The Jigsaw Man

by Nadine Matheson

  ‘This weather is shit,’ Pellacia said as he pulled at the collar of his shirt. ‘I feel like I’m sitting in an oven.’

  ‘Your tie isn’t straight.’ Henley resisted the temptation to fix it. She watched him adjust it.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Much.’

  They stood at the top of the stairs watching officers walk in and out of the building. The last place that either of them wanted to be was sitting in front of their boss, Chief Superintendent James Larsen, while he played the blame game. Pellacia pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

  ‘Don’t you think that you’re smoking too much?’ Henley asked.

  ‘I didn’t think that you cared.’

  Henley stopped herself from saying, ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘We wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for Callum O’Brien.’ Pellacia replied as he lit his cigarette. ‘The man is a fucking snake. Rhimes would still be here if it wasn’t for O’Brien poking around the SCU and accusing him of corruption. I don’t trust him and I don’t trust Larsen.’

  Larsen and Rhimes always had a contentious relationship and as a result, Larsen was openly hostile towards the SCU. Henley shared the team’s belief that Larsen was responsible for the corruption allegations against Rhimes that had been fed to Callum O’Brien and that Larsen was the reason why Rhimes was six feet underground.

  From his slick grey hair to his polished cufflinks, Larsen looked the part. But Henley and Pellacia knew he was full of shit. They sat there, listening to him threaten to slash the SCU’s budget and transfer their investigation to the National Crime Agency.

  ‘I thought that the reason you demanded to see us was because of the article in the Standard,’ Pellacia said when Larsen finally shut up.

  ‘I’ll come to that. My main concern is that in less than a week three people have been brutally murdered and their remains have been scattered all over south-east London.’

  ‘With all due respect,’ Pellacia snarled, ‘you can’t apply a textbook approach to the investigation of a serial crime. By their very nature—’

  ‘Officer Pellacia, the last thing that I need is an amateur psychology lecture from you.’

  ‘Sir,’ Henley said as she subtly placed a hand on Pellacia’s leg. She felt his body rise with tension and then subside. ‘We’re dedicated to completing this investigation and finding this murderer. We’re not sitting idly by and waiting for the bodies to fall.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Inspector Henley, dedication isn’t enough,’ said Larsen. ‘The pressing issue for me is whether or not I can continue to justify the existence of the SCU and the leaking of information to the press… well, it’s a struggle.’

  Pellacia’s voice sounded unusual and terse as he interrupted. ‘There is no leak.’

  ‘The SCU is a very tight unit and we’ve always done our job,’ said Henley. ‘It’s a very risky strategy and it’s one that will come at a cost if you take us off this investigation.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Larsen replied. ‘The SCU is not indispensable. You need to be aware that I’m keeping a very close eye on the unit, and if the current investigation seems too much for the SCU to handle, then the NCA have the capacity to deal with it.’

  The pub was a good fifteen-minute walk away from New Scotland Yard and not one of the drinking haunts of their fellow officers.

  ‘The man is an absolute tool.’ Pellacia drummed his debit card against the edge of the bar while the young barman poured his pint. ‘Are you sure that you don’t want a double?’

  ‘Go on then.’ Henley knew better than to challenge Pellacia with something as innocent as alcohol measures when he was in this sort of mood and she couldn’t pretend that she didn’t need it. ‘I’ll get a table.’

  ‘He hasn’t got a clue how an actual police investigation works.’ Pellacia handed Henley her drink and they walked towards a small table in the back of the pub. They sat down and said nothing for a short while as they drank.

  ‘How are you coping?’ Pellacia asked.

  ‘Coping?’

  ‘Sorry. Wrong choice of words. I just wanted to… I’m always going to worry about you.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about me.’ She hated the feeling that she was being micromanaged, but she couldn’t admit the truth. That the past forty-eight hours had drained her. That she hadn’t been sleeping. ‘There’s no coping. I’m doing my job.’

  ‘I know that you are. I wasn’t patronising you. We haven’t spoken properly about you seeing Olivier.’

  ‘And there isn’t any need to. It was work. We’re going to have to issue a statement.’ Henley didn’t want to spend any time talking about herself. ‘Our own statement.’

  ‘The sooner the better. I don’t want the NCA getting their hands on this investigation. I’ll go back to the Yard and speak to the press office.’

  ‘Are you going to mention the body in the churchyard?’

  ‘I think that it would be a mistake not to mention him.’

  ‘It would also be a mistake to link him to Kennedy and Zoe right now, but with that article—’ Henley put down her drink. ‘What? Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘You keep calling her by her first name?’

  ‘Who do I keep calling—’

  ‘Zoe.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You don’t do that with Kennedy, but with her. It’s always her first name. As if you’re attached to her. I understand why, but it’s not helpful.’

  ‘You’re reading too much into it.’

  ‘I think that you forget that I know you. You can get so obsessed with a case that it becomes an extension of you.’

  ‘You need to stop talking to Mark.’

  ‘I just worry about you.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about me.’

  ‘I’ll always worry about you.’ Pellacia clasped Henley’s hand.

  ‘Don’t.’ Henley pulled her hand quickly, knocking over her glass. She mopped up the vodka and tonic with a napkin.

  ‘I’ll get you another.’

  ‘No, don’t bother. I’m going to go.’

  ‘Anj—’

  ‘Stephen, please. I can’t do this. I know what you want. I’m not an idiot and I can’t do this.’

  ‘You act as if there isn’t anything between us.’

  ‘Past tense. Was. There was something between us. For crying out loud. I got married, I had a baby. I had to have a life outside of this job.’

  ‘And even after all of that, you came back to me. Don’t—’

  ‘Stephen, that was a mistake. My mum had just died. You knew that I wasn’t myself. Christ, everyone knew that I wasn’t—’

  ‘Are you saying that I took advantage of you?’

  Henley was grateful for her mobile phone choosing that moment to ring.

  ‘Linh.’

  ‘Your man in the churchyard.’ Linh’s voice was echoing as though she was standing in a tunnel.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘The advanced stage of decomposition made it a bit difficult, but I found it. A double cross and a crescent on the left thigh.’

  Henley exhaled.

  ‘But that’s not all. The arm that the River Police fished out of the Thames this morning? I can’t confirm ID because the fish and whatever else is in the river has eaten away at the fingertips, but I’ve managed to retrieve ridge detail from the underside. I’ve also taken Kennedy out of the freezer and I would say that the arm is a fit.’

  ‘Did you find anything else?’

  Linh sighed. ‘Crook of the elbow. A double cross and a crescent.’

  Chapter 23

  Ramouter scanned the empty office. It was the first time that he had been alone in the SCU since he’d joined the team almost a week ago. He hadn’t had a chance to breathe.

  Ramouter typed the name on Olivier’s visitors’ register into Google. Chance Blaine. Helpfully, the prison had provided a copy of the passport that Blaine had used as ID.

  ‘That’s
odd,’ Ramouter said out loud. Blaine’s passport confirmed that he was twenty-nine years old. A sparkling millennial with no social media presence whatsoever. He didn’t even appear on the electoral register. Ramouter searched Blaine’s information in the Police National Computer. He had previous convictions for possession of cannabis, drunk and disorderly earlier in the year, and perverting the course of justice in January 2015. He lived on Ha-Ha Road in Woolwich. A mere two miles from Belmarsh prison and four miles from where Daniel Kennedy’s body parts were found on the river. Alarm bells rang in Ramouter’s head when he saw that Blaine had an alias. Joseph McGrath.

  This was a man with something to hide.

  As Ramouter repeated his searches, this time for Joseph McGrath, he didn’t notice Eastwood and Ezra walk into the room.

  ‘Oi. Ramouter,’ Ezra said, slamming his hands on Ramouter’s shoulders and causing him to jump. ‘While the bosses are away, getting a bollocking, we’ve decided to go to the pub. And you’re buying.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ Ramouter said, too distracted by what was on his screen to fully register Ezra’s words. Ramouter quickly copied and pasted the link to the article and emailed it to Henley.

  NQ SOLICITOR JAILED FOR PERVERTING THE COURSE OF JUSTICE

  Farha Winter, 12 June 2018

  A newly qualified solicitor of north London firm Osbourne Barrett Solicitors, who was part of the legal team representing the convicted serial killer Peter Olivier, was today sentenced to fourteen months in prison.

  Joseph McGrath, 24, from Dalston, London, was found guilty of perverting the course of justice on 22 May 2018. The verdict followed a three-day trial at Southwark Crown Court.

  In September 2017, McGrath had contacted members of the jury on the Peter Olivier murder trial and offered them money in return for a not guilty verdict. CCTV footage showed McGrath following a jury member onto a bus as she made her way home. McGrath maintained his innocence and gave evidence that it was a case of mistaken identity.

  In her sentencing remarks, Her Honour Judge Henry said the matter, ‘Struck at the very root of our system of justice.’ She added that as a qualified solicitor – albeit an inexperienced one – McGrath must have known that seeking to influence members of a jury was thoroughly inappropriate and showed a blatant disregard for our judicial system. ‘A solicitor must uphold the rule of law and administration of justice. Sadly, in this case, Mr McGrath, you have failed in those duties and the sentence must be one of immediate custody.’

  Joseph McGrath has been struck off the roll of solicitors over his conviction and ordered to pay £19,786 in costs.

  Chapter 24

  ‘So, Ramouter, how are you finding it so far?’ Stanford asked.

  Ramouter took a sip of his beer, giving himself a few seconds to think of a satisfactory answer for Stanford, who was staring at him intently. He had sensed that Stanford resented the fact that Henley had been taken away from him. ‘I’m learning a lot. I wasn’t expecting to be on such a big case so quickly. It’s a good thing for me that you’re away on this trial.’

  Stanford didn’t laugh.

  ‘Anyway,’ Ramouter continued. ‘I’m sure that I’ll be sent back to CID once this case is over or I’ve finished training. Whichever comes first, I suppose. So, how long have you been working with Henley?’

  ‘Almost ten years.’

  ‘But the SCU has only been running for six.’

  ‘We were together at the Murder Squad at Lewisham with Pellacia. Our old guv’nor asked us to join the unit, so we did.’

  ‘That was DCSI Rhimes, wasn’t it? The one who died, I heard that he—’

  ‘You heard what?’

  Ramouter shifted uncomfortably in his seat as Ezra Williams, Roxanne Eastwood and Stanford stared at him. Almost daring him to continue.

  ‘I mean there’s other stuff… Like I heard that he was under investigation when—’

  ‘You should leave it,’ Eastwood said with a clear warning in her eyes.

  ‘I was just—’

  ‘Leave it,’ Stanford said firmly. ‘It’s bad enough that Rhimes gassed himself to death in his garage. I suggest that you leave those rumours well enough alone.’

  Ezra stormed off.

  ‘Ezra and Rhimes were close,’ Eastwood explained. ‘He took Rhimes’ death badly.’

  A few minutes later Ezra returned to the table. Ramouter sat and drank his pint in silence for the next twenty minutes, listening to the others talk about officers he had never heard off and the latest rumours about the next set of budget cuts.

  ‘I heard that they’ve finally sold our building?’ said Eastwood, pushing aside her empty glass.

  ‘They’ve been saying that for the past three years and we’re still there. I keep telling you, they don’t care about us. My round, I think,’ said Stanford as he handed his debit card to Eastwood. ‘Would you like to do the honours?’

  Eastwood took the card and headed off to the bar. ‘You are such a lazy git.’

  ‘There’s something else I wanted to ask about,’ Ramouter said.

  ‘What did you want to ask?’ Stanford interrupted.

  ‘Olivier.’

  Stanford raised an eyebrow and Ezra leaned back in his chair.

  ‘What exactly do you want to know?’

  Ramouter heard the warning in Stanford’s voice but proceeded anyway:

  ‘I was wondering what happened afterwards. I mean, I’ve been going through the case files. Henley told me that Olivier was convicted of attempting to kill her, but then she was off work for ages—’

  ‘She had a baby,’ said Ezra.

  ‘I know that, but even after that, it’s like she just disappeared. Was she seconded somewhere? It seems a bit odd that after such a big case she would—’

  ‘That trainee detective mind of yours seems to be running overtime,’ Stanford said.

  Eastwood returned to their table, precariously carrying three pints and a gin and tonic in her hands.

  ‘What did I miss?’ she said.

  ‘Young Sherlock wants to know what happened to Henley after we caught Olivier.’

  ‘Not Olivier exactly,’ said Ramouter. ‘I only wanted to know what Henley was doing afterwards. I would ask her myself but—’

  ‘There is nothing to ask her,’ Eastwood said as Stanford shot her a look. The atmosphere had grown leaden and it had nothing to do with the football result. ‘If there’s anything that you want to know about Olivier’s case, and only the case, then you can ask me.’

  Ramouter knew that wasn’t an invitation. He knew when he was being warned off.

  ‘Your only concern, son, is what you’re working on now,’ said Stanford. ‘Now drink your pint.’

  Ramouter did what he was told. If anything, the way that Eastwood, Ezra and Stanford had gathered the wagons around Henley had made him even more curious. He was pretty sure that if he was to ask them again about Rhimes that they would be more willing to answer his questions instead of talking about Henley.

  ‘Her ears must have been burning,’ said Stanford as his phone began to vibrate across the table. ‘All right, boss… Yeah, we’re at the Tavern… Are you… Oh, I see. OK. I’ll pass it on.’

  ‘Something happened?’ asked Eastwood.

  ‘Yeah, it has.’ Stanford put his phone inside his jacket pocket. ‘The boss wants us back at the SCU now.’

  Chapter 25

  Henley flicked through the photographs from the smartboard on her laptop. Displaced limbs pressed against aged stone, cheap plastic and faded crisp bags. Dark blond hair matted with dried blood lay flat against a white scalp. A wedding band. Someone’s husband, maybe someone’s father. Henley placed her own hands on the desk, waiting for the tremor. It didn’t come, but her stomach was fluttering. She zoomed in on a photo of the head. The area where the ears had been cut off was speckled with the husks of maggots that had turned into flies.

  ‘As you can see,’ said Henley, ‘our killer has cut off Churchyard’s ears.’

 
‘His ears?’ Eastwood walked up to the smartboard and traced the section where the ears should have been. ‘Was that it? Just his ears?’

  ‘Yep. Nothing else is missing. Our killer has also taken Kennedy’s tongue and Zoe’s eyes, but all three have been dismembered and all three have had a double cross and crescent cut into their skin.’

  ‘Why would someone go to all the effort of cutting up a body and dumping it, but keep such random body parts?’ Eastwood returned to her seat.

  ‘A trophy. It’s not unheard of. Remember that Marques case seven years ago? He would pick up men outside gay nightclubs, take them home, kill them and remove their penises.’

  Pellacia grimaced at the memory. ‘He kept them in a container in his bedside table, but cutting off someone’s dick is very different than removing someone’s eyes, ears and tongue. What are you going to do with all of that? Keep them in the freezer next to the frozen peas?’

  Henley didn’t laugh.

  ‘Olivier didn’t keep trophies,’ said Ramouter.

  ‘It was never about trophies with Olivier.’ Henley closed down the photographs. ‘He wasn’t interested in collecting mementos. He wanted to show us what he could do. But the double cross and crescent were personal to him. Our symbolism expert suggested that the crescent represented disillusionment and the double cross was betrayal.’

  ‘Olivier was just fucked up if you ask me,’ Stanford muttered.

  ‘Thank you for that, Stanford. Right now, we have to establish how our killer found out about the symbols. I’m not prepared to accept that it’s a coincidence.’

  ‘I agree with you,’ said Pellacia. ‘But why remove Churchyard’s ears, Kennedy’s tongue and Darego’s eyes?’

  ‘Three wise monkeys.’ Ramouter’s voice sang out from where he was standing in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water.

  ‘What are you banging on about, trainee?’ asked Stanford.

  ‘Three wise monkeys. It’s a proverb. See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil. You must know? One monkey is covering its ears, the other its mouth, the—’