Frozen

by Lindsay Jayne Ashford

  ‘Why did it take you two days to work that out?’ Megan could have made the question sound less like an accusation, but in the circumstances she was inclined not to.

  ‘Blame it on the ballistics boys, not me,’ he replied, immediately on the defensive. ‘I had no reason to believe this was anything other than a domestic murder followed by a suicide. I was as surprised as everyone else when they told me he couldn’t have fired that gun.’

  ‘What about the bruising on the neck?’

  ‘Didn’t come up until this morning – people bruise at different rates depending on their skin type. This one was slower than most.’

  ‘But surely you checked for damage to the cartilage inside the throat?’

  ‘Not possible.’ He pulled away the plastic sheet that covered the woman from the neck down, revealing an incision which ran from her chin to the exit wound in her stomach. ‘We only make a ‘V’-shaped incision in the trunk if strangulation is suspected from the start. That allows us to take the throat right out for a thorough examination. But this seemed such a clear-cut death by shooting that we went ahead with a straightforward longitudinal cut.’

  Megan couldn’t believe this. ‘So any evidence of pressure to the throat was destroyed by your scalpel.’

  From the corner of her eye she saw Martin Leverton’s eyebrows arch. Horrobin flushed, apparently lost for words for once.

  He was spared further embarrassment by the loud ring of a telephone. Although the girl was on her way to answer it, he darted across the room, grabbing the receiver from her hand.

  Megan took a closer look at the body of Tina Jackson. The marks on her wrists were almost identical to the ones in the photographs of Natalie Bailey. But although the manner of death was identical in both cases, this woman could not have been more different from tiny, fair-haired Natalie. Tina Jackson had long, dark hair that looked as if it might have been dyed. Much of her skin was mottled purplish-red from where the blood had settled after death, but from the unaffected portions of the body Megan could see that Tina was an olive-skinned woman.

  She turned to Leverton, who was peering at the bruise marks on the neck. ‘How old was Tina Jackson?’

  ‘Forty.’

  ‘Any kids?’

  ‘No. The body was identified by her sister. I’m going to see her as soon as we’ve finished here – would you mind coming with me?’

  Before Megan could reply the pathologist bustled over to Leverton, waving a piece of paper in his hand. ‘The results!’ he boomed triumphantly. ‘First of all, let me tell you about the Jacksons: Dudley Jackson was blood group ‘O’, as was his wife Tina. The semen sample on the swab came from a man with blood group AB, of a type present in only 2% of the population.’

  Leverton took the paper from him with a gleam in his eye. Studying it, he muttered something under his breath. Then he turned to Horrobin, fixing him with a look that warned him not to botch anything else. ‘Right – let’s get this clear. This AB blood group result came from an anal swab and there was no semen in this woman’s vagina?’

  ‘Correct.’ Horrobin cocked his head to one side, staring Leverton out.

  ‘Right. I think we’ve got what we came for, Megan.’ With a curt word of thanks, Leverton turned his back on the man, his arm brushing Megan’s shoulder as he ushered her out of the room.

  ‘What a balls-up!’ Leverton shook his head as he paused in the lobby, putting on his coat and gloves.

  ‘I know. I’ve never come across a pathologist who was so – well –’

  ‘Cocky?’

  ‘Yes. To be so self-assured even when he knew he was in the wrong.’

  ‘Evidently this is his first week in the job. I suppose we should sympathise, really. I mean, it’s got to be pretty tough luck to land a case like that on day one.’

  ‘Anyway, at least we’ve got pretty positive evidence of a link with the Natalie Bailey murder. How long before we get the DNA result on that semen swab?’

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Right, but until then we’re working on the assumption that the same man had anal sex with both Natalie and Tina?’

  ‘Yes. Looks like your theory about two different killers was spot on. But I still can’t work out why Natalie had semen from Donna’s killer in her vagina if she was killed by the man who had anal sex with her.’

  ‘Could be two men working together.’

  Leverton gave her an odd look. A mixture of surprise and confusion.

  ‘Remember the case of the Hillside Stranglers?’ Megan didn’t let him answer. ‘Killed ten women in the Los Angeles area in the late ‘seventies?’

  ‘Vaguely, yes. They went for prostitutes.’

  ‘At first, yes. Later it was any young girl they thought they could abduct without getting caught. Anyway, the point is that they did several murders together, but then one of them started killing alone.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, imagine Donna Fieldhouse was killed by her pimp in a straightforward fight, like we said before. What if this pimp has a friend – some regular punter who likes kinky sex behind closed doors? What if Natalie Bailey was persuaded to participate in some sort of three-in-a-bed session which escalated into rape and murder? That would explain the presence of the two types of semen in her body.’

  ‘But what about Tina Jackson? She only had sex with one of them.’

  ‘That’s the point. Imagine this punter gets a taste for murder and decides to do it alone next time. Maybe the sort of girls the pimp goes for are not really the punter’s type. So he goes out searching for the right kind of victim.’

  ‘Which would explain why Tina Jackson looks nothing like Donna and Natalie.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Leverton was staring at Megan curiously.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, uncomfortable under his gaze.

  ‘Long, black hair, olive skin, age between thirty and forty…’

  ‘Yes – and?’ she said, a note of impatience creeping into her voice.

  ‘Well, that’s you, isn’t it?’ he said, a half-smile on his face. ‘You’d better be careful, Megan.’

  Megan froze. Could it be? No – God, he was joking!

  Before she could respond to this fatuous remark, his face snapped back into its customary expression of measured concern. ‘What do you think are the chances of either or both of them killing again?’

  She looked at him, her pulse still racing. ‘We’re dealing with two very different killers here. It looks as if the first one – let’s call him O – killed Donna almost by accident. He might have played no part in the death of Natalie Bailey; he might have had sex with her before the other man arrived and then left him to it. Were there any fibres on Natalie’s body like the ones you said were on the backs of Donna’s legs?’

  ‘Yes, I was going to phone you to tell you just before I got the call about the Jackson case: there were tiny amounts of fibre on one of her heels. They’ve just done a comparison and it’s identical to the stuff they found on Donna’s body. They’re trying to trace the manufacturer at the moment.’

  Megan had a momentary vision of a small lifeless body being dragged across a faded carpet. Perhaps she’d driven past the very house where it happened. She remembered the dismal windows overlooking the car park where Donna Fieldhouse’s body had been found. If someone was murdered in one of those derelict buildings, would anyone hear the screams?

  ‘As I was saying –’ she forced her mind back to Leverton’s question – ‘O might never kill again – at least not deliberately. But the other guy: well, he’s a very different type. What he did bears all the hallmarks of an organised sex killer who uses women as vehicles to get even with society. This is a man whose violence has been triggered by some traumatic event in his life; probably something quite recent. He won’t stop killing until he gets the nerve to confront the cause of his anger.’

  Leverton nodded. ‘Let’s go and see the sister,’ he said, opening the passenger door of his sleek BMW.
Megan climbed in. The scent of new leather filled her nostrils as he slammed the door. The car was immaculate, like its owner. So unlike her own car, with its dashboard littered with empty Malteser packets and discarded car park tickets, an orange-scented air-freshener masking the lingering smell of sick which she’d tried without success to scrub out of the upholstery after Emily, her two-year-old niece, had been ill on their last trip to Wales.

  She wondered who cleaned Martin Leverton’s car. She could hardly imagine him doing it himself. But neither could she imagine him entrusting this precious beast to his wife. Perhaps he paid one of those professional car valet firms to do it.

  ‘Take a look at these.’ Leverton pulled a folder from the back seat and passed it to her before starting up the engine. Inside was a set of photographs showing the carnage in what had once been the Jacksons’ bedroom. The first one was a shot of Tina Jackson lying face down on the bed. ‘This is how we found her after the lads broke the door down.’

  Megan bit her lip. The dead woman might have been a slab of meat on a butcher’s block for all the dignity the photograph afforded her. She was spreadeagled, naked except for a white lacy bra. Near its straps, the flesh was speckled black where casing from the shotgun pellets had scorched it. Her hands were stuck through the gaps in the iron bedstead.

  ‘No handcuffs, then?’

  ‘No.’ Leverton pushed in the cigarette lighter and reached into his jacket pocket. ‘The killer took whatever he used to restrain her away with him. Nothing we found in that room matches up with the marks on the wrists. Want one?’ He waved a packet of Marlboro under her nose.

  ‘No thanks, I’m trying to give up.’ Megan wrinkled her nose as he lit his cigarette. The craving was almost unbearable. She concentrated on the photograph. There was a black high-heeled shoe near the bed and a small pile of dark-coloured, shiny material that looked like a dress and underskirt twisted together.

  ‘Are these her clothes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Leverton blew out a plume of smoke. ‘It was her birthday, poor cow. According to the sister she was getting ready for a night out.’

  ‘But not with the husband, presumably,’ Megan said, opening her window and taking a gulp of fresh air. ‘They were separated?’

  ‘Yes. He’d gone back to live with his parents. They own a farm near Wolverhampton. The shotgun was theirs, evidently.’ He glanced at her. ‘Are you all right? Do you want me to put this out?’

  ‘No, it’s okay,’ she lied, wishing she hadn’t left Patrick’s Maltesers in her car. ‘So, Tina Jackson was dressed up for a night out with someone else. Dudley came to the house with a shotgun. She was restrained and strangled then shot through the back.’ She frowned. ‘We know Dudley Jackson wasn’t responsible for the anal penetration, but do we know for sure that he didn’t either strangle or shoot her? Any prints on the body?’

  ‘Nothing. He must have been wearing gloves – the killer, I mean. There are prints of Dudley Jackson’s all over the house and on the gun, but nothing on Tina’s body.’

  ‘Do we know how long after she was strangled the shots were fired?’

  ‘Not long. The pathologist said that the spread of bloodstains on the bedclothes showed that she’d been shot almost immediately after death. Otherwise the blood would have congealed and there wouldn’t have been so much loss.’

  ‘Do you think Dudley Jackson caught her in bed with someone else?’

  ‘Certainly looks that way.’

  ‘You said on the phone that she wasn’t a prostitute – how can you be sure?’

  ‘I can’t, really. All I can say is that she appears to have been fairly respectable. She worked in a building society in West Bromwich.’

  They drove on in silence, Megan sifting through the horrific photographs in her lap. The light was beginning to fade and Christmas decorations winked incongruously from every lamp-post. Megan thought of the sister they were going to see. Every Christmas was going to be hell for her now.

  When Leverton finally pulled up she noticed a patrol car parked a few yards further down the street. A uniformed policewoman got out of the passenger seat and walked towards Leverton’s car. Megan wondered how the sister would feel about being questioned by three people.

  Charlotte McGahy lived in a rambling Victorian house that had been converted into flats. When she opened the door, Megan immediately noticed how attractive she was, despite the absence of any make-up and the blank expression on her face.

  ‘Miss McGahy,’ Leverton offered her his hand. ‘You know WPC Cartwright, don’t you? And this is Doctor Megan Rhys – she’s a psychologist and she’d like to talk to you about your sister’s death.’

  The woman nodded blankly and led them into a large, cold room with an ornate marble fireplace. A single-bar electric fire stood in the hearth giving out a pathetically inadequate amount of heat.

  ‘You’re a bit late, aren’t you?’ Her question was addressed to Megan.

  Megan blinked and turned to Leverton, who looked as confused as she was. ‘I’m sorry?’ she said, anxious not to say anything that would upset the woman even more.

  ‘I phoned your lot six weeks ago about Dudley. They knew he had a history of depression and that he’d hit Tina when they split up. I warned them he was dangerous and wanted locking up. Psychologist? What’s the use of a bloody psychologist now? It’s too bloody late, isn’t it?’

  She wept into a pink paper tissue tugged from inside her sleeve.

  The policewoman put an arm around her shoulder but she shrugged it away, blowing her nose and reaching across to a coffee table for another tissue.

  ‘I’m all right!’ she whispered, looking away from them at the glowing bar of the fire.

  ‘I’m sorry Miss McGahy, Doctor Rhys isn’t here to talk about your brother-in-law. You see it wasn’t Dudley that killed your sister.’

  ‘What?’ Charlotte’s gaze shot from the fire to Leverton.

  ‘Tests have been carried out on the shotgun found in your sister’s bedroom. Dudley couldn’t have fired it into his mouth himself. We believe someone else killed both Tina and Dudley.’ Leverton paused, waiting for this new bombshell to sink in.

  She stared at him, her mouth slightly open. ‘Someone else? How could it have been someone else? It was Dudley’s gun. I’ve seen it at his mum and dad’s house in a case on the wall!’

  ‘I’m sorry, I know this is going to be very hard on you but we need to know who else might have been in the house when Dudley arrived with the gun. Would you mind if Doctor Rhys asked you a few questions?’

  The blank stare returned to the woman’s face and she nodded dumbly, as if there was nothing else that anyone could say or do that would make the pain any worse than it already was.

  The policewoman went to make cups of tea and Leverton walked over to the bay window. The curtains had not been drawn and he stood, looking out. There couldn’t have been much to see in the lamplit street, but Megan was grateful for his tact. She leaned forward in her chair, speaking softly.

  ‘The first thing I need to know is how long your sister had been separated from her husband.’

  Charlotte looked puzzled, as if she couldn’t see the relevance of the question, but answered all the same. ‘Not long; Dudley only moved out a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘How long had they been married?’

  ‘Ten years. God knows how she put up with him for that long.’

  ‘You said he’d hit her when they split up…’

  ‘Yes, but it wasn’t the first time. She used to make excuses for him. She couldn’t stand the thought of them breaking up, said she didn’t want to be a failure.’

  ‘Why did she think she was a failure?’

  ‘I don’t know. She was always doing herself down. It was his fault. He made her like that. Always criticising her.’

  ‘What was it that finally led to the break-up?’

  There was a long pause. ‘I think it was when she started doing the soup run.’

  Megan frowned. �
��Soup run?’

  ‘She took soup round the red light district. For the prostitutes and the down-and-outs. She was like, you know, a volunteer. She did it a couple of nights a week and Dudley didn’t like it. He was so jealous – wanted her to stay in with him every night. They had a big row about it and he smacked her across the face. Next day she had the locks changed and went to see a solicitor about keeping him away from the house.’

  Megan nodded slowly. The red light district. So there was a connection. From the corner of her eye she saw that Leverton had turned his head and was listening intently. She waited for him to speak but he said nothing. ‘Do you know if she’d been on the soup run the night she died?’ Megan held her breath.

  ‘Yes.’ Charlotte sniffed. ‘We were supposed to be going clubbing. It was her birthday. We were going to go for a meal first but she said she couldn’t make it before ten because she was on the soup rota and there was no one to swap with.’ She blinked. ‘That’s the sort of person she was. Wouldn’t dream of letting anyone down – not even on her birthday.’ She bent her head, her shoulders heaving as she sobbed.

  Megan crossed the room, sitting on the sofa beside her. Instead of putting an arm around her, she tried to find words that would encourage her to open up again.

  ‘I’m really sorry I’m having to ask you all these questions. I’ve got a sister myself. I can’t pretend to understand how you’re feeling now. All I can say is that if someone killed my sister I’d want to do everything in my power to get them locked up.’

  Megan paused, trying to gauge the effect her words were having. ‘Why do you think Tina volunteered for the soup run?’

  ‘She said she wanted to give something back.’ She mumbled the words into her tissue. ‘Said she was so lucky to have a good job and a nice house.’

  ‘Do you know if Tina was seeing anyone else?’