Danny Marshall’s property, we’re guessing, as we have been for nearly a week.’