Body and Soul

by John Harvey

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Alice positioned the laptop so that both Katherine and Elder could see the screen.

  ‘When you were shown these images before, you maintained that the person in them was not you, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re sure about that? Positive? Having seen them again you don’t want to change your mind?’

  ‘No, it’s not me, you can see. Dad, you can see, surely? And besides, it couldn’t have been me because I was at home.’

  ‘In Dalston?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The flat in Dalston? The Wilton Estate?’

  ‘Yes, where else?’

  ‘The flat you share?’

  ‘Yes, yes. You know all of this.’

  ‘So there will be someone, one at least of your flatmates, who can vouch for you being there, at the flat, between the hours of, say, ten o’clock and twelve on the night in question?’

  Katherine looked away, looked for a moment at her father, looked at the floor.

  ‘Katherine?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So none of your flatmates can vouch for you, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because they were out, out clubbing, and I … I stayed home.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes, alone.’

  ‘How come, when they were …’

  ‘I had a headache, a stomach ache, I thought I was getting my period. I took some painkillers, made a hot-water bottle and went to bed.’

  ‘And that’s the exent of your alibi?’

  Katherine hung her head.

  ‘You’ve asked your questions,’ Elder said, ‘and you’ve had your answer. Either move on or we walk.’

  ‘All right,’ Hadley said, ‘but first, Katherine, I’d like you to look carefully again at the screen and, in the light of some of the other things we’ve talked about, things you’ve admitted, tell me if perhaps you were mistaken and that is, in fact, you?’

  ‘No. No, it’s not. It’s just not. Dad, it’s not – you can see, can’t you? You can see.’

  Elder was looking carefully at the screen. The build, the shape, what little you could see of the length and colour of the hair, even the way she moved, it could just be Katherine. It just could.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not you.’

  37

  It was five days since Adam Keach had escaped; five days during which he’d been unlawfully at large. Tina Morrison had finished her shift at Greggs at around three that afternoon, arms tired after hefting tray after tray of rebaked pasties from the oven out onto the shop floor; her voice starting to croak after dealing with a more or less steady stream of customers, many of whom never seemed clear, even by the time they reached the counter, what exactly they wanted. Was it two yum-yums or was it four? The sausage roll, warm or not? That bag of four jam doughnuts, how long had it been sitting there? And what if they only wanted two?

  She’d be glad to get home and put her feet up, have a bath, relax, wash her hair. Sandra had said something about meeting up later at the Black Boy, Tina wondering how much longer they’d be allowed to call it that, getting so you could scarce open your mouth these days without someone calling you racist or sexist or something else she didn’t even understand.

  She was just turning off Carolgate, crossing Town Hall Yard into Exchange Street, when she saw him, this bloke, standing there, staring. Making no bones about it, either. No one she knew. Never seen him before, clapped eyes on him. She turned her head away, embarrassed, pretending to look into a shop window, and when she looked again he was gone.

  Maybe she’d imagined it. He hadn’t been looking at her at all.

  A nice enough afternoon, bit of sun for a change, she thought she’d cut across King’s Park on her way to Asda.

  ‘Boss …’ Thursday morning, Billy Lavery knocked on Colin Sherbourne’s door and went in without waiting. ‘Young woman gone missing, Retford. Not been seen since leaving work yesterday afternoon.’

  Sherbourne looked up sharply, a pulse already beginning to tick. ‘Any reason to think there’s a connection?’

  ‘Two blokes acting suspiciously earlier that day, car park on Churchgate, not so far from where the woman – Tina, Tina Morrison, that’s her name – not far from where she was last seen.’

  ‘Acting suspiciously, as in …?’

  ‘Traffic warden, off duty, saw them hanging round, looking in parked cars, reckoned they were out to nick something. Asked what they thought they were doing and got a thumping for his pains. Six hours in A & E. Local police took a description. One of them could be Keach. Nothing definite enough to be certain.’

  ‘And the other? Two, you said.’

  ‘Skinny, trackie bottoms, fairish hair …’

  ‘Shane Donald, you’re thinking?’

  ‘Could be him. Could be half a hundred others.’

  ‘All right, get yourself up there, talk to this warden, whatever, see if you can’t get him to pin down those descriptions, one way or another. And stolen vehicles, that area, last twenty-four hours, we’ll need that checked. Car park CCTV. Town centre. If it is them, Keach and Donald, and they’ve taken this young woman, Tina, you say, it’s been – what? – the best part of fifteen, sixteen hours already.’ He shook his head, images scuttling across his mind. ‘Let’s hope for her sake we’re wrong.’

  When Lavery spoke to him, the traffic warden was still more than a little shaken; strapping around three broken ribs, butterfly stitches to his cheek, plasters to one side of his head where the hair had been shaved away. Faced with photographs of Adam Keach, front and profile, he still wouldn’t commit himself one hundred per cent, but when it came to Shane Donald he was more certain. Him, it’s got to be. The little shit.

  When officers from Worksop went to Donald’s house, there was no sign.

  ‘Saw him yes’day mornin’,’ one of his neighbours said. ‘Over ’t station. Round ten it’d be, little after. Waitin’ for Lincoln train, looked like.’

  The 10.15 departure, on its way from Sheffield to Lincoln; next stop Retford just ten minutes later, 10.25.

  Early that afternoon, Marek Gomolka, a Polish painter and decorator, reported his van stolen from outside a house on Moorgate Park where he’d been working. Upstairs at the rear, most of the morning, it wasn’t until he came down at around 12.30 he realised the van was missing.

  It had been Tina Morrison’s mother who’d contacted the police when she’d taken her daughter in a cup of tea just shy of 7.30 the following morning – Tina on a late and with the chance of a lie-in – and realised her bed hadn’t been slept in. They’d had a row the previous day, the Wednesday, a lot of fuss and rattle about nothing, and Tina had gone off to work in a huff. When she hadn’t come back home afterwards, her mother reckoned she’d gone straight round to her mate Sandra’s, then from there off on a night out. Nothing unusual in that. She thought she’d heard her coming in later, close to midnight it would have been, but now she realised she must have been mistaken. Wind, most likely, rattling the bedroom window.

  Sandra, when Billy Lavery spoke to her, swore blind she’d not set eyes on Tina since the weekend. Meant to be going out last night, but I never heard from her, did I? Texted her but never got an answer. Let her phone go out of charge, that’s what I reckoned. Wouldn’t be the first time. In the end I went down the Black Boy without her. Thought she might turn up later but she never did. You don’t think anything’s happened to her, do you? Owt bad?

  CCTV from a petrol station on the Welham Road, east out of Retford, showed a white van with three people in the front, a female seated between two males, none of them, however much the image was adjusted, clearly identifiable. Unlike the van itself.

  An alert went out to forces in the area – Bassetlaw, Lincoln and West Lindsey – and further afield.

  ‘Could be anywhere by now,’ Lavery said. ‘Anywhere between here and the Scottish fucking
border.’

  Sherbourne didn’t think so. If this was Keach, and he’d primed Donald to join him, groomed him as it were, he wouldn’t be just driving blindly; he’d have a plan. Long time in prison, some of that in solitary, he’d have had time enough to let his imagination fester and blossom. Too much time.

  He called Elder, who was still down in London as far as he knew, babysitting his daughter. Filled him in on developments.

  ‘Lincolnshire,’ Sherbourne said, ‘isn’t that where that girl’s body was found?’

  ‘Lucy Padmore? Yes, Mablethorpe.’

  ‘And that was Donald, right? Donald and McKeirnan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You think Donald might have suggested going back there again?’

  ‘He might. Though my guess, it’s more likely to be Keach making the running, rather than Donald. Having said that, I’d not rule it out as a location. The east coast, somewhere.’

  ‘Yorkshire, Whitby way, that was where your lass …?’

  ‘Yes,’ Elder said abruptly, cutting him off.

  Port Mulgrave, he was thinking. The road through Hinderwell from Runswick Bay. A ramshackle collection of huts at the foot of the cliff, close against the sea. Small stones spinning beneath his feet as he made his way down, racing against time.

  ‘You’ll keep me in the picture?’ Elder said.

  ‘You’re staying down in London?’

  ‘A day or two more maybe. I’m not too sure.’

  ‘Okay. Let me know.’ Sherbourne finished the call.

  Later that day, the van was found abandoned on the Corringham Road Industrial Estate off the A631, east of Gainsborough. Until they got another sighting, they had no idea in which vehicle Keach, Donald and their captive were travelling.

  38

  A little after 4.30, Friday morning, and Hadley was suddenly wide awake. Two weeks, almost, since the discovery of Anthony Winter’s body and how much closer were they to finding the identity of his killer?

  Not wishing to wake Rachel, she turned carefully on to her side and slid out from the bed as quietly as she could. Slipping on her dressing gown, she went to the bathroom, careful to step over the floorboard that always squeaked, and from there on down to the kitchen.

  First vestiges of light above the rooftops opposite.

  Birdsong.

  Foxes scavenging amongst the bins.

  She could still see Elder’s face when he’d been asked if that was his daughter about to enter Winter’s studio on the night of the murder. A twitching of the face muscles, almost imperceptible. The slightest of hesitations before his denial.

  That song, Hadley thought, the one from the movie where the woman’s body’s found in her flat in Wood Green. Or was it Finsbury Park? Not so very far from where Alice lived now. Reggae, wasn’t it? Lovers rock? Louisa Marks: ‘Caught You in a Lie’.

  Elder as uncertain as she was herself, the image obstinate, unfocused. But what did that prove? Other than the presence of doubt. It could be Katherine or it could be, she thought, one of the women it was becoming clear from Winter’s phone records and computer data, he was prone, every once in a while, to pay for sex. Mark Foster, she knew, was working on it, doing his best to make connections between those websites Winter had accessed offering specialised services, photographs of known sex workers, and a jumble of mobile numbers that were largely untraceable.

  A young sex worker with dark hair wearing a grey hoodie and jeans.

  How difficult was that going to be?

  Standing by the stove another song came to mind, older, one her mother used to sing when she was clattering pans in the kitchen. ‘Needle in a Haystack’.

  Just as the kettle was coming to the boil, she heard a footstep on the stair.

  ‘Mint or jasmine?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘Fresh mint’s all gone.’

  ‘Jasmine, then. Enough for two?’

  ‘Always.’

  Rachel brushed the collar of Hadley’s dressing gown aside and gently kissed her neck. Not once but twice.

  ‘Careful. I’ve got boiling water here.’

  Rachel laughed, nuzzled Hadley’s neck a moment longer, then went over and sat at the kitchen table. ‘I imagine this was more than just needing to pee? Up at this hour and not coming back to bed?’

  Hadley grunted agreement.

  ‘Bad dreams?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Work, then?’

  Hadley brought the mugs over to the table and sat down. ‘It’s this girl, young woman, Katherine …’

  ‘The one Winter was knobbing.’

  ‘Knobbing? Charming. Technical term, is it? Something you psychotherapists bandy about at conferences?’

  Rachel shook her head, smiling. ‘What’s the problem?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s Katherine. I just don’t understand her.’

  ‘Ah, well, understanding. That’d be more my province, I imagine. With you it’s more a matter of guilty or not guilty.’

  ‘That’s bollocks, Rach, and you know it.’

  ‘Okay, okay. But what is it you don’t understand?’

  ‘The sex thing, I suppose. That mainly.’

  A fresh smile appeared on Rachel’s face. ‘Isn’t it always?’

  ‘I mean, he dumps her so abruptly, so devastatingly, she slashes her wrists, and not much more than a month or so later she’s jumping into bed with him again.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Alex. That’s not so difficult to understand, surely?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. But it’s not just any old sex, is it?’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Handcuffs. Chains. All that S and M stuff. I’m sorry, I just don’t get it.’

  Rachel grinned. ‘Nobody’s perfect.’

  Hadley punched the table with her fist. ‘Don’t. Don’t do that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Make everything into a joke.’

  ‘I know. I know. And I shouldn’t trivialise, I’m sorry.’

  Hadley rested her face for a long moment in her hands; sat up and sipped some tea. ‘When she was sixteen, Katherine, she was abducted by a pair of brutal deviants. Tied up, tortured, raped. You can never get over something like that. Never. It’s impossible.’

  Rachel nodded agreement.

  ‘And yet, not so many years later, she becomes involved with an older man who gets his kicks from tying her up, handcuffing her to the bed, inflicting God knows what punishment and pain. Can you understand that? Because I certainly can’t.’

  ‘Specifically, no. Not without knowing a great deal more, and certainly not without having talked to the woman myself. Anything else would just be generalisations and so not particularly useful.’

  Hadley smiled. ‘Believe me, anything at this stage would be useful.’

  Rachel eased her chair away from the table. ‘The best I can do, based on what you’ve told me, is make one or two observations. When these dreadful things happened to her, her sexual experience may not have been very great. It might not have been much more than the occasional fumble in the bus shelter. She could still have been a virgin, we don’t know. But from what we do know, what you’ve told me, it might be reasonable to assume that what happened to her would have linked sex strongly in her mind with abuse and pain. With being made powerless, perhaps; held prisoner. It could even be that it’s only through reliving some kind of rape fantasy that she can reach orgasm.’

  Listening, Hadley was shaking her head slowly from side to side.

  ‘Remember,’ Rachel said, ‘I don’t know how far what I’ve said matches the truth, the truth of her situation. But, if you’re looking for an explanation, well …’ She smiled. ‘What it doesn’t do, of course, is do anything to help you with your other problem.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Is she capable of murder?’

  39

  Tina Morrison was found, dazed and bleeding, but still alive, wandering dangerously along the hard shoulder of the M18 motorway south of Doncaster, just short of seve
n on Saturday morning. Paul Swindells, on his way to the IKEA distribution centre at Armthorpe, pulled his lorry over and climbed down from the cab, hazard lights flashing. Tina screamed when he approached her and struck out with flailing arms. When he tried to take hold of her to prevent her stumbling into the road she turned and tried to run but tripped and fell headlong. Picking her up, he carried her, still struggling, back to his vehicle, lifted her up into the front seat as carefully as he could, and called emergency services.

  Two hours later, Simone Clarke was sitting outside one of the cubicles in the A & E department of Doncaster Royal Infirmary, waiting to speak to her. Tina’s mum had been allowed in earlier, but asked to leave when she had threatened to become hysterical. Now she sat a short way along the crowded corridor, biting her fingernails and murmuring small, silent prayers.

  Police patrols had been stepped up in the area in which Tina had been discovered: Warning Tongue Lane and the Yorkshire Wildlife Park to the east; the A6182, White Rose Way, to the west; Potteric Carr Nature Reserve to the north. After a report of two men behaving in a belligerant manner late the previous day, staff and volunteers from the visitor centre at the nature reserve were questioned, but it turned out to have been nothing more than a couple of ardent birders quarrelling over the sighting of a little ringed plover circling over Decoy Lake.

  Finally given the okay by one of the doctors, Simone pulled a chair close to the bed where Tina was stretched out and summoned up an encouraging smile. One quite deep cut running down the side of her neck and along the top of her shoulder aside, the majority of Tina Morrison’s physical injuries seemed to be superficial. The others, Simone thought, would take longer to heal.

  The version that Simone retold to Colin Sherbourne, back in Nottingham, was basically this: after the van, the decorator’s van into which she’d been bundled, there’d been a car – Tina didn’t know which make – and then another, larger van. After driving round for what felt like ages, going in circles she’d thought, at least that was what it had seemed like, they’d parked near the edge of a field. One of the men had produced a bottle of vodka while the other rolled a joint.