‘Good work,’ said Nattrass. She and Turnbull exchanged glances.
‘A bad one,’ he said.
‘They all are,’ she said, ‘but this one is worse than most. Cadaverous spasm, it sounds like. She didn’t go gently.’
Turnbull suppressed a shudder.
She sighed. ‘Any more than that, we’ll have to wait for the Home Office bod to get here.’
‘Any ID?’
Snell shook his head. ‘Not that I could see. I didn’t want to—’
‘I know,’ said Turnbull, cutting him off. He turned to Nattrass. ‘You think it’s …’ He left the name hanging.
The facts, unspoken, were embedded in both of their brains. For the last week they had taken priority over everything else.
Ashley Malcolm. Nineteen. First-year student at the University of Northumbria, studying photography. Disappeared six days ago leaving no word, no note, no clues. Like she had just vanished into thin air from a street in Fenham.
CCTV tapes had been watched and rewatched; witnesses, friends, lecturers and boyfriend had been questioned and requestioned. All with no positive outcome. For a time suspicion had fallen on her boyfriend, Michael Nell. They had found him uncooperative and obnoxious, two things that are guaranteed to make the police take a deeper than casual interest in a person. Nattrass and Turnbull had obliged, leaning on him somewhat in an effort to ascertain guilt or innocence, find his breaking point, but ultimately nothing had come of it. Despite their dislike of him, with no body there was a limit to how far they could go.
And now this.
‘So what d’you reckon?’ said Turnbull. ‘Should we assume it’s her? Or wait?’
‘What is it they tell us in training courses?’ said Nattrass. ‘Never assume. It makes an “ass” out of “u” and “me”.’
‘But those wankers have never had to do this for a livin’.’
‘True.’ Nattrass tried to look anywhere but at the cemetery. She failed. ‘Instinct tells me it is her. I mean, I hope it’s not but in a way I suppose I hope it is too.’
Turnbull looked at her, nodded. ‘I know what you mean. If it’s her we can get going. If it’s not … we’ve got a nutter on the loose.’
‘I think it’s safe to say we’ve got that anyway, Paul.’
Turnbull stood up. ‘Hope for the best, fear the worst, eh?’
Nattrass looked around. She had to call it in. Wait for an SIO to be assigned. Contact the General Hospital, arrange for the body to be transferred to the mortuary there. Accompany the body along with the pathologist. Maintain the chain of evidence.
She sighed. What she hoped. What she feared. Rarely the same.
‘Always the same, isn’t it, Paul?’ Nattrass said. ‘Hope and fear.’
She and her team were going to be in for a very long night.
4
Katya opened her eyes. Looked around. The room was strange, unfamiliar. Seconds went by while she orientated herself, while memory caught up with waking. Then realized where she was. And smiled.
Katya stretched languidly, then curled herself up into a ball. She sighed. Pulled the duvet up over her chin, wrapped it tight around her, closed her eyes. Stayed as still as she could. Listened to the silence.
No one to tell her to get up, shout orders at her, punish her for transgressions she wasn’t aware she had made, abuse her because they were bored and she was their property. No one to use her body against her will.
A proper bed. Not a stinking, lumpen mattress on a bare, cold floor. Rows of shivering, dirty bodies with snot-teared faces. Sleep virtually impossible because of the noise, the fights, the casual rapes. Cries of pain and beyond-pain, the stink of bodies and hopelessness. A house of human degradation.
From there she would be taken to the other house. Where men paid to use her body and the creepy landlord watched. The money she made snatched from her. Her loan, still repaying. Then into the car, back again. And on. And on.
She screwed her eyes up tight, tried to banish the images from her mind, make them dissipate like the fog of a nightmare. Focus on the present.
She had just woken from her best night’s sleep in ages. The best waking she had experienced for months. So rested she could have been out for days. She allowed her mind to float, unable to remember the last time she had been so relaxed. She luxuriated in her body’s freedom like she would in a warm bubble bath. She snuggled down hard, not wanting the comfort to end, not wanting to face the harsh world again. Wanting to stay safe.
But she knew she would have to get up soon. If for no other reason than her bladder told her so.
Reluctantly she threw back the covers. Cold air crept over her body like a dawning reality. She got out of bed. Her pyjamas had been provided for her by the woman, Peta. They weren’t a perfect fit, but, compared with what she had been used to, they felt wonderful. She crossed to the window, looked out. Saw trees, fields, hills. Heard birdsong. The sky wasn’t a perfect blue, there were clouds hovering, but to Katya it seemed like fairy-tale sunlight. She couldn’t help herself from smiling again.
She looked around her bedroom. The furniture was good quality but basic: a double bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers with a TV on it, bedside table. Stripped floorboards and rugs. Neutral-coloured walls and ceiling. No personal pictures or photos. It smelled recently painted and, although pleasant enough, had the ambience of a hotel room; like someone hadn’t been there long enough to make their mark or were just passing through.
They had been kind to her so far, but she was still wary. She told herself not to be; the letter confirmed that she should trust them.
The letter. On the bedside table. She picked it up, read through it again. She would have read it once more, but the pressure on her bladder was increasing. She put it back down, crossed the room, quietly twisted the knob, stepped out on to the landing. There were another three doors. She tried the nearest, crept it quietly open. The light-skinned black boy from the previous night was in there fast asleep, sprawled over the bed, duvet wrestled around him. She closed it again, tried the next door. Locked. The third door was the bathroom. She quickly stepped inside.
Donovan woke under a duvet on the sofa, opened his eyes.
No dreams. At least none that followed him into waking. Good.
He shook his head, tried to clear the tiredness from it. Worked out why he wasn’t in his bed. Heard the bathroom door close upstairs. Remembered.
Katya. His guest.
Yawning and stretching, he swung his legs to the floor, rubbed his face and padded into the kitchen to make coffee. He knew he would have to wait to get into the bathroom now.
Once done, he returned to the sofa, mug in hand, threw the duvet over him once more and pointed the remote at the TV.
Detective Chief Inspector Bob Fenton was giving a press conference. Face stern and set. Waiting to impart something of importance. Blinking slightly, flashbulbs popping, cutting the electric air. Donovan had heard of the man but never met him. At Fenton’s side sat DI Diane Nattrass. Donovan knew her. Had been part of a previous investigation of hers.
It was what everyone had expected. The news story the whole region, perhaps the country, had been following. Fenton explained that a body had been found the previous night in Westgate Road cemetery. Fenton confirmed it was that of the missing student Ashley Malcolm. He sat back, allowed the news to sink in.
Flashbulbs popped again. The sounds of a restless, agitated audience filled the silence. Champing at the bit, eager to ask their questions. Donovan could almost feel the adrenalin in the room. It wasn’t that long ago when he would have been there himself.
Fenton, his suit pressed and careerist-smart, his shirt a crisp white, his tie unmarked and his senatorial-style hair shot through with authoritarian grey, handed over to Diane Nattrass. She, in contrast, looked as if she had been out the previous night and hadn’t made it home yet. Her hair flattened, her make-up hastily reapplied, her clothes crumpled and creased. She looked weary beyond tiredness. Her eyes
, when they caught the camera, were black-rimmed, as if she was staring out from a deep, dark cave, reporting on what she had found in there. Donovan could sympathize.
Nattrass confirmed details, made appeals. Gave as much information as she could without hampering the investigation. She came across, Donovan thought, despite or probably because of the tiredness, as not just a professional doing her job but as someone with a personal stake in finding Ashley’s killer. The approach, whether inadvertent or not, worked. She attempted to field some questions but Fenton jumped in to answer them. Nattrass seemed relieved to have the spotlight deflected away from her.
Donovan didn’t envy her the job ahead.
Then another journalist, asking if this killing was linked in any way to a girl’s body found two months previously at Barras Bridge in Newcastle. Fenton looked momentarily aggrieved by the question before giving a stoic, noncommittal answer, refusing to link speculation. More flashbulbs.
Donovan remembered that girl. It had been all over the media in the run-up to Christmas. What was her name? … Lisa Hill. Early twenties, worked in a pub in Byker. Knifed to death. The papers made her out to be a part-time prostitute and put her death down to an angry customer. No one was ever caught or tried for the crime. Her death wasn’t given a high priority. Some commentators even said she had asked for it; that was the game she was in and she knew the rules.
He heard the toilet flush, the bathroom door open and close. He looked up. Katya was standing at the top of the stairs. Pulling her pyjamas around her, she seemed unsure whether to come down, go back to bed or just stand there.
He smiled, sat up.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Coffee?’
She said nothing. As if unsure what answer he wanted. She reminded Donovan of an animal, skittish, taking a treat but expecting pain.
‘Or tea?’ he said as cheerfully as he could manage. ‘You’re in luck. I’ve got both.’
She nodded.
‘Come on down, then,’ Donovan said. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
One wary step at a time, Katya made her way down the stairs, arms still tightly wrapped around herself, until she was standing by the sofa. Donovan put his coffee down, flicked off the TV, got to his feet. He was wearing his usual sleeping combination of T-shirt and boxers. He reached for his long black hooded dressing gown that was draped over the back of the sofa, began to put it on. He didn’t want to scare his guest.
Katya’s eyes roved all around the room, wide, fearful. Still trying to take in her surroundings, Donovan thought. Not wanting to believe her luck, wary of the catch. Understandable, considering what she had been through. He would have to treat her gently. Put her at her ease.
‘The boy is still in bed.’ She spoke as if she expected a sudden attack.
‘Jamal,’ said Donovan as unthreateningly as possible. ‘His lordship won’t rise for a few hours yet.’ He stretched, yawned, his dressing gown hanging open.
Katya nodded. ‘What is that?’ she said, pointing to his chest. ‘Does it mean something?’
‘What?’ said Donovan looking down.
‘That symbol. On your chest.’
‘Oh, that.’ He smiled. ‘Green Lantern. It’s the symbol from his costume.’
She looked at him blankly.
‘Superhero. Justice League.’ He smiled weakly.
Another blank look.
‘Comic books? Y’know, “Through brightest day, through darkest night, no evil shall escape my sight”? That kind of thing.’ He found himself gesturing. Slow down, he thought. Stop trying too hard.
‘American superhero? Cartoons?’
‘That’s him.’
‘You seem a little … old. For that.’
Donovan blushed. ‘For superheroes? Nah. I’m only thirty five. Anyway, they deal in moral absolutes. Right and wrong. Never too old for that.’
‘You make it sound so simple.’
Donovan shrugged. ‘If only. Now, tea or coffee?’
‘I … do not mind.’
‘Coffee it is, then.’ Donovan went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
Katya moved over to the sofa, sat down. Her eyes were still darting over every surface, around every corner, looking for dangers real or imagined, clues that her rescuers were not what they seemed. Looking ready to run.
Donovan couldn’t blame her. He would have felt the same in her situation. And he had nothing but hatred for Marco Kovacs.
Marco Kovacs. The name had meant nothing to Donovan until two weeks previously. Until Francis Sharkey, the solicitor Donovan and his team usually worked for, had explained it to him.
‘Kovacs is trying to make inroads into this country,’ Sharkey had said a fortnight earlier, legs stretched out, feet crossed at the ankles, hands clasped over his expanding waistline, enjoying, as usual, the sound of his own voice.
Donovan, sitting opposite on a leather sofa in the planning suite of Albion, his company, had watched him as he had talked. The offices were the ground floor of an Edwardian bay-fronted house in neo-gentrified Summerhill Terrace behind the motorbike shops and second-hand/fenced goods shops on Westgate Road. They hadn’t been in long; the fresh paint and new wood smells reminding Donovan of his cottage in Northumberland. Three surprisingly comfortable dark-leather sofas went around the walls and into the bay. They were supposed, Peta had explained, to put people at their ease. In the centre of the room was a low-slung glass-topped table. On that was an open laptop.
Donovan felt a swell of pride rise within him. Albion. He loved the name. Sounded like some superhero team. Would have to be the X Men or the Doom Patrol, he thought wryly. A collection of extremely gifted misfits or damaged outsiders pooling their talents. He didn’t dare share that thought with the others, though. He could imagine the response.
They had achieved a lot in a short time. It was over a year since Jamal, then surviving as a rent boy, had, literally, run to Donovan for help and in doing so not only brought Donovan back to life again but also introduced him to Peta and Amar. Sparked the chain of events that led to the formation of Albion.
Peta Knight sat back on the sofa, totally at ease, taking occasional pulls from a bottle of water. Ex-policewoman and private security consultant, black belt in tae kwon do. Not that anyone would know that to look at her, he thought. All they would see was an attractive, slim blonde. Something that Donovan knew she was not against using to her advantage.
Next to her sat Amar Miah. He had been working with Peta’s short-lived private detective and security company when Donovan met him, using his audio-visual skills for surveillance work. More worryingly, he had also been using his camera skills to film private gay orgies for a rich client, a job that although lucrative was threatening to leave Amar with a spiralling cocaine habit and a prematurely shortened lifespan. Thankfully he had pulled around and was past that now, drug free and a keen gym partner for Peta. Donovan, despite many invitations, had never felt the urge to join them.
Jamal sat opposite, leaning forward, engrossed in whatever was happening on the screen of the laptop, face furrowed, neat cornrows resting on the rim of his Stussy hoodie. Peta had expressed concerns at putting the boy on the payroll, saying he was only fourteen and he should be at school. Donovan had argued that his previous life on the streets and at the mercy of predatory adults wouldn’t make for a happy school life. Jamal was better off working with them, and they could all take a collective responsibility for his education. And since social services didn’t know he was there in the first place and would only send him to a children’s home if they did, Peta, with some reluctance, had agreed. Amar was fine about it. Jamal had also made friends with a boy who lived in the village that Donovan was very pleased about. He hoped it would help him regain some of his lost childhood.
He tried not to smile, the pride was so strong. It wasn’t much and they all had to take turns in rotation in managing the office, but it was working. It was working.
Sharkey looked around. ‘Lights, please,’ he said.
Jamal looked up, startled to find others in the room with him. He reluctantly closed the game down, stood and switched off the room lights at the wall and reconfigured the laptop, plugging it into a projector.
‘Thank you,’ said Sharkey, who then stood by the panel of lighted wall. He motioned to Jamal, who hit a key on the laptop. An image appeared on the wall of a balding man, suited, talking into a mobile phone. Black and white, face blurry and grainy: the image taken from a distance without the subject’s knowledge.
‘This is Marco Kovacs,’ said Sharkey. ‘Restaurateur, property developer. Runs an import and export business. Owns a couple of cafés, a Lebanese restaurant, Italian as well in town. Both upmarket. Good chefs. Entrepreneur. If there’s money to be made, he’s there.’ Another nod, the image changed. It showed the same man shaking hands with a local footballer, giving a posed smile for the camera. Sharkey continued: ‘Flamboyant. Wants everyone to know how well he’s doing.’
‘Legit?’ asked Peta.
‘Gives that impression,’ said Sharkey. ‘Doesn’t directly manage anything, gets up-and-coming locals to do that. Giving something back to the community, blah blah. But he’s toyed with the idea of taking over Newcastle United. Or at least talked about taking it over. Becoming some kind of Geordie Abramovich, I suppose.’ He gave a grunt of a laugh. ‘Buying off the locals. Anything to overcome their inbred fear of outsiders. You know what they’re like up here. Even wary of me.’
‘They’re not wary,’ said Donovan. ‘They just don’t like you.’
Peta and Amar stifled a laugh. Sharkey affected not to notice.
Sharkey had a confidence that didn’t just border on arrogance but battered it into submission and tap-danced around it. A casual observer would never have believed that almost a year previously Sharkey had lost his very well-paid job, been on the verge of bankruptcy, injured by gunfire and had even been threatened with the prospect of prison. And had been physically attacked by Joe Donovan. Twice. For which Donovan was completely unrepentant. He’d even enjoyed it.
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