No Place to Die

by Donoghue, Clare

  She took a deep breath, glanced out of the window on the pretence that something had caught her eye. ‘Phil,’ she said, returning her gaze to his, loosening her jaw in order to feign indifference to his tirade of insinuation and outright insult. ‘I’m sure you are aware that I am not at liberty to discuss the Stevens case or anything pertaining to it. As for my role in this particular case, notwithstanding my previous experience . . . ’ She decided speaking Phil’s language might assist in delivering her point. ‘Roger assigned the case to me because I had the availability in my caseload and the experience to deal with this type of crime. I will certainly pass on your concerns. I am sure he would be keen to speak to you and would welcome any feedback you have. I, personally, welcome your offer of cooperation and assistance. Cases like this one need to be reviewed endlessly. To know I can call on you to revise your findings at any time is an absolute comfort.’ She smiled. ‘Having someone of your authority and experience “on my side” is an honour and I fully intend to utilise your expertise at every opportunity. Thank you, Phil.’ Despite the sweat collecting at the back of her neck she could see that her words had had the desired effect. She watched as Phil shifted in his seat, clearing his throat several times as if readying himself to speak, but then changing his mind at the last second. She pulled up her sleeve and looked at her watch. ‘I can see that I’ve already eaten into your valuable time, Phil. My apologies for that. Shall we move on to your findings? I’m sure you’re as keen as I am to get things moving.’

  ‘I . . . ’ he coughed. ‘Yes. Perhaps it would be best to get on with it.’ He stared at the tabletop, fiddling with the edge of the folder in front of him.

  The warm rush of satisfaction swept over her entire body, drying the sweat on the back of her neck. ‘Great,’ she said, unable to keep the smile off her face. ‘So, what have you got for me?’ She sat back and crossed her legs, laying her hands in her lap, unclasped, relaxed.

  ‘I will email over my full report,’ he said, still not looking at her, ‘but I think I have enough to assist you as of now, in as much as geographical profiling goes.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Go on.’

  He straightened in his chair. ‘The tomb itself, its design and location are my primary points of interests. I have spoken to Dr Crown.’ It took Jane a few seconds to realize he was talking about Jeanie. ‘Your office passed on her findings, but I felt – as I am sure you did – that further discussion was in order. I talked to Dr Crown at length yesterday and she agreed with me that the “tomb” was not so much constructed as altered from its original state.’

  ‘Meaning?’ she asked.

  ‘As I’m sure you are aware, Chislehurst Caves are less than a mile away.’ She nodded, despite not knowing anything of the sort. She had heard of the caves. She had watched some documentary about them being used as a music venue back in the Sixties.

  ‘Bowie performed there once,’ she said, hoping she was right.

  ‘Indeed, him and many others,’ Phil said, seemingly unimpressed. ‘I think, more importantly, they were used as air-raid shelters during the Second World War. At one point nearly fifteen thousand people inhabited the caves during the worst of the Blitz. Of course it is an inaccuracy to call them caves, as they are man-made. They were originally chalk- and flint-mines, used up until the late 1930s—’

  ‘Right,’ she said, noting down the date, as if it had any bearing on the case. ‘And you and Jeanie – I mean, Dr Crown – think the murder-site is an extension of these caves?’ she asked, interrupting his monologue.

  He sat back in his chair, opening and closing his mouth like a stranded fish. ‘I . . . well, yes. Dr Crown believes it to be an aborted access tunnel, and that the individual who altered the site did so by excavating more earth from the base and then using it to cover the walls and ceiling. The entranceway and hatch are also new additions. She is confident further examination of the soil will confirm this.’

  ‘I’ll need to see detailed plans of the cave system. There must be a public record.’ It left Jane wondering what came first: Maggie’s death or the tomb itself. ‘It must have taken months,’ she said, more to herself than to Phil.

  ‘No doubt, but I must tell you, I believe the location to be far more important than the tomb construction.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, her pen poised.

  ‘Elmstead Woods is a well-frequented green space, a thoroughfare; it would be difficult to go unobserved if one were engaging in unusual activities, such as excavation or body disposal,’ he said, smiling. ‘Therefore, in my opinion, the location must have been chosen for specific reasons. For the individual, or individuals, to choose a site where discovery was almost guaranteed is a message.’

  ‘Right,’ she said. On her pad she wrote the words ‘location’, ‘message’ and a question mark.

  ‘You need to establish whether the victim has any connection with the Elmstead area. I suspect you will find she doesn’t. In which case Elmstead Woods was chosen by her attacker for a specific reason. The individual you are looking for will have good local knowledge and will live within a five- to ten-mile radius of the site.’ Jane was making shorthand notes: key words, phrases she needed to remember. ‘The planning it would take to locate and alter the burial space; the patience and restraint of the attack – there is nothing frenzied or impulsive, the blow to the head notwithstanding. Each element demonstrates someone motivated and highly intelligent.’ Phil’s fascination with Maggie’s killer was obvious, but it was his admiration that Jane was finding hard to ignore. ‘The anticipation would have been incredible,’ he continued, ‘preparing to take the girl, executing his plan, interring the victim without discovery, watching her panic and then waiting for her to die, once her air supply had been stopped. All these factors in themselves would have been exhilarating. But imagine, if you will, the greater anticipation of waiting for the body to be found.’

  ‘So you think Maggie was meant to be found?’ she asked, frowning.

  ‘Absolutely, yes. It had to be witnessed, like the proverbial tree falling in the forest. The murder would have been incomplete without discovery.’

  ‘Incomplete,’ she repeated the word, testing the idea that was taking hold. ‘If that’s true, then Maggie’s death wasn’t the endpoint.’ Phil was nodding as she spoke. ‘And if her murder wasn’t the endpoint, then it was the starting point . . . ’ She looked at Phil. ‘But the starting point to what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘That’s what you need to find out.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I feel better. I knew I would. All I needed was sleep. Sleep deprivation can drive you mad, but I have a positive outlook today. Even the space seems bigger – roomy even. I know that it can’t be. If anything it should be smaller, sucked inward by my presence. I am mapping out my surroundings, despite knowing them already. It feels good to be moving again. It feels good to be awake.

  ‘Four to the right,’ I say to myself, crawling on my hands and knees. The soil in my throat has made my voice croak. I can see Kermit the Frog sitting on a wall singing a song to Miss Piggy:

  Lydia, oh Lydia, that encyclo-pidia.

  Oh Lydia the Queen of Tattoo.

  On her back is The Battle of Waterloo.

  Beside it the Wreck of the Hesperus, too.

  The song fades as my head hits the wall. That’s right. The same as before. I turn back to face the centre. ‘Four to the middle and four to the left.’ I hold my breath, waiting for the wall. My head bumps against it. There is the smallest amount of give this time. Is that the wall softening or my head? ‘Four back to the middle, then six to the top.’ My legs are getting tired, but I must finish my route. I lift my head a little, so that my forehead takes the impact of the far wall. I can smell clay. I shuffle backwards. ‘Six to the middle and six to the back.’ Kermit sings over the top of my voice. My feet hit the back wall. ‘Good,’ I say. ‘That’s good.’

  Everything is as it should be. I can rest now. I have executed my
cross-section. Once I have slept some more, I will repeat the process, but diagonally. In my head the space has become a Union Jack that I rediscover every time I wake up. The faint outline of the flag must be imprinted on the floor by now, where my knees have rubbed at the dirt over and over again. I reach the centre of the space just in time. My legs will carry me no further. I don’t worry about my feet any more.

  I can’t feel them.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  26th April – Saturday

  Jane pushed her fringe off her forehead, static crackling over her fingers. She looked at the picture of Peter on her desk and started tearing up. She had missed bedtime again last night and she would be working most of the weekend. He had been pissy with her this morning and had refused to eat his breakfast. She blinked back her tears, sighed and turned back to her computer. The results were back on the blood found in Sue and Mark’s utility room. It was Mark’s. She had known it would be, just as she had known that the blood found outside the house in Greenwich would belong to Maggie. But knowing didn’t help her, in either case. So the blood was Mark’s. What did that mean? She couldn’t make the suicide theory stack up, whichever way she looked at it. There was only one alternative. If Mark hadn’t injured himself, then someone had entered the Leech home, attacked Mark and either taken him from the property injured or, more likely, had removed him in order to dispose of the body. She shook her head. The Missing Persons team would still liaise, but the investigation had now been officially assigned to her. It was a murder investigation. Not that she would be telling Sue that. Not yet.

  ‘Is the blood-work on Leech back yet?’

  She looked up. Lockyer was leaning on the partition, staring down at her. She hadn’t heard him approach. He looked terrible: unshaven beyond the point of designer stubble. His suit jacket looked as if he had slept in it. There were stains on the left lapel, toothpaste and something darker, unknown. ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there,’ she said, rearranging the files on her desk.

  ‘The blood-work on Leech,’ he repeated. ‘Is it back yet?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. I just had the email come through this morning, sir. It’s Mark’s.’

  ‘Any third-party hits?’ he asked, pulling at the corner of his left eye with his finger. He looked bored.

  ‘No, sir. The only DNA found was Mark’s. Forensics are going over the rest of the trace evidence to see if they can find anything else. I should hear back next week – Wednesday, hopefully.’

  Lockyer frowned, his eyes drifting around the office. ‘I’ll go and speak to Sue. I was planning on heading home soon anyway,’ he said.

  Jane felt her mouth drop open. ‘Er, I was actually heading over there now,’ she said. The lie was out before she could stop herself.

  ‘I think she’d prefer to hear it from me,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Have you spoken to her?’ she asked.

  He didn’t seem to notice her tone. ‘Yes. I’ve spoken to her . . . every day since Mark’s disappearance. It still is a disappearance, Jane. Blood doesn’t equal dead. It may have been assigned to my team, but that doesn’t mean anything. Until Mark is found we are assuming he’s alive. Aren’t we?’ His eyes searched her face. He seemed to be daring her to disagree with him. ‘Well?’ he said, folding his arms.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I mean, yes, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ He turned and walked out of the office without a backward glance.

  Lockyer stood staring at himself in the mirror, his hands on either side of the basin, squeezing the porcelain as if it were to blame for his actions. He turned and walked into a cubicle, locking the door just as another officer came into the Gents. He closed the lid, sat down and put his head in his hands. The last thing he needed to do was alienate Jane, but he couldn’t seem to control his resentment. While his life was disintegrating, hers was coming together. Roger had made her lead detective on the Hungerford murder. It should be his case. It would have been his case, if it wasn’t for the Stevens debacle. Everyone was treating him differently. Even Dave had started turning up at his flat unannounced, on the pretext of going for a beer, a run, a trip to the supermarket – anything to gain access, to give them time to ‘talk’. Jane was the only one who was even attempting to act normally around him. So why was he determined to treat her like shit? He thought about the cold-cases sitting on his desk. It was dead-work. It was a punishment.

  He put his hands on his knees and stood up. He unlocked the door to the cubicle and walked out – out of the Gents and over to the lifts. Maybe some fresh air would do him some good. He looked at his watch and stopped. There wasn’t time. He had told Jane he was heading home, but he couldn’t, not yet. He had an appointment. He had rescheduled it twice this week, in a lame attempt to avoid it, but that hadn’t worked. It was in five minutes, up on the fifth floor. It wasn’t a meeting he wanted to keep. As he stepped into the lift he nodded to the other officers, but then bowed his head. The last thing he needed right now was banal conversation about shift-work, the weather and the five-car pile-up on Shooter’s Hill that was causing chaos. It was hot. The traffic was backed-up. It was the weekend. Everyone was pissed off. What else was there to say?

  The lift shuddered into motion and climbed to the next floor. He didn’t wait for the doors to open fully. He walked out, head down, towards a part of the building he had never visited before. This was his first scheduled appointment. It would be a weekly event, until such time as Roger was satisfied that Lockyer was ‘back on form’, as he put it.

  The sign on the door in front of him made his head ache. The black stencilling on the door read: Occupational Health – Counselling Service.

  He didn’t want to be here.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  26th April – Saturday

  Jane’s mobile started to ring. She was pacing back and forth in front of Boots on the high street. She couldn’t stay in the office. Not after Lockyer’s rant. She looked at the screen. ‘Sue, hi,’ she said, holding the phone to her ear and walking away from a group of teenagers. ‘I was just going to call you.’ It felt like a lie. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m all right. I’m okay,’ Sue said, her voice not matching the sentiment. ‘Any news?’

  Jane felt as if she had two unexploded grenades, one in each hand, both missing a pin, both seconds away from blowing up in her face. One was Sue. The other was her boss. ‘I was just speaking to Lockyer – Mike, I mean,’ she said, correcting herself. ‘If it’s okay with you, he’s going to come out and see you this afternoon, to update you on where we are.’ She perched on the edge of a bench, trying to avoid an array of bird-shit and chewing gum. ‘Will that work with the boys? Are they home?’

  ‘Er, yes, that’s fine,’ Sue said. ‘I’m home all day. The boys are with friends for the night,’ she continued. ‘I’m grateful Mike can see me . . . at the weekend, I mean. I was hoping to speak to him. Not that I don’t trust that you’re doing everything you can, Jane, but I just hoped, you know, given his relationship with Mark, that he’d be more . . . involved.’

  ‘Of course, I understand,’ she said, feeling helpless as she listened to Sue crying at the other end of the line. She watched a mother pushing a pram; two girls smoking, laughing. Their days were normal. Their lives were moving forward. Sue’s wasn’t.

  ‘It’s been four days. Four days,’ Sue said, sniffing. ‘I understand how busy Mike must be, but he’s Mark’s friend. I thought he would at least have phoned to say . . . to say . . . ’ Her words disappeared into a sob.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sue,’ Jane said, feeling her face heat up with anger. Lockyer had lied to her. Again. He hadn’t spoken to Sue at all. ‘Listen. Let me get Mike to call you. You can sort out a time with him, and I’ll give you a call later on today to see how you’re doing. How does that sound?’

  Sue sniffed. ‘Thank you, Jane. I really appreciate everything you’re doing for me . . . and Mark. The kids are a mess. I’m a mess.’

  ‘I k
now, I know. I’m here, Sue. We will find Mark, I promise you.’ It was the first time in her career that she had ever made a promise to a relative. It was a reckless thing to do, because how could she possibly stand by her word? She stood up and started pacing again. ‘I’ll call you later. Okay?’

  ‘Thank you, Jane. Thank you.’

  She hung up the phone and logged into her emails. She opened a new message and addressed it to Lockyer: ‘Call from Sue Leech, 10.13. Requested update on case. Advised you would call ASAP and confirm meeting at Leech residence this afternoon to update. Did not mention blood-work results.’ She pressed ‘Send’ and started to walk back towards the office. She couldn’t believe what she was about to do, but what other choice did she have? There was no way she could allow Lockyer’s behaviour to continue unchecked. Even her loyalty had limits.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  26th April – Saturday

  ‘Sir,’ Jane said.

  Roger Westwood, SIO for three of the murder-squad teams, looked up from his desk. He was on the phone, but seemed to be coming to the end of his call. He waved Jane into his office and gestured for her to sit down. The feeling of betrayal weighed her down, her guilt compounding with each step into the room. She sat with a bump and looked over Roger’s head. It sounded as if he was talking to his daughter. His tone was indulgent and firm, a combination reserved for children who were trying to get their own way. From the side of the conversation that Jane could hear, he was putting on a good show of resistance.

  She crossed her legs, straightened her skirt and looked out of the window at St Stephen’s church and the huge elm tree that shaded it. The sun bounced off the leaves as they swayed in a light breeze. From Roger’s office she would never have guessed she was in Lewisham – or in London even. It struck her as funny how a different office, location or view could change someone’s perspective, even their reality. It made her think of Maggie, of Elmstead, and what it meant to her killer. She heard a change in Roger’s voice as his conversation came to an end. There was one word his daughter was waiting to hear and she suspected her SIO was seconds away from saying it.