Frozen

by Lindsay Jayne Ashford

  ‘In those unofficial profiles I faxed you this morning I made it fairly clear that the AB killer has some sort of connection with the police and I explained why. In the light of this new connection with BTV I’d say the most likely connection is that he’s an ex-policeman, possibly someone who’s left the force within the past few years. I need access to the medical records to check whether anyone fitting that description has AB type blood.’

  She watched Leverton’s face, wondering what his reaction would be. He sighed and fingered the corner of the plastic wallet on the desk in front of him.

  ‘Not possible at the moment, I’m afraid, Megan. When I got your profiles this morning, the first thing I did was to access our personnel files. I was planning a search of the entire male workforce – currently-serving officers as well as any who had left within the last five years – but apparently the disc’s corrupted. Absolutely zilch on the screen. We’ve got someone coming in this afternoon to have a look at it.’

  ‘Oh…’ Megan was knocked off balance. ‘Do you think it’s been sabotaged?’

  ‘I hope not. I mean, I’m hoping that by this time tomorrow it’ll be sorted. As soon as it’s up and running again I’ll be going through it myself and you’re welcome to join me.’

  ‘So in the meantime,’ she asked, ‘what are you going to do about Delva Lobelo?’

  ‘I’ll try to talk her into going to the meeting place just in case.’ Leverton caught the look of alarm in Megan’s eyes. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll make sure the place is crawling with plain clothes people. Will you be able to come with me tonight when I go and see her?’

  Megan said yes automatically. Then she remembered her promise to Patrick.

  ‘What’s the matter? Is it a problem?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. It’s just that I’ve arranged to pick up a friend at 8.30. We’re going out for a meal. But we won’t be at Delva’s house long, will we?’

  ‘No. I won’t keep her talking more than half an hour. Does she live far away, your friend?’

  Megan hesitated before replying. ‘It’s a he, actually. It’s a work colleague who’s come over from Holland. He doesn’t know many people here…’ Megan trailed off, wondering why she was attempting to justify her date with Patrick to Martin Leverton.

  ‘Hah! Just my luck! I was going to take you for a drink after we’d finished.’ Leverton covered his embarrassment by laughing at himself. She mumbled something about looking in her diary when she got back to the office, but he skillfully changed the subject, asking for Delva Lobelo’s address and what time Megan could meet him outside.

  As she drove home Megan thought about the corrupted computer disc. It seemed too much of a coincidence that the personnel files should be wiped off on the very day those medical records needed accessing. Was it sabotage, or was Leverton simply lying?

  And what about this invitation to go for a drink? What was that in aid of? As far as she knew he was still married to a policewoman who worked in the Crime Prevention Unit. There were no photographs of her in his office, or of any children they might have produced, but that didn’t mean they were no longer together. Why, Megan thought to herself, did she get the impression he was being over-friendly?

  She tried without success to squeeze her car into the narrow gap between two others parked outside her house. Parking in a street of terraced houses was a constant nightmare, but it was the price she and Tony had been prepared to pay for living in the beautifully-restored Victorian villa with its carved staircase and lofty ceilings.

  Over the past few months she had often thought about looking for somewhere smaller. But the idea of moving house was more than she could face. The memories of her life with Tony were too newly-buried to disturb.

  Megan wished she could go to sleep and wake up to find Christmas had come and gone. The only thing that made it bearable was the thought of retreating to the cottage at Borth on Boxing Day. Away from all the fake bonhomie of the festive season she would curl up in front of a log fire on New Year’s Eve.

  Her brother was talking about joining her but she was rather hoping he would change his mind. Gareth would probably insist on dragging her to the local pub to drink into the early hours with distant relatives of Granny Rhys. Much as she loved him she was determined to avoid his misguided attempts to cheer her up.

  As she took off her coat, she glanced at the shells. ‘Idiot!’ she said aloud, cross with herself for even thinking about it. They were exactly as she had left them. She stood still for a moment, suddenly aware of a noise coming from upstairs. A scraping noise, like fingernails on glass. She crept up the stairs, her heart thumping. It was coming from her bedroom. She pushed open the door and snapped on the light. Nothing. Her bed, still unmade. Yesterday’s clothes piled on the chair. Curtains still drawn. Everything as she had left it. She put her hand to her head. Was she going mad? Hearing things? No – there it was again. Behind the curtains. She bounded across the room and threw them open. The window was open and flapping in the wind, the leafless branches of a tree scraping the glass.

  Megan pulled it shut and fastened the catch. She was certain she hadn’t opened it last night. Not with it being so cold. She shivered. Had she done it in her sleep?

  She went to make a hot drink. As she walked into the kitchen she noticed the pile of unwritten Christmas cards sitting accusingly on the table. She looked at the clock. Three hours to go before she was due at Delva’s. She made a pact with herself to write as many cards as she could in the next hour-and-a-half and then take a long soak in the bath as a reward.

  She sat down at the kitchen table and tried to concentrate on the cards. She wondered how Ceri was getting on at the hospital with Joe, wishing she was allowed to visit them. She hoped Neil would phone soon. She had forgotten to tell him she was going out this evening.

  Suddenly, images of Neil flashed unbidden into her mind: Neil taking that photograph; Neil sending those letters. After all, she thought, he once counted a rapist among his friends. What might he be capable of?

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’ she said aloud. Of course it was stupid. Neil might not be the perfect husband but she had never seen him do anything that could be described as violent. He didn’t even believe in smacking children. And yet – a nagging voice inside her head reminded her of the facts: Neil’s age: 32; his marriage under considerable strain with the suggestion of an extramarital affair; works at BTV in the same office as Delva Lobelo …

  She told herself over and over again that it couldn’t be him. But the tiny voice tormented her with a litany of names: Ted Bundy; John Cannan; Jeremy Bamber; Denis Nilsen… All charming, persuasive men, just like Neil Richardson.

  Megan took the phone with her when she went upstairs for her bath. Still unable to relax, she lay in the warm, foamy water. When her mobile rang she jumped, sending water surging over the sides of the bath.

  ‘Megan – it’s Neil. I just called to tell you how Joe is.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, he’s doing fine. I can’t talk for long – I’ve only just got back from the hospital and Emily’s starving. I’m going to have to feed her before I do anything else.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course you must. Listen, I’ve got to go out later. Will you call me in the morning?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Have a good night!’

  Megan put the phone down with a sense of shame. How could she have thought ill of Neil while he was rushing backwards and forwards from the hospital and doing his level best to care for his daughter single-handed?

  However fickle his interest in the children had been in the past, Megan reflected, he certainly seemed to be making up for it now. After all, he could easily have taken her up on her offer to look after Emily, but he had chosen to shoulder the responsibility himself. She glanced at the clock and decided she had better start getting ready.

  Rummaging through her make-up bag she picked out an eyeshadow compact she hadn’t used for ages. It contained shades of bronze and smoky
grey and she spent a couple of minutes longer than usual applying it, adding kohl pencil to the insides of her eyelashes.

  There was a solitary bottle of perfume on her dressing table and she picked it up, spraying minute amounts onto her pulse spots. Although it triggered mixed memories, it lifted her spirits. Safari was the only perfume she ever wore. Ceri always bought her some for Christmas and a bottle usually lasted her a whole year because she rarely wore it in the daytime. This year, she noticed with a grim smile, there was still quite a lot left.

  Grabbing a long, black skirt from the wardrobe, Megan scanned the hangers for a suitable top. She chose a green chenille sweater, pulling it on before peering in the mirror to change her nose stud. Then she sifted through her jumbled jewellery box for a pair of emerald dropper earrings to match.

  *

  Martin Leverton’s car was already parked outside Delva’s house when Megan arrived. As she walked towards it, he leaned across to open the passenger door.

  ‘Mmm, you smell nice!’ he said as she leaned in. ‘Hop in – there are a couple of things I want to tell you before we go inside.’

  Megan climbed into the passenger seat, trying to stop her wrapover skirt from parting over her thigh. There was a flash of black lycra as she tugged the skirt back across her knee and she knew without looking up that Leverton was staring at her legs.

  ‘I know you’ve got to rush off afterwards,’ he said, looking straight out of the windscreen as she turned her head towards him, ‘so I need to have a quick chat with you before we go into Miss Lobelo’s house.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing unexpected, really. It’s the DNA result on the semen sample from Tina Jackson: it matches the one taken from Natalie Bailey.’

  ‘Well – surprise, surprise.’

  ‘I know. Shame we didn’t get the result before the press conference, but there you go.’

  ‘What else were you going to say?’ Megan looked at Leverton, who was still staring straight ahead. ‘You said there were a couple of things you wanted to tell me.’

  Leverton jerked his head round suddenly, as if emerging from a daydream. ‘Oh yes, sorry. I was just thinking about that photograph. I think I’ll get Vice to take a look at it. Could be a prostitute, couldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose there’s a good chance.’ Megan could see from the look on Leverton’s face that he wasn’t listening. He was puzzling over something and she wondered what it was.

  ‘The thing I can’t work out is whether or not she’s dead.’ Leverton turned to look at Megan, as if she might have the answer. ‘If the woman in the photograph is another of the killer’s victims, why hasn’t anyone reported her missing?’

  ‘No one reported Donna Fieldhouse or Natalie Bailey missing,’ Megan reminded him.

  ‘I know, but they were kids, runaways. This one looks to be much older. I’d put her in her mid-to-late twenties.’

  Megan summoned up the image of the woman with the butterfly tattoo. ‘It’s hard to say, really, because part of her face was covered by her hair.’

  Leverton nodded. ‘I’ll tell you what struck me after you’d gone. She looks very much like Tina Jackson, doesn’t she?’

  Megan thought for a moment. ‘I suppose she does a bit,’ she said slowly. ‘Although the woman in the photo looks to be mixed-race, doesn’t she, and Tina was white.’

  ‘Yes, but Tina was quite dark-skinned – sort of southern European-looking.’

  Megan nodded. ‘Which adds even more weight to the theory that the guy who took the photograph is Tina’s killer. Have the forensic people had the chance to look at it yet?’

  ‘Yes. That’s the other thing I was going to tell you: the good news is that the stuff you noticed is definitely semen.’

  ‘And the bad news…?’

  ‘They’re not going to be able to give us a DNA result until after Christmas.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know – it’s a nightmare. Believe me, I’ve tried everything to speed things up. The trouble is there’s a backlog of samples waiting to be tested at the moment. The current waiting time is eight weeks for non-urgent tests. We had to pay £2,000 to get the sample from Tina Jackson done quickly, but even if we pay that again we still won’t get a result until the day after Boxing Day’

  Megan looked at him incredulously. ‘But that’s next Wednesday. How can we wait a whole week to find out whether this guy’s the killer?’

  ‘We’ve got no choice. When the forensic people picked up the photo this afternoon they said the DNA lab is understaffed at the moment because of a ‘flu bug and it’s closed anyway on Christmas Day and Boxing Day, so the earliest we can get a result is next Wednesday morning.’

  ‘So where does that leave the investigation?’

  ‘Well, we should get a blood grouping on the semen within the next couple of days,’ Leverton replied. ‘That’ll tell us if we’re in the right ball park. But until then I think a lot’s going to depend on Miss Lobelo.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s half-past. Shall we go in?’

  ‘By the way,’ Megan asked as they walked up the path, ‘any news on that personnel disc?’

  ‘Oh, it gets worse.’ Leverton shook his head. ‘Turns out the entire file’s been wiped.’

  ‘Isn’t there some sort of back-up? Card files or something?’

  ‘Nothing. We’re going to have to get everyone’s details from scratch. God knows how long that’ll take.’

  How very convenient, Megan thought.

  She was about to ring the bell when Leverton’s mobile rang out. She watched his eyes glint in the lamplight as he listened.

  ‘Well, well.’ He put the mobile back in his pocket. ‘Tina Jackson’s killer took a gold pendant in the shape of a shamrock from her body.’

  Megan raised her eyebrows. ‘Charlotte?’

  ‘Yep. We got her to look through Tina’s jewellery box. There was nothing missing except the pendant, which Charlotte had given her as a birthday present.’ Leverton pursed his lips. ‘So he’s into taking trophies. What are the chances of some lucky lady finding that necklace in her Christmas stocking?’

  *

  Delva was much calmer than when she had last seen her, but Megan sensed that it was all a front. She sat, quite composed, as Leverton questioned her. He was asking exactly the things Megan had asked already. Delva repeated the answers she had given before. No, she said, there was no-one working at BTV that she suspected. No one she could think of who might bear a grudge.

  When the time came for them to leave Megan saw the nervous, haunted look return to her eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,’ Delva said as she showed them to the door. ‘Jane’s coming round in half an hour. She’s staying the night.’

  Megan frowned. ‘You’re quite sure you want to go through with this thing tomorrow night?’

  ‘Yes. And I’ll call you if that creep sends anything else between now and then.’

  It had snowed again while they were inside. Leverton insisted on taking Megan’s arm and walking her to her car.

  ‘I think she needs protection,’ Megan said. ‘Can’t you get someone to watch the place tonight?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m on to it. Bye, Megan. Have a nice night.’

  She saw him wink. Cheeky sod, she thought.

  The main roads were gritted but Megan almost skidded as she turned into the cul-de-sac where Patrick lived. She sounded her horn and saw the light snap off as he came downstairs. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ she said as he got in beside her. ‘I had to go out on an interview with Martin Leverton and it went on longer than I expected.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Patrick smiled. ‘The table’s booked for nine o’clock so we should be all right.’

  The place Patrick had chosen was one of the more upmarket balti houses in a part of Birmingham renowned for its Indian restaurants. All the waiters were in traditional costume and framed batik prints of elephants, hippos and tigers decorated the walls.

&n
bsp; As Megan and Patrick were shown to their table they passed a trolley of sizzling meat on a silver platter. The smell of it had an almost magical effect on Megan’s mood, temporarily lifting her from the gloom that had set in while she was listening to Delva and Martin Leverton.

  She glanced at Patrick over the top of the menu. He looked happy and relaxed and she made a conscious effort to get him to talk about himself rather than launching into the latest developments on the work front. As they ate she asked him about the Irish side of his family.

  ‘I lived in Ireland until I was ten,’ he explained between mouthfuls of prawn and spinach balti. ‘The company Dad worked for was setting up a factory in Dublin. My grandparents ran a lodging house and he moved in and met my Mum.’

  ‘Sounds very romantic.’

  ‘It wasn’t really.’ Patrick laughed. ‘The first time he saw her she opened the door with a towel round her head. She was really cross because she’d had to get out of the bath to let him in and he thought she was a dragon. I don’t think it was love at first sight!’

  ‘Are they still alive, your parents?’

  ‘Oh yes. Dad retired last year and they’re talking about moving back to Ireland. They fancy a little cottage on the west coast, I think.’

  ‘Sounds lovely. I’ve never been to Ireland.’

  ‘Would you like to?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve often thought of going to Dublin for a weekend: you can get flights from Birmingham airport.’

  ‘Well, if you decide to go while I’m over here, you’ve got to promise to let me show you round.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Megan gave him a sideways look as she snapped a poppadom into jagged pieces.

  ‘Of course!’ he said, his eyes widening. ‘I’ve got loads of relatives there and I can take you to all the best pubs.’

  Megan wanted to say that yes, she would love to take him up on his offer. It would be much more fun than going to Dublin alone. But past experience had made her cautious. She defused the situation by turning it into a joke. ‘It’s not a very fair swap, is it? You show me Dublin and I show you Borth. It’s not exactly throbbing with nightlife, you know.’