Cameron Park must have been impressive once – back when this was an exclusive neighbourhood. A manicured landscape of oak, elder and ash; rhododendron bushes with their gleaming leaves; beds of flowers and shrubs; a duck pond; and a bandstand with a paved area around it for dancing… Now it was a rest home for weeds and litter. A shopping trolley stuck out of the long grass, nose up, one wheel missing, empty crisp packets caught in its metal grille. The rhododendrons were huge sprawling masses, their leaves trembling in the rain, the ground beneath them thick with shadow.
Three blue plastic marquees had been erected in the undergrowth, one – the largest – next to a dirty-yellow digger and a long trench gouged through a barbwire patch of brambles. The second was beside the crumbling bandstand, the third just visible behind one of those massive rhododendrons.
Flickering light came from inside two of the tents – crime scene photography casting the silhouettes of kneeling figures against the plastic walls.
A voice boomed through the rain: ‘I don’t care – get it bloody sorted!’
Dr McDonald flinched.
A prick in a grey Markie’s suit with matching overcoat marched out of the tent by the bandstand, carrying a brolly and a stack of forms. High forehead, close-cropped hair like a Kiwi fruit, long nose, not much going on in the chin department. ‘Amateurs…’
A uniformed PC scurried out after him.
The prick slapped the wodge of paper against the PC’s chest, then turned his back on the poor sod, leaving her in the rain while he pulled out a phone and made a call.
She stared at the back of his head for a moment, stuck up two fingers, then stomped off down the path towards us. Muttering all the way.
I nodded at her. ‘Julie.’
‘Guv.’ PC Wilson jerked her chin in my direction. Rain drummed on the rim of her bowler, a blonde ponytail drooping and damp at the back. Her eyes were two tiny slits, mouth working on something nasty. She didn’t stop. ‘I swear to God, I’m going to swing for that sheep-shagging bastard.’
‘The boss about?’
She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, in the direction of the bandstand, as she passed us. ‘Comes down here acting like we all fell off the fucking Thick Wagon.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Swing for him!’
Dr McDonald peered at me through her rain-speckled glasses. ‘Is it always like this, I mean I enjoy a bit of team-based horseplay as much as the next psychologist, but it does feel as if… Ash?’
I set off again, making for the bandstand. It looked ancient: the woodwork crumbling and saggy – boards missing in the cladding, half the roof gone. Swirly bits of cast iron formed decorative flourishes between the bloated pillars, the metal pitted and stained with rust.
‘Ash?’ She was back again, doing a weird hop-skip thing until her feet were in step with mine. Left, right, left, right. ‘Is there anything I should know about before we interact with your team, I mean I’ve never met any of them and it’s going to be in an enclosed space and you know I’m not good under social pressure and you’re the only one here I know, so—’
‘Why don’t you let me do the talking, then? Just until you feel more comfortable joining in.’ Which would have the added bonus of shutting her up for a bit.
The blue plastic marquee next to the bandstand was about the size of a double garage, with ‘PROPERTY OF SPSA SCENES EXAMINATION BRANCH – OLDCASTLE – TENT C’ stencilled in white along the side.
The prick was still on the phone, wandering up and down, kicking at tufts of yellowed grass. But as we got within spitting distance he looked up, narrowed his eyes. ‘Hold on…’ He stuck the mobile against his chest. ‘Where the hell have you been? Shift started three hours ago.’
Yeah, because God forbid he went for more than thirty seconds without making sure everyone knew what a cock he was.
I left it a couple of beats, letting the silence get nice and uncomfortable. Then flared my nostrils, as if I could smell something shitty. ‘Dr McDonald, this is Sergeant Smith. He’s new.’
‘I asked you a question, Constable.’
‘Hmmm…’ A pair of Transit vans were parked beside the tent, a police minibus – complete with riot shielding – sitting behind them. A couple of liveried Land Rovers. No sign of a big black Porsche Cayenne. ‘Fiscal been?’
A finger jabbed into my chest.
‘I don’t care how you used to do things before I got here, Constable, but right here, right now, you answer your superior officer when he asks you a question.’
Dr McDonald cleared her throat, but kept her mouth shut. For a change.
I stared at the finger, then up at the prick. ‘You’ve got till I count to three.’
Smith flinched back a couple of steps. ‘Are you threatening me?’ Then he squared his shoulders, brought his chin up. ‘Are you that desperate to get hauled up on a charge, Constable?’
I smiled. Why not? It’d be five, maybe six minutes before someone bothered to pull us apart. Probably all stand around placing bets. Fight! Fight! Fight! Five minutes: plenty of time to batter the living shite out of the stuck-up little bastard. I clenched my fists. The knuckles groaned in protest. But it’d be worth it.
He stepped forwards—
A voice behind me: ‘Guv?’ An Oldcastle accent that sounded as if it was being squeezed down a blocked nose: Rhona. She shuffled round, into view.
The bags under her eyes were the only colour on her face. She had her jacket draped over one shoulder, even though it was pouring down and cold enough to make her breath steam. Ancient sweat stains had bleached her navy shirt light blue around the armpits. Straw-blonde hair pulled back in a frizzy ponytail. She curled her top lip in a sort of twitchy grimace, exposing a set of beige teeth in an expanse of pale gum. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Guv. You got a minute?’
DS Smith hung his head, one hand massaging his temples. ‘What?’
But Rhona wasn’t looking at him, she was looking at me. ‘The boss needs you.’
Smith squared his shoulders. ‘I’ll be there in—’
‘Oh, sorry, Sergeant Smith, didn’t see you there.’ Rhona flashed her pale gums again, then pointed at me. ‘I was talking to…’
Smith’s chin came up, grinding the words out between his teeth. ‘In a professional police force we do not refer to detective constables as “Guv”, do I make myself clear?’
Rhona just smiled at him for a minute. Then back to me. ‘Anyway, Guv, if you can pop inside, that’d be great.’
Chapter 6
The SOC tent trembled, rain turning the blue plastic into a million little drums. Inside it was almost loud enough to drown out the diesel generator in the corner – powering the lighting rigs spread around the scene on thick-legged tripods. The large tent had been split into three areas: the first was for suiting-up-and-signing-in, with a line of standard blue-and-white ‘Police’ tape separating it from everything else. The rest of the space was grass and weeds, with the burial site secured within a cordon of bright-yellow ‘CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS’ tape towards the back wall.
It was an open trench, about the size of a double bed, surrounded by kneeling figures – all dressed in white oversuits – carefully trowelling mud and stones into plastic crates as the flicker and whine of the photographer’s digital camera captured everything for posterity.
Bones poked up through the dark earth.
Please don’t be Rebecca. Be anyone else but her…
‘…and gross insubordination.’ DS Smith pulled his shoulders back, nose stuck in the air, one arm out – pointing at me with a trembling finger. ‘DCI Weber, I must insist—’
‘Veeber, it’s pronounced, Veeber. Veeee-Ber. Sandy, we’ve been over this.’ Detective Chief Inspector Weber tugged at the ends of his stripy scarf. He must have run the clippers over himself that morning, because there was a faint dusting of short brown hairs on the shoulders of his tweed jacket – trying to hide the fact there wasn’t much left
on his head. Just a fringe around the sides and a single island in the middle, surrounded by a moat of shiny skin. His beard was the same length, as if he’d started at the top of his head and forgotten to stop. He straightened a pair of black-rimmed NHS-style glasses. Then sighed. ‘Well, I suppose with any transfer there’s always going to be a period of adjustment; you’re bound to settle in sooner or later.’
Pink bloomed on Smith’s cheekbones. ‘But, sir, I—’
‘No,’ DCI Weber held up a hand, ‘don’t blame yourself. I’m sure once the team gets to know you, you’ll get on like my grandmother in a bratwurst factory.’
I tried not to smile, I really did.
Smith folded his arms. ‘I see. That’s the way it is, is it? Fine.’
Poor baby.
Weber looked past Smith’s shoulder. ‘What have you got, Matt?’
A figure in full SOC suit was lumbering across the car park towards us, carrying a plastic crate with a mound of evidence bags in it. ‘Mmmphnn-fmmmmnnnn-nnnmmph.’
He plonked the crate on the damp grass and stretched, making grunting noises, one hand in the small of his back. Then hauled off his facemask, exposing a round sweaty slab of flesh with a little cupid’s bow of a mouth. ‘Fuck me, it’s hot in these things.’ He nodded towards the trench. ‘Our forensic archaeologist’s sodded off for lunch, so we’ve finally got the poor cow uncovered. You want to take a look before we cart her off to Teaboy’s lair? Indian Jones’ll be back in twenty minutes – if she’s not out of here by then we’ll still be pissing about at bloody midnight.’
Weber raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think Professor Twining would really appreciate being called—’
‘Fuckim.’ Matt sniffed. ‘You coming or what?’
Someone tugged at my sleeve.
It was Dr McDonald, her voice so quiet I had to bend down to hear it. ‘Ask them if I can see the body.’
It was like having a six-year-old again. I turned my back on Smith. ‘Can we tag along?’
Weber fiddled with his scarf. ‘I don’t see why not. Just…’ He frowned at the psychologist. ‘Sorry, who is this?’
I did the introductions. Dr McDonald only managed a sickly smile and a little wave.
Weber nodded. ‘Ah, good. For a minute there I thought your Katie had grown a bit since last time I saw her. That probably wouldn’t have been appropriate. Right, suit up everyone.’ He paused, then patted Rhona on the shoulder. ‘Do me a favour and find out how they’re getting on in Tent B, would you?’
‘Oh…’ She drooped a little. ‘Yes, Boss.’ Rhona slouched to the exit, paused on the threshold to stare back at Dr McDonald struggling her way into a SOC oversuit that looked two sizes too big, then slipped out into the rain.
Suited and booted, we followed Matt back to the open trench. It was about three feet deep, the soil dark as tar, streaked through with veins of milky coffee. They’d set up a grid of yellow string, segmenting the burial site into fourteen-inch squares.
A skeleton lay in the middle of the grid, bones the colour of dried blood.
Something fizzed at the base of my throat, then down my aching chest and gravel-filled stomach, making my knees lock. Mouth bone dry. A high-pitched whine swirling in my ears.
Please don’t be Rebecca…
Inside the SOC suit, my shirt clung to my clammy back like a cold wet hand.
Please don’t be Rebecca…
The remains lay on their side, left arm draped across the ribcage, knees bent double so the feet were under the pelvis. The spine ended in a ragged-edged vertebrae, just above the collarbone – the smooth dome of the skull poked out of the dark earth in the gap between the ribcage and the pelvis.
Dr McDonald put a hand on my arm, and I flinched. Turned it into a cough. Nothing to see here. Everything’s fine.
She leaned forwards – standing on the lip of the trench, peering in at the remains. Then back up at me. She’d put the safety goggles on over her own glasses, the lenses already starting to mist up. Dr McDonald stepped away from the edge and tugged at my sleeve again, keeping her voice almost too low to hear. ‘It’s Lauren Burges, she was abducted seven years ago.’
Thank God. I closed my eyes. Let my breath hiss out into the facemask. Not Rebecca. Thank you, God.
I passed on the information. Everyone stared at me.
DS Smith snorted. ‘What, are you psychic now? I think we might just wait for the DNA results before we go flying off on—’
‘Don’t speak shite.’ Matt hopped down into the trench, moving his blue plastic bootees through the yellow-string grid like an overweight ballet dancer. ‘DNA? Be sod all left. See that?’ He pointed at a scrap of black plastic sticking out of the soil by the body. ‘He wrapped her in bin-bags.’
Smith stiffened. ‘What’s that got to do with—’
‘Mr DNA likes it cool and dry. Stick your dead girl in a bin-bag, and she’ll rot away, making lots of nasty heat and lots of icky moisture: all trapped inside. Mr DNA hates that: goes through him like a paedo in a nursery.’ Matt knelt by the side of the body and gently eased the skull out of the ground, then lowered it into a clear plastic evidence bag. ‘We might scrape some DNA from the tooth pulp cavity, but after seven years I doubt it. Got more chance getting a blowjob off the pope.’
‘I don’t appreciate your—’
‘Course, on the plus side: he wrapped her in bin-bags.’
‘You just said—’
‘Like little hoovers made of static electricity, they are. Should get some fibres if we’re lucky.’ Matt cradled the skull in the hollow of his elbow, filling in the form printed on the evidence bag. ‘And before you ask, our wee skeleton’s that colour ’cause of iron and aluminium elemental staining. This whole area’s hoaching with old red sandstone mudstones.’ He popped the top back on his pen. ‘Any other basic science lessons you’re needing while I’m here?’
Smith actually trembled. ‘You – don’t – ever – speak – to me – like – that!’
A shrug. ‘Not my fault you’re thick.’
‘THICK?’ The word bellowed out from behind the facemask.
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Weber stared up at the rain-drummed roof.
‘How dare you call—’
‘ENOUGH!’ Weber’s hands were claws, turned to the sky. ‘Both of you.’
Silence.
‘Sorry, Boss.’ Matt went back to the remains.
Smith stared after him. ‘I was only—’
‘Sergeant, why don’t you just…’ Deep breath. ‘Why don’t you go check up on the door-to-doors? I need to speak with DC Henderson here.’
‘But…’
‘Off you go. And remember: Veeber – “Veeeeee-Ber”.’
Smith didn’t move for a moment, then his shoulders went back, head up. ‘Sir.’ He turned and marched towards the changing area, arms swinging as if he was on parade.
I cranked the heating up full and treadled the accelerator. The minibus was parked beside Tent C, its diesel engine rattling away as the interior slowly got up to a reasonable temperature. Filthy carpet, stained upholstery, and the smell of stale chips and cheesy feet. Sitting in the passenger seat, Dr McDonald fiddled with the air vent, doing her best not to make eye contact with Weber.
He was in the next row back, leaning forwards, arms draped over the seat. ‘I told you to play nice with the new boy.’ He took his glasses off and polished them on a hanky, before blowing his nose. ‘What happened to your face?’
I shrugged, tried for a smile. ‘Can we not just get rid of him? Palm him off on Traffic, or something?’
‘Dr McDonald, I want to assure you that my team isn’t normally quite this…’ He wiggled a hand.
‘Dysfunctional?’ A blush spread across her cheeks. She’d finally plucked up the nerve to say something loud enough to hear.
‘Actually, I was going to say, “high spirited”, but I suppose either works.’ Weber blew his nose again, a honking snork
that ended with a sniff and a wipe. ‘What makes you think the remains are Lauren Burges?’
Dr McDonald popped open her satchel and rummaged inside – it looked as if the thing was full of files, folders, and a big silver laptop. She pulled out a red plastic sleeve with Lauren’s name written on a white sticker in careful block capitals, then flipped through the contents before producing an A4 blow-up of a homemade birthday card. The number five was scratched into the top-left corner. She handed it to Weber and he made a little hissing noise.
‘What?’
He passed it over and I couldn’t breathe. The girl in the photo … every inch of skin was smeared with blood, head shaved, a gaping hole torn in her belly, coils of glistening grey draped between her slashed thighs like vile bunting. Her mouth hung open, the duct-tape gag gone, gaps where the front teeth had been torn out.
This was two years before the bastard took Rebecca.
And just like that the minibus was too hot.
‘Ash?’
I looked up. Weber was handing me another blow-up: number six. The girl’s neck ended in a jagged stump. The Birthday Boy had stuffed her head inside her abdomen – her dead eyes gazed out at the camera. ‘I don’t…’ I coughed, swallowed it down, tasting the bile: rancid and bitter in my throat. I gave the copies back to Dr McDonald.
She frowned down at the most recent card. ‘Lauren was abducted on the twentieth of October, seven years ago, from the Kings Mall shopping centre in Hammersmith, London. Security camera footage puts her in the car park at three fifteen.’ Dr McDonald returned everything to her bag. ‘The Metropolitan Police went through every piece of CCTV footage for a mile around the shopping centre, did the usual appeals… Nothing. She was recorded as a missing person until the card arrived a year later. Of course seven years ago there was no proof he’d actually killed Amber O’Neil or Hannah Kelly: just tied them to a chair and taken a couple of photographs. He wasn’t even called the Birthday Boy till the Daily Mail came up with the name a year later.’
‘Right, yes.’ Weber gave his nose another seeing to. ‘Well, while I’m sure you’re right, we’re going to have to hold off issuing any identification until we’ve checked Lauren Burges’s dental records… Assuming we find enough teeth.’ He folded his hanky into a neat square. ‘Speaking of which: Hannah Kelly.’
Birthdays for the Dead Page 5