Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles by Patricia Hall
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
A Selection of Recent Titles by Patricia Hall
The Kate O’Donnell Series
DEAD BEAT *
DEATH TRAP *
DRESSED TO KILL *
BLOOD BROTHERS *
DEEP WATERS *
COVER UP *
The Ackroyd and Thackeray Series
SINS OF THE FATHERS
DEATH IN A FAR COUNTRY
BY DEATH DIVIDED
DEVIL’S GAME
DUST TO DUST
* available from Severn House
COVER UP
Patricia Hall
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD
Copyright © 2017 by Patricia Hall.
The right of Patricia Hall to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8695-8 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-803-3 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-867-4 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
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ONE
Detective Sergeant Harry Barnard could have kicked himself for a fool for bothering to call in at the nick, after he and Kate O’Donnell had strolled across the West End at peace with the world after seeing the new Elvis film, Viva Las Vegas. Barnard slightly regretted persuading Kate to go in the first place. He had been blown away by Elvis when he burst upon the world in the fifties with classics like Jailhouse Rock and his gyrating version of Hound Dog which had scandalized Middle America, but he could see that his Beatles-obsessed girlfriend, born and brought up with the Merseybeat, had never been hooked by the King. And to judge by this latest offering, he had to concede that Elvis’s crown was looking tarnished. His own reaction was not as cool as Kate’s, but the magic, he admitted to himself, if not to her, had gone.
The summer evening was hot and sticky, with a hint of thunder in the air, and Barnard had decided on a whim to call in at the nick, where he had parked his car, to pick up a jacket that he had left in the CID office before meeting Kate for a meal after work. She reluctantly took a seat in the front office, where the desk sergeant surveyed her with hot eyes after Barnard went upstairs. As soon as he opened the office door Barnard realized that his decision was a serious mistake. DC Peter Stansfield, the department’s latest recruit, who had in no way impressed his colleagues during the short time he’d been there, spun towards Barnard with a look on his face that was not far off panic. A pale, skinny young man at the best of times, he was ashen-faced as his colleague walked in.
‘Harry, mate,’ he said. ‘Am I pleased to see you! We’ve got a problem and I can’t get hold of the DCI. He’s at some Masonic do, apparently, and uniform are saying that someone’s just dumped a body in Soho Square. What the hell am I supposed to do about that?’
Barnard scowled at Stansfield, wanting nothing more than to turn on his heel, pick Kate up and take her home, where he’d hoped to round off a pleasant evening with an even more pleasant night between the sheets. But he could see from the younger officer’s incipient disintegration that that was not going to be an option, at least not immediately. Not for the first time, the thought crossed his mind that DC Stansfield must have used some sort of back-door method to land his job in CID, though he couldn’t imagine what that was. Stansfield might be a Mason, he supposed, but he was a bit young to wield much influence there.
‘Who’ve you spoken to?’ he snapped irritably. Stansfield should not be minding the shop on a busy Friday night when the West End was choked with revellers looking for a good time. But he knew that if it got back to the DCI that he had been in and not helped Stansfield out his already problematic relationship with his boss would plummet even further. ‘So who told you about this?’ he asked more evenly. Maybe there was a bit of credit to be gained by helping Stansfield out.
‘Just the patrol car that called in,’ Stansfield said. ‘They asked uniform to try to locate Jackson, and when that didn’t work they called me here in CID.’
‘I guess they didn’t reckon it was natural causes?’ Barnard asked.
‘They think it’s murder,’ Stansfield said, looking miserable. ‘The blokes in the patrol car are dancing around with excitement down there, with the naked body of a woman – or half-naked, anyway – laid out on the grass.’
‘I bet they are,’ Barnard conceded. ‘Anyway, I’ll help you set the wheels in motion at least. We’ll take a look and see if it’s as suspicious as it sounds. Wherever the DCI is, we’ll have to dig him out if it looks like murder. You won’t get any brownie points if you leave it any longer. Come on. We’ll tell uniform we’re on our way for a recce, and once we’ve had a look let them know what’s really going on. We’ll go in my car, but first I’ve got some explaining to do to my girlfriend. She won’t be best pleased. This was supposed to be a pleasant night out on the town.’
Stansfield followed Barnard down the stairs to the front office, where Kate was still sitting trying to avoid the appreciative glances of the desk sergeant, who flushed and ducked his head into his paperwork as soon as he saw Barnard approach. Kate stood up, obviously anxious to move out of the door as fast as she could, but her quick smile was overcome by disbelief when Barnard explained to her what had happened and what he felt he had to do about it. Her smile disappeared soon enough to warn him that there might be repercussions later.
‘This is Pete Stansfield,’ he said, waving at his obviously embarrassed colleague. ‘I need to go with him to check it out, as the patrolmen say she’s certainly dead. It shouldn’t take long.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’ she asked, conscious of the desk sergeant’s ears almost visibly flapping as he strained to hear what was being said.
‘Can you get yourself home o
n the Tube?’ Barnard asked quietly. ‘You could pick up a cab at Archway if you don’t want to walk up the hill.’
‘I suppose,’ Kate said without enthusiasm. He reached for his wallet and handed her a fiver.
‘That should cover it,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry, Katie, but I don’t have much choice. Someone has to take a look and the only other option for you is to sit in the car and wait for me. If the worst comes to the worst, it could be a long night. But believe me, I’ll get home as soon as I can.’
Kate nodded resignedly, trying to mask her disappointment. This, she thought, must be what it was like to be married to a copper and she wondered if it was really what she wanted. She knew that divorce rates were high among the police, and suddenly she could see exactly why.
‘Have you got your keys?’ Barnard asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said sharply. ‘I’ll be fine. It’s not very late.’
‘I’ll get away as soon as I can, but if it’s as serious as they say I’ll have to locate the DCI. I’ll ring you in an hour to make sure you’re back home safely.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said again. ‘Highgate’s a far cry from Scotland Road, la. You don’t need to worry about me. I know how to deal with scallies.’
Barnard nodded, knowing she was probably right. The attractive girl from Liverpool was a lot tougher than she looked.
‘I’ll drop you off at Tottenham Court Road underground,’ he said. ‘Don’t wait up.’
When Barnard pulled into Soho Square – with Stansfield in the passenger seat, still with the smirk on his face that he’d adopted when Barnard gave Kate a fleeting kiss on the cheek as she got out of the car – the only sign of a problem was a patrol car with its blue lights flashing, pulled across one of the gates to the dimly lit central gardens, and a couple of uniformed officers lounging against the bonnet. Barnard parked next to them and got out, with DC Stansfield close behind him.
‘You took your time,’ one of the PCs said. ‘We’ve closed off the gardens, like the nick told us, but without CID we thought it best to leave well alone.’
‘There’s no doubt she’s dead?’ Barnard asked, wondering whether the two officers, who looked as if their main ambition was to star in Z Cars, should have called an ambulance.
‘No doubt about it, stone dead,’ they said almost as one.
‘I felt for a pulse but there wasn’t one and she was stone cold,’ the older officer said. ‘After that we didn’t touch her, just shut off the gate, called it in, and waited for you lot to turn up.’
‘She’s a nice-looking bit of stuff,’ the other added. ‘Not a dolly bird exactly, but not bad if you go for the more mature type.’
‘Right, we’ll take a look,’ Barnard said. ‘I’m not actually on duty, as it goes, but I happened to call into the nick and there was no one else around except DC Stansfield here so I thought I’d best come over too. Soho’s my manor, after all.’
‘Vice, isn’t it?’ one of the uniformed officers asked. ‘A cushy number, then?’
And when Barnard scowled, his partner butted in.
‘This way,’ he said, opening the gate and leading the two plain clothes officers across the grass to a secluded area of low bushes beneath the overhanging plane trees. ‘Looks like one for the Vice Squad, I’d say. You’ll be the right man for the job.’
‘Did someone see what happened?’ Barnard asked. ‘Do we have an eyewitness?’
‘In theory,’ the PC said. ‘Some beggar called in from that phone box over there.’ He pointed to where the phone kiosk stood on the far corner of the square. ‘Told us what he’d seen and then hung up, so we’ve no idea who he was. Stupid beggar.’
Barnard shrugged.
‘Someone who didn’t want his nearest and dearest to know he was hanging around in Soho looking for a good time, I guess,’ he said. ‘This isn’t suburbia, where upright citizens rush to help the police. There are hundreds of reasons for staying anonymous, most of them female and wearing not much more than this one. Did you talk to anyone else who might have seen what happened?’
‘Kev here did a trawl round but he didn’t find anyone else who’d even noticed anything unusual. The punter on the phone was quite close to this gate, but if you were walking on the other side of the gardens or behind the parked cars you wouldn’t see much, if anything. And people move on quite fast round here, as you must know, all heading somewhere they probably shouldn’t be seen at or on their way home.’
Even in the dim light from the streetlamps, which barely penetrated the trees, Barnard could see that the body sprawled in front of them was almost naked.
‘Have you got a flashlight?’ he asked. The two uniformed officers directed the beams of their powerful torches at the spot beneath the bushes, and Barnard and Stansfield both drew breath sharply. Scantily clad in bra and pants, the female body sprawled on the dry grass was covered in dark bruises and there were marks of strangulation discernible around her throat. Barnard could just make out where, buried in her plump folds of flesh, a ligament of some sort had been pulled viciously tight. There could be no doubt that the woman was dead, and there was no way anything that had been done to her could have been self-inflicted. In the case of a suspicious death there was every reason why none of them should attempt to move the body, but ignoring his colleagues Barnard reached towards her distorted face and brushed his fingers across her cheek while Stansfield turned away with a heavy exhalation of breath, which Barnard knew was to keep nausea under control.
‘Stone cold, as you said,’ Barnard commented quietly. ‘I’d be very surprised if she died here. She would have been noticed long before she got as cold as this. She’s been dead some time.’
‘Is she someone you know, Flash? One of the local girls on the game?’ one of the uniformed officers asked with a sly grin. Working for Vice was not always taken very seriously by other branches of the Met, as Barnard knew only too well. But that was an idea he knew he’d better jump on hard before the brass arrived.
‘I’ve never seen her in my life before,’ he snapped. He took one of the flashlights and ran it up and down the woman’s body.
‘Silk underwear and a bloody great diamond on her finger. She’s a cut and a half above the working girls round here, even if she did let someone do this to her.’
‘The phone caller said she was dumped from a car,’ one of the PCs reminded him. ‘Two men pulled up over there …’ He indicated the low fence that separated the garden in the centre of the square from the narrow pavement, which was lined with parked cars. ‘Lifted her over the fence, dropped her, and then drove off at speed.’
‘No registration number?’
‘Big dark car. No number.’
‘Right,’ Barnard said. ‘We’d better get the wheels in motion. We need the doctor and the DCI for a start. It looks like being a long night.’ It took Barnard some time to report back to the nick on the patrol car’s radio and persuade the uniformed night staff that the hunt for the DCI, and also for the police surgeon, had now become a top priority. After the best part of an hour’s waiting, DCI Keith Jackson and the police surgeon eventually arrived in a black cab and full evening dress. Neither of them looked best pleased at being called away from whatever social occasion they seemed to have been at together.
In the meantime, Barnard had phoned his flat and was relieved to hear that Kate had arrived home safely. She sounded no happier than when Barnard dropped her at the Tube.
‘I’m stuck here for a bit,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Kate, but the dead woman has been strangled. I’ll have to wait for the DCI. I can’t leave Stansfield here on his own. He’s already looking an ominous shade of green.’
‘Should he even be a copper then, la, if he’s such a fragile flower?’ Kate asked tartly.
‘Probably not,’ Barnard said. ‘But there’s not a lot I can do about that.’
‘I’ll go to bed then,’ she replied levelly, though he could hear the growing disappointment in her voice and his hear
t sank.
‘I’ll come in quietly,’ he said. ‘I’ll try not to wake you.’ If the worst came to the worst, he thought, he would be sleeping on the sofa tonight. He walked slowly back from the phone box wondering, not for the first time, how long Kate would put up with being let down like this. He was jolted out of his introspection by the sight of another police car pulling into the square.
‘What are you doing here, Barnard?’ Jackson asked, his eyes full of suspicion, as soon as he spotted the sergeant’s approach.
‘I called into the nick to pick up a jacket I’d left in the office, guv. Young Stansfield had just been alerted to all this and I thought he might need some back-up as he hadn’t been able to contact you at that stage. We came straight over.’
‘And what have we got?’
‘A dead woman,’ Barnard said. ‘She’s been pretty viciously attacked, and strangled by the look of it.’
‘You haven’t touched the body?’ the police surgeon snapped. Barnard guessed that the contempt with which he felt like treating this question was best kept under wraps and bit his tongue.
‘Of course not,’ he said.
‘Is she a tom?’ Jackson asked. ‘Do you know her? Professionally, I mean?’
‘No,’ Barnard said quietly. ‘I’ve never seen her before in my life, and there’s not many women in Soho I can say that about. Her face is badly bruised, but she’s definitely a stranger to me. And judging by the size of the diamond ring she’s wearing, she’s a bloody sight more prosperous than the working girls round here. If she’s a whore, she’s a high-class whore and maybe her sugar daddy turned nasty on her. Or maybe she’s not a whore at all.’
The doctor offered nothing more than a grim harrumph as he crouched down to take a close look at the woman’s remains.
‘She’s been dead some time,’ he said almost immediately. ‘And, as is very obvious, she’s been beaten and strangled and sexually assaulted. You’ll get more detail at the post-mortem of course. There’s not much to be said here, with this poor light. I’ll arrange for her to be taken to the morgue. Then you can organize your searches and so on and get on with the forensics.’
Cover Up Page 1