Those sly words of Leverton’s suddenly played back in her brain: ‘Long, black hair, olive skin, age between thirty and forty – that’s you, Megan. You’d better be careful.’
A horrifying image was forming inside her head: the killer, sitting on a sofa watching television; savouring the news and then catching sight of her face seconds later.
‘Stop it!’ she said out loud. ‘Stop being so bloody paranoid!’ The memory of the maggot-covered chicken flashed into her mind and she began to panic at the thought of going home. She could stay here, couldn’t she? No. She mustn’t give in to it. She mustn’t let this case get to her.
*
The man was struggling. His fingers were almost numb with cold. She was big, this one. Taller than the others and heavier, too. He lay her down in the snow. She was stiff as a board. The only thing that was still soft was her hair. It trailed across the ground like dirty cobwebs as he pulled her along.
The boot was open ready for its cargo. Panting with effort he shoved her in. Christ, she was too long! The legs were sticking out at least six inches.
Cursing, he dragged her back to the shed. It didn’t take long to find the axe, but he hovered in the doorway, hiding it behind his back, making sure he couldn’t be seen. He told himself not to be so stupid. Who on earth could be watching?
By the time he reached the dump site he was much warmer. The chopping had thawed his fingers and the car’s heater had eased the stiffness in his legs. He opened the car door. On the other side of the wall he could hear Christmas revellers spilling out of a pub. He thought of the bottle of single malt whisky waiting in the kitchen cupboard at home. Get it over with, he thought. At least there wasn’t any blood; not this time.
*
Megan jumped when she heard the door opening.
‘Hi Meg! Sorry, did I wake you up?’ Neil looked flushed and his eyes were brighter than usual.
‘It’s okay.’ Megan peered at her watch. She’d been sitting with her eyes closed, thinking about Delva. She hadn’t meant to doze off.
‘Sorry I’m late – it went on longer than I thought.’
‘Where was it you went?’ She tried to make her voice sound casual.
‘Oh, just an office do.’ He turned away from her as he spoke, going back into the hall to hang up his jacket. ‘I didn’t really want to go but I had to,’ he called from the cloakroom. ‘Internal politics and all that – you know.’
When he returned he was carrying Megan’s coat and scarf. ‘I was hoping to just show my face and make a quick getaway,’ he smiled, ‘but I got collared by the Head of Current Affairs – what a bore! Anyway, at least the food was good.’
Megan took her coat, floored by Neil’s easy, open manner. She needed time to think before making the accusations she had been storing up for his return.
‘Did you manage to get Emily to bed all right?’
‘Oh yes, she was fine.’ She told me you were going to Elizabeth’s. The words drummed inside Megan’s head but she wouldn’t allow herself to say them. ‘By the way, who’s looking after her tomorrow? Are you back at work?’
‘No. They’ve given me another day off – compassionate leave – so I’ll be able to look after her.’
Neil stood in the doorway waving as she drove off. The digital clock on the dashboard flicked to midnight. Where had he been? She glided along deserted roads onto the M54, skirting Wolverhampton on her way back home. Even with the snow it would only take three quarters of an hour. If he had made the same journey he could have spent nearly two hours in Birmingham before tearing himself away.
She was annoyed with herself for not confronting him. He’d charmed his way out of it the way he always did. Always so plausible, so persuasive.
She thought of Delva. If Neil was involved with someone at BTV, surely that meant he couldn’t be the one sending those letters? She pulled into a lay-by and punched out Leverton’s number on her mobile. She had to know what had happened.
‘Martin – any news?’
‘Nothing.’ He sounded tired.
‘Where are you?’
‘Outside Miss Lobelo’s house. She’s gone to bed.’
‘No sign of anyone?’
‘Not a dicky bird. We followed her home and we’ll be keeping her under surveillance for the next 24 hours. She’s going to work as normal tomorrow and we’ll keep an eye on things there.’
Megan sat thinking about what he’d said. If the pervert hadn’t shown, what was the point of it? Just a stupid hoax or something more sinister? What was he doing while all those police officers were watching Delva?’
She started the engine. Huge flakes of snow were falling on the windscreen and she flicked on the wipers. As she pulled out of the layby a car’s headlights flashed in the mirror. She frowned. It must have been parked behind her. It was hard to make out anything in the snow. She couldn’t even tell if there was anyone in the passenger seat.
She turned off the Hagley Road and headed towards Harborne. The car followed. What was it? A BMW? She strained her eyes in the darkness but it was impossible to make it out. Get a grip, she thought, it’s probably some couple who pulled over for a quickie.
Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. AB was a stalker. Someone who had been cruising the red light district the night Tina was on the soup run. He had followed her home. He followed women. My God, she thought, what if he’s following me?
She swerved left without indicating, turning into the street before her own. Her car skidded slightly. She glanced in the mirror and breathed a sigh of relief as the other car drove on down Harborne High Street.
As soon as she’d let herself in she went round the house checking. The shells, the fridge, the bedroom window. Everything was as she had left it. She made herself a mug of hot chocolate and poured a slug of brandy into it. What she needed was a good night’s sleep.
*
She was in bed when the car came back. She didn’t hear the sound of the engine as it pulled up a few yards from her house.
The driver sat for a while, staring up at her bedroom window. Then he got out and walked through the dirty snow to her front door. Taking something from his coat pocket he reached forward. He paused. Changing his mind, he replaced the object and went back to the car.
Chapter 10
Sergeant Donalsen was eating his breakfast when the phone rang. He laid the half-eaten bacon sandwich on his desk and grabbed the receiver.
‘Rob?’
It was Martin Leverton. Donalsen’s greasy hand tightened and the phone jumped like a slippery fish, somersaulting to the floor with a crash.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he mumbled, grasping the receiver with both hands this time. ‘Phone slipped.’
‘I’m coming down for that list. Is it ready?’
‘Er, yes, sir. I’ve just got to run it through the photocopier.’
‘Right. I’ll be down in two minutes.’
Donalsen swore as he rummaged through his in-tray. He pulled out the list of names, smearing it with greasy thumb prints.
By the time Leverton walked through the door Donalsen was stuffing the remains of his breakfast into his mouth. The photocopied list was lying on the desk but Leverton didn’t look at it. Instead he shoved something under Donalsen’s nose. Donalsen took one look and almost choked.
Leverton let the photograph drop onto the desk. The image of the naked woman with the butterfly tattoo on her breast swam accusingly before Donalsen’s eyes. Leverton was studying his reaction.
‘One of yours, is she?’
Donalsen swallowed hard and looked down at the desk, desperate to avoid Leverton’s eyes. It was as if he knew. The way he phrased that question – had it been deliberate?
He began fumbling in his desk to cover his confusion. ‘She might be, sir,’ he said, trying to make his voice sound casual. ‘If you can give me half an hour I’ll look through the files and check it out. What’s she been done for – drugs, is it?’
‘Oh no,’ Leverton snee
red. ‘It’s something much more serious than that – and if we don’t get an ID on her by this afternoon I’ll have to cancel your Christmas leave!’
He snatched the list of names from under Donalsen’s elbow. ‘These the pimps?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Donalsen replied through clenched teeth.
‘Convicted or suspected?’
‘The ones above the black line are convicted; the ones below are cases where the tom dropped the charges before it got to court.’ Donalsen addressed this information to the fluorescent light on the ceiling, still refusing to meet Leverton’s accusing glare.
‘Don’t get insolent with me, Rob.’ Leverton’s voice dropped to a barely audible growl. ‘You may be leaving this office in the New Year but for the next ten days you’re still head of Vice. So bugger the bloody files. Get your fat arse out onto the beat and find out who this poor cow is, will you?’
‘Yes sir.’ Donalsen stared at the desk, stony-faced. Then he remembered something. ‘PC Costello’s back on duty this afternoon, sir. He’ll know straight off if she’s one of ours.’ His eyes darted up at Leverton, hoping to win him over, but the look he met was withering.
‘Don’t be lazy, Rob, or I might start getting really angry.’ Leverton swept out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
*
David Simon groaned and buried his face in the pillow. It was still dark outside.
‘Mother, it’s only seven o’clock,’ he said, hearing the clunk as she placed a teacup on his bedside table.
‘I know that.’ She snapped on the light. ‘We need to make an early start. The traffic will be awful if we leave any later than seven-thirty.’
‘But I wasn’t planning to go into Birmingham today.’ He sat up, rubbing his eyes. ‘Most of the staff at BTV finished for Christmas yesterday. The place can run itself. Anyway –’ he reached across for his tea – ‘I thought you’d done your Christmas shopping.’
‘I have. Most of it.’ She glanced in the mirror, patting her hair. ‘But I want something nice to wear on Christmas Day.’ She opened his wardrobe, pulling out clothes and tossing them onto the bed. ‘And I’ve still got to get something for Franco. We can’t have him to dinner and not give him a present.’
‘Don’t suppose he’d notice either way,’ he grumbled, pulling on the silk shirt, trousers and sweater his mother had selected.
‘Of course he would notice. Anyway, I want you to take me to lunch at that nice place off Corporation Street.’
‘Not the one that charges ten quid for a cucumber sandwich and a glass of fizzy water?’
His mother glared at him. ‘How dare you moan about taking me out for lunch when you’re rubbing shoulders with those television people all day long. Don’t you think I want a bit of glamour in my life too?’
By the time they reached the centre of Birmingham, it was snowing again. The Mercedes turned off Broad Street down to the canal basin, past the bobbing narrow boats in their blankets of white.
The BTV car park was deserted. His mother frowned as they drove past rows of empty spaces.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Round the back. There’s a covered loading bay. Don’t want to come back to find the car under a foot of snow, do I?’
She took a lipstick and a compact from her handbag, examining her make-up as they drew to a halt. ‘Can we cut through the building to the shops? I’ll ruin my shoes if I have to traipse back through this snow.’
‘Yes, mother. Now can you get out and guide me in? Don’t worry, you won’t get your feet wet!’
Gingerly she opened the car door, stepping onto the tarmac of the loading bay. A sudden gust of wind sent snowflakes swirling under the canopy into her face. Turning her head away, she caught sight of something that stopped her in her tracks. She screamed.
David Simon leapt from the car as his mother staggered towards it.
She pointed to a skip wedged between the outside edge of the loading bay and the car park wall. The first thing he saw was the legs, or what was left of them. From the butchered stumps of the calves, his eye travelled along the naked body. Lying on her back among broken slabs of concrete, the woman’s head hung over the edge of the skip. Long black hair moved limply in the breeze and the snow fell like confetti on her upturned face and breasts.
Unable to stop himself, he moved closer. The crunch of his shoes in the snow seemed deafeningly loud. Now he could see her face.
‘David!’
He spun round. His mother, ashen-faced, was slumped against the boot of the car.
*
Megan was wedging a large frozen turkey into a shopping trolley when her mobile rang. She steered into a relatively private spot behind a display of Christmas crackers before answering.
‘Hello?’ She had to shout above the noise of the hordes of other shoppers crowding the aisles on either side.
‘Megan? It’s Martin. Where are you?’
‘Safeway! Sorry, can you hear me?’
‘Just about. There’s another body – it was found first thing this morning in the car park at BTV. Bastard had chopped her feet off!’
‘What?’ Megan gasped. ‘Who is she?’
‘No idea yet. Head of security found her lying in a skip almost covered in snow. Look, can you meet me at the mortuary? I’m on my way there now.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Megan looked at her watch. ‘It’ll take me about half an hour, though.’
‘No hurry. They won’t be able to start the post mortem until they’ve thawed her out.’
God, Megan thought, inching out of her space in the packed car park, is that what was going on during the wine-bar stake-out?
She was ushered into the mortuary by the same acne-scarred girl she had seen last time, but the figure standing next to Leverton was definitely not the objectionable Ed Horrobin. Taller, plumper and with almost white hair, it was the pathologist she had met on the Metro rapes inquiry.
Leverton stepped forward when he saw her enter the room. ‘Megan, you know Dr Jefferson, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ She shook hands in lieu of any further pleasantries: to say ‘nice to meet you again’ seemed wholly inappropriate in the circumstances.
‘You were quick,’ Leverton said. ‘I got caught up in the traffic in the city centre. Christmas shoppers! You’d think the snow would put them off.’
‘Martin,’ Megan said when the pathologist had disappeared to change into his overalls. ‘Did Delva see the body?’
‘No. It wasn’t until after she’d gone into the building that my lot found out about it. The boss of the security firm must have driven in literally minutes before the guys following Delva pulled up. They heard screaming and when they got round the back they found the security chap’s mother next to the skip where the body was found. Evidently he’d brought her in with him so she could go and do her Christmas shopping. She was in a terrible state.’
‘Where’s Delva now?’
‘Don’t worry – she’s okay. She was pretty shaken up when she found out about it, but she’s being looked after by one of the other women who works in the newsroom. We had to play things pretty carefully because we didn’t want anyone at BTV to twig why we were on the scene so soon after the body was discovered. Anyway, her colleague took her home and she’s going to arrange for her to catch a train to her mother’s place in London. She was going there for Christmas anyway.’
‘You don’t think there’s any danger of her being followed down to London, do you?’
‘Yes. That’s why I’m sending a couple of plain clothes people on the train as well.’
‘I’ve been thinking. We need a list of exactly who was in the BTV building the night Delva found that photo on her desk. Do you remember when we went to her house, she said whoever put it there could only have done it during a ten-minute period when the night sub popped out for a sandwich?’
‘Yes, I know. We’re working on that at the moment. Unfortunately the place was crawling with people that night. There
was a Christmas party for all the technical staff, so at the time the envelope was left there were about sixty people on the premises.’
‘Oh, right,’ Megan sighed. ‘One more thing. Have you got the blood grouping from the semen sample on the photo yet?’
‘No. They’re having trouble collecting enough to do the test. Sod’s law, isn’t it?’
Megan looked at him. He’d probably been up half the night but she wouldn’t have guessed it from his appearance. ‘Is there any chance of whoever dumped this body being caught on a security video?’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? The first thing we asked for when we got inside the building was last night’s tapes. But surprise, surprise, there’s one missing: it would have covered the period from nine o’clock until midnight.’
‘So whoever dumped the body stole the tape?’
‘Exactly. Everyone who was in the building last night’s going to have to be questioned.’
A trolley was wheeled through the doors and in its wake came the pathologist. The dead woman was still zipped up in the body bag used to transport her corpse from the BTV car park.
Martin and Megan watched as the opaque outer layer of the bag was unzipped, revealing a clear plastic layer over the woman’s face. Normally her features would have been clearly visible but the inside of the plastic was clouded with melting snow. As the inner zipper was pulled down and the plastic parted, Megan gasped.
Leverton had noticed it too. ‘My God! It’s her, isn’t it?’
They were both staring at the woman’s left breast. The snow that had covered the upper torso at the crime scene had melted to reveal a butterfly tattoo. A glance at the face confirmed it – although the hair was matted and the skin frosted over, it was definitely the woman in the photograph.
The pathologist looked up in surprise. ‘You know her?’
‘We don’t know her name,’ Leverton said, ‘but we have a photo of her. She could be a local prostitute. One of my men was checking it out.’
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