Tastes Like Fear (D.I. Marnie Rome 3)

by Sarah Hilary

  In the penthouse, Fran Lennox stood at the side of the bed. ‘Mauve is a rotten colour. Dirty. I’d have gone with white. You can’t go wrong with white bedding.’

  ‘They’re selling to executives,’ Noah said. ‘It’s all very … masculine.’

  ‘I hate these showroom flats.’ Fran pulled at the ends of her fingers, loosening latex gloves. She wasn’t much bigger than May, slim and blonde, with her hair cropped short, all cheekbones and bright, inquisitive eyes. ‘I can’t imagine anyone living like this, can you? That headboard’s like something from a jumbo jet. And don’t get me started on the painting …’ She shuddered, the blue forensic suit turning her skin the colour of milk.

  Was she waiting, as he’d waited, for the noise to die down in here? May had stopped shouting at Noah, but maybe Fran was hearing her. No, she’d seen too many dead bodies for that. She was waiting for Marnie. ‘Where’s the boss?’

  ‘Talking with the security guard who found the body.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Ex-army. He’s okay. As okay as you could be, anyway.’

  Fran stepped closer, looking at May. ‘Could be worse. At least her parents will recognise her.’

  Noah wasn’t sure if that was better, or worse. The neat way she’d been laid out was cowardly, insulting. As if the killer had taken her family’s forgiveness for granted. He’d tidied away their daughter, made her mute and obedient, doll-like. Turned her into a child again. It was one of the worst murders Noah had seen in a long time.

  Fran said, ‘She was sixteen, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She doesn’t look it. More like thirteen. I don’t mean physically. The way she’s been left.’

  ‘Yes.’ Someone hadn’t wanted May to grow up. ‘The writing … Did she do that to herself?’

  ‘If she’s right-handed like ninety per cent of the population, then yes.’ Fran tipped her head. ‘From the pattern of the words, I’d call that a fair assumption.’

  ‘We’re wondering about the missing girl from the crash site, whether what Joe Eaton described as scratches could’ve been this. Writing.’

  ‘I tested the shirt you found. It wasn’t blood. Ethanol and isopropanol. Your basic Sharpie pen ingredients.’ Fran nodded at the palms of May’s hands. ‘Just like this, I imagine.’

  ‘Then … they knew each other. Two girls, same age, same writing. One of them got away, the other …’ Noah shook his head, desperately sad.

  ‘Could be a coincidence.’ Fran leaned in, studying the bruises about May’s neck. ‘Large hands. Not necessarily a man’s. And it doesn’t look like a sexually motivated murder, but don’t hold me to that. You’ll want pictures of the writing, to show to Joe Eaton.’

  ‘Two teenage girls in the same part of London, both with writing on their bodies? That’s too much of a coincidence. They must’ve known one another, either as friends or victims.’

  ‘The other girl ditched her clothes and went into hiding, isn’t that what you said? Maybe she’s mixed up in this, but I wouldn’t go calling her a victim just yet …’ Fran straightened, looking past Noah’s shoulder. ‘DI Rome, you bring me to all the best places.’

  ‘You can thank me later. Your team’s coming up.’

  ‘Good. We’ll get to work in that case, leave you to your security guards and CCTV. The way this place is wired? You’ll probably know the identity of the killer before I do.’

  ‘I applaud your optimism,’ Marnie said.

  ‘Don’t tell me the state-of-the-art security’s a sham?’

  ‘Oh, it’s real. It’s just not been fired up yet.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Noah nodded at the alarm console by the door. ‘None of this stuff’s working?’

  ‘Some of it, on the ground floor. Up here? Nothing, according to Jamie Ledger.’

  ‘Who else knew that, apart from Ledger?’

  ‘The developers, the security guards. We’re working on a list.’ Marnie looked at the bed, her face changing. ‘We should break the news to the Beswicks.’

  Dawn was making a push at the horizon, light striping Fran’s slim hands as she worked.

  ‘Can’t it wait?’ Noah said. ‘Until the morning? Let them get their sleep.’

  ‘You think they’re sleeping? We should tell them. Fran, call me as soon as you’re ready.’ Marnie’s eyes hadn’t left the bed. ‘They’ll want to see her.’

  15

  In Taybridge Road, the wheelie bins were out, ready for collection. Rain had been falling most of the night, pooling in the gutters and the shallow lids of the bins. It was nearly 5 a.m.

  Marnie found a parking space and switched off the engine, watching the rain gather on the windscreen. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Yes.’ Noah released his seat belt, but didn’t move from the passenger seat. ‘Actually, no. I’m scared. Of saying the wrong thing and making it worse.’

  ‘You won’t.’ The car’s engine ticked as it cooled. ‘You can’t. This is as bad as it gets.’ That sounded too bleak. She tried again. ‘I’d rather have you with me for this than anyone else on the team. Precisely because you feel it so much. The Beswicks know that. They trust you.’

  Noah nodded. ‘Okay. Let’s get it done.’ He climbed from the car.

  Through the deckled glass of the front door, a light was shining at the back of the house. Someone was up early. Marnie knocked and stepped back, shoulder to shoulder with Noah.

  Loz opened the door. She looked at their faces and her stare grew hot. ‘No. No. Go away.’ She blocked their way into the house. ‘They’re not up yet. They’re sleeping. Just … go away.’

  Marnie said, ‘We’re very sorry. But we do need to come in. We need to see your mum and dad.’

  Loz stood her ground. ‘Don’t you … don’t you tell them she’s dead.’ The cuffs of her school uniform nearly hid the fists she’d made of her hands. ‘Don’t you dare.’ She didn’t look like her sister. Bony where May had been curvy, dark hair growing like brambles around her thin face. No one would ever brush Loz’s hair into a blonde fan on a mauve pillow.

  Noah said, ‘Loz, let us in. I’m freezing out here.’

  Black eyes flicked to his face. ‘Are you going to say it, or is she? I suppose she has to say it because she’s a woman and women understand this shit.’ She blinked, looking for a second like her dad. ‘If my sister’s dead, I’m allowed to swear.’

  ‘You’re allowed to swear,’ Noah said. ‘You can punch me, if it helps. But let us in, okay?’

  She stepped behind the door, staying there once Marnie and Noah were inside the house. No sound from upstairs.

  Noah closed the front door. ‘Can you wake your mum and dad for us?’

  ‘They’ll be getting up soon anyway. Mum gets up at six, for work.’ No colour in her face. ‘You can wait, can’t you?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Noah’s face was wet from the rain. He wanted to put his hand on Loz’s shoulder, but she looked like she’d break if he did. She needed her mum and dad.

  ‘I’ll go up,’ Marnie said gently. ‘If that’s okay with you.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll go.’ Loz pushed past them, heading up the stairs. Halfway up, she stopped, turning to face them. ‘You’d better put the kettle on.’ Her mouth made a shrewd shape. ‘They’ll need tea.’

  Katrina and Sean Beswick sat on the sofa in their pyjamas. Loz stood in the corner of the sitting room, watching them. Watching Marnie and Noah, too. Five cups of tea sat on the low table where Sean’s laptop was propped, its battery light blinking.

  ‘Are you sure it’s her?’ Katrina looked half frozen in white silk pyjamas, exposed collarbones like a coat hanger for the rest of her body. ‘Don’t we have to identify her?’

  ‘There needs to be a formal identification, yes.’ Marnie sat on the edge of an armchair close to the bereaved couple. ‘But we’re as sure as we can be that it’s May. I’m very sorry.’

  Noah was standing by the window, not far from Loz. He could smell fabric softener from her uniform. She was
holding herself in a tight knot, radiating tension.

  ‘She was in Battersea Power Station? Did she …’ Sean swallowed. ‘Can you tell us if she …’

  ‘What Dad’s trying to ask,’ Loz said, ‘is did she top herself?’

  Her mother’s stare found her across the room. ‘Loz, no.’ Pleading with the open palms of her hands. The light sat in the creases under her grey eyes. ‘Not now.’

  ‘It wasn’t suicide,’ Marnie said.

  ‘So someone killed her. She was murdered.’

  ‘Please!’ Her mum snapped the word.

  Rain hit the windows of the house like a handful of gravel.

  ‘What, I’m not allowed to be pissed off that some fucktard killed my sister?’

  ‘Sweetheart, come here.’ Sean’s gaze swam, unseeingly. ‘Come here.’

  Loz ignored his outstretched hand. She sat on a footstool in the corner of the room with her knees pulled up to her chin.

  Marnie waited for the worst of the storm to leave Loz’s face. ‘I’m very sorry, but yes. This is a murder investigation. The girl we found was strangled.’

  ‘The girl you found. So you’re not sure?’ Katrina insisted. ‘It might not be her.’

  ‘Mum, they’re telling you May’s dead. Someone killed her.’ Loz hugged her knees, big eyes burning in her face. ‘They need you to make a formal identification, that’s how it works, but they’ve seen her so they know.’ She looked at Noah. ‘Did you see her? It was her, right?’

  ‘Yes. I’m very sorry.’

  ‘One good thing. She must look okay, for them to be so sure. She can’t have been burnt or bashed about, or rotting.’

  Katrina put up both hands to block out the sight of her daughter.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ Sean said weakly, ‘you need to stop.’ He turned appalled eyes on Marnie. ‘When? When did you find her, when did it happen?’

  ‘We found her around seven o’clock last night. We’re not sure when it happened, but we think not long before then. We’ll be able to give you better answers soon.’

  ‘After the post-mortem.’ Loz shut her eyes, rocking on the footstool.

  Noah waited for one of her parents to cross the room and hold her. Neither Sean nor Katrina moved from the sofa. It struck him that there was no comfort in this house, with its white walls and empty spaces. Loz hugged herself as if no one else ever did.

  ‘So she was alive yesterday morning or yesterday afternoon. As recently as that?’ Sean didn’t reach for his wife’s hand, sitting apart from her as if he feared contact. ‘All this time, she was alive?’

  ‘Yes.’ Marnie’s phone buzzed and she glanced at it. ‘That’s my colleague, Fran. She’s ready for you to see May. When you’re ready.’

  ‘Fran?’ Katrina echoed.

  ‘The pathologist.’ Loz didn’t open her eyes. ‘The one who’ll do the post-mortem.’

  The Beswicks couldn’t look at their daughter, or at each other. They searched Marnie’s face for some crumb of comfort. ‘Alice Gordon could come with us,’ Marnie said, ‘if you’d like that.’

  Alice was their family liaison officer.

  ‘No thanks.’ Loz lifted her chin, shoving a stare at Noah. ‘If I have to see that cow, I’ll puke.’

  No reaction from the sofa, her parents blanking her out.

  Noah wanted to hug Loz, spikes and all.

  ‘You were treating this as murder from the start. I know. I looked it up on the internet. Police procedure for missing persons. If in doubt, think murder. It saves time later on, if the missing person turns up dead.’ Loz propped her chin on her knees. ‘You’ve been thinking she’s dead for weeks.’

  16

  Christie

  ‘Aimee’s starting a fever,’ Harm said. ‘She should stay in bed. You’ll want to look in on her.’

  He was standing the other side of the kitchen, between Christie and the door. But it wasn’t desperate, not yet. He was able to look at her. It was when he avoided her eyes that Christie got scared. He wouldn’t look at what he did. What he was. She’d go up to Aimee in a bit. Because he expected it, and because she needed to be sure Aimee was okay. She’d thought she could be sure, but after Grace, and May …

  Christie couldn’t be sure of him. None of them understood this. Ashleigh thought she could seduce him. She wouldn’t last much longer. As for Aimee …

  Aimee never stood a chance. The way she looked, her weakness. How she’d survived on the streets, Christie didn’t know, except she supposed that Aimee was smart, in her way. She wouldn’t be sleeping when Christie checked on her, but she’d got good at pretending. Clever, just not clever enough. Aimee thought that May was out there, alive. She didn’t know anything.

  None of them knew anything.

  Not about Harm. Not about Neve, his sister, who’d gone missing when he was a boy. Living on the streets, they’d thought. Harm had searched for her for years, without knowing what he was searching for. No one was ever the same on the streets. There’d been no way of knowing whether Neve had become a slut like Ashleigh, or wild like Grace, if she was a dreamer like May, or a survivor like Christie.

  Christie wasn’t clever in her head like Aimee. She was clever with her hands and her feet. She was a worker, too. She cooked and cleaned and shopped and planned. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for him, but Harm …

  Harm didn’t want a survivor. Aimee was his favourite because she was weak. Victim written right through her. He wanted to protect her the way he couldn’t protect his sister. Aimee was his new Neve, only this time he’d keep her safe.

  It was all about Neve.

  He’d told Christie how his parents had knelt all those years ago, praying with their faces and the backs of their heads, with the soles of their feet – hers so full of creases you could count her age there, older every day as she knelt with her fists full of bedsheets and her head filled with Neve, the whole house packed with fear for her. Stories about where she’d gone, who she’d become – a prostitute or a drug addict, a free spirit or someone’s slave – anything to stop them thinking she was dead. So many versions of Neve. No wonder he couldn’t stop searching, finding her in the faces of other lost girls. It was their secret, Christie’s and Harm’s. He trusted her. She was different to the others. She mattered. All she’d ever wanted was to matter.

  Ashleigh thought she was special, with her shiny smile and her chest pressing against her shirt, as if that was why he’d bought it, to see her body changing. She didn’t understand what would happen when she got too big for the clothes he’d given her. She thought it was power, the push of her, that she could grow up and he’d love her for it. She was wrong, so wrong. That wasn’t the way to make him love her. He couldn’t even look at her now.

  Like Grace, like May.

  Christie didn’t want to think about May. A baby, she’d said. She was having a baby. Whose? It’d been safe in here. They hadn’t had to worry about that, not any of them. Harm had seen the way men looked at them on the streets, using them up with their eyes, and he’d saved them from that. May had put herself in danger, and Aimee too. All of them in danger because she couldn’t be glad of what she had. Creeping out for sex, reeking of her weakness, bringing it back here. Her baby, a rotten red coil in her belly. Aimee had thought May was her friend, but what kind of friend infected your safe place with her sickness?

  Christie had seen birth – a kind of birth. She knew its mess. It wouldn’t happen here. Harm wouldn’t let it. A baby, but May wouldn’t say whose. No matter how hard Christie asked her.

  Ashleigh thought she knew. Stinking of hormones, looking at Aimee like she was the one ruining it here when the whole point of everything was Aimee. It was all for Aimee.

  Harm would have to show Ashleigh. He’d have to.

  Or Christie would.

  He was standing at the sink, washing plates, shoulders smooth with muscle, the light putting his shadow around the room. She watched him for some sign of weakness. A way in. Sometimes she thought she saw bruises
in the open collar of his shirt where the skin was grained like wood, like he was carved from it. Blond wood, with whorls for eyes and a knot for his mouth. You’d need an axe to make an impression, and even then you’d struggle. But …

  People hugged trees, didn’t they?

  His neck shifted with shadow, filling and emptying the hollow at the collar of his shirt. She’d ironed that shirt. And his trousers. He liked to look smart, a hangover from his old life. He couldn’t let it go, that other life. It ran alongside him like a dog. None of them understood. They didn’t hear him tick. They listened to his rules, and followed his instructions. Ate his food, wore his clothes. But they didn’t know what he was, not the way Christie knew.

  Rain wetted the window above his head, bumping and creeping across the glass in broken stripes. So long since she’d felt it on her face. Two years since she’d sat on that pavement, moving her feet out of the way of the crowds. Plink-plink in the torn can she’d put out, weighted with a stone. Rust on her fingers, like blood. An ache between her legs, and her insides scraped raw. Everything tasting of metal and meat. Harm had saved her. His neck was knotted, smooth. She wanted to rub her cheek there.

  Aimee was learning. Sick again, in her bed. Best place for her. A quick learner, Aimee.

  Christie wondered which one of them would be next.

  The next Grace. The next May.

  Ashleigh, she thought.

  Ashleigh was next.

  17

  Pinned on the incident room whiteboard: May’s photograph, before and after. Missing, with a smile on her face. Found, with bruises about her neck.

  ‘This writing …’ Ron peered at the photos. ‘Why would anyone do that to themselves? Are we sure it wasn’t done by whoever killed her?’

  ‘Fran thinks not,’ Noah said. ‘There’s none on her back, and it’s much clearer on her left side. She was right-handed.’

  ‘Did her mum and dad see the writing when they ID’d her?’