‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ she whispered.
Tommy Reid dropped Nick Wright at the door to Battersea police station and went looking for a parking space. Wright waited until the grey-haired duty sergeant had finished taking details of a stolen bicycle from a young girl before showing his ID and asking to see Annie Lees.
The sergeant’s face creased into a grin. ‘What, has she been fare-dodging now, then?’ he asked.
Wright smiled coldly. ‘She’s a witness in a murder investigation,’ he said.
The sergeant’s grin vanished. ‘I know that, son. I was just pulling your leg.’
The door opened behind Wright and Reid joined him at the counter. From somewhere he’d managed to buy a portion of fish and chips. ‘Hello, Reg,’ said Reid, shoving a chip into his mouth.
‘Bloody hell, Tommy Reid,’ said the sergeant. ‘What’ve you been doing with yourself?’
Reid offered his fish and chips and the sergeant helped himself to a handful of chips. Reid gestured at the fish and the sergeant broke off a piece. ‘Same old rubbish,’ said Reid. ‘I thought you’d retired.’
‘Next year. You on this murder enquiry?’
Reid pushed a chunk of fried cod into his mouth and nodded.
‘I’ll let you in,’ said the sergeant. He disappeared from behind the counter and unlocked a side door. Reid and Wright went inside. ‘Second interview room on the right,’ said the sergeant.
Annie Lees was sitting at a table, her hands cupped around a mug of weak tea. She looked up as the two detectives walked into the room. ‘Where are my things?’ she snapped.
Wright stopped in his tracks. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘My things. They said I could have my things.’ She scrutinised Reid with wary eyes. ‘What’s that you’re eating?’
‘Fish and chips. Want some?’ Reid put what was left of his meal on the table and wiped his hands on his coat.
The old woman picked up a chip between her first finger and thumb and inspected it closely before taking a bite.
‘Annie, did you see anyone near the tunnel?’ asked Wright.
The old woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘What tunnel?’
Wright sat down opposite her. ‘The tunnel where you found the body.’
She averted her eyes and concentrated on selecting the best chips. She ate several more before speaking. ‘I’ve already told that other detective everything.’
‘Other detective? What other detective?’
‘Gerry. He’s such a nice young man, isn’t he?’
‘Gerry Hunter?’
‘Inspector Gerry Hunter,’ she said, stressing the title. ‘He’s very young to be an inspector, isn’t he? Are you an inspector?’
Wright’s jaw tensed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not an inspector.’
Dean Burrow was bored out of his skull, but the three women sitting opposite him would never have known. Burrow had smiled his way through more than a decade of television interviews, rubber chicken dinners and factory openings. He’d perfected the technique with the aid of a style coach, the same woman who’d shown him how to walk with authority, how to shake hands sincerely, how to show concern and sympathy when the occasion warranted. He smiled and from time to time he nodded to show that he agreed with them, giving them all equal eye contact so that none of them would feel slighted. They’d wanted to talk to him about abortion, a subject close to Burrow’s heart, and they represented a group of more than five hundred churchgoing middle-aged women from Burrow’s home state. Five hundred votes was worth twenty minutes of anybody’s time.
Burrow had been consistent on his views on abortion. In public he was against it; in private he thought it was a necessary evil: his own wife had had an abortion soon after they’d married, and his former secretary had been persuaded to have one three years ago. Both women had agreed to the abortions for financial reasons – his wife because they were struggling to meet the payments on their first house; his secretary because he’d paid her fifty thousand dollars. She wasn’t his secretary any more; she’d opened her own beauty salon in Cleveland and Burrow remained convinced that she’d deliberately become pregnant in the first place. Burrow wondered what his three visitors would do if they discovered that their pro-life senator was responsible for two aborted fetuses.
The woman who’d been doing most of the talking, a stick-thin black woman with swept-back hair and tortoiseshell spectacles, stopped speaking and looked at him expectantly.
Burrow nodded urbanely. ‘I couldn’t agree with you more, Mrs Vine,’ he said, even though he hadn’t been listening. ‘You can rest assured that we are of one mind on this issue.’ He stood up and adjusted the sleeves of his jacket. ‘It’s been a pleasure, ladies. I want to thank you all for the time and trouble you’ve taken to come and see me.’
The three women stood up and he shook them by the hand. His handshake was as practised as his smile, strong enough to show strength of character and determination, but not too overpowering. He escorted them to the door and opened it, giving each of the women a warm smile as they left.
Kristine Ross was standing in the outer office, holding a manila envelope. Burrow gave her a genuine smile and looked her up and down. With her long tanned legs, full figure and shoulder-length blonde hair, Kristine could have worked as a catwalk model. Not that Burrow would ever do anything more than look – he’d learned his lesson the hard way and he didn’t want to throw away another fifty thousand dollars. She looked worried.
‘Something wrong, Kristine?’ he asked.
She gestured with the UPS package. ‘Can I have a word with you, Senator?’
‘Of course,’ he said, ushering her into his office. He watched her walk over to his desk. She had a sexy, sensual walk, slow and easy as if she knew that men liked to watch her move. Burrow made sure that his gaze was levelled at her face when she turned to face him.
‘This came in the morning mail,’ she said as Burrow went back behind his side of the large oak desk. ‘It was addressed private and confidential, but office policy is to—-’
‘I know, I know,’ he said brusquely, adjusting his cuffs. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘It’s a photograph.’
‘So?’ Burrow was starting to find the secretary’s reticence annoying. She gave him the envelope, a look of disgust on her face, then looked away as he opened the envelope and took out a Polaroid photograph. Burrow grimaced. It was a human figure, spreadeagled, dripping with glistening blood, the flesh made ghostly pale by the camera flash. ‘Why would anyone . . . ?’ he began, then he noticed something impaled in the chest. He held the photograph closer to his face and squinted.
‘I wasn’t sure whether I should give it to the Secret Service or—-’
‘How was it delivered?’ interrupted Burrow.
‘UPS. From London, England.’
Burrow clicked his fingers impatiently. ‘Get me the pack it came in. You’ve still got it, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’ She backed away from him and then walked quickly out of the office. For the first time ever, Burrow didn’t watch her go. He continued to stare at the photograph. His heart was racing and his palms were damp with sweat.
Kristine returned with the UPS pack, and Burrow practically ripped it from her hands. He scanned the label. ‘Max Eckhardt,’ he whispered.
‘I couldn’t find his name on the computer,’ said Kristine. ‘That’s why I opened it. I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?’
Burrow put the UPS pack down on the desk and leaned back in his chair. He smiled as if he didn’t have a care in the world. ‘Probably a crank,’ said Burrow. ‘Nothing to worry about, Kristine.’
‘Shall I give it to—-?’
‘No, it’s nothing. There wasn’t anything else in the envelope, was there? No note or anything?’
‘Just the photograph,’ said Kristine.
Burrow shrugged dismissively. ‘So it’s nothing.’
Kristine brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face. ‘You’
re sure?’ she asked.
Burrow crinkled his eyes slightly. It was his serious, sincere look. ‘Absolutely,’ he said.
Kristine looked as if she wanted to say something else, but she could tell from Burrow’s demeanour that the conversation was over. She left the office. This time Burrow watched her leave, but his eyes were cold and hard as if his mind was elsewhere. As soon as the door closed, he picked up the photograph again and stared at it.
Reid and Wright got nothing of value from the twenty minutes they spent with Annie Lees. The old lady was showing all the symptoms of Alzheimer’s disease and seemed unable to concentrate for more than a few minutes at a time. Several times during the interview she wasn’t even able to recall finding the body, and once she’d burst into tears. They left her with a uniformed policewoman and the remains of the fish and chips.
‘She needs to be in a home,’ said Wright as they closed the door to the interview room.
‘Care in the community,’ said Reid. ‘Part of the cutbacks.’
Wright shook his head sadly. ‘She needs looking after. Her family should be taking care of her.’
Reid snorted. ‘Come off it, Nick. Who’d take care of you if you went crazy? Do you think your ex-wife would put you in the spare room? What about your son? He’s what, seven? And even if he was older, kids don’t take care of their parents any more. Those days went out with the village bobby and free school milk. It’s every man for himself nowadays. Little old ladies like Annie Lees fall through the cracks and the cracks just get bigger and bigger.’
‘Yeah, well, isn’t that a cheery thought?’ said Wright.
Reid clapped Wright on the back. ‘Come on, old son, you’re never going to reach retirement age anyway.’
Wright shrugged him off. He didn’t feel like laughing.
They headed down the corridor towards the reception area. Gerry Hunter came out of an office, a large envelope in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. ‘Any joy?’ he asked.
Reid shook his head. ‘Nah. She thinks the world of you, though. Said she wanted to adopt you.’
‘What can I say? Must be my boyish charm.’ He gave the envelope to Reid. ‘Pathologist’s report. She didn’t know where to contact you.’
‘Tavistock Place,’ said Wright.
Hunter looked pained. ‘I know that, but she didn’t. She hasn’t dealt with BTP before, so she called us to attend the post mortem. It was straightforward, nothing out of the ordinary.’ He nodded his head towards the interview room. ‘Do you need Annie for anything else?’
‘No, we’re through with her,’ said Reid. He tapped Wright on the shoulder with the envelope. ‘Come on, Nick, let’s go.’
Hunter disappeared back into his office. Wright and Reid walked towards the door, but before they reached it, someone called out Wright’s name. It was Clive Edmunds, his tie loosened and the tail of his shirt flapping over his trousers. He waved a sheet of paper at Wright as he walked towards them.
‘Thought this might help with your investigation,’ he said, handing the paper to Wright. He walked quickly away and disappeared into a side office.
Wright scanned the sheet. Across the top, in typed capital letters, were the words ‘QUESTIONS TO ANSWER’. Underneath, in a single column, was a list of words. ‘Who? When? How? Why?’ Wright felt a surge of anger.
Reid read the list over Wright’s shoulder and snorted. ‘Ha bloody ha,’ he said.
Wright screwed the sheet of paper into a tight ball and threw it down the corridor. ‘I bet Hunter put him up to it,’ he said.
‘Nah, Edmunds is enough of a twat to have thought of it himself. Come on, forget about it. Do you want a drink?’
Wright shook his head and reached for the envelope. ‘You drink too much,’ he said.
‘Yeah, well, you snore but you don’t hear me complaining.’
The duty sergeant unlocked the door for them. ‘Where’s the nearest pub, Reg?’ asked Reid.
‘Bull’s Head,’ said the sergeant. ‘Left, then first right.’
The two detectives walked there. It was an old-fashioned public house with a smoke-stained plaster ceiling and a long wooden bar that had been varnished countless times and was now almost black. A shirtsleeved barman was pulling a rack of steaming glasses from a washing machine under the counter and nodded a greeting. ‘Be with you in a minute, gents,’ he said.
‘What do you want?’ asked Reid, leaning nonchalantly against the bar.
‘I want to go back to the office,’ said Wright, looking at his watch.
‘Don’t be a party-pooper, Nick. We’re allowed a lunch hour.’
Wright could see that it was pointless to argue and sighed in resignation. ‘Lager shandy,’ he said, then went over to an empty table and sat down. He read through the pathologist’s report until Reid came over with their drinks. Wright looked at Reid’s double vodka and tonic and shook his head admonishingly.
Reid pretended not to notice. ‘Wasn’t sure if you wanted ice or lemon. Or a cherry.’ He sat down, took a deep pull at his drink and smacked his lips as if deliberately trying to antagonise Wright. Wright looked down at the report again. ‘So what does the delightful Dr Littman say?’ Reid asked.
‘Sixty-three cuts, a dozen of which could have been the fatal one. Three different blades used.’
‘Three?’ repeated Reid incredulously.
‘He was dead when his dick was cut off.’
‘That’s a relief, then.’
‘And his vocal cords had been cut. Presumably so he couldn’t scream.’ Wright dropped the report down on top of the envelope. ‘Who the hell would torture a man in that way, Tommy?’
Reid shrugged and drained his glass. ‘Whoever it was, they went to a lot of trouble. Three knives. The nails. Something to bang them in with. Something to put the clothes in. And the playing card. Another?’
Wright looked up sharply. ‘What?’
‘Another drink?’ said Reid, tapping his empty glass. He stood up, grunting from the effort.
Wright refused the offer. He rested his head against the back of his seat while Reid ambled across the carpet to the bar.
Superintendent Richard Newton pushed the photographs with his index finger and grimaced. He’d seen more than his share of mutilated bodies during his twenty-year career, usually suicides who’d decided to end it all by throwing themselves in front of a train, but the injuries of the man in the tunnel were all the more horrific because of the way they’d been inflicted. This was no sudden death: the wounds had been inflicted one at a time, methodically, over a period of time. He shuddered.
The door to his office opened and his secretary showed in Tommy Reid and Nick Wright. Reid’s cheeks were red and the superintendent could smell his minty breath from across his desk as the two men sat down. ‘Well?’ said Newton. ‘What’s the state of play?’
‘White male, mid to late forties, multiple stab wounds and mutilations,’ said Reid. ‘That’s all we know.’
‘No identification on the body?’ asked Newton.
‘No, nothing,’ said Reid. ‘No clothes, no wallet, no jewellery.’
Newton slid one of the ten-by-twelves across the desk to Reid. ‘Is that what I think it is in his mouth?’ he asked disdainfully.
Reid nodded.
‘A warning?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And the playing card?’
Reid shrugged.
Newton nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s a messy one,’ he said.
‘I think it’s a serial killer,’ said Wright. It was the first time he’d spoken since entering the office.
Newton settled back in his chair and tapped his fingertips together as he studied Wright. Wright shifted uncomfortably under the superintendent’s gaze. ‘Why do you say that, Nick?’
Wright pointed at the glossy photographs. ‘It’s too . . .’ he struggled to find the right word ‘. . . formal.’ He frowned and ran a hand through his fringe.
‘Formal?’ said Newton. He raised his ey
ebrows archly.
‘Organised,’ said Wright hurriedly. ‘It’s too organised to be a gangland or a drugs killing. The way the body was nailed to the wall, it was as if someone was creating an image.’ Wright’s voice tailed off as he struggled to express himself.
‘But I’ve not heard of any similar killings,’ said the superintendent. ‘And that would be a prerequisite for a serial killer, wouldn’t it?’
The sarcasm didn’t appear to register with Wright. ‘It could be the start,’ he said.
‘It could,’ said Newton, unconvinced. ‘But at present we have a single killing. I think the time to start speculating about a mass murderer would be if and when there’s a second victim. Until then I suggest you treat it as a straightforward murder investigation.’ Newton tapped his fingertips on the desktop like a concert pianist warming up. ‘I’ve been considering letting the Met continue with the case,’ he mused.
Wright looked across at his partner for support. ‘We’ve already started the preliminary work.’
‘Nevertheless, the Met is geared up for murder investigations, and with the best will in the world—-’
‘We cracked the Everton case last spring.’
‘The guy was caught with the knife in his hand,’ said Newton patiently.
‘It was still murder.’
‘Manslaughter,’ corrected the superintendent.
‘Murder, manslaughter, what’s the difference? This is a BTP case, sir,’ said Wright. We can handle it.’
‘Whatever happens, it’s going to be a joint investigation,’ said Newton.
‘I understand that, sir, but it should be a BTP case first and foremost, with you as governor.’
‘Nice of you to be so keen to increase my workload, Nick.’ Newton kept his eyes on Wright as he gathered up the photographs. He stacked them neatly, then handed the pile to Wright. ‘Okay. Have it your way. Tell Ronnie I want to see him,’ Newton said eventually. ‘He’ll be liaison officer. Use the conference room in the basement as the incident room. I’ll draw up a rota of officers to be assigned to the case. I’ll arrange for temporary transfers and authorise the necessary overtime.’ He took a deep breath as if reconsidering his decision. ‘Ronnie can talk to the Met and have their officers sent over here, and I’ll have half a dozen uniforms assigned. Oh, and the press have been on asking for details. I’ve arranged a press conference for four o’clock. The two of you can handle it. Ronnie’s going to be too busy getting the incident room sorted out. Just give them the basics, and put out an appeal for witnesses. Don’t mention the playing card. Keep that in reserve.’
The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books) Page 4