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

by Sarah Hilary

  Six months ago, a bereaved mother had told Marnie that remorse was a weapon: ‘If there was someone you wanted to punish, someone who’d hurt you personally, that would be the way to do it. Make them feel remorse. Inflict it on them in whatever way you can. There’s no pain like it.’

  Remorse as punishment. Was she hoping to hurt Stephen by forcing him to face up to what he’d done? She didn’t want to believe it, but it had the hard ring of truth.

  ‘You’re remarkable,’ Ed was saying. ‘Did you know that?’

  She shook her head. ‘Remarkable would’ve moved on by now. Or opened up to you much sooner than I’m managing.’

  ‘Take me with you?’ He curled his hand around hers. ‘Next time you go to see him. Not into the detention unit. I’ll wait outside. You needn’t talk afterwards, just let me be with you.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I know someone at the prison he’s being moved to. This man’s been in isolation for eight weeks, from choice.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Paranoid. Hostile. That’s what isolation does. Makes you afraid of everything.’ Ed shook his head. ‘You’re anticipating danger the whole time and you’re scared, so you start behaving aggressively, which makes people avoid you. The stuff of vicious circles.’

  Marnie was intimately acquainted with the damage fear did, how it stopped you in your tracks, eroded your identity. According to plenty of profilers, killers were afraid – of seeing what they couldn’t have, and of always being alone. They felt threatened, especially by those they selected as victims. ‘Fear gets a foothold,’ Marnie’s therapist said in the months after her parents’ deaths, ‘and we close all the doors. Living is hard. Living with fear is even harder. To get past that place you have to fight, and it might be the toughest thing you ever have to do.’

  How many girls were fighting right now? How many were living in fear, perhaps even with May’s killer? And was he afraid, too? Feeling threatened, isolated—

  Her phone rang and she reached for it.

  Tim Welland said, ‘Sorry to spoil your evening, but since Traffic have stuck a road cone up mine, I thought I’d pass the pain along. They’re treating Logan Marsh’s death as manslaughter. Joe Eaton is waking up to a whole new headache tomorrow.’

  ‘Have they arrested him?’ Marnie uncurled from the sofa, putting her feet on the floor.

  ‘They’re interviewing the bereaved parents. Sergeant Kenickie, d’you know him? One-man circle-jerk, cracks walnuts with his bare face … He’s taken a dislike to your eyewitness, for reasons best known to himself. I thought you’d want to know he’s on the warpath.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning. How are Logan’s mum and dad?’

  ‘Much like the Beswicks, I imagine. With divorce thrown in, and no surviving sibling.’

  ‘I should give them my condolences …’

  A nod in Welland’s voice. ‘Kenickie would approve. He’s rattling a sabre for your missing girl. Expect interference if you find her.’

  ‘I’ll take all the interference on offer,’ Marnie said, ‘if we can find her alive.’

  22

  Christie

  Harm was washing at the sink, the light sharp on his shoulders where the muscles moved like music, up and down, up and down. Scooping water from the basin on to his face. The light catching the water, making it shine, polishing his neck and hands.

  The water in the sink ran brown, but his neck was silver-white. Christie wanted to kiss it. She wanted to rest her face between the blades of his back and whisper what she knew.

  Ashleigh.

  Ashleigh was gone.

  No more slick smiles across the supper table, or clumsy fumbling with her eyes. She was never any good. He’d thought he could help her like the others, but he couldn’t. She was rotten when she came here, when Christie brought her back.

  ‘Let me help,’ she whispered.

  He didn’t hear, still turning his hands under the water.

  Christie knew what he was thinking. So many girls living on the streets, needing help. Lost girls, like his sister, Neve. Sometimes he could save them, set them straight. When they listened, if they wanted to be saved.

  Ashleigh had only wanted one thing, the usual thing.

  The one thing he wouldn’t give them.

  But here was Harm with the light like an axe on his back, shining, shining.

  Not knowing, not yet, what she’d done.

  23

  Noah reached the station just after 7 a.m.

  Marnie was in the incident room, tacking photos to a clean whiteboard. Girls’ faces, smiling, posing for the camera. One was blowing a kiss, another so heavily made-up it was hard to see how young she was underneath. Noah counted seventeen photos. Marnie had highlighted four, next to the evidence board from Battersea. She’d added new sketches by May, of the power station.

  ‘You’re early. Is that coffee?’

  ‘Yes.’ He’d bought two flat whites on the off-chance he wouldn’t be the only one wanting to get started this early. ‘These are the girls who’ve gone missing in London recently?’

  ‘None of them looks like Traffic’s girl, but at least three went missing in circumstances similar to May’s. Normal family life, no inciting incident, nothing taken from the house. The fourth is the right time and place but the investigating officer thought she was a classic runaway. Trouble at school, tension at home, new stepfather … If we counted every teenager who ran away from home or care, we’d need evidence boards from here to Rockall. Runaways typically come back. Missing means taken. These girls? Are missing.’ Marnie sipped at the coffee. ‘I’m filling in time until we can get started on the house-to-house, or until Fran calls. All this could be nothing. Coincidence.’

  Noah stepped up to the board to study the girls’ faces, and to memorise their names.

  Sika Khair wore a mask of make-up, false eyelashes, a piercing through her bottom lip, black and gold tiger stripes in her hair. Sixteen years old. The girl blowing a kiss to the camera was Ashleigh Jewell. Hair scraped into a high ponytail, the kind worn by the girls on the Garrett. Lots of lip gloss, a vest top showcasing spray-tanned cleavage, distinctive crook in her nose, heavy ear lobes pierced in three places, studded and hooped in gold. Fifteen, missing for nearly four months. The other two girls had the same spray tans, vest tops, heavy lips and lids, skin-lifting ponytails.

  ‘Why do they do that?’ Noah wondered. ‘Dress so alike? We see it all the time where we live. The girls look the same even when they’re out of uniform. Boys too, as if there’s a factory somewhere cloning them … Must make it hard if you don’t fit the mould. That’s a lot of pressure, conformity.’ He thought of his own teenage years, choosing to come out when his mates were joining gangs. Hard to swim against the tide, to keep your identity when everyone around you was acquiring camouflage of one kind or another. He thanked God for Dan, the safe place they’d found, their happiness. ‘Which is the girl with the stepfather?’

  ‘Sika Khair.’ Marnie perched on the edge of the nearest desk in jeans and a grey crewneck, her hips as narrow as a boy’s. She looked at the faces on the board and she must have been thinking the same grateful thought about safe places, because she asked, ‘How’s Dan?’

  ‘Good, thanks. How’s Ed?’

  She nodded. ‘We should get together some time. The four of us.’

  It was a big deal. She ring-fenced her privacy. Noah said, ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘I don’t mean a dinner party.’ She arched an eyebrow, smiling with one side of her mouth. ‘I wouldn’t subject you to that. Maybe a drink somewhere.’

  ‘Great.’ Noah smiled back. ‘I know a couple of places. Not a club crawl,’ he added, in case she was imagining that.

  ‘What makes you think we wouldn’t be up for a club crawl, Detective?’ She was deadpan, but he knew her well enough to recognise the laughter behind her eyes.

  ‘In that case we’ll plan a night of it. Does Ed like tequila?’

  ‘He spen
t a year in Mexico. I’d call it a safe bet.’ Marnie nodded at the board, refocusing the pair of them. ‘Fran thinks May was dehydrated. The full autopsy should give us a better idea.’

  ‘So maybe she wasn’t as well cared for as we’d thought? Street kids get dehydrated. Did the security at Battersea not throw up anything?’

  ‘Nothing on the front-of-site CCTV or the riverside. We’re getting plans through this morning to see how else he might’ve got her in there.’

  ‘These sketches of May’s are good.’ He followed the pencil lines, remembering what Dan had taught him about art. ‘She loved the power station, but it scared her too.’

  ‘Show me?’ Marnie moved to stand at his shoulder.

  Noah traced the lines with his thumb. ‘It’s the places she’s put the shadows. Intimidating, don’t you think?’ The chimneys, grotesquely tall, looked almost human.

  ‘She was somewhere with a view into the site,’ Marnie said. ‘When she drew these.’

  ‘Inside the Garrett, in one of the south-facing flats? The floor above Mrs Tarvin’s would have a view like this. Do you think he was holding her on the estate?’

  ‘I doubt it. Too many people around. How would he get her there without being seen? The residents might not like the police, but they wouldn’t hide a child killer. No, I think he’d want somewhere private. Maybe Colin can work up a structural plan of the area, possible hiding places with a view of the chimneys.’ She made a note and stuck it on the corner of Colin’s monitor. ‘I’ve told Ron to head up the team on the Garrett. I need you to work on a profile of our killer, see whether it matches anyone with access to the site in the last twelve weeks.’

  ‘What’s happening with Traffic’s girl? Do they know she’s connected to May?’

  ‘Not yet, or not officially. Welland’s going to break the news just before the press briefing.’ Marnie’s phone rang. ‘Fran. Are you ready for us?’

  ‘And waiting.’

  The mortuary cafeteria was doing a brisk trade in bacon sarnies. Marnie and Noah joined Fran at a table with a view of Westminster’s rush-hour traffic.

  ‘So … May was pregnant, as you know. Seven or eight weeks at the outside. No evidence that the sex was anything other than consensual. No lesions or bruising, nothing nasty. Nothing recent, either. No semen in or on the body. No DNA that wasn’t hers.’ Fran crunched a piece of toast. ‘I got the writing off with baby oil. No needle marks, bruises, abrasions. No defensive wounds, nothing to suggest she put up a fight. But nothing to say she was unconscious when he strangled her. Most fit young people would fight back.’

  ‘When he strangled her,’ Noah said. ‘You’re sure it was a man?’

  ‘Based on the bruising, the width of the palms, yes.’

  ‘Have you narrowed down the time of death?’

  ‘No more than six hours before she was found, no less than two. That puts it between about one and five p.m. You found her just after seven, so it was close.’

  ‘He drove a dead body through rush-hour traffic, and got her into that site before it was dark.’ Noah was making notes on his phone. ‘That was risky.’

  ‘And he’s careful. He wore latex gloves, kept everything clean. Stomach contents is interesting. Lentils and smoked fish. Not what I’d have picked for a last lunch. The fish was full of salt. Highly preserved, in other words. She’d been eating too much salt for some time, judging by the state of her kidneys.’

  ‘Hypernatremia.’

  Fran nodded. ‘Generally caused by a deficit of free water in the body, only rarely by excessive sodium intake. My first thought, seeing the bloods, was an eating disorder, but she wasn’t malnourished and her protein intake was high. No evidence that she was sweating excessively, or being denied water. Skin condition was good. She’d been eating too much salt. If the rest of her diet was like the fish, then maybe dry-salting, brine-curing – whatever our ancestors relied on before we invented fridges.’

  ‘What would the symptoms be?’ Marnie asked.

  ‘Thirst, mainly. Possibly vomiting or diarrhoea. No evidence she was suffering from either of those. Twitching, tremors. Confusion’s common with elderly sufferers. Worst-case? Seizures. Coma. May’s wasn’t a worst-case, but it was severe. I’d have wanted her IV’d if she’d been found alive.’

  ‘High protein intake,’ Noah said. ‘But wasn’t she a vegetarian?’

  ‘According to her parents.’ Marnie nodded. ‘For six months or more. Sean thought it accounted for her lack of appetite.’

  ‘Well she ate a lot of meat in the last twelve weeks,’ Fran said. ‘Salt-cured, possibly. But red meat. No other way to account for the protein levels. Quinoa’s good, but it’s not that good.’

  ‘Talk us through the strangulation. You said she didn’t put up a fight?’

  ‘My best guess? She was lying on her back. He was over her, probably kneeling either side of her torso. If he was a big man, and she was sleeping when he got into that position, it would’ve been hard for her to put up a fight.’ Fran sipped at her tea. ‘He was quick. Didn’t drag it out, didn’t play with her. He just wanted her dead. I’m going out on a limb and saying this isn’t a sexual psychopath. He wasn’t taking pleasure in what he did, or not in the sadistic sense.’

  ‘He left her on display,’ Marnie said. ‘Naked, more or less. That suggests contempt.’

  ‘Perhaps he wanted us to see the writing. She’d been keeping it a secret, hadn’t she? From her parents, friends. It was the first thing we saw when we looked at her. Not her body, not even the marks he left on it, but her writing. Not what he did to her, but what she did to herself.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll want to do it again?’ Marnie asked. ‘Even if he took no pleasure in it. The ritual, the way he laid her out. The spectacle. That made us think he’d do it again.’

  ‘I can’t argue with that.’ Fran finished her tea, glancing at her watch. ‘Over to you.’

  Back at the station Noah said, ‘Learned helplessness. I’m wondering if that’s what happened to May, why she didn’t put up a fight, ate his food, all that long-life crap, meat when she’s a vegetarian. Learned helplessness means complete passivity, your victims emotionally and physically unable to disobey, or to take the initiative.’

  ‘Stockholm syndrome with a topspin.’ Marnie suppressed a shudder. ‘Here was me hoping she was somewhere safe until he found her.’

  ‘The boyfriend theory? It could still be true. If Fran’s right and the killer’s not a sexual psychopath, then perhaps he’s not the one who got her pregnant.’

  ‘But he’s the one who found her. And maybe not just her … Yes, DC Tanner?’

  Debbie was waiting outside Marnie’s office. ‘Ruth Eaton’s being discharged this morning. Joe called to let us know. She says she saw our missing girl and she can give us a description.’

  ‘Good. Get her help with the e-fit. This girl was one of the last people to see May alive. We need to find her as a priority, whether or not she’s at risk.’

  ‘Will do, boss. Oh, and Calum Marsh is downstairs asking to see you. I didn’t make any promises, knowing how busy you are.’

  ‘I’ll see him. Thanks.’

  On their way downstairs, Marnie told Noah, ‘Sergeant Kenickie, Serious Collision Investigation Unit, has been stirring things with the Marshes. Expect an angry father seeking justice for his son.’

  ‘Then this is damage limitation, or public relations?’

  ‘So cynical …’

  Calum Marsh was sitting in a plastic chair under a poster warning visitors of the penalties for violent or threatening behaviour. In an open-collared shirt and dark trousers, elbows on his knees, hands hanging, head down. He looked beaten, defeated.

  ‘Mr Marsh. I was so sorry to hear about Logan.’

  Calum got to his feet, shaking Marnie’s outstretched hand. He was wearing the laced shoes he’d struggled with at the hospital. No neck brace or sling, but fatigue had set new shadows everywhere on his face. ‘Thanks. I’m not here to give y
ou a hard time.’ He nodded at Noah. ‘I know you’re flat-out busy, but I wanted to know if you’d found her, the girl from the crash. Is she okay?’

  Sergeant Kenickie might have done his best to stir up a sense of injustice in Logan’s parents, but he’d failed, at least in the case of Calum. Nothing but bleak concern in his face as he searched Marnie’s for news of the missing girl. ‘Logan volunteered at homeless shelters, made friends with kids who were living rough. If this girl was like that, he’d want to know she was safe.’ He rubbed at his collarbone, blinking sleep-starved eyes. ‘She can’t have meant to cause the crash. From what Joe said, she was desperate … I’ve been trying to remember details about how it happened, anything that might help you.’ He looked ready to fall down. ‘I want to help.’

  ‘Let’s find a quiet room,’ Marnie said. ‘And would you like a cup of tea, or coffee?’

  ‘You’re busy,’ Calum repeated, but he followed them to the interview room. ‘I don’t mean to take up your time. I can’t do anything for Gina, not with the divorce … I’m a fifth wheel.’ He tried to smile, but his mouth wouldn’t cooperate. ‘Can’t stand being useless.’

  Behind the pain in his eyes was blame, and guilt. Had Gina accused him, maybe just by her silence? Noah hoped not. It was easy to see how heavily blame would sit on this man’s shoulders.