‘I’d agree with you if she was prepared to do something proper, but a degree in media studies? Don’t make me laugh. That’s never going to pay the bills, is it? So, are you going to let her sleep all morning?’
Moira waited until Frank went out before she trudged upstairs. It was nearly midday and Angela still hadn’t stirred. She seemed happy to lie in bed until all hours at the weekend – and sometimes during the week too, even in term time. It irked Moira as much as Frank, but she would never admit that to her husband. It might have been different if Angela had been his daughter. As it was, Moira couldn’t help leaping to her daughter’s defence whenever Frank criticised the girl, which happened with increasing frequency. It had become an ongoing source of conflict between them. She knocked on Angela’s door and waited, but there was no response. The girl must still be asleep. Really, Frank was right. The way Angela was carrying on was unacceptable. She rapped on the door again, more loudly this time. There was still no reply. Gingerly she turned the handle. Angela would probably scream at her for entering without permission, but, as Frank never tired of pointing out, whose house was it? Moira was entitled to open a door in her own home.
‘While you’re sleeping in my house, you follow my rules,’ he had bellowed at Angela.
‘It’s not your house,’ she had retorted.
That was true, strictly speaking, but pointing that out had done nothing to calm his temper.
‘You watch your mouth!’
Moira hated the way they argued. She and Frank squabbled, and he could turn quite nasty, but he had never raised his hand against her. Frank’s hostility towards Angela seemed to hold a different sort of menace. Angela wasn’t blameless either. She seemed to enjoy goading Frank.
‘What you going to do?’ she had taunted him only the day before. ‘You going to hit me?’
‘If you were five years younger, I’d put you over my knee, so help me,’ he had fumed, his huge fists clenched at his sides.
Moira peered inside her daughter’s bedroom. It was a tip; clothes and underwear spread around the floor in garish disarray, along with brushes, combs, hair ornaments, cheap jewellery, tubes of make-up, shoes and the occasional magazine in which perfectly groomed models stared icily from glossy pages, their hair impossibly sleek. In the middle of the chaos, Angela’s bed was empty. Moira frowned. She hadn’t heard her daughter go out that morning. She wondered uneasily what Frank would do if he discovered his stepdaughter had stayed out all night without even bothering to phone home to inform her mother where she was. He would call her selfish, and thoughtless, and irresponsible, and a common little slut. There would be more rows. Taking everything into account, Moira wondered whether it would be better to cover up for her daughter. Again.
Hearing the front door slam, she ran to the stairs. If Angela was home before Frank, he would never need to find out that she hadn’t come home the previous night. This time, Moira was going to speak very sharply to her daughter and tell her in no uncertain terms that her behaviour was unacceptable. She ran downstairs, but Frank was in the hall. There was no sign of Angela.
‘Well?’ he accosted her. She could tell he was wound up. ‘Have you spoken to her yet, or do you want me to do it? I’ve been thinking; we need to lay down some ground rules. I want her home by ten every night, and up in the morning before nine at the weekends. That’s late enough. She might not like it, but this is our house, and we make the rules. Where is she? I’m going to speak to her right now.’
Moira stepped forward.
‘You can’t.’
‘Don’t tell me who I can and can’t speak to in my own house!’
‘I mean, you can’t speak to her right now because… because she’s not here.’
‘She’s gone out again?’
‘Yes, that is, no.’
‘What do you mean, yes, no? Moira, what are you talking about?’
‘She didn’t come home last night.’
Her relief at telling him the truth was short-lived. Even though she was expecting a reaction, his violent outburst startled her.
‘That’s it!’ he yelled, red-faced. ‘Enough! She has to go!’
Seeing her tears, he went on more gently. ‘You must see we can’t go on like this. It’s no good for anyone. It’s time we had words with her.’
‘Words?’
‘Tell her she has to leave, find somewhere else to live.’
‘No! Frank, you can’t do that. She’s my daughter.’
‘Well, she doesn’t behave like a daughter. She’s no good, Moira. Getting up late is one thing, but this…’ He pulled a face. ‘Staying out all night! She did it deliberately to spite us. We can’t carry on like this…’
He was interrupted by the doorbell.
‘Right!’ He turned to the door. ‘Leave this to me!’
‘No, Frank, she’s my daughter. I’ll speak to her.’
The doorbell rang again. Frank flung the door open. A man was standing on the doorstep. Towering over Frank, he held up an identity card.
‘May I come in?’
‘Oh shit, now she’s got herself in trouble with the police. I knew this would happen,’ Frank growled. ‘Look, officer, Angela’s not a bad girl. She’s just fallen in with the wrong crowd. She’s only sixteen. Whatever it is, we’ll sort it out with her. We were just saying we need to keep a closer eye on her, weren’t we, Moira?’
‘May I come in?’ the detective repeated.
6
The detective chief inspector gazed sternly round the room and the assembled team fell silent under her gaze. Eileen Duncan was a thickset middle-aged woman, with a square chin and a determined air. Although he was wary of working with such a forceful woman, Ian had to acknowledge that she achieved results. Her gaze lingered on him in silent acknowledgement of his presence.
‘What have we got?’ she asked.
With a nod, Ian stepped forward. He wished he was better prepared to brief the team.
‘The body of Angela Jones was found just after seven thirty this morning by a hospital surgeon, Mr Charles Everleigh. His wife was with him. They were on their way to work. He was going to drop his wife at the station on his way to the hospital. She works in Leeds. We haven’t got the post mortem report yet but the victim appears to have died from a head wound caused by a single slash with a sharp weapon, a cleaver or a large knife of some description. Hence all the blood,’ he added, turning to glance briefly at the image on the screen behind him.
‘She looks very young,’ someone commented.
‘Only just sixteen,’ Ian confirmed. He paused while a faint sigh whispered around his assembled colleagues. ‘The doctor at the scene placed the time of death at between ten thirty and eleven thirty on Sunday night.’
‘Just sixteen,’ Eileen repeated loudly. She sounded angry. ‘And no one noticed she hadn’t come home last night.’
Ian wondered if Eileen had a daughter. She wore a plain gold band on her wedding finger, but it was hard to imagine her as a mother. She seemed too fierce to have cared for children, although he realised she must behave differently away from work.
Ian nodded. ‘Mother and stepfather didn’t notice her absence until this morning. They thought she must have come in after they went to bed at around ten thirty. Mother said she would have waited up but the stepfather refused to allow it. He seems to be very much in charge in the relationship, although possibly less able to control his teenage stepdaughter.’
‘Angela Jones wasn’t his own daughter,’ Eileen commented thoughtfully.
‘But she was his stepdaughter,’ Ian replied. ‘She lived with them.’
‘What do we know about the weapon?’ Eileen asked, turning back to the evidence.
‘Well, not a lot as yet, only it must have been pretty heavy and sharp to slice through her skull.’
‘And presumably whoever was wielding it was strong,’ Eileen
added. ‘Oh well, let’s not speculate about that for now. We’ll know more when we get the result of the post mortem, and hear from forensics.’
After writing up his report, Ian set off to speak to Charles Everleigh. Conveniently for Ian, he worked in the hospital where the mortuary was located. Charles was in theatre, so Ian went straight to the mortuary where he was pleased to see Avril, the cheerful young anatomical pathology technician he had met while he was working on a previous case.
‘Hi, Ian,’ she greeted him with a ready smile. ‘How’s things? And how’s your wife?’
‘She’s OK,’ he answered vaguely.
It occurred to him that he had no idea about Avril’s relationship status. So much for being a detective. She wasn’t wearing a ring, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
‘I suppose you’re here to see Jonah,’ she went on.
He nodded, mentally bracing himself to view Angela’s cadaver again.
Avril pulled a mock sad face. ‘And there I was, thinking my luck was finally in and you’d come here just for me. Oh well, your loss.’
Ian grinned and followed her into the mortuary where the local home office pathologist was examining the body. Jonah Hetherington was a plump man in his forties. He had pale freckled skin and ginger hair. For someone with such a grim job, he was unremittingly cheerful.
‘She’s young,’ Jonah said, plunging in straight away.
‘Yes, I know. Just sixteen.’
‘Like the song.’ Jonah broke into song in a pleasant tenor voice, beating time with a bloody gloved hand, ‘She was just sixteen, and you know what I mean.’
Catching sight of Ian’s expression he broke off, with a mischievous grin. Ian couldn’t help smiling.
‘Right,’ Jonah went on in a business-like tone. ‘Time of death around eleven on Sunday night. She was killed with one single blow which cracked her skull open like… well, cracking it in two. She would have died instantaneously. Her attacker was standing in front of her when he struck, so she may well have seen him. There’s no knowing.’ He paused, contemplating the dead white face, split open almost as far down as the eyes.
‘He?’
‘What?’
‘You said “he”.’
‘Did I?’
‘Does that mean you think the killer was a man?’
Jonah shook his head. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure if we’re looking for a man or a woman,’ he replied.
‘You said “he”,’ Ian reminded him. ‘What gave you the impression it was a man who did this?’
Again, Jonah hesitated. ‘Did I say “he”?’ he asked. ‘I think what I was thinking was that the killer hit her pretty hard, that’s all, so it seems more likely she was killed by a man.’
‘But it’s only an impression?’
‘Indeed,’ Jonah confirmed. ‘At this stage, there’s no knowing the gender of the killer, or anything else for that matter. Rest assured, Ian, we’re doing everything we can to winkle out more information from her.’
‘Is it possible to at least estimate the height of her assailant from the angle of the blow?’
Jonah shook his head. ‘If only I could. To answer with any certainty, I’d need to know his arm length, and whether he was standing on anything when he hit her. It seems unlikely, to be honest. My guess is he was an average-sized bloke, quite strong. But that is pure guesswork, and not very helpful to you.’
‘What about the murder weapon?’
Jonah frowned. ‘A clean cut with a straight, sharp blade. It looks like a very wide knife, something like an axe blade.’
‘An axe? Keep that quiet for now, will you?’
Jonah nodded. He understood why Ian wouldn’t want the media getting hold of that sensational possibility.
‘It was a particularly violent attack,’ Jonah went on, ‘but I wonder if it mightn’t have been a mugging that went spectacularly wrong.’
‘What makes you say that?’
Jonah picked up one of the dead girl’s hands, spreading the fingers out. Looking closely, Ian could see what he was pointing out. Three fingers on her right hand bore indentations from wearing rings. He saw the same marks on two fingers on her left hand. The skin on one finger had been scraped, as though a ring had been forcibly removed.
‘And this,’ Jonah added.
He indicated a fine weal on the side of her neck. ‘It looks as though she was wearing a chain that was roughly pulled off. This scratch was inflicted after she was dead.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No, except that this was a particularly violent attack.’
7
Seeing the time, Ian cursed under his breath and rolled wearily out of bed. He had overslept after a late night. Having upset his wife by going into work the previous day, he had gone home in the evening to argue with her and make up, finally taking her out for dinner by way of an apology. After an emotionally disturbing day at work he hadn’t felt like going out, but he had felt he owed it to his wife to try and cheer her up. Bev was still snoring gently as he got up. He dressed without opening the bedroom curtains and slipped quietly out of the house. Grabbing a coffee and a roll from the canteen, he went straight to his desk. Uninterrupted, he enjoyed a quiet moment to himself as he ate his modest breakfast. The tranquillity didn’t last long. There was a gentle tap, and Ted poked his head round the door.
‘Morning, sir.’
‘Hi, Ted. Well, you might as well come in now you’re here. What is it?’
Although he was a Yorkshire man, born and bred, the young sergeant’s dark colouring gave him a Mediterranean appearance. Shorter than Ian, he was muscular and energetic. With a single-minded focus on the job, he was nevertheless easy to get along with, and Ian was really pleased to be working with him again. He smiled encouragingly at the young sergeant and repeated his question.
‘Am I interrupting?’ Ted asked, with a nod at Ian’s breakfast which was now just a few crumbs on a paper serviette.
‘No, no, I was just finishing.’ Ian rolled up the serviette and tossed it, just missing the bin. ‘Come on in.’
‘Crap shot,’ Ted said, picking up the ball of paper and dropping it in the bin. ‘I just came to see if you’d read the post mortem report.’
‘When did that arrive?’
‘About half an hour ago.’
‘Tox report?’
‘Not in yet.’
‘Pull up a chair.’
Side by side, they studied the screen. Jonah suggested the force of the attack indicated the killer was male, although he was careful to point out that his findings didn’t rule out a female assailant.
‘Great that he was able to reach such a definite conclusion about the killer’s gender,’ Ted said. ‘That really helps.’
Ian didn’t comment on his colleague’s sarcasm. They both understood the pathologist needed to cover himself. The killer had been careful to avoid direct contact with the victim, so had left no discernible DNA traces on the body. Attacking his victim in the street had been risky but although the killer could have been seen, it was impossible to find any obvious trace of his identity in such a public location. The street had given them no clues to his identity, and the post mortem was no help either.
Jonah’s conclusion about the murder weapon was more specific. In some ways this was the most disturbing aspect of the whole report, although it gave the police very little to go on. The girl had been fatally wounded by a metal blade fifteen centimetres in length, with a razor-thin slightly curved edge. Indentations on one side of the wound made when the blade had been withdrawn suggested it was not completely smooth. The pathologist suggested that an edge of hardened steel had been welded on to a wide metal blade, resembling an axe head.
‘Do you think it was sharpened specially?’ Ted asked in a low voice.
Ian didn’t answer.
‘It sliced right through her skull,’ the sergeant went on.
‘He says it resembled an axe head. Maybe it was an axe?’ Ian said.
Ted grunted. ‘I don’t see many people going around wielding axes these days.’
‘Do you see many people going around slicing other people’s heads open?’
‘People’s heads? Do you think there might be more than one victim?’
‘It was just a figure of speech. But I think it’s possible he might kill again. He’s killed once. I don’t know why, but I’ve got a bad feeling about all this.’
‘I don’t think it would make anyone feel good.’
While they were waiting for the toxicology report, they took a break.
‘It’s an odd way to kill someone,’ Ted remarked when they were seated in the canteen.
‘Unusual but effective. Was this an attack carried out in anger? It was violent. But then again, who carries a weapon like that around with them? It might suggest a certain element of premeditation. I suppose Eileen’s going to bring in a profiler.’
‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’ Ted asked.
‘Depends who the profiler is. But we’re going to need to throw everything at this one, that’s for sure.’
‘You’re right there. This killer’s completely crazy. But then aren’t they all? Murder isn’t exactly what you might call sane.’
‘You can’t imagine ever being provoked into a murderous attack on someone else?’ Ian asked.
‘No.’
‘What if some deranged stranger was threatening the life of your girlfriend, or your mother?’
‘That’s different. Self-defence doesn’t count. I’m talking about unprovoked attacks.’
The tox report came in soon after Ian had returned to his desk. He summoned Ted and they read through it together. Angela had been drinking cider during the evening. Although her intake hadn’t been excessive, she had been over the alcohol limit. She had eaten nothing but crisps since lunchtime, and had been smoking cannabis shortly before she died. Jonah concluded that she would have been tipsy and slightly high, but she was unlikely to have been out of control. She had been walking home alone, presumably after socialising on the evening she was killed.
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