The Fourth Victim

by John Mead

  ‘You OK running on your own, at this time of night?’ the man asked trying to sound gallant and without ulterior motive.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ she replied, without looking at him and increasing her speed, glad to hear his footfalls receding. That briefest of flirtations had cheered her up and she turned for home, reflecting on how shallow she could be. She enjoyed being a woman and felt at ease in her body and she was amused by receiving admiring glances from the opposite sex, providing it went no further. Although she was under no illusion about her own sex: women, as the brunette had proven, could be arseholes as well as men. In that there was more equality between the sexes then most people appreciated.

  Joanne Hensley lay sleepless, her mind numb from going over all the ‘what ifs’. As if any of them could change things, could change the reality she didn’t want. Her emotions rasped to nothing, her tears drained, she lay now existing only in the ticking of the seconds of the endless night.

  As Malcolm Swift pulled into the Leman Street nick he reflected on the changing nature of the ground he worked. Gentrification of London was sweeping, north and east, affordable housing was disappearing to the extent that most Met officers now lived outside the M25. The glass high-rise in Canter Way opposite the police station gave views, from the top half, of the Thames and the Tower of London. Whilst not far from the bottom of Leman Street was the oldest theatre in London, a renovated music hall, a time capsule half buried in modern, upscale apartments; just round the corner from Swedenborg Gardens where Lynsey Hensley had been unlawfully killed. For some reason it passed through his mind how the mother could afford to own a small terraced house by the canal but then realised it had probably been bought years ago when she was married, before house prices in the area soared. Of course gentrification didn’t stop crime: wealthy youngsters were targeted by muggers, demand for recreational drugs increased and gangs could commute in and out of the area on the excellent transport links. Such was life.

  Swift was pleased at slipping into the incident room unnoticed, it was a hive of activity, Ray had done a good job in staffing the place and he and Matthew seemed engrossed in mulling over some notes and files. There was no sign of Julie nor either of the two CID constables, even the probationer constable was absent, making tea he hoped.

  ‘If you are here for an update I’m afraid it isn’t good,’ Merry informed his govenor, he’d been aware of Swift’s arrival but had finished listening to Ray, before turning and launching into an update without being asked. ‘The bullying the victim sustained in the past doesn’t seem to have carried over to the present, the leads we were running down on that score have come to nothing. The postmortem report has revealed nothing new and toxicology hasn’t found anything in her blood, not even traces of the pill as her mother thought. The prints that forensics found on the plastic bag aren’t in the system, there’s trace evidence on the victim but we have nothing to match it against. We are also having problems tracking people in and out of the eastern end of the park. Fortunately it seems to have been a quiet time of day and so far we only have the one oddity.’

  ‘Oddity?’ Swift asked, pulling up a seat and wondering if he dared ask for a drink, there seemed to be a scattering of Costa to go cups across various desks and piled in bins but no sign of any on-site facility, the problem with using a semi-defunct station, he thought.

  ‘Apart from the two witnesses and the victim, there is only one person we can find who seems to have been nearby at the time of the attack. Of course, as I’ve said, surveillance isn’t one hundred per cent and the wider the time frame the harder it is to track ins and outs but for the key period fifteen minutes either side of when the victim was found then the only person unaccounted for is the woman in the headscarf.’ Swift looked as if he was about to say something but Merry went on before he could speak. ‘Ray thinks she might have seen something and been too scared to come forward, hence her dithering at the east entrance. He’s had Gillian Porter, the probationer from the local team, print off an image, it is only a hazy beige and grey smudge on a black background but it’s the best she could pull off, even with enhancement. I’ve sent her out to do some specific canvassing in the area just to see what we can get but it’s a long shot.’

  ‘Where’s Julie?’

  ‘Out with the local CID officers looking up the usual suspects and informants to see if they can pick up on anything,’ Merry explained, wondering if he should ask one of the administrative staff to get Swift a drink, but dismissing the idea as somewhat feudal given that Malcolm hadn’t mentioned it.

  ‘So you are focused on a mugging gone wrong?’ Swift asked, feeling even more guilty about holding on to the file he was about to pass on.

  ‘It’s all we have at the moment,’ Merry acknowledged the inevitable, sensing the dead end fast approaching.

  ‘It can’t be ruled out, so don’t lose sight of that line of inquiry,’ Swift drew breath, not wanting any hint of the uncertainty he felt to come through in his voice, ‘but you should look through this case. There’s more detail in the system but this gives a good outline. There are some obvious links with the Hensley killing, although they are somewhat circumstantial and given that an arrest had already been made it didn’t initially seem relevant. However, I now think you should give it some consideration, look at it with fresh eyes, so to speak.’

  Rosen and Merry shared more than an eye for detail, they were both able to keep a deadpan expression on their face as their govenor admitted a mistake. The fact that Rosen had been telling Merry about the case they had just been handed before Swift’s arrival helped them keep any hint of surprise well hidden.

  6

  ‘It’s a Hawksmoor, you know, the church,’ Merry stated as he and Julie entered St George’s Gardens.

  ‘Oh,’ Lukula sounded unimpressed, glancing up at the ornately designed but plainly rendered building, she had noticed and wondered about the name – St George’s in the East Church – on the gate as they parked.

  ‘He worked with Wren and his churches are considered some of the finest in London,’ Matthew went on, leading them past the church and into the gardens, which had once been the original cemetery.

  ‘Who’s Wren?’ Lukula asked, straight-faced.

  ‘You are joking, aren’t you?’ Merry glanced at Julie, it might have been his wife’s influence but every family outing contained a number of learning points, and he rather enjoyed history, wishing he had studied it at university instead of economics.

  ‘Isn’t he the guy who built the Gherkin?’ she asked, grinning, she was starting to see subtler shades to what she had once thought of as his monotone personality.

  ‘He’d have probably approved the design,’ Merry smiled, recognising he was having his leg pulled. ‘My point is that this is something of a tourist attraction. Admittedly not the most popular in London, not another St Paul’s, but a steady stream of visitors. Plus there is a pub in the north east corner of the park, a swimming pool in the south east and a playground halfway between the two. Add to that the through traffic, all the usual dog walkers, people out for a stroll and it’s a relatively busy place, just ten minutes walk or so from where Lynsey Hensley was killed.’

  ‘Why did the govenor hold back on telling you about this case? Given the proximity and the links you should have been informed sooner,’ Lukula cut across the thread of the conversation, Swift was an officer she looked up to, respected, his apparent playing politics with their case rankled her.

  ‘She was attacked at this spot,’ Merry said taking a seat on a metal and wood bench, it was cooler in the shadows of a tree and he pulled his suit jacket closer, wondering if he should have brought his coat from the car, ‘three and a half weeks ago. There was blood splatter on the ground and the end of the bench there. She was small and could have been easily lifted, picked up and dumped in the bushes behind us.’ Lukula followed her boss’s retelling of the events as she stood a few steps to one
side in the warmth of the spring sun, visualising the scene as he described it. ‘Her body was found by a retired couple out walking their dog, the normally placid animal flipped and dragged them over.’

  ‘Must have been a shock,’ Julie observed, looking around and noticing how quiet the spot was despite a steady stream of visitors to the church and people walking in the distance.

  ‘Blunt force trauma to the rear of her head possibly from a hammer, though not ruling out other blunt instruments. Her phone was missing, but otherwise no signs of it being a mugging. She had quite a record and was easily identified as Jody Grahame. No family, she’d lived rough on and off since she was thirteen. She was into drugs, prostitution, theft, had been in and out of foster homes since she was five and was finally given a short custodial sentence at seventeen. She had only just turned eighteen and was in supported accommodation for young offenders. Apparently she was doing well, despite mental health problems, until two days prior to her attack when she went missing.’

  ‘As I understand it,’ Julie hoped to speed up the account, taking a seat on the bench next to Merry, ‘Paul made an arrest the following day, some small-time pusher.’

  ‘They found his fingerprints on a packet of drugs, opioids, in her pocket. CCTV had shown him as being in the area, although mainly over by the swimming pool. At first he denied everything, but on being cautioned and having spoken to his solicitor he gave a statement, confessing to selling her drugs, then getting into an argument with her and pushing her over. She hits her head on the bench, he checks her pulse, realises she’s dead, so dumps her body and runs.’

  ‘Checks her pulse?’ Lukula’s tone could not be more disbelieving.

  ‘Paul was equally suspicious so didn’t charge him straight off but got an extension and left him to stew a couple of days. Apart from the fingerprint and his confession there was nothing to tie the pusher, forgive the pun,’ – Merry looked sheepish if pleased at his quip on the word pusher – ‘to Jody’s killing. She had undoubtedly bought the drugs from him and toxicology showed she had taken some a couple of hours previous. And, although there was blood splatter on the bench, nothing suggested the blow she received had happened as the pusher described.’

  ‘So what?’ Julie was starting to wonder if Merry was going to answer her question about their govenor.

  ‘Paul Baynard did some digging into the guy’s background, it wasn’t difficult as he was known to local CID, and it turns out he was in debt to some loan shark by the name of Trotsky,’ Merry explained, then paused, sitting back and taking in a lungful of the pleasant, cool, green air. He loved London for its architecture, history, frantic pace and peaceful pubs. Whilst its innumerable green spaces, large and small, added a much needed element of tranquility and the deception of clean air.

  ‘Trotsky?’

  ‘Apparently his real name and a very nasty piece of work. To cut a long story short, Paul eventually got the pusher, name of Nowak, to agree to testify against Trotsky in return for protection. In celebration Paul goes home, cleans his gutters and falls off the ladder, landing him in a hip cast. Working with CPS and local CID, the govenor publicly announces the pusher’s arrest but blurs what the actual charge is. Insinuating it is related to the manslaughter of Jody Grahame, as a cover story for holding him in protective custody, as no one wants Trotsky alerted to what is going on. At the same time he asks Ray to quietly reopen the Grahame case.’

  ‘So, why not inform us straight away, given the similarities between the cases?’

  ‘What can I tell you?’ Merry got up, intending to saunter around the gardens, ‘It was his call to make. This Trotsky guy is a real shit. He charges ten per cent per day, a hundred quid or so to tide you over until the end of the month quickly grows and each month it’s harder to pay off. You sell your car, TV, other valuables to get out from under, or he takes them off you at a greatly knocked down price. Miss a payment and it’s your wife or kids who take the beating, if the debt gets too big he will expect your wife or daughter to pay it off in kind. Basically, you end up selling your soul. The pusher, Nowak, used more of his product than he sold and had a gambling habit, his debt was pretty big and with no assets or family to pay it off he knew what was coming.’

  ‘A few brief minutes with a sledgehammer or acid that would put him in a care home for the rest of his life,’ Julie assumed. ‘I can see the appeal of prison.’

  ‘Getting Trotsky off the streets counted for more than finding the killer of a family-less, drug user,’ Merry shrugged at Lukula’s scowl, thinking she should know how these things worked. ‘Ray had drawn a blank and, at the govenor’s instigation, compared the two cases. The govenor may have dragged his feet more than he should but he’s really busy what with the stabbings,’ Lukula looked as if she was about to say something but Merry pushed on, ‘and with knife crime and terrorism overlapping that’s a whole world of shit to be involved in. Plus he would need to consult with CPS and those investigating Trotsky before acting. Ray had already started to brief me when the govenor passed it on. Now we are being proactive on the case inevitably the whole situation will get out and Trotsky will work out what is going on, time is not on the govenor’s side.’

  They continued to walk along, in silent contemplation, taking in the air much as others were doing as they passed round the other side of the church and returned to the car.

  ‘It is what it is,’ Lukula philosophically commented as she opened the driver’s side door, ‘and I have too much respect for the govenor to say he should have done things differently, but do you think it has made a difference, put us behind in some way?’

  ‘You know, I’m told you are the real deal. You were in the army in Helmand, line of fire and all,’ Merry obtusely responded.

  ‘I know,’ Julie snorted, knowing she had more experience of life than many her age and shouldn’t be so naive, but she had naturally high expectations and still hoped for perfection in a world built on chaos, ‘ “What ifs” count for nothing, it’s only the “what is” that’s important.’

  Swift had asked for a full briefing after lunch and Merry, with Rosen’s help, had gotten the incident room ready. Rosen’s team remained at their desks, Lukula had appropriated one of the few remaining ones while Gillian Porter sat at the other spare, as she had been working on reviewing CCTV footage all morning. The two DCs from local CID sat on chairs at the back of the room with DC Patricia Hayden, who had worked with Baynard and Rosen on the Grahame killing and was now also part of the core inquiry team. Swift walked in, with another smaller but burly man, just as Merry considered himself ready.

  ‘Afternoon everyone,’ Swift, after a nod at Merry, started the briefing. ‘This is Chief Inspector Consgrave, from the local CID. I’ve invited him to observe this briefing as he is in charge of a case that runs parallel to our investigation and, as we are also drawing on local resources for assistance, I thought it useful for him to be present.’ It was as much of an introduction to the team as Consgrave was going to get, no doubt Swift had already summarised things for him before they entered.

  ‘As you are all aware,’ Merry began confidently enough, he had a mental script prepared but was already wondering if he should have written some points down to stop himself wandering off topic. It was a trait that didn’t normally bother him but with an observer present he didn’t want to sound muddled, ‘we are now dealing with two cases. First we have Jody Grahame,’ he paused to point at the pictures of the young woman, four shots taken by the photographer from the scene, two face shots, a full body and one of the head wound. ‘Eighteen years old, mid-length blonde hair, though with coloured streaks, small build, she hardly looks her age. Attacked and killed in St George’s Gardens three and a half weeks ago, single blow blunt force injury to the rear of the head. Paul Baynard investigated and, from fingerprint evidence, arrested Joseph Nowak, small-time drug dealer.

  ‘Although Nowak confessed to manslaughter, subsequen
t investigation by Inspector Baynard, who’s now on longterm sick leave,’ – Merry and most of the team distinctly heard Swift hiss ‘Stupid arse fell off a ladder, I’ve always said DIY is too dangerous and should be left to the professionals,’ causing a cough covered laugh from Consgrave and smiles from others on the team – ‘and Sergeant Rosen assisted by Constable Hayden, has shown the confession to be false. Although Nowak, is now helping with other significant inquiries that DCI Consgrave leads on.

  ‘Lynsey Hensley, now our potential second victim,’ again he pointed to the pictures he had pinned up earlier, ‘was attacked the day before yesterday in Swedenborg Gardens, less than a fifteen minute walk from where Jody had been found. Lynsey was seventeen years old, looked older, was taller and fit, with short blonde hair. Again blunt force trauma to the head. With Jody it was a sideways swipe,’ Merry explained, demonstrating the action as he spoke, ‘possibly using a hammer though other weapons can’t be ruled out. Lynsey’s head wound came from a downward motion, almost certainly from a hammer, a standard size that can be bought in any DIY shop. Both blows were delivered with considerable force, both from behind, which suggests that someone was able to come up behind them unseen, remember Lynsey was out jogging at the time, or had managed to stop them and hit them as the girls moved away. Both victims were then dragged a few feet and dumped off the pathway, in Jody’s case more effectively in amongst some bushes, perhaps giving the attacker a slight advantage in getting away.’

  ‘Does the force of the blows or moving the victim rule out a female attacker,’ Hayden’s no-nonsense, smoker’s voice cut into Merry’s exposition. She was a long serving, experienced officer whom her colleagues described as ‘formidable and unswerving’ in her sense of duty but was not without her idiosyncrasies. She always introduced herself simply as Hayden as she hated being called by her first name: Patricia, after her abusive grandfather, Patrick.