'Bloody typical. Two months of muggings, people too scared to venture out and no bleeding sign of a copper. A kid dies, and you lot swarm all over Hackney.'
'Mr Blake, I'm with Special Operations. I only investigate murder cases.'
'Save it, ya daft twat.'
'No need for insults, Mr Blake. If you want to file a complaint, call the non-emergency line on one zero one.'
CHAPTER 7: FROM BONE
It was with mixed feelings that Morton ventured down the long hallway towards the office of Doctor Jess McKay. Jess had proved her worth in previous cases, but when it came time to take the evidence to court her facial reconstructions were always derided by defence lawyers as 'mere mock-ups'. As multiple people could match a reconstruction, it was never going to rise to the criminal standard of beyond reasonable proof. Morton hoped that the reconstruction would open up new investigative leads. Once they found the victim, DNA would do the rest.
Jess's door plaque proclaimed her to be the Met's resident anthropologist, but the mountain of clay that greeted Morton as he entered would have been more at home in an artist's studio. But McKay was something of an artist. She provided what Morton knew to be an inexact science, facial reconstruction. She had been supplied with digital scans of Joe Bloggs' skull in the hope that she could rebuild his face.
It wasn't a magic bullet. Morton's team had already begun searching school and library databases using cranial measurements, and the reconstruction wouldn't suddenly ping a result in some obscure database. Morton snorted. If television crime dramas were true, policing would be so much easier. Facial measurements weren't like DNA. Multiple individuals could share the same size nose or eye placement, and with a city of millions like London that meant a lot of false positives when relying on such generic data.
Jess looked up as Morton entered, her heart-shaped face beset with a smile.
'Hey, Jess. How's it going?'
'Not bad. I've laid down clay strips to build up the face. Thanks for the FORDISC measurements, by the way.' Jess referred to the cranial scan that told her how far apart Joe's features were.
'No problem. Ayala sorted the scan. But for some reason he didn't want to come down and see the results,' Morton said.
Jess's almond eyes flared, then she broke into a grin. 'He still thinks it was his fault, you know. He's absolutely clueless. Are you ever going to tell him?'
'And ruin the only leverage I've got on the man? Nope, the day he finds out what happened, I'll have to get my own coffee.'
'Don't you have an intern to get you coffee? I love mine. When she turns up on time.'
'I'll swap you Ayala if you like.'
'No thanks. Letting Bertram loose on clay would be a disaster. My reconstructions would wind up looking like a kid's papier-mâché homework.'
'How's the progress on my reconstruction?' Morton asked hopefully.
'I'm done rebuilding the face using the data you gave. We know he was white and male. His measurements suggested European so I added anthropologically correct markers to the skull for his forehead, nose, lips and chin, then layered the clay up to those markers. The soft tissue elements are a lot less scientific. I've taken an educated guess and given him brown hair and brown eyes. Want to see the result?'
'Please.'
The reconstruction was stored in Jess' studio. It was a tiny little room behind her desk where she stored all of her tools. She was fiercely private about it. Morton wasn't quite sure why, but for as long as he had known her, Jess had carried the key to the studio around her neck. Morton watched her fumble with her necklace, and then unclasp a tiny key from it. She disappeared into the studio, where Morton could hear her muttering to her intern.
On her return, Jess placed the reconstruction in front of Morton. The hollowed-out skull had been given a new lease of life with plump cheeks and a pair of twinkly glass eyes that stared out at Morton without blinking.
'Jess, that's amazing. He looks so young.'
'He does, doesn't he? Catch him, David. No child deserves an end like this.'
'I will.'
Jess smiled, as if that settled it. She knew Morton would keep his word. 'I'll email across digital scans, front and side photos, and the chain of evidence paperwork,' Jess said.
Morton nodded his thanks, took her left hand and raised it to his lips, then gently kissed it.
'It was good to see you again, Jess.'
***
Martin Neil poked at his dinner half-heartedly as it began to cool.
'You feeling OK?' his wife asked softly.
'I'm fine, thanks, Ingrid.'
'Then there's something wrong with my cooking?'
'No, dear. It's not that. I'm worried about one of my kids. This Charlie, he's been getting glowing praise in Maths and Art, but whenever I speak to him, he's withdrawn. He barely says a word.'
'Maybe he just doesn't like you,' Ingrid teased her husband. 'You are a bit of a dork.'
'Hey! My kids love me. Anyway, it's not that. I don't think so, anyway.... Maybe it is that. I just get a weird feeling whenever I talk to him. I know he's with foster parents. That was in his notes that I got when he joined my class. I'd keep an eye on a new kid anyway, but under the circumstances I feel I should be doing more to help him.'
'Is he turning up to class hungry? Are there bags under his eyes?'
'No.'
'Is he covered in bruises?'
'No. But he doesn't have any friends. He just wanders around on his own. I've seen him at break times, sat in the corner of the common room.'
'You can't be his friend, Martin. He's new; it'll take time for him to adjust. If you're worried, have a word with the foster parents.' Ingrid folded her arms as she spoke.
'That witch? She doesn't care about anything other than her pay cheque.'
'Then leave it. There's not much you can do.'
'I guess.' Martin stood, lifted his dinner plate, then swept his half-eaten meal into the bin behind him.
***
'Doctor Jensen, thanks for making it down this late.' Morton strode the length of the Incident Room to greet the younger man.
'No problem, David. What am I looking at?' Doctor Jensen waved an arm at the incident information boards.
'I've got a child victim, about twelve years old. No obvious trauma, no sexual assault.'
'So no weapon marks. Anything probative at the scene?'
'No. We found nothing of note other than a tarpaulin sheet that we think was used for transportation, as well as some netting mixed up with it. The body was pretty badly decomposed though. It seems he was in the ground for at least a few weeks,' Morton said.
'What about trophies? Do we know if the victim is missing anything?'
'The whole skeleton was left behind. Our victim had no personal belongings on him except a watch, but there's no way to know if he usually carried anything else. His clothes were still there. It looked like they degraded in situ. He wasn't wearing anything fancy, just generic cotton and denim.'
'You're not giving me much to go on here.' The doctor smiled wistfully.
'You've done a lot more with a lot less in the past.'
'Ah, flattery gets you everywhere. Any similar crimes on file?'
'Nothing. Thankfully, child murder is relatively rare.'
'Which either means it isn't a serial, it's his first, or we don't know about other victims yet.'
'Cheerful, and you've covered all the bases.'
Jensen paused to stare at the crime scene photographs. 'The how is pertinent. It's clean, almost clinical. No broken bones, no tool marks. The body is decomposed, but it's pristine. The murder wasn't done in a fit of rage. We know it wasn't sexually motivated. This was cold, deliberate. Our killer is likely to be suffering some form of psychopathy.'
'Is he likely to have sought help for that?' Morton asked.
'No. Dumping the body in a public place is arrogant. The killer felt invulnerable. Dumping the body in the Marshes was a power trip. Narcissists don't seek he
lp. But that arrogance could be his downfall. Did the tarpaulin sheet reveal anything?'
'Nope, 100 per cent generic, and it's clean; there are no fibres, fingerprints or other useful trace material. The kid's blood is all over it, but that's it.'
'That means he's cautious, or simply smart. He planned carefully enough to wear gloves, and he used a weapon that didn't leave any forensic markers. David, this is a dangerous perpetrator. He kills ruthlessly, cleanly and without remorse.'
'You keep saying he. Could the killer be a woman?'
'Doubtful, very doubtful. It's a possibility, but women tend to kill by passive means. The toxicology report,' he pointed with his index finger at the board, 'is negative.'
'There's no sign of trauma on the body though. The tissue that was left doesn't seem to have been battered other than by moving and digging it up. That could be called passive. For all we know, he could have been smothered.'
'There's not enough tissue to tell, and you know it. I'll concede we can't rule out a female killer, but it's highly unlikely. History tells us that female child killers rarely act alone. My gut, and my profile report, says male.'
'OK. What about the victim? Why kill a child if not out of anger, or some twisted perversion?'
'Power. He took pleasure in the killing.' Seeing Morton's quizzical expression, Jensen explained further with a slow shake of his head, 'That doesn't mean he was sadistic. He felt a sense of victory during the commission of the crime. He felt superior. It's likely he lacks that sense of fulfilment elsewhere in his life. He could be a blue collar worker, or some sort of day labourer.'
'How old?'
'Mid twenties to late thirties. Unless he's moved from another jurisdiction, he's not been active long. This guy enjoys manipulating the victim, then killing them. He won't stop at one victim. It's likely he took some sort of trophy to help him relive the experience. Keep an eye out for anything the victim might be missing.'
'Always.' Morton wondered why the watch wasn't taken; taking it would have reduced the chance of exposure.
'David, give this all you've got. The kill won't satiate his appetite for long. This guy will be back, again and again. He's a prime candidate for escalation.'
'Meaning?'
'The second you get close enough to threaten his feeling of power, he'll kill again to reassert his dominance.'
***
Charlie quivered under a thin blanket, his stomach aching. The distant rumblings of traffic passing down Kennington Park Road reverberated through the open window. It was a cold night, but Mrs Lattimer had forced the window open from the top, sliding the upper pane down over the lower one. It was too heavy for Charlie to close, and he did not dare risk incurring her wrath anyway.
However, compared to her husband, Mrs Lattimer was a pussycat. Charlie had only seen Mr Roger Lattimer in a rage once, when James Lattimer had tried to sneak out after dark. His calm verbal chastisement of James had seemed reasonable at first. He had not even bothered to rise from his wingback Chippendale. But when James had answered back, his father had struck with a ferocity that left welts on his son's upper legs and back. Only his forearm, lower legs and face had remained unscathed: all the parts of James that were visible in public.
When Charlie heard his door creak, and a line of light was cast across the room, he had feigned sleep.
'Charlie. Wake up,' Roger was almost conversational. He watched the boy's chest rise and fall slowly.
'Charlie. I know you're awake. You're not even snoring.'
Charlie bit his lip. It was now or never. He could come clean, and risk a beating. Or continue to ignore him. He mentally flipped a coin. Heads. Time to come clean. He sat up, rubbing his eyes as if he had just been woken up.
'Mr Lattimer?'
'Good evening, Charlie. My wife tells me you've been struggling in school. In this household, failure comes at a price. Hold out your hand.'
Charlie struggled to hold his arm steady as he held out his right hand.
'Now roll up your sleeve,' Roger said coldly.
Charlie slowly brought his other arm up from under the blanket, and used his left hand to roll up his right sleeve.
Roger Lattimer slowly unbuckled his belt, and then held it by the metal clasp. He wound the loose leather around his fingers until only a foot or so was left dangling, then paused for a moment.
Then he raised his hand, took aim at Charlie's upper arm, and brought it down with a chop that cut through the air. Once. Twice. Three times. Charlie yelped, eyes welling up with tears instantly.
'Next time, it'll be the metal end, boy.'
CHAPTER 8: NOWHERE FAST
Morton reached for his mug of coffee to find that it was stone cold. His watch read 22:00, but it felt much later. He vaguely recalled bidding Tina goodnight about an hour ago.
It wouldn't be too bad if he'd actually achieved something, but poring over particulate analysis was dry work, and he'd learned nothing. It wasn't as if he needed a report to tell him that there were insects, pebbles and rubbish all over the Marshes.
Morton's office door opened, flooding the room with cold air from the corridor. A silhouette appeared in the hallway, wrapped up in a woollen overcoat and wearing his trademark black and gold scarf. Ayala was clearly on his way home.
'Ayala?'
'Evening, boss. Just wanted to drop this in for you.' Ayala held up a brown A4 envelope stuffed with the field report outlining his findings from the initial canvass. 'Didn't expect to find you here this late. How's it going?'
'Not well. No one appears to be missing our victim.' Morton fiddled absentmindedly with his mug.
'Anything from odontology?' Ayala referred to the forensic dentistry that was slowly catching on.
'Dirk, the new guy dealing with teeth, says no known matches. You know how spotty the NHS can be for maintaining digital records. I don't think all dentists bother x-raying kids that young anyway.'
'Could the kid's parents have killed him? That would explain the lack of a missing person report.'
'Or the killer could have taken out the parents as well, and buried them elsewhere. You know of any open cases that might fit?' Morton enquired.
'Not offhand, boss. But I'm not really in the loop with the other Murder Investigation Teams.'
'Worth asking. Even if our hypothesis were correct, the other bodies might not turn up for years. I'll rerun the DNA comparison search just in case, and place a flag on it for notification in the event of a hit. How'd the canvass go?'
'Not much low-hanging fruit to be had, which is no surprise given that all we had to go on was a partially degraded skeleton. That doesn't lend itself to very specific questioning. From what we did ask, no one admitted to knowing anything substantial. Except the usual nutters.' Ayala referred to the crazies, the psychics and those wanting to cut a deal who crawled out of the woodwork whenever the police started digging for information.
'So you learnt nothing.'
'I learnt a little,' Ayala said defensively, 'I found out there's been a spate of muggings in the area. Not surprising for Hackney.'
'Homerton especially is a dive.' Morton cracked a lopsided grin. He used to live there.
'Having spent days walking around it, I'd be inclined to agree. Between the muggings, the recent weather and people staying in over Christmas, it's no surprise the body wasn't found sooner. Not many joggers go cross-country in the middle of an icy winter, and the body was bang in the middle of Kingfisher Wood. Apparently the football pitch nearby gets used once a week, but I doubt our killer dumped the body on a match day.'
'Good work. I hate to say it, but you're going back to the dive tomorrow. This time, you'll take a digital reconstruction of Joe Bloggs' face with you. Our sculptor finished up this afternoon. Scans are in your email inbox.'
'Great,' Ayala said sarcastically.
Morton grinned. Been there, done that.
***
The dining room of Patricia Bonde, David's mother-in-law, was designed to impress the vi
sitor with her taste and sophistication. It was adorned with a very long table covered in silk, and the longest wall hosted a balcony from which the rest of Hammersmith, and the Thames beyond, could be seen.
The maze of red wine glasses, white wine glasses, sherry glasses, and brandy snifters arrayed over the table was thoroughly alien to Morton despite Patricia's best efforts to instil some culture into her only son-in-law. He had spent the evening ignoring his mother-in-law's pointed glare, and simply used the glass closest to him for all beverages.
'Darling, that dress is dee-lightful!' Patricia drawled.
'Oh, totally, babe. It's scrumptious,' another member of the extended family chimed in. Morton never could remember her name. She was his wife's cousin, twice removed. As if anyone knew what that meant.
'David, don't you think Sarah's dress looks amazing?' Patricia prompted.
Morton nodded his assent. There was no point in saying any more. His mother-in-law always cut him off. At the other end of the dining room Sarah's father, Patricia's second husband, give him a wistful smile. At least he'd been smart enough to sit at the other end of the table from the women.
It was at that moment that Morton was saved by his BlackBerry. 'Sorry all, duty calls.'
With a nod, he rose from his seat and made for the balcony. An ironwork chair sat away from the French doors. Morton took the seat, shivered at the cold metal's grasp reaching through his suit, then answered his phone.
'David Morton.'
'Hi, David. This is Tracey McDowell. I've just been emailed the results of the search you asked me to run.'
'And?'
'No matches in any UK database. Sorry.' McDowell sounded almost sympathetic.
'Damn!' Morton cursed. Then, recovering from his frustration, he remembered his manners and added, 'Thanks for letting me know, Tracey.'
He had no desire to immediately return to dinner, so he kept his phone in hand as if still talking, but instead gazed out over the London skyline. As usual it was awash with a sea of lights, but a dark ribbon cut through its heart where the inky darkness of the Thames lay.
Somewhere out there was a child killer. David harboured some hope that the reconstruction would jog a memory or two, but the view reminded him just how big London was. For a few minutes, Morton continued to marvel at the impossibility of finding one man among the millions who called London home. It was only when he began to shiver that he decided to return to the dinner party. The in-laws weren't much company, but they were family and the wing-rib was delicious.
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