by James Oswald
‘Didn’t come this way today, sir. Has the pathologist been? Any idea of a time of death?’ Even as I ask it, I know the question is stupid.
‘Not yet. He’s on his way, and I dare say he’ll tell you not to ask. We’re going to have to close this area up for forensics. You know this place though, so anything you can remember about it from your last visit will be useful.’
I look back down at the body, focusing beyond the bloody gash in his chest and the white flecks of broken rib and sternum showing through the gore. There’s more blood around his mouth, horribly reminiscent of Dan Jones. I don’t think this one’s had his bollocks cut off though, or he’d be completely naked. The dead grass and wet earth are trampled, used dog ends and other detritus strewn around much like in any open space in the city. Nothing looks very different from when I was here before. Except for the obvious.
‘Last time there were a half dozen or so addicts, but it was daytime. Bunch of do-gooders from the local church tipped up out of nowhere and took them off. They’ll be the ones called this in, most likely. You’d be better off talking to the local nick. They’ll know all the dealers and players in this area better than us.’
‘You might be surprised to know that we’ve already done that, Constable. We know how to carry out an investigation. This isn’t our first.’
It’s the most words I think I’ve ever heard DS Latham speak at once. I don’t bother turning to face him. I spent more than a decade in a private girls’ school; I understand sarcasm and how to deal with it.
‘I need everything you can remember about your last visit here, in a report. Soonest.’ Bain seems to be ignoring Latham too. ‘Karen can run you back to the station. Might as well get it done while the memory’s fresh, eh?’
So much for an evening in with a beer or two and some of Mrs Feltham’s curry. I take one last reluctant glance at the body on the grass, thrown out like so much garbage. Who would do that? Who is so confident they won’t be caught that they can leave so much evidence in plain sight?
It’s many hours later, Bain’s report written and filed, as I ride the bus home, and mull over the events of the day. I try not to convince myself that everyone is staring at me, although it doesn’t help that an abandoned copy of one of the free news sheets strewn across the seat opposite shouts the headline ‘Posh Cop Lashes Out!’ It’s folded over, so I can’t see any more of the photograph than what I assume is the top of my head, short cropped dark-red hair looking like I’ve been dragged backwards through a hedge. It’s dark outside so I can see my reflection well enough in the window. Probably time to pay a visit to the hairdresser, or maybe even shave my head and invest in a wig. What would I look like as a brunette? Could I get away with Charlotte’s long blonde hair? No, it would annoy the hell out of me.
Thinking of Charlotte reminds me that it’s not long now until the wedding, and the thought of getting dressed up fills me with dread. Sure, I’ve got something in a wardrobe that’ll do, and it’s amazing what a little bit of nail varnish can hide these days. But do I really want to spend a day with the kind of people who are going to be there? They’ll all know about me, what I did. Or worse, the version of what I did that the tabloids are spinning now. Christ, the tabloids. They’ll be there, of course. There’s nothing they love more than a big society wedding. Except possibly a big society wedding with a whiff of scandal about it. Knowing Charlotte she’s probably sold the photography rights to some gossip magazine too.
‘Hey. This is you, innit.’ A male voice breaks through my musing and I realise I’ve been staring out of the window at nothing. I check his reflection in the glass first, then turn my head slowly to face him. He must have got on at the last stop without my noticing, and now he’s sitting across the aisle from me, unfolded free newspaper in his lap. From the way he’s staring, I think he’s more of a nuisance than a threat. Older than me, maybe late forties, early fifties, he’s dressed in jeans, fleece over lumberjack shirt over T-shirt. Dull brown eyes, five-o’clock shadow on his chin and cheeks, hair cut with clippers to hide the grey coming through. I’d not give him a second thought if he hadn’t spoken.
‘Nah. Not me. Bin gettin’ that lots lately. See if I ever meet her I’ll give her a piece of my mind.’ I try to put on my best Estuary twang, but I can see he’s not buying it. Still, he gets the hint and goes back to reading the paper, unlike most of the men in this city.
He gets off at the next stop, one last look at me as he goes, leaving the paper behind. Another man, younger, picks it up and unfolds it. I can feel his eyes on me like there’s insects crawling over my skin. Lecherous insects. Doing my best to ignore him, I scan the street outside for any clues as to how much further there is to go. Still a good distance, but it’s not raining any more. As the bus slows for a set of lights, I get up, ping the button.
Nobody else gets off when I do. I watch the bus pull out and diesel away. This part of London’s far enough from the centre that it’s not too busy late at night, the street quiet. I shove my hands in my pockets for warmth, pull my hoodie over my head and set off on the walk home. There are small groups of smokers outside each of the noisy pubs I pass, but they barely notice me, and I begin to hope that I might get away with it. Home, door locked, maybe even that curry Mrs F promised, if her boys haven’t eaten it all. My stomach growls at the thought of it, too long since I last ate. Then I remember the body of the young man, thrown under the trees in the park like so much trash, and my hunger evaporates.
Who the hell would do such a thing? And why? Bad enough to kill someone, worse yet to mutilate them, take organs for whatever sick purpose I can’t even begin to imagine. But disposing of the victim like that? It makes no sense. There’s going to be forensic evidence all over it, surely? I’ve worked Organised Crime in this city long enough to know that a body can be disposed of with ridiculous ease. A skilled butcher can chop one up in minutes, be it a pig, a cow, or a human being. Sometimes the smaller parts turn up in unexpected places. Bins, washed up on the riverbank, in the stomachs of dead dogs. It’s not often there’s enough left to confirm an identity.
It’s about the same time as I remember this isn’t and never will be my case that I also begin to think I’m being followed. That deeply ingrained instinct has the hair on the back of my neck prickling. I’ve walked this street hundreds of times without incident, but usually during the day when the little shops are open and there’s people around. Normal people, going about their normal lives. Now it’s late at night and I’m not all that far from the park where the mutilated body was dumped. I’m even closer to the Danes Estate.
I hit the button on the next pedestrian crossing, taking the opportunity to glance around and spot what’s got me spooked. Too few cars driving on the road, and I can’t see any people closer than a couple of hundred metres away. Am I letting the events of the past few days get to me? Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.
Shaking my head at the stupidity of that kind of thinking, I hurry across the road as the little man turns green. It’s only as I reach the other side that I realise the mistake I’ve made.
I sense the punch a fraction before it connects, just enough time to drop and turn so that it misses the side of my head and instead grazes my shoulder. He’s come out of the shadows where one of the street lamps has broken, moving swiftly on silent feet. It’s not a killing blow, meant only to incapacitate. That’s small solace as the pain flashes in my arm.
My senses sharpen in the moment as the adrenaline kicks in, time slowing. I catch a glimpse of his face and think I recognise the younger man from the bus. Not a random mugging, then. He’s chosen his spot well, my would-be rapist. A dark narrow alley opens up just beyond the pedestrian crossing. It makes a short cut from the shops here to the estate, the perfect place to drag a semi-conscious woman. Given he’s made no attempt to hide his identity, I’ve no doubt that if he manages to get me in there, my best
chance of ever being found is in the guts of dead dogs.
‘Heard the posh ones like it rough.’ His voice is oddly high-pitched and nasal, his intention as ugly as he is. He lunges for me as he speaks, but I’ve anticipated that. I drop to the ground in a crouch and lash out with one foot. My boot catches him on the shin, forcing him back with a satisfying pig-squeal of pain.
‘You’ll pay for that, bitch.’ There’s a noise like steel on steel, and a wicked knife appears in his hand from nowhere. Christ, I hate knives. No easy way to protect yourself from them. I need to get away, back to the nearest crowd. He’s not about to give me the time, striding forward as I roll away and try to get back to my feet.
‘Gonna take my time with you. Enjoy myself.’ He’s full of himself, but his overconfidence works to my advantage. If he’d pressed his advantage while I was still on the ground, I’d stand no chance. As it is, he gives me enough time to stand and face him before he lunges forward, swinging the knife like a maniac.
I flinch backwards, twist to the side and feel the blade rip the fabric of my coat, a sharp sting of pain in my shoulder. We’re close enough that I might even be able to pivot, grab his wrist, get him on the ground, except that he’s too big and I’m off balance. It’s all I can do to keep my momentum, dance a little pirouette away from him as he stamps, turns and comes back for more. I take another step back, feel the edge of the pavement under one boot and have a mad idea all at the same time. A couple of cars are approaching, not that I expect either of them to come to the rescue. I keep my eye on the knife, weaving its unpredictable arc as he presses in on me, ready for the killing blow.
Everything happens in an instant. The attack comes, I feint away from the road and then step back into it and the oncoming traffic. He follows, the weight of his lunge carrying him forward, foot landing exactly where I’d hoped it would, right on the kerb. He yelps as he goes over on his ankle, crumpling to the ground, but it’s more surprise than pain. His boots will protect him from any serious damage. It gives me the time I need though. Ignoring the pain in my shoulder, I run out into the road.
The car’s nearly on me as I cross its path, arms wide and waving. Lucky for me the driver’s awake, and with a screech of brakes it stops with nothing to spare. A woman’s face stares at me from behind the wheel, eyes wide with shock. A blare of horn is the car behind, which has also screeched to a halt. In the distance I can see more cars heading this way, and the unmistakable outline of a bus.
‘The fuck is wrong with you?’ Her shout is loud enough to hear through the glass. I stand up straight, raise my hands.
‘Sorry. This guy’s trying to kill me.’ I point in the direction of the pavement, sure that any moment I’m going to have to leg it down the road. The woman’s gaze follows, at the same moment as the car behind toots its horn again and rushes past, engine screaming and its tyres letting out an angry chirp as it goes. Its male driver gives me a raised finger and an angry shout. I open my mouth to warn him, but he’s not paying attention to the road ahead. Too much in a hurry to care that there’s a man struggling to his feet at the edge of the road, unsteady on a recently turned ankle.
The noise of impact is far louder and far crunchier than I’d have expected it to be. The car wasn’t going that fast, but it was fast enough. My would-be attacker falls under its wheels with a scream that’s part terror, part pain, cut off all too suddenly. And then with a sickening double bump the car is past and speeding off down the road.
16
‘You certainly have a knack for buggering things up, Fairchild.’
I didn’t sleep much last night. It took hours for the adrenaline to wear off, and then I was left with the shock. I spent most of the night in the old armchair in my living room, nursing a mug of tea and listening to Karen Eve snoring on the sofa. My guardian angel, bless her. I thought she’d gone home, but not more than twenty minutes after I called in the incident, there she was. Took me back to my flat and insisted on staying just in case anyone else tried to have a go.
‘It’s OK, sir. I’m fine. He didn’t manage to hurt me much.’ The words slip out before I can stop them. Or maybe I just don’t care any more. I tense for DCI Bain’s angry retort, but he stares at me for a moment before slumping into his chair.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean . . .’ He rubs at his forehead rather than elucidating, and I can see how tired he is. I guess I’m not the only one who didn’t sleep a wink. ‘What’s the status on the bloke who attacked you?’
‘He’s dead, sir. Having your skull crushed under the wheels of a BMW SUV will do that.’ I don’t want to, but I hear that crunchy noise all over again, that scream cut horribly short.
‘I guess the driver did you a favour, then.’
‘Shame he didn’t stick around for me to thank him. We’ll get him soon enough though.’
‘You saw the number?’ Bain leans forward, pulls his laptop towards him as if he’s about to run it through the database. As it happens, I did get the number, but then forgot it in the jumble of other things going on.
‘Luckily for us the other driver had a dash cam. The footage is quite useful.’ And no doubt the part of it where I run into the road and wave my arms around like an idiot will make it on to some hilarious compilation video that’ll be shown at the station Christmas party. At least I’ll not be there to watch it.
‘Do we have a name for him, then? The man who attacked you?’ Bain pushes his laptop away again and slumps back into his chair. It’s a lot more comfortable than the one I’m perched on.
‘We do – Garry Chandler. He’s a serial sex offender. Just got let out of prison a month ago.’
Bain gives me a startled look. ‘Sex offender? I thought this was . . .’ He trails off, unsure what he thought it was.
‘The joys of having your face spread all over the tabloid papers. People think they’re entitled to a piece of you.’ I shudder at the thought of it.
‘So this was what? A rape attempt that went horribly wrong? Nothing to do with any ongoing investigations at all?’
‘I’m currently on suspension, sir. I’m not part of any ongoing investigations. Not in any official capacity.’
Bain’s expression is much like one an irate parent would give a child who denies stealing the chocolate despite having it smeared all over their face and hands. ‘Do I look like an idiot, Fairchild? I know you’ve been asking questions about the young boy, Jones. You could no more sit at home and do nothing like you’re supposed to than I could. Thought this might’ve been something to do with that. Might even have been a breakthrough, if you’d stirred up someone enough to come after you.’
That’s cold, even by Bain’s standards. I let it slide, although there is one point I can’t let go. Even if it’s none of my business.
‘About Jones, sir. Have you seen the doctor’s report on him? His tox screening results?’
Bain looks up at me suspiciously. ‘How would you even know about that?’
I shake my head. There’s no way to tell him without getting Maggie Jennings into trouble. ‘It’s not important, really. I was just wondering if it fitted with the other bodies. Was he given something to keep him alive while they . . . did that to him?’
‘It’s a line of enquiry, but you’re not on active duty right now, not part of this team. Best leave it to us, eh?’
I know better than to push the point. I can always ask someone else if I really need to know. ‘I was going to leave town for a bit, before yesterday’s attack. Spoke to Shepherd about it and she thought it was for the best. I can stay here, though, if Professional Standards want to talk to me about Chandler.’
‘They’ll need to at some point, but given your current media profile it might be better if you’re not somewhere you can be easily found. We can come to you.’ Bain closes down his laptop as he speaks, my somewhat mild dressing-down over.
‘I’ll let you know where I am, sir
. Just in case. And I’ll try to keep out of trouble.’
Bain’s sigh is barely audible as he stands up, but it’s there.
‘You do that, Fairchild.’
Any hope I might have had that the press would forget about me evaporates as the car turns the corner into my street. The road is partly blocked by television vans, and a mob of reporters are crowded around the base of the stairs that lead up to my floor.
‘Jesus. Is this what it’s like to be a celebrity?’ Karen pulls in to the side of the road before anyone notices us, kills the engine. ‘What do you want to do? I can call up a squad car, get them all moved on.’
‘I’m sure all my friends in uniform will be really happy about that.’ I unclip my seat belt, check the mirror to make sure nothing’s coming past, then open the door. ‘I’ll deal with them best I can. Stay here and call an ambulance if it’s needed.’
I meant it as a joke, but her worried expression makes me think I may have missed the mark. Closing the door on it, I shoulder my backpack, pull up the hood on my hoodie and set off towards the mêlée.
As I get closer, I realise the collected reporters and cameramen all have their backs to me, their focus on the concrete stairs. Closer still and I begin to make out the unmistakable voice of Mrs Feltham holding court to a rapt audience.
‘Shame on you all, pestering a poor girl who done nothin’ wrong. You want a story? I tell you a story. You can go see for yourselves just a short walk from here. You know how to walk, right? Well, just head down that way. Turn right at the lights and keep going. You’ll know you’re there when you see the bodies.’
I’ll say this much for Mrs F, she knows how to work a crowd. This lot are hooked, although how much of the footage will make the evening news is anyone’s guess.
‘Bodies? What bodies?’ someone asks.