Stop Dead

by Leigh Russell

  She woke up late the next morning with a pounding headache that felt like a hangover, only she hadn’t been out the previous evening drinking and partying, she had been at home on her own stuffing herself with biscuits she didn’t even particularly like. Her excess made her feel sluggish and slow. Thoroughly wretched, she pulled on a shirt and an old pair of trousers and didn’t bother to apply any make-up before hurrying off to the office, not even stopping to brew coffee. Once she got stuck into work, she would feel better.

  Her first line of enquiry was to search for anything suggesting Amy might have had a personal grudge against George. Clearly she stood to gain financially from his death. If Amy had harboured a grievance against her husband’s business partner strong enough to account for her mutilating him as he lay dying, then the whole case would start to make sense. They had obviously been in contact through Patrick, and there were any number of ways in which they could have fallen out. But this was all speculation.

  Geraldine grabbed a coffee from the canteen before she made her way to her office, planning her day as she strode along the corridor. All she wanted to do was sit quietly and mull over what she knew, but as she opened the door to the office, she saw Nick apparently having a clear out. His desk was covered with papers that had spread out across the floor. Files were stacked beside Geraldine’s desk. There was even a small pile on her chair. He turned and beamed at her, the hair sticking up on top of his head no longer striking her as comical, but intensely irritating.

  ‘Good morning.’

  The cheerful greeting grated on her foul mood.

  ‘Most people would have asked before putting stuff on my chair,’ she snapped.

  Nick looked surprised. He half opened his mouth as though about to reply, then turned away.

  ‘You weren’t here,’ he said, his tone frosty.

  Geraldine looked pointedly at her watch.

  ‘It’s not even nine. I’m hardly late. It would have been courteous to wait until I arrived before spreading your papers around.’

  ‘This is because of DS Haley, gossiping behind my back, isn’t it?’ he demanded unexpectedly.

  His face had tautened with repressed fury, but his voice was steady.

  ‘Sam Haley. She’s been spreading stories about me, hasn’t she? What has she been saying?’ He scowled. ‘I never should have let it go, that first time, when she gave me a roasting for a careless remark. Ever since then she’s been nothing but trouble.’

  Geraldine was suddenly sick of the whole place. As if the stress and pressure of a murder investigation wasn’t bad enough, she now had to share an office with an irate colleague who was making an increasingly poor job of concealing his hostility towards her sergeant. It didn’t help to know that Nick’s grumbling was a knee-jerk response to her own bad temper. Much as she valued her job, she sometimes felt there must be more to life than the pursuit of those who ended it for others. But she knew she could never do anything else.

  CHAPTER 41

  Geraldine had been in the job far too long to be surprised by anything that came up, so she didn’t question being called to the scene when a body was pulled out of the canal near Highbury. It wasn’t immediately apparent how this victim was related to her current murder investigation. As she drove to the canal she couldn’t help worrying that the body was that of a dark-haired woman whose DNA matched that found on Patrick. Her concern was irrational; there was no reason why the body in the river should be the witness they were seeking.

  They needed to find the unknown witness urgently. Without an opportunity to question her, they might never work out Patrick’s movements on the day he was killed. If that was the case, the identity of his killer might forever remain a mystery. They had all been quietly hopeful that questioning the woman who had been with Patrick on the day he died would help them to work out what had happened. But although the DNA sample gave them a profile, it remained worthless without a viable match.

  It was barely light when Geraldine reached the canal, and early enough to be cold. She thrust her hands into the pockets of her thin grey jacket, pulling it more tightly around her as she walked along the deserted canal path. A fine mist lay on the waste ground alongside the water, lending the scene an eerie atmosphere which was intensified by the forensic tent looming ahead, a vast apparition dimly visible through the haze. As she approached, the silence was disturbed by a muted murmur of voices punctuated by an occasional shout.

  ‘Over here!’

  ‘Get a move on with that tape!’

  ‘Watch out!’

  In keeping with the surreal quality of the scene, a tall dark figure materialised as abruptly as if he had stepped out from the wings of a stage. Already the sun was beginning to shine weakly through clouds, burning off the mist. Geraldine held up her warrant card, and the uniformed officer blocking her path stepped aside with a barely perceptible nod.

  ‘Morning. He’s in there. They only pulled him out of the water about half an hour ago, poor old sod. It’s a bad business alright, leastways for him. The pathologist’s with him now.’

  Geraldine returned his greeting with a perfunctory ‘Good morning constable,’ and hurried on towards the tent, reassured to learn that the victim wasn’t their missing female witness.

  Her fingers numb with cold, she fumbled as she donned her contamination suit, white face mask and blue gloves. Finally she approached the opening to the tent. Pausing outside to pull on her overshoes, she ducked her head to enter and blinked in the bright artificial lighting that had been rigged up inside. The dead body was lying on the ground, half concealed by the pathologist who was kneeling beside it, gently probing discoloured flesh with delicate gloved fingers. The victim’s drenched coat, shirt and vest had been neatly ripped open to reveal his mottled wrinkled skin. Gazing down at the dead man’s flesh, Geraldine felt like a voyeur intruding on an intensely private scene. The body was childlike; pitiful.

  The pathologist twisted round on his heels and she recognised Miles Fellows. He smiled wearily up at her before clambering to his feet to tower over her.

  ‘Hi there, Geraldine.’

  She nodded wordlessly, caught up in the suppressed excitement of her first viewing of a victim. She tried to focus on a factual analysis of the data in front of her, but was unable to distance herself from an instinctive response to the raw presence of death, as though her emotional reaction to George’s corpse had relaxed the self-control she had previously shown in similar situations.

  Grey and shrivelled, the body looked shrunken, almost impossibly small, like a wizened child.

  ‘Did he drown?’ she asked, wondering why her presence had been requested at the scene.

  ‘I don’t think so. I can’t be sure until I’ve had a chance to examine his lungs but I’d say he was dead when he fell in the water.’

  ‘Did he fall or could he have been pushed?’ Geraldine enquired automatically, although she was still puzzled as to why she had been summoned.

  Miles heaved a loud sigh.

  ‘It’s impossible to say how he ended up in the water. But I can tell you he’s been in the water all night.’

  ‘How many hours are we talking about, exactly?’

  ‘I’d say he’s been in the water for at least twelve hours.’

  ‘Since yesterday evening then?’

  ‘Sometime yesterday evening, yes.’

  Geraldine took a step closer, her eyes fixed on the dead man.

  ‘So if he didn’t drown, how did he die?’

  But she already knew the answer.

  Miles pointed at a large purple area of bruising on the dead man’s left temple surrounding a deep laceration.

  ‘He was hit on the side of the head, here.’

  ‘The skin’s broken. Could he have knocked himself when he fell in the water?’ Geraldine asked, as a matter of form.

  She didn’t need Miles to point out the nasty mash of bloodless flesh where the victim’s genitals should have been.

  ‘What about DNA?�
�� she asked. ‘Is there any sign of female DNA on this body?’

  Miles shook his head.

  ‘There’s no evidence of any contact, as far as I can tell. The water’s affected him of course, but apart from the injuries to his head and genitals, he looks reasonably intact.’

  Looking down at the withered and bloated corpse, Geraldine wasn’t sure she would have chosen those words to describe the body.

  ‘I might find something more for you when I get a proper look at him, but he doesn’t appear to have put up much of a struggle. I’d guess he was taken by surprise. The killer’s been more careful this time.’

  Geraldine stared down at the dead man. Even with swollen features and distended torso, the body was still recognisably that of an old man. He appeared to have been small and although it was difficult to tell, he gave an impression of frailty.

  ‘Maybe this victim was just easier to deal with,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t look like he would’ve put up much resistance.’

  ‘Yes, the joints are severely arthritic and he wasn’t exactly what you’d call robust.’

  He pointed to the victim’s spindly legs.

  ‘He would have been easy to overpower.’

  Having seen more cadavers than she could readily call to mind, Geraldine was taken aback to feel her eyes begin to water. She couldn’t help wondering whether the dead old man had a wife and children, anyone to mourn the violent death of this diminutive human being, or if he had lived on his own. Like her. On balance she wasn’t disturbed to discover that a victim could still touch her emotions after all her experience with death; nevertheless she turned her face away from the young pathologist. Some things were best kept private.

  CHAPTER 42

  ‘Will you tell him or shall I?’ Reg shook his head and gestured wearily towards her.

  His tall figure looked slightly bowed and there were grey creases under his eyes she had never noticed before.

  ‘You can have that pleasure, Geraldine.’

  ‘You never thought it was him anyway, did you?’ Sam asked when the detective chief inspector had left the Major Incident Room.

  The question sounded like an accusation.

  ‘No, but –’

  Geraldine didn’t finish the sentence. They were all dismayed that a third murder had been committed while Guy was being held in the custody suite. Under normal circumstances they wouldn’t have been able to keep Guy in custody past Thursday night without a formal charge. The detective chief inspector had been jumping through hoops to extend the period they could hold him for questioning, while a team of officers had been tied up investigating the wrong man. And all the time the killer had also been busy, pursuing his dreadful business

  *

  The heavy door swung open. Its shadow moved slowly across the grimy floor. Guy suppressed a shudder. His rage had given way to exhaustion with the effort of keeping himself together. It wouldn’t do to show his alarm. Far better to tough it out and act as though he felt aggrieved, like any innocent man would do. It was an effort to keep his temper under control. Shouting only succeeded in making them even more smugly assured of his guilt. It was insane. Everyone he knew lost their temper sometimes. It didn’t make them all murderers.

  ‘What now?’ he asked.

  He made no move to stir from the bunk where he was sitting, shoulders hunched forward, hands dangling between his knees.

  ‘Mr Barrett, you’re free to go.’

  Still he sat without moving.

  ‘You’re free to go, Mr Barrett,’ the inspector repeated. ‘You can go home now.’

  She smiled at him.

  ‘You mean – that’s it? I can go?’

  For an instant he didn’t believe it. He thought it was a trick to catch him off guard. Then it crossed his mind that he ought to make a stink about wrongful arrest or something, but he couldn’t help returning her smile as he stood up and stretched his legs.

  The relief as he strode out of the police station in his own shoes, his wallet back in his pocket, was like nothing Guy had ever experienced before. Every day of his life he had been free, but he had never before appreciated the joy of simply walking along the street. He had checked his cash and cards before leaving the station. It was all there. He was free, the sun was shining, and he had close on fifty quid in his pocket. Although he hadn’t been banged up for long, he felt as though he had been released back into the world after an absence of weeks, or even months. It reminded him of his first game of football after a long childhood illness. He whistled at an attractive girl who passed him on the street, short red skirt swinging with the rolling motion of her butt. He was free and life was full of possibilities. And he knew exactly where he was heading.

  It took Guy a few attempts before he managed to fit his key in the lock and open the door. He staggered along the narrow hallway to the toilet, eventually flinging himself onto his bed to savour the familiar tangy odour of the sheets. He fell asleep almost immediately. It was eight o’clock when he opened his eyes, groggy with alcohol and sleep. At first he thought it was morning and he had been woken by his alarm. It took him a few seconds to realise it was the evening, and his phone had disturbed his sleep. With a groan he turned on his side and waited for it to stop. It was Amy calling, and he didn’t intend to have anything more to do with her. After all her protestations of love her behaviour had been unforgivable. She had tried to manoeuvre her way out of trouble by using him as a scapegoat. He wouldn’t put it past her to have deliberately set him up. She might have been planning to kill her old man all along and blame it on him. He had seen a film where that had happened. He couldn’t remember the ending, but no doubt the dupe had taken the rap for the conniving woman. Amy was clever enough to do that, and he had been stupid enough to fall for it. At twenty-three, he should have known better.

  The phone stopped and he breathed a sigh, stretching out in bed, enjoying the comfort. After a moment the phone rang again. And again. Finally he caved in and answered it.

  ‘Guy? Guy? Oh thank God.’

  Amy sounded hysterical. The neediness that Guy had once found endearing now infuriated him.

  ‘Where are you? Are you alright?’

  ‘No thanks to you.’

  His voice sounded slurred with sleep or alcohol, or both.

  ‘I need to be with you,’ she gasped, her voice choked with sobs. ‘Come over, please. I’m all on my own.’

  She broke down.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ he yelled into the phone.

  He was startled by the force of his own fury. He hadn’t realised quite how angry and disappointed he had been with her.

  ‘No, no, you don’t understand. I’m all on my own here. My poor Mitzi…’

  For a second he was confused, listening to her babbling incoherently. She was crying so hard that he could barely make any sense of anything she said; something about her dog. He couldn’t have cared less about her stupid dog, or her.

  ‘She’s gone, she’s gone,’ she kept repeating.

  Clearly she was more upset about losing her bloody dog than about the death of her husband. He wondered how she would react if anything happened to him, once she tired of his attentions.

  ‘Get off my case, you bitch. Don’t call me again. Don’t ever call me again.’

  He hung up and chucked the phone on the bed. Generally useless at remembering what anyone told him, he couldn’t forget what the inspector had said. Silently he mouthed the words to himself.

  ‘Mrs Henshaw doesn’t see things as you do … Amy Henshaw made a statement accusing you of murdering her husband.’

  A moment later the phone started its shrill summons again. Guy rolled out of bed clutching it.

  ‘It’s over between us. Get the message and stay the fuck out of my life. I don’t know what the hell I was doing with you in the first place. Leave me alone you sad old cow!’

  Switching the phone off and throwing it across the room, he rolled over and went back to sleep.

  CHAPTER 43


  Like Sam, the sergeant Geraldine had worked with in Kent had been repulsed by corpses, but Ian had made a far better job of covering up his discomfort. Even so, he had frequently paled when confronted with a cadaver and had even on occasion rushed from the room when the victim’s appearance was particularly gruesome. Geraldine smiled as she thought about her ex-colleague.

  ‘I don’t know what’s so funny,’ Sam grumbled.

  Accustomed to her colleague’s irritable mood when they were about to view a body, Geraldine no longer made any attempt to distract her young colleague by talking in the car on the way to the morgue.

  Geraldine had never understood how she retained her own composure so easily, but she had always viewed dead bodies as no more than pieces of evidence in the jigsaw of a case. As her first detective inspector had impressed upon her, in a murder enquiry the dead were vital. Several officers had exchanged smiles at his inept turn of phrase.

  ‘Is something amusing you, Geraldine?’ he had demanded, turning on her like a predator.

  ‘No, sir.’

  An arrogant man, patronising towards his team, he had taken every opportunity to undermine the female officers in particular.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to pass out on us,’ he had said sharply, the first time he and Geraldine visited the morgue together. ‘We’ve got no room for weakness here.’

  Concealing her indignation, she had entered the examination room determined not to react to the body. To display even a flicker of an eyelid might be interpreted as a sign of feminine weakness. But she had felt only curiosity on seeing the corpse.