by Nick Louth
He sat back in his chair with his hands behind his head. Leroy Ceejay was making a heap of money, that much was clear. To make it clean wasn’t easy, and probably a bit more complicated than actually manufacturing the required chemicals. But a business like a restaurant, with high overheads, a lot of them in cash, would do the laundry trick just fine. Gillard could imagine how it would work. Leroy has £100,000 of cash gleaned from drug sales. He uses the cash to pay some of the legitimate bills the restaurant has incurred: local food suppliers, drinks wholesalers, casual staff. Meanwhile, Anton would use his legitimate bank accounts to pay Leroy a hefty salary for recruitment, for security services and so forth, equalling the amount that Leroy had put in. Whether the restaurant made an overall profit or not was less important than the amount of dirty money it made clean.
Of course, none of that would necessarily mean that Anton St Jeanne’s late-night party on the bridge, whether two people or three, was connected with the death of a so far unidentified Asian man. Gillard decided that he would get his financial specialist colleague Detective Sergeant Shireen Corey-Williams to examine the books. He meanwhile was going to take a closer look at the restaurant itself.
Could the Special Branch interest in Leticia Mountjoy be connected to an inquiry into her boyfriend’s business partner, Leroy Ceejay? It was an intriguing idea. There was no point asking the chief constable. He would instead make some discreet enquiries with the NCA. The National Crime Agency, Alison Rigby’s old stamping ground, had first dibs on all the major criminals operating in drugs, trafficking, weapons and cybercrime and would know if some major operation was being undertaken on Leroy Ceejay. They had a tough job to do and were often reluctant to share information with what they called plods, which basically meant anyone else in the police.
* * *
In the mist of a summer’s morning Ash Island was like an imagining from Arthurian legend. The tree-clad slopes rustled faintly in the breeze, and quicksilver ripples bounced between the many houseboats and barges. A single heron flapped lazily into the air, turning west away from the sun, as Gillard and Rainy Macintosh crossed from Hurst Meadows park on the walkway that ran across the East Molesey weir. Only the faint hum of traffic on Hampton Court Road on the other side of the river intruded on the bucolic image.
The detectives were following up on a report from the divers. They had found nothing of significance in two days of searching both sides of the river. They had covered a half-mile upstream down to where the body had been found, and fifty yards beyond. No point going below that. Dead bodies may drift but they don’t swim. There was plenty of junk and detritus, but most of it was clearly old. Too old, rotted or weathered to have found its way into the water in the last few days. No netting or mesh, no recently discarded clothing or footwear. The weir was clear, the flow only a trickle with the recent lack of rain. There were no industrial water intakes or other fast-water sources nearby that could be implicated in the injuries found on the victim. In the entire two days, the only thing of interest wasn’t in the water, but above it. The team leader had emailed a photograph to Gillard.
Gillard and Rainy crouched on the aluminium walkway that ran along the top of the weir to Ash Island and stared at the pattern. It was diamond shaped, with a 2 cm by 1 cm gauge.
‘It’s not this,’ Gillard said. ‘Wrong size, and too rigid.’
‘It couldn’t be wrapped around him either,’ she said.
‘There are no factories or workshops nearby with the kind of equipment that could have been used on our victim. Uniforms have done a thorough trawl.’
‘It doesn’t have to be local, does it?’
‘No. If he was chucked out of the car, he could have been killed anywhere.’
‘Aye, but in that case why ditch him, here, on Midsummer’s Night of all times. He’s bound to be seen.’
‘Okay, it was worth a try. Now to take a look at the body. Maybe that will clear some of the fog surrounding this case.’
* * *
For Rainy Macintosh a trip to the mortuary was like a reprise of her previous job. As a junior doctor in Glasgow she had on occasion escorted those unfortunates who had died either in theatre or on the ward and passed them over to the technicians who would allot them space in the huge chilled storage unit. She and a colleague would agree the cause of death and write up the death certificate. That was usually the end of the story from her perspective, although she had often to talk to bereaved families. But now, visiting the dead was the start of a process, and one with a very different end in mind. To find out how this person had died, and if it was accident or an act of malevolence.
Walking into Kingston Hospital mortuary with DCI Gillard, she felt quite excited at the opportunity to deploy some of her medical knowledge, and to meet the rather forbidding Dr David Delahaye. A technician showed the two detectives into the examination room where the consultant forensic pathologist was bent over a gurney, looking into a partially opened body bag.
He looked up at their approach, brief introductions were made, and they turned their attention to the corpse that three days previously had been found washed up on an island in the Thames.
The photographs had not prepared Rainy for the shock of seeing the victim, cartoonishly swollen into an incandescent blimp of fury. She was astounded by the intensity of the cyanosis that still marked the upper body. The man’s chest, shoulders and face were a livid mauve overlaid with a regular purple diamond pattern, so precise it looked almost tattooed into the skin. His eyes were so swollen they had almost popped out of his face. Combined with eyeballs rimmed in blood from broken capillaries and the laugh-like grimace, he had a demonic appearance. The pathologist’s Y-shaped chest cut and the ear-to-ear scalp incision, performed as part of the post-mortem and now roughly sewn back, were bloodless by comparison.
‘So Ms Macintosh, in your previous life dealing with the living, have you ever seen anything remotely like this?’ Delahaye asked.
‘No, nothing.’
‘What actually causes these purple marks to remain in the skin after death?’ Gillard asked.
‘Thousands of ruptured capillaries, what we call petechiae. Leaking blood, basically. It produces a rather graphic lividity, doesn’t it?’
‘Designer contusions,’ Rainy said. ‘Even more impressive than my own varicose veins post-pregnancy. But I cannot imagine what crushed him to produce this.’
‘That indeed is the $64,000 question,’ Delahaye said. ‘The detective chief inspector and myself have been whizzing emails back and forth for several days on this very subject. I do think the idea of an industrial element is quite persuasive given the amount of force that must have been used. I’ve been reading around in the literature, and there are chest-compression injuries here that easily exceed those caused by Hillsborough, the crowd crushes at Mecca during the haj, and similar events.’
‘Have you been able to calculate the force?’ Rainy asked.
‘It is not so easy. Human ribs are not made in a factory, and do not have a standard tolerance. Detaching them through gradual pressure, as appears to have happened here, would depend on numerous bodily factors in addition to the force applied. However, I am reasonably confident that nothing less than half a metric tonne could do this damage. A car toppling from a jack, that kind of thing. Of course, that is most unlikely in this case. Very little car maintenance is undertaken in the nude, or so I am reliably informed.’ His eyes twinkled as he looked at Rainy.
‘What about this mesh suit he seemed to have been wearing?’ she asked.
‘Ah yes, Craig’s idea of the iron maiden. A medieval instrument of torture.’ He glanced at Gillard, his indulgent smile conveying scepticism.
‘It’s possible isn’t it?’ Rainy asked.
Delahaye laughed. ‘Well, I suppose so. I looked it up last night after Craig first suggested it. The first references were in the nineteenth century, of medieval iron coffins lined with iron spikes. However, historians reckon they are mythical because of the l
ack of contemporary mention in the medieval era. Of course, just because they didn’t actually exist doesn’t automatically mean no one could invent one now. Certainly, the pattern and depth of contusions indicates that pressure seems to have come from above and below – assuming the victim was prone. It would have been nasty. However, I’m less convinced that this mesh is the source of the force applied, rather than having merely transmitted it to the body. It’s quite possible the netting was just being used to restrain the victim while he was crushed.’ He looked at the two detectives, his metal-framed glasses glinting in the cold clinical lights. ‘It’s your job to ascertain whether it may be a gangland punishment of some sort. That’s beyond my remit. All I would do is to point to the absence of any conventional signs of violence. Punches, kicks, stab wounds and so forth. A very disciplined gang, I would say.’
‘What about the broken nose?’ Gillard said.
‘Sustained pressure not trauma,’ Delahaye replied. ‘You get a nosebleed either way, of course. Gangland or not, I’d be happier to know what type of machine did this, whether it be hydraulic press, stamping equipment or something else, before passing judgement.’
‘Rainy, perhaps we can make that a project for you,’ Gillard said. ‘Research the type of industrial machines that can cause this injury. Everything, from forklifts to hydraulic presses, where gradual pressure is possible. Maybe start with the Health and Safety Executive, see what guidance they can offer.’
‘That sounds like quite a wee task.’
‘I’m sure you can get me some ideas by tomorrow morning.’
‘Oh aye, and I’ll have figured out cold fusion by teatime,’ she muttered.
Gillard shared a look with a smirking Delahaye, then asked: ‘Can we have a look at the rest of him?’
‘Of course,’ Delahaye said, undoing the zip on the body bag to the bottom.
The florid mauve patches were less marked further down the body, but the tops of the thighs and both kneecaps bore vivid purple diamond-shaped impressions. ‘You may recall from my report that the pressure on this kneecap was enough to snap the patella. That takes quite some doing.’
‘Whoever did this to him was very imaginative about it,’ Gillard said.
‘I do agree,’ Delahaye said, then looked to Gillard. ‘So have you made any more progress on finding who it was?’
‘A little. We have evidence of a splash, a little upstream from where the body was found, witnessed by a number of people at around two a.m., which is three hours before he was found. The location of that splash would be a possible site for a body to be thrown out of the boot of a car. We have a number of active leads we are pursuing—’
‘Right, so not actually much progress then,’ Delahaye said, grinning conspiratorially at Rainy. ‘Let’s turn him over, shall we?’ He called over a technician, who helped turn the body face down. The cyanosed impression of a diamond grid on his back, shoulders, buttocks and thighs was extremely clear. Whatever it was he had been crushed against had broken thousands of capillaries across his body.
‘There is one idea I had, which you will probably consider is stupid,’ Rainy said. ‘This could have been a sex game gone wrong.’
‘Very wrong, I would have thought,’ Gillard said.
‘Och, you’d be gobsmacked what we saw in A&E. You can never say anything is too extreme for people to have a go at. The items they will insert, the inventiveness. You wouldnae believe it.’
‘Yes,’ said Delahaye with unusual enthusiasm. ‘When I was a medical student, I was present for a champagne celebration. Including the removal in theatre of the empty Krug bottle from a middle-aged woman.’
‘Aye, I’ve done a couple of those,’ Rainy said dismissively. ‘You have to drill through the bottle to break the airlock—’
‘Then squirt some baby oil into the vaginal canal so you can ease it out,’ Delahaye said.
‘No, this is much more extreme,’ Rainy said, shaking her head.
Gillard, open-mouthed, looked from one to the other. ‘You’re not kidding.’
‘What I’m thinking,’ Rainy said, ‘is that partial asphyxiation is a known method of enhancing the power of an orgasm. So the victim dresses up in his own mesh playsuit—’
‘—and gets crushed to death,’ Gillard said. ‘What fun! And then gets tossed into the river by someone else who, incidentally, pinches his playsuit.’
‘Aye, sir,’ Rainy said. ‘I said it was stupid.’
* * *
Claire Mulholland knew that Baz had enjoyed an interesting day from the texts he had sent her. When she arrived to pick him up, shortly after six, he was full of the story of the large reptile house that he and his colleague were preparing. ‘That is going to be some serious zoo,’ he told her, as he sat himself down in the passenger seat of her car, his dusty overalls and a large plastic carrier bag between his knees. ‘But it’s just for the sheikh’s own pleasure.’
‘What did you see?’
‘Well, by trespassing a bit, we saw the crocodile pool, and an enclosure that was marked up for a Komodo dragon. They are supposed to be eight feet long, but we couldn’t find the bloody thing anywhere. There were lots of dead hollow trees for him to hide inside. But the thing that Jakes got deranged is that under one of the older buildings he went back to, a basement room that he had plastered last week…’ He stopped and looked at her. ‘Actually, I’m not supposed to be telling you any of this. Van Steenis made us sign a non-disclosure agreement.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s frightened of animal rights activists getting wind of what he’s doing.’
‘He’d have to have permission for the animals he’s bringing in anyway,’ Claire said. ‘If what he’s doing is legal, he shouldn’t have anything to worry about.’
Baz inclined his head in agreement. ‘Okay. Well, this basement room has now got a big lock on the door, and a kind of sliding hatch, so you can see in from outside. And a kind of urinal-type gulley leading to a drain.’
‘Sounds like a zoo enclosure to me.’
‘Except there is a brand-new mattress, still in its plastic, on the floor.’
‘What are you saying, Baz?’
‘It’s a prison cell, that’s what Jakes thinks.’
* * *
When Cottesloe and Wickens arrived at his home, Michael Jakes came to the door in a scruffy threadbare bathrobe. He had clearly emerged from the shower to answer the doorbell and, by the lumps of plaster still visible in his hair, was only partway through the process.
The two constables sat in the same places on the settee as before, but this time the small grey cat decided to snuggle up between them. ‘Mr Jakes, have you been wandering around at night on Ash Island?’ Cottesloe asked.
‘I tied a bunch of flowers on the bridge for the man who died.’
‘That’s the bridge to Tagg’s Island. I’m asking you about Ash Island, the next one down. We had a lady complain about an intruder.’
Jakes nodded and scratched absent-mindedly at a lump of plaster on his cheek. ‘She had a go at me, yeah. I told her I was sorry.’
‘Why were you there?’
‘I’d made a little paper boat and wanted to set it in the river at the place where he was found. I’d already thrown in a home-made wreath, off the bridge.’
The two officers briefly glanced at each other. ‘But why were you doing it at night?’ Wickens asked.
‘I work during the day.’
Cottesloe chuckled sceptically. ‘Come on, you don’t work until midnight, do you?’
‘I think better at night.’
‘Doubtful,’ Cottesloe said. ‘If you did, you would realise that going sneaking about on a private island at midnight would give the residents the heebie-jeebies.’
Jakes stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘I’m going through a difficult time,’ he said. ‘I’ve got personal issues.’
Wickens rolled his eyes. ‘Haven’t we all, matey boy? Look, in future keep off private property, and don’t go sca
ring people. All right?’
Jakes looked away. ‘Okay.’
The two officers wound up the interview. Jakes watched from the lounge window as they walked to their patrol car. They were laughing and joking, playground bullies who never grew up. Wickens pulled a face at his colleague, gurning like an idiot, with his tongue out. Jakes reflected that, as so often, Nietzsche had said it best: Man is the cruellest animal.
Once the car had gone, Jakes went upstairs to the spare room, seeking some comfort in a familiar although secret routine. There, spreading beyond the original corkboard to the wall, were pinned or taped hundreds of newspaper articles about the murderer Neville Rollason. Many of the pieces were new, speculating where he might be or what this dangerous man might look like now, with the aid of software and artists’ impressions. But others were older, from decades ago, sun-bleached and curling, showing the glowering eyes and dark devilish eyebrows of Rollason in his youth. In the centre of the bedroom mirror was taped a new enlarged photo of a mild-looking pensioner, with dark eyes and a swirl of snowy hair around his balding pate. To Jakes this rare image was both precious and repulsive, already seared into his mind through familiarity. The thought of this man leaving jail terrified him. He was certain that once he did, Rollason would once again seek him out. On a desk was a pair of scissors and sheaf of fresh newspapers awaiting scrutiny. Each new snippet, a repeating pattern, a texture in the tapestry of terror Jakes had created for himself.
Chapter Fourteen
It was just PC Cottesloe’s bad luck that he was standing in front of Vince Babbage at Staines police station when the desk sergeant took a call. Cottesloe was waiting to have his overtime request authorised when Babbage put his hand over the receiver and said: ‘I’ll be with you in a moment, Jim.’ He grabbed a notepad and pen and said: ‘Yes, madam.’