Frozen

by Lindsay Jayne Ashford

  He told the pathologist about the origin of the photograph. ‘Doctor Rhys thinks the man who sent it was probably involved in the murders of the two other prostitutes and the Jacksons. The woman in the photo looked as if she’d been restrained in the same way Natalie Bailey and Tina Jackson were; her arms were twisted above her head and she was lying on a bed. If this is the same woman – and I’m pretty sure it is – she should have marks on her wrists.’

  ‘Well, I won’t be able to do a post-mortem for a few hours yet – the body’s still partly frozen – but we might be able to see something on her wrists…’ He drew back the flaps of the body bag and the technician eased the body onto the table. Megan shuddered at the sight of the legs with their rough white stumps of bone.

  ‘I can see something here,’ the pathologist said, cradling the woman’s right hand in his own. ‘There’s an abrasion on the skin inside the wrist consistent with something thin and rigid like handcuffs.’

  ‘What about cause of death?’ Leverton asked. ‘Was she strangled?’

  ‘I can’t say yet. Her hair’s frozen to her neck in places so there could be bruises concealed underneath.’

  ‘How long has she been dead?’

  ‘Hard to say until we open her up. The extremities are frozen solid. She could have been killed several days ago and left outside.’

  He examined the hair, pulling some of the matted strands apart. ‘There are fragments of dead leaves in her hair: I didn’t see any organic waste in that skip, so as a preliminary guess I’d say she’d been dragged across a garden or a park. When did it turn cold? Sunday night, wasn’t it?’

  Megan glanced at Leverton and they both nodded.

  ‘So she could have been killed as long ago as last weekend.’ Jefferson straightened up and turned to face Megan and Leverton. ‘The state of the internal organs will give us a better idea: they’re unlikely to be frozen – she’d have to have been put into a deep freeze for the cold to penetrate there. The amount of decomposition will give us a reasonable idea of how long ago she died.’

  Megan had been waiting for Leverton to finish quizzing the pathologist before asking any questions of her own. ‘What do you make of the legs? We haven’t seen mutilation in any of the other victims.’

  ‘The feet were severed after death. Obviously I can’t say what was used to do it until I carry out a proper examination, but the absence of any blood loss from the wound suggests that the woman had been dead for some time when it happened.’

  ‘Why cut off the feet?’ Leverton mused, ‘Are we looking at some bizarre fetish or what?’

  ‘It could be something much more mundane.’ Jefferson perched on a stool next to the body. ‘In my experience the likeliest explanation for severed limbs is ease of disposal.’

  Megan frowned. ‘So you think he did this because she wouldn’t fit into his car or van or whatever?’

  ‘I’d say it was a distinct possibility, yes. We’ll get a clearer picture if there are any fibres attached to the body. If she was transported in a car boot she’s likely to have picked something up off the floor. The lab can usually distinguish between domestic carpeting and the stuff you get in cars.’

  ‘What about semen traces? Will they have been preserved?’ Leverton asked. ‘I mean, is there any chance of picking up enough to do a DNA test?’

  Jefferson rubbed his chin, thinking for a moment before replying. ‘If she was sexually assaulted, the presence of semen will depend on how long after the attack the body froze. If it happened within a couple of hours there’s a good chance of semen remaining in the body. You’ll have to give me time to allow the body to thaw before I can take any swabs, though.’

  Leverton asked Megan if she would follow him back to police headquarters. It was frustrating having to wait for the post-mortem to be carried out, but there was little else the pathologist could tell them until it was done. Megan felt faintly sick, wondering how long a woman took to thaw.

  *

  David Simon sat in a waiting room at the police station. There were two empty coffee cups beside him. He got up, pacing the floor impatiently. They’d taken his mother to hospital. Suffering from shock, they said. Not bloody surprising, he thought. He was angry. Angry at what she’d seen and angry at having to wait so long to be questioned.

  ‘Mr Simon?’ A uniformed officer appeared round the door. ‘Shouldn’t be long now.’

  He didn’t like the look on the policeman’s face. It was condescending, typical of the way cops acted when dealing with security guards. In his experience they always distrusted the likes of him, never sure if they were ex-cons or ex-cops.

  He wondered who would be coming to interview him. Perhaps it’d be the one he’d seen on telly yesterday. What was his name? Leverton. Three dead bodies in a week. Things must really be hotting up in this place, he thought. They might even wheel in that Dr Megan Rhys.

  *

  ‘The first thing I want to do is get hold of Rob Donalsen,’ Leverton said as he showed her into his office. ‘Remember what I said about him being a liability?’

  Megan nodded, watching Leverton’s face. The mention of the Vice Squad sergeant’s name made her go cold. Ever since the horrible discovery in her fridge she’d been telling herself it couldn’t be him. That he didn’t fit the profile for AB. But he’d been in on this right from the start. Knew she was involved. And he was screwing prostitutes. What if she was wrong?

  ‘I showed him that photo this morning just to see his expression,’ Leverton went on. ‘He went as white as a sheet. I’m sure it’s a girl he’s knocked off in the past, but he made out he didn’t recognise her. Anyway, I told him I wanted a name by this afternoon.’ He looked at his watch and smiled grimly. ‘It’s ten past twelve already – shall we?’ Leverton stood up and opened the door.

  As they descended the staircase to the ground floor Megan caught sight of PC Costello in a doorway. He wore a hooded jacket and his mouth was muffled by a thick woollen scarf so that the only part of his face that could be seen were his hypnotic brown eyes. There was snow on the hood of his jacket and it was beginning to drip onto his forehead. He wiped it with a gloved hand and grinned as he saw Megan and Leverton coming past.

  ‘Afternoon, sir. Ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Costello – you just starting a shift?’ Leverton asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve been off since Tuesday but I’m on over the weekend.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Leverton said. ‘Could have done with you this morning, really. Never mind.’

  Costello followed wordlessly as Leverton carried on down the corridor, ushering Megan through a fire door. As they reached the Vice Squad office, Megan nearly collided with Donalsen, who hurtled through the door in front of her. He looked terrible: puffy-eyed and red-faced. She backed away.

  ‘Going somewhere, Rob?’ Leverton asked in a tone of voice Megan had never heard him use before.

  ‘Er … No, sir. Just a call of nature, sir.’

  ‘Well, it’ll have to wait! I want that name!’

  Donalsen looked sheepishly back at him. ‘I’ve tried, guv, really. I mean, there’s hardly anyone out on the beat in the mornings. I couldn’t find anyone to ask. I’ve been all through the files and none of the mug-shots look anything like her!’ There was a note of desperation in the way he said it, as if pleading with Leverton to believe him.

  Leverton fixed the sergeant with a piercing glance before walking past him into the office. ‘Well, perhaps PC Costello can throw a bit of light on the subject.’ He handed Costello a copy of the photo. He studied it for a moment, his hood and scarf concealing the expression on his face. Then he looked at Donalsen, but the sergeant looked away.

  ‘It’s, er, hard to tell because of the hair over the face,’ Costello said. ‘But it might be one of ours,’ he faltered. ‘The tattoo, though … that looks familiar – although butterflies are quite popular tattoos to have. If she was on our files that tattoo wouldn’t show ’cos it’s too low down. They come in wearing these
low-cut tops but we only get head and shoulders photos.’

  Costello took off his coat and scarf and walked across to the filing cabinet, pulling out a photo after a search that took a matter of seconds. ‘There’s this girl, sir,’ he said, showing it to Leverton. ‘What do you think?’

  Leverton turned so that Megan could see it too. To her, there was absolutely no doubt that it was the same woman. The grim expression she wore for the police photographer couldn’t conceal her high cheekbones and full lips. Her skin was a tawny colour – a shade darker than in the other photograph – and her hair stood out around her face, glistening like black candyfloss.

  Leverton read out the name at the top of the card. ‘Maria Fellowes. Aged 27. Hmmm, last arrested six months ago.’ He turned to Costello. ‘Are you sure this one’s still on the game?’

  The constable scratched his head, glancing again at Donalsen before replying. Donalsen sat slumped in a chair, his head down.

  ‘Perhaps I should be asking you that question, Rob,’ Leverton said.

  ‘I’ve told you, I haven’t got a clue who she is. Sir.’ The words were spoken in a monotone and he added Leverton’s title almost as an afterthought.

  ‘Is that right?’ Leverton went on with the same biting sarcasm. ‘In that case it probably won’t interest you to know that we’ve just found her lying in a skip with her feet hacked off.’

  With three pairs of eyes fixed on him, Donalsen rose from his seat. His face was puce. He mumbled an excuse to leave the room and made for the door without waiting for a reply.

  Leverton looked at Megan. His face said it all. She raised her eyebrows, but her expression was noncommittal. Apart from his weakness for the women he was supposed to be arresting, everything about Donalsen was wrong. His reactions were so predictable, his feelings so transparent.

  ‘Right!’ Leverton turned to Costello. ‘I want to speak to Maria Fellowes’s relatives – if she’s got any, that is. Can you get on to it? I don’t think we’ll get much mileage out of him…’ He gesticulated in the direction Donalsen had taken when he left the room.

  Megan watched Leverton as he barked instructions at Costello. She felt angry, frustrated. He should be concentrating his resources on interviewing people at BTV. Tracking down the people who were in the building the night Delva got that photograph. She frowned. If he really suspected Donalsen he should be questioning him, doing a DNA test. Surely that was more crucial than interviewing members of the dead woman’s family?

  Once again she got the feeling she was being used as a pawn in some game she couldn’t fathom. Donna, Natalie, Tina and now Maria. How many more women were going to die before Leverton started taking her seriously?

  *

  It was beginning to get dark when Megan returned to the mortuary. As she walked up the steps she saw a police patrol car pull into the car park. A woman with blonde permed hair climbed out. She looked about fifty and she was carrying a small black child in her arms.

  Megan carried on through the lobby. Leverton was waiting and he beckoned Megan through another door. At the end of a corridor she could see an office where the pathologist sat writing at his desk.

  ‘Doctor Jefferson’s got a progress report for us before the mother arrives,’ he said.

  ‘She’s already here, I think,’ Megan replied. ‘Did you know she had a child with her?’

  Leverton groaned. ‘Poor little sod! I suppose it’s Maria’s. How old is it?’

  ‘Only a toddler, I think. It was in her arms, fast asleep.’

  ‘Let’s hope it stays that way. This is no place for a kid.’

  Doctor Jefferson looked up when he heard them approaching the office.

  ‘Right, let me fill you in on what we’ve been up to since this morning.’ He pulled a sheet of paper from the file in front of him. ‘The deceased is of mixed African and Caucasian race, aged between 25 and 30 years. Cause of death appears to be manual strangulation, and she was attacked from behind. The abrasions on the wrist you know about. Er … time of death … all we can say at this stage is that she’s been dead for more than 48 hours. We need to carry out tests on the internal organs to get a more accurate assessment.’

  ‘Have you been able to take any swabs yet?’ Leverton asked.

  ‘Yes. We’ve taken samples from all the orifices and we can get them tested for blood group tomorrow. I suppose you know about the log-jam at the DNA lab?’

  Leverton nodded.

  ‘I think you’ll have to wait until the end of next week for anything conclusive on that front.’

  The sound of footsteps in the corridor made Leverton and Megan turn their heads. A uniformed policewoman was approaching and Leverton motioned her to come in.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but Mrs Fellowes is here to identify the body.’

  ‘Yes, I’d heard she’d arrived,’ Leverton replied. ‘There’s a child with her?’

  ‘Yes sir. It’s her grandson. He’s asleep at the moment. I suggested to her that I could take him while she goes in to look at the body.’

  ‘Right. We’d better get it over with, then.’

  The little boy was wrapped up against the cold in a quilted snowsuit with fake fur around the hood. Tight black curls framed his face and long black eyelashes swept his cheeks. Megan couldn’t help thinking of Emily. The last time she had seen her she was in exactly the same state as this child: oblivious to any impending disaster life might have in store.

  ‘Mrs Fellowes?’ Leverton walked up to the woman and put a hand on her shoulder. At close quarters Megan could see the dark roots of her hair beneath the perm. The deep lines etched around her mouth suggested a lifetime of cigarettes and there was a faraway look in her faded blue eyes. She rose to her feet, handing the sleeping child to the policewoman. Without a word she allowed herself to be guided to the door beyond which her dead daughter lay.

  When it was over Leverton sat her down with tea and a cigarette.

  ‘Mrs Fellowes, I need to ask you a few questions. I can do it here if you feel up to it, or if you prefer I can get you back home and we can do it there.’

  ‘You’re all right, love,’ she whispered, blowing out a veil of smoke. ‘I’d sooner get it over while the babby’s asleep.’ Tears welled in her eyes at the mention of the boy. Mingling with mascara, they ran in two black rivers down her cheeks.

  ‘Can you remember the last time you saw your daughter?’

  The woman took another drag on her cigarette. ‘It was last Monday afternoon. I took Wesley up town to see Father Christmas. Maria was working, you see.’ She paused, glancing down at the floor. When she looked up again her expression had changed to one of resignation. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Leverton nodded. ‘Maria lived at your house, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So weren’t you worried when she failed to come home that night?’

  ‘No, not really. She sometimes had to, you know, disappear.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, if there was a crackdown on the beat, she might get arrested a couple of times in the same week, and that would have meant a hundred quid in fines, so if that happened she used to get the train to Bristol. She could work in a massage parlour down there for a few days at a stretch and earn enough money to cover the fine plus a bit extra. There was no danger of her getting arrested because the police down there turn a blind eye to the massage parlours.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she have left a note when she did something like that?’

  ‘Not always, no. One time she had to walk straight to the railway station with nothing but the clothes she stood up in. That time her fella was after her and she was doing it to get away from him.’

  Leverton’s eyebrows arched. ‘She had a boyfriend?’

  ‘If you want to call him that, yes, she did. Bastard used to come round and take all her money off her.’

  ‘What do you mean, used to?’

  The woman stubbed out her cigarette and immediately lit another. �
��We haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks. I was hoping he was inside.’

  ‘Why? Had Maria reported him?’

  ‘You must be joking! He’d have kicked the shit out of her if she had! Anyway, she said she loved him. He’s Wesley’s dad, see.’

  Leverton paused for a moment before changing tack. ‘So, last Sunday when you saw her – what time would you normally have expected her to get back?’

  ‘Depends on how much she took. The weather affects it a lot. If it’s cold, you don’t get so many punters.’

  ‘Well, let me put it this way: what was the latest she would normally come back?’

  ‘It varied. Never before midnight. Her fella used to come round about two o’clock in the morning to get the money off her. He used to knock her about if she hadn’t earned enough. I heard them shouting some nights. Next morning she’d have a black eye or summat.’

  ‘Didn’t you ever try phoning us – to stop him, I mean?’

  The woman turned her head sideways, blowing out a plume of smoke. ‘You don’t know what he’s like. He’s got mates everywhere. He once told our Maria that if she ever tried taking Wesley away from him, he’d track her down.’

  ‘Had they argued recently?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Like I said, he hasn’t been to the house for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Did Maria say why she thought he’d stopped coming?’

  ‘No. He was always on the move. I reckon he was involved in drugs. I gave up asking about him in the end.’

  ‘What was his name?’ Leverton asked. The woman looked at him with frightened eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Fellowes, we’ll make sure he doesn’t get anywhere near you and Wesley.’

  She wasn’t convinced. ‘How can you be so sure? Like I said, he’s got all these mates…’

  ‘We can move you and the boy into a safe house until he’s been arrested. We can move you to another part of the country if you want. Start a new life. There are organisations that help women in your position to escape from violent men.’

  ‘You said you were going to arrest him? You think it was him did that to Maria?’

  ‘We don’t know yet, Mrs Fellowes, but on the evidence you’ve just given me we can arrest him for living off immoral earnings. Once we’ve got him behind bars, we can find out what else he might have done.’