Scream: A DCI Mark Lapslie Investigation

by Nigel McCrery

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘So where is she?’ Lapslie snapped. His patience wasn’t just wearing thin: it was threadbare.

  ‘Not sure, Sir,’ the voice on the other end of the phone said. ‘She was meant to be here this morning for a meeting with the IPCC. She phoned ahead to book an interview suite. The man from the IPCC turned up, but he wasn’t happy when she didn’t arrive. Very curt, he was. We tried phoning her mobile, but it kept on going to voicemail.’

  ‘I know,’ Lapslie said. ‘It’s doing the same to me.’ His breath hissed out between his teeth. ‘Can you do something for me? Check the system for any car crashes that have been reported. She’s driving a Vauxhall Tigra.’ He gave the licence number. ‘It might not be registered to her,’ he added, remembering that Dom McGinley had bought it for her, ‘but that’s what she’s driving.’

  ‘Will do, Sir. I’ll ring you back.’

  Lapslie slipped the phone back into his pocket and gazed around the Chelmsford Police HQ car park. He’d arranged to meet Emma there that afternoon so they could drive out to Tolla Limited and take a look around at the field site, and it wasn’t like her to be late. Emma Bradbury was a lot of things – sarcastic, edgy, intensely private and prone to living life on the edge – but she wasn’t unreliable. He’d known her turn up for work so crippled by a hangover that she had to head off every ten minutes to throw up, but he didn’t say anything and neither did she, and she still managed a good day’s work. He remembered when she broke her wrist chasing a murder suspect and still got all the reports typed into the police computer system before heading off to hospital to have it set. She had a high pain threshold and a low tolerance for bullshit, and that’s why he liked working with her.

  ‘What have you done with my woman?’ a voice growled from behind him. He turned, knowing already who he was going to see.

  Dom McGinley’s body blocked the light like a black bear standing on its hind legs. And, Lapslie had to remind himself, he was just as prone to violence.

  McGinley was wearing black jeans and a black leather jacket. Underneath the jacket was a tailored shirt in purple and violet stripes. His chest-hair tufted up through the open neck of the shirt. On the one hand that shirt was in the worst taste Lapslie had seen for years; on the other hand the lapel, the French cuffs and the lack of a pocket suggested it was a classy brand: T. M. Levin, perhaps, or Charles Tyrwhitt. McGinley was a living, walking contradiction in terms.

  ‘You like the shirt?’ McGinley growled.

  ‘I was just remembering,’ Lapslie replied mildly, ‘that when the Clerkenwell Crime Syndicate used to dish out beatings, back in the seventies, they used to send their victims away with a fresh shirt on the basis that they’d got blood all over the one they’d been wearing. Didn’t bother getting them medical treatment for the broken bones and internal bleeding, but at least they worried about their sartorial condition.’

  McGinley grunted. ‘If you heard that the Clerkenwell Crime Syndicate were going to give you a new shirt, you knew what it meant,’ he said. ‘The phrase entered the language. Our language. Gave a boost to the tailoring profession in the East End, let’s face it. There’s five shirtmakers I know of who would have gone out of business if not for them. So – where’s my bird?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lapslie admitted. ‘I assumed she was with you.’

  ‘She didn’t come back last night. I thought she was probably staying over in Canvey Island again, but I tried her mobile, and I tried the hotel. The mobile didn’t answer and the hotel didn’t have a booking for her.’ His face had the texture of a brick wall that had been exposed to the elements, but there was an unexpected concern in his eyes. Lapslie had never seen that expression before, and frankly McGinley’s face looked unaccustomed to it.

  Lapslie opened his mouth to say that he was sure she would turn up somewhere, but his mobile rang. He pulled it from his pocket. ‘Lapslie.’

  ‘Sir, it’s Sergeant Murrell at Canvey Island. You asked about Emma Bradbury’s car?’

  ‘I did.’ Lapslie’s heart felt like it was calcifying in his chest. He could hear the tone of voice beneath Murrell’s professionalism.

  ‘It was reported abandoned last night. The local police put a “Police Aware” sticker on the windscreen, but they couldn’t trace the owner.’

  ‘Crashed?’ Lapslie asked urgently, aware that McGinley’s entire body had tensed beside him. His body was so dark and so heavy that light seemed to curve into him and get lost.

  ‘No damage reported, apart from a flat tyre.’

  ‘No sign of … of a body?’

  ‘No sign at all.’

  ‘Any signs of a struggle?’

  ‘Nothing, Sir. Apart from the car itself, there’s nothing to say that she’d ever been there.’

  ‘Okay.’ Lapslie’s mind was racing. ‘Get a CSI team out there straight away. I want that car and the surrounding area gone through with a fine-toothed comb. If there’s a flake of dandruff on the ground that might belong to her abductor, I want it picked up and processed. If he spat anywhere, I want the spittle checked for DNA and blood type. I want everything.’

  ‘Sir …’ Murrell’s voice was apologetic. ‘Perhaps she just walked off to find a garage when she realised she had a flat, found they were closed and booked herself into a hotel or a B&B nearby. There’s actually no evidence of foul play.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Lapslie snapped. ‘The man who took Catriona Dooley and all the others, the man who kidnapped the entire Baillie family three days ago – he’s got her. Let me know if you get anything.’

  Stopping the call, he turned to McGinley. The man was as still and as massive as a mountain, but Lapslie could sense the imminent landslide.

  ‘She’s been taken by the killer we’re hunting,’ he said. ‘I need to report this to Rouse. You … do what you need to do. Ask questions. Find out who has her.’

  ‘The victims,’ McGinley said. ‘Give me their names. I’ll see if anyone’s heard anything.’

  ‘Catriona Dooley, Lorraine Gregory, Alison Traff, David Cave and the Baillie family: Mark, Sara, Corwin and Duncan.’

  ‘Catriona Dooley?’ McGinley mused. ‘Out Maldon way?’

  Lapslie nodded.

  ‘I used to work with her dad,’ McGinley mused. ‘Fucking good bloke.’ He turned to go, then turned back towards Lapslie. ‘As her boss, I hold you responsible,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Whatever happens to her, I will make sure it happens to you. Whether that’s an incentive, a punishment or an act of revenge depends on what condition you find her in.’

  ‘Just when I thought we were friends,’ Lapslie murmured.

  ‘I’m like the last of the dinosaurs,’ McGinley said, turning and walking way. ‘All my friends are dead, and I’m surrounded by the descendants of rats and shrews.’

  Lapslie looked up at the bulk of the Police HQ. Part of him wanted to get in his car and drive to where Emma’s Tigra had been abandoned, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. The CSIs would do their work whether he was there or not, and he had to notify the senior management that one of their officers had been kidnapped, and was on a path that led to murder.

  He entered the building and went straight up to DCS Rouse’s office.

  ‘He’s busy,’ said his PA as Lapslie stormed past.

  ‘Isn’t he always?’ Lapslie called over his shoulder.

  Opening the door, he found Rouse sitting at the meeting table with a tall, cadaverous man wearing a pinstripe suit that hung off him like the clothes of a scarecrow. His hair was black, and brushed straight back off a bulbous forehead.

  ‘Ah,’ Rouse said without missing a beat, ‘Mark. This is Mr Grimshawe, from the Independent Police Complaints Commission. He was just telling me that Sergeant Bradbury didn’t show up for her interview yesterday. Mr Grimshawe is quite perturbed.’

  ‘Emma’s gone missing,’ Lapslie said, still holding the door handle. ‘Her car’s been found abandoned. I think she’s been taken by the person we bel
ieve is responsible for this wave of kidnappings and killings.’

  Rouse’s eyes narrowed. Lapslie would have liked to think he was considering how best to mobilise his resources to get one of his people back intact, but he knew that the DCS was more likely to be thinking about the public relations fallout. To be fair, Lapslie thought, perhaps he could think about both things at once. He was a senior police officer, after all.

  ‘You’ve initiated an investigation,’ Rouse said, more of a statement than a question. ‘So there are two parallel strands of activity. The investigation into her disappearance may throw up a lead, or the investigation into the previous disappearances and murders might provide a pointer. Either way, the situation is covered.’

  ‘I should get back,’ Lapslie said. ‘With Emma gone I need to make sure that both investigations have appropriate leadership.’

  ‘Actually,’ Rouse said, glancing at Grimshawe, ‘that’s what we were talking about. Following the apparent suicide of the Stottart girl, I’m removing you from the case.’

  Time seemed to slow down and stop in the vicinity of Rouse’s office. Although Lapslie could hear Patricia, the PA, using the photocopier outside, he could also see motes of dust swirling in slow motion in the beam of early morning sunlight that speared across Rouse’s office from the window to the far wall. Rouse and Grimshawe seemed frozen, fixed in time, staring at him. Even his heart appeared to have become suspended.

  ‘Removing me?’ he repeated, checking the words as he said them, turning them over in his mind and looking for ambiguities or alternative meanings. And finding none.

  ‘Yes, Mark. I can’t have you involved in an investigation where you are potentially implicated in the death of one of the persons of interest. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said blankly. Grimshawe’s face grinned at him like a Halloween skull. ‘Who are you putting in charge?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Dain Morritt. You remember him?’

  ‘I do indeed.’

  ‘He’s a good copper, Mark.’

  ‘And I’m comforted to know that when Emma’s dead and mutilated body is found,’ Lapslie said without changing his tone of voice, ‘we can be sure that all proper procedures were followed during the investigation.’

  ‘Mark …’ There was a warning note in Rouse’s voice.

  ‘I presume the IPCC investigation will continue as before, Sir?’

  ‘It will. And Mr Grimshawe is keen to talk to you.’

  ‘I’m sure he is, Sir.’ Rouse’s face was unreadable. Even back when they were both constables, he had been the best poker player in the station house. What did Rouse want him to do? What did he expect him to do? He could resign, and avoid the entire IPCC investigation, but if he did that he had no chance of getting to Emma through official channels. He’d be out on his own, with only Dom McGinley to fall back on. But if he stayed he’d be remote from the investigation, unable to influence it. Except that he’d still have his warrant card, and he could still phone up Jane Catherall and Sean Burrows and have them talk to him.

  ‘I’m afraid I have a hospital appointment today,’ he said eventually, looking at the man from the IPCC. ‘I’ll call you later to set up an appointment.’

  Before either Rouse or Grimshawe could react, he’d closed the door and was walking rapidly away.

  As he walked, waiting all the time for Rouse to yell down the corridor at him to come back, he kept running through what little evidence they had. Apart from some dubious profiling and the genetically modified pollen found at the church, there was nothing. The pollen was the place to start. In Emma’s absence, he still needed to go and see the Tolla field site.

  His mobile rang. He pulled it from his jacket on the move, heading for the lifts that would take him out of the building.

  ‘Lapslie.’

  ‘Mark? It’s Jane Catherall.’

  ‘Jane, I can’t talk at the moment. It’s Emma. She’s gone missing. I think the killer has her.’

  Strangely, telling Murrell and McGinley and Rouse about it earlier hadn’t affected him, but telling Jane, who was the closest thing to a friend he had next to Charlotte, suddenly brought it home. He felt his throat close up and his eyes prickle, and had to force back a choke.

  ‘I know,’ she said soberly. ‘Sean Burrows phoned me. He’s going over her car now. He said to tell you that he hadn’t found anything more than was at the other crime scenes.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  ‘But that wasn’t why I phoned you. I’ve been conducting the autopsy on Tamara Stottart, and there’s something you should see.’

  ‘I’m off the case, Jane. Rouse has pulled me off.’

  ‘And what are you going to do?’ she asked urgently. ‘Go home? Put your feet up? Have a glass of wine and listen to a CD? No, you’re going to go after the man who has Emma captive, aren’t you?’

  He smiled, despite the situation and despite himself. ‘How did you know?’

  She made a ‘tch sound. ‘Don’t you realise, you stupid man – that’s why you get such incredible loyalty from the people around you? We know – we all know – that if any one of us was in trouble then you would do whatever it takes to get us out. That’s why we stand by you.’ She paused. ‘It’s not your personal charm and charisma, you know.’

  He pushed down on the wave of gratitude and warmth that threatened to swamp him, in the same way that he had pushed down on the sob that had threatened to overwhelm him earlier. ‘Do you want me to come over?’

  ‘As soon as you can, please.’

  His mobile beeped at him as Jane Catherall’s call disconnected, telling him that someone else had tried to get in touch while he was on the phone and had left a voicemail message. He checked the ‘Missed Calls’ tab. It was Rouse, probably demanding he come back. He’d check it later, once he was far enough away.

  The drive to the mortuary didn’t occupy his mind anywhere near enough. He knew the route so well that his thoughts were free to wander, and inevitably they kept coming back to Emma, kidnapped and at the mercy of an insane murderer. He remembered what had been done to the other victims – Lorraine Gregory, Alison Traff, David Cave and Catriona Dooley. The first one slowly pulled apart, the second one stuck through with skewers again and again, the third one with his skin stripped off and the fourth cut to pieces with wires. What was in store for Emma? And how long could she last?

  His hands suddenly spasmed on the steering wheel, nearly sending him into the path of an oncoming truck. He swerved out of the way, getting a blast from the truck driver’s horn. He could feel a tightness in his chest, a panicky sensation of breathlessness. His hands were shaking. His heart was hammering. What if he were too late? What if she died?

  Pulling up at the mortuary, he had to spend a minute with his eyes closed, getting his breathing under control. He would get Emma back. He had to.

  The ever-reliable Dan let him in and escorted him to Jane Catherall’s laboratory. She was dressed in a white lab coat, and was standing over a metal autopsy table with a gutter and a thick metal rim running around the edge. His stomach turned over when he saw what was on the table. It was Tamara Stottart’s extensively burned body.

  On the grass in front of Charlotte’s flat, the body had appeared to be almost completely carbonised, at least on the surface. Now, seeing it under the stark lighting of Jane Catherall’s mortuary, Lapslie could see that there were areas on the backs of her legs and the insides of her forearms that were blistered rather than burned, and that the cuts Jane had made during the course of her autopsy had revealed vivid red flesh just beneath the blackened areas.

  ‘Ah, Mark. I won’t keep you more than a few moments. Come over here.’

  Reluctantly, he complied. He could feel an acidic burning at the back of his throat as his stomach contents rebelled at the sight and the smell of the girl’s body.

  ‘Obvious fourth degree burns covering at least seventy-five per cent of the surface area,’ Jane murmured. ‘As expected,
the histological tests indicate that the cause of death was respiratory failure, and I have discovered no other wounds on the body that might have caused her death, but look here.’

  She indicated the inside of Tamara’s left forearm. Lapslie leaned closer. It looked as if there were cuts along the skin. The heat and the blistering had reddened them, making them more visible.

  ‘Self-harm?’ Lapslie asked.

  ‘I don’t think so. Look at the other arm.’

  Lapslie moved around the table. The right forearm had similar marks.

  ‘So she self-harmed symmetrically. You’re losing me.’

  ‘You’re not thinking properly,’ Jane said critically. ‘Typically, self-harmers tend to concentrate on the arm opposite to the one with which they are dominant. Right-handed girls – and they are usually girls, by the way – will cut into their left arms, and left-handed girls will cut into their right arms. The scarring here is symmetrical, indicating to me that the cuts were inflicted by somebody else.’

  Lapslie straightened up, his mind a whirl of thoughts. ‘She was tortured?’

  ‘She was brutalised, at the very least, and over a long period of time, if the scarring is to be believed. There is evidence of scars over scars which themselves lie over scars.’

  ‘So even if she did commit suicide, it could well have been more to escape the torture being inflicted on her than because she thought I was harassing her.’

  ‘That would be a reasonable assumption, based on the evidence.’

  ‘And that torture is likely to have been inflicted by a family member?’

  ‘Statistically,’ Jane agreed, ‘most physical abuse occurs within the family.’

  ‘Stephen Stottart,’ Lapslie muttered. ‘It keeps coming back to him.’ He reached out to squeeze Jane Catherall’s shoulder. ‘Thanks, Jane.’

  ‘Bring her back. Just … bring her back.’