Fault Lines

by Natasha Cooper

  ‘He wouldn’t, particularly if he only used the place to meet her. And if she was deliberately keeping the relationship secret, we’re going to have the devil’s own job finding him.’

  ‘Right. And we’ve got to. He could be setting up some other poor woman at this very moment.’

  ‘Still, the hotel’s the first chink of light, isn’t it, Guv?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Femur, sounding as depressed as he felt.

  ‘Any joy on the list of discrepancies in the SOCO evidence with the old cases?’ asked Blacker as he picked up one of the half sandwiches to inspect it. He made a face and put it back on the big platter. He pulled a Kit-Kat out of his suit pocket and started to peel off the silver paper.

  Femur sat back in his chair. Now that Blacker was back and asking all the right logical questions, his need to get out of the filthy incident room seemed less urgent. He could hear the cleaners in the background and decided to stick it out until they came to deal with the mess. Then he’d get out and clear his head one way or another.

  ‘Definitely. You tell him, Steve.’

  The young constable grinned, perhaps in pleasure at the rare favour of being addressed by his Christian name. He abandoned his desk and the last comer of his sandwich and was wiping his hands on his jeans as he reached Femur’s big table. He waved at the photographs on the cork board.

  ‘OK, Sarge. Apart from the physical differences in the victims, which we’ve all known about from the beginning, there’s not all that much, but what there is looks quite significant.’

  He spread out a stack of yet more glossy photos on the table.

  ‘Now, the sock he used to gag Huggate is just like the ones the Kingsford Rapist used. See.’

  ‘Sure.’ Tony Blacker exchanged weary smiles with Femur at the boy’s enthusiasm.

  ‘We know he took his screwdriver, or chisel, with him when he went, just like the original rapist did, but the pathologist thinks it’s a slightly different tool this time, wider and a bit longer.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean much. With a three-year gap, he might well have needed to buy a new one and not been able to find one exactly the same.’

  ‘I know. But the screwdriver’s only the beginning. It gets better. Now, look here, Sarge. Here’s the lab’s shot of the gloved-thumbmark bruises on Huggate’s wrists and neck. And these are some of the original ones from the earlier victims. I know they look much the same, but they’ve been measured and the Huggate ones are a millimetre smaller in both directions.’

  ‘Couldn’t that just be the way she bruised? Older women mark much more easily than young ones, and Huggate was a good twenty years older than the first dead girl.’

  ‘Could be, except for these bits here and here.’ Owler picked up two glossy prints of the marks. ‘It’s hard to see, but they’ve blown up the detail for us and you can just see the marks where his nails pressed extra hard even through the gloves. They make it reasonably sure that the size of the thumbs was different. The new ones are narrower than the first, and I don’t believe anyone’s thumbs get smaller over three years, whatever they’ve been doing.’

  Femur stood up, yawning. ‘You’re spinning it out too long, Steve. We’re all knackered. Give him the crucial bit.’

  ‘OK, sir. Look, Sarge. Look at the way Huggate’s lying. And now look at the only other victim who was killed.’

  By then all of them had seen the photographs of the body so often that their shock value had lessened. Even so the contorted expression on Kara Huggate’s face, as much as the blood between her splayed legs, made Femur look away. He thought again of the hour she’d lived while the animal was amusing himself with her.

  ‘Just the same position,’ Blacker said, squinting up at him as though he was afraid his boss had lost it.

  Femur shook his head. ‘No, but look, Tony. Here and here. Don’t you think Kara looks more arranged?’

  ‘Ah. Yeah, perhaps. Yes, I do see what you mean. Could be coincidence, though.’

  ‘Right. But look at the elbow here, the right elbow. It’s quite stiffly bent. The other victim looks as though she was left exactly as she fell. But someone’s taken the trouble to match Kara’s position to hers, and you can see from the blood marks on the floorboards that she was dragged away from the original spot where she fell. He tried to wipe up the blood, here and here, but enough had soaked into the timber to show up easily. There’s no doubt that he moved her. But why, if it wasn’t to make her look like the first victim? There was no sign that that one was moved.’

  ‘So, you do think it’s a copycat.’

  ‘We both do, Steve and I. Cally, too. But whether it’s just another rapist, or someone with a quite different kind of motive, we’re still not sure.’

  ‘I see Caroline’s been clockwatching again. What time did she knock off this evening?’ Blacker asked stiffly.

  Femur frowned. He couldn’t be doing with Blacker’s childish resentment of any discussion with Caroline Lyalt that did not include him. ‘She’s back talking to the surviving victims, trying to find out who else was given details of what was done to them. They’ve all admitted to being counselled, so the information could have come out that way, though it’s unlikely, but so far they’ve all sworn that they obeyed police instructions and didn’t give even their counsellors precise details.’

  ‘You see, the screwdriver and the sock were deliberately kept out of all the press reports,’ Steve Owler said helpfully, ‘so that if anyone came forward to confess, we could weed out …’ Blacker silenced him with a look. ‘But, Guv, even if one of them did tell someone about the sock and the screwdriver, there’s no way any of them would’ve had access to photos of the body of the girl who didn’t make it.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Femur. ‘So while Cally’s doing her bit with the victims, and Jenkins is down at the Heathrow hotel with Sally Evans, we’ve been checking up on everyone who could’ve seen the files or heard about the SOCO evidence that was withheld from the press.’

  ‘And so far, Sarge, there’s been no one who wasn’t on the team,’ said Owler.

  ‘Are you certain that none of the published reports included any details or drawings, or photos?’

  ‘Dead certain, Sarge. And I had a go at the Internet, too, just in case any of those true crime websites had details. But there’s nothing there that I can find. Though there may be sites I haven’t seen yet.’

  ‘So who exactly did know what the body looked like?’

  ‘All the officers on the investigating teams. The photographer, the SOCOs, the lab technicians. That’s it.’

  Femur felt as though his brain was beginning to crank up again.

  ‘Right, Steve, I want a list of their names, and when you’ve got it, you’d better cross-check them with Kara’s address books and diary. OK?’

  ‘Will do.’ Owler sounded so bright and wide awake that Femur sighed in envy.

  ‘What about a pint, Guv?’ said Blacker, putting a hand under his elbow. ‘There’s nothing more you can do tonight and you look all in.’

  ‘I’m fine, but a pint’s not such a silly idea. You’d better knock off, too, Steve. Or you’ll addle your brain and be no good in the morning.’

  ‘OK, sir.’

  Femur smiled. ‘Good lad. See you tomorrow. Coming, Tony?’

  Chapter Twelve

  Trish had hardly got through the door and kicked off her shoes when she heard George’s unmistakably heavy tread on the iron staircase that led up to her flat. She leaned back to open the door for him.

  As he hugged her, she thought how lucky she was to be with him instead of a man like Jed Thomplon. There was something she’d meant to say to George, but for the moment she could not think what it was. He kissed her, tasting of peppermint.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, pulling back and thinking how typical it was of him to have got the taste of the day out of his mouth before he breathed on her. ‘I had a lot of garlic for lunch.’

  ‘Good one?’

  ‘Not bad.
Filling. That must be why I forgot to buy us anything to eat. I’ve just remembered there’s nothing in the fridge. I’d meant to get something on my way home. Shit. George, I am sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine. We can go out.’ He kissed her again, heroically ignoring the stale garlic. ‘Or would you rather have something from the Village Tandoori?’

  ‘Oh, what a good idea! I’m not sure I’ve got the energy for a restaurant, and anyway I’d quite like to ask you about a case I’ve got, which I ought to do in private. Would you mind?’

  ‘Of course not. I’ll go and get the Village T’s menu.’

  He passed Trish’s answering-machine on his way to the kitchen and called back over his shoulder. ‘Looks like you’re well in demand – eight messages.’

  ‘Help.’ Trish dreaded finding that Blair Collons had somehow got hold of the number. ‘I suppose I’d better find out what they are. D’you mind?’

  ‘Course not. Carry on. I’ve got my mobile, so if you choose what you want first, I can ring and order while you’re getting your messages. D’you need the menu?’

  Trish laughed. ‘Nope. I’ll have veg samosas, Lamb Pasanda, and a Peshwari naan.’

  ‘Trish, one of these days you’re going to have to live a little more dangerously.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, walking up behind him and putting her arms around his big body. He smelt deliciously of himself and a little of petrol. ‘You know perfectly well that whenever I try anything else it’s revolting – or dull.’

  ‘Still … Where’s your spirit of adventure? Go on, get your messages and I’ll deal with this.’

  She retreated reluctantly to the answering-machine and pressed the relevant buttons, hoping that she was not about to hear Collons’s voice.

  ‘Hi, Trish. This is Emma, suffering from pizza-withdrawal. I wondered if you were interested in going to Casa Roberto this evening – if you’re not doing anything else. Hope all’s well and that you and George are flourishing. See you soon. ’Bye.’

  A click, a beep, then a short pause, and then her mother’s voice reporting the time of her call and adding, ‘Nothing urgent. I just thought it would be nice to chat. When you’ve got time.’ Beep.

  ‘Miss Maguire. This is Simpson’s Garage. Your car will be ready on Tuesday evening. We’ll be fitting the new brake shoes tomorrow. Otherwise it’s just the regular service. The total will come to two hundred and fifty pounds.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Trish, wondering why she kept a car since she hardly ever used it and it cost a fortune to maintain. Walking over the bridge to chambers, taking taxis in the evening if she was planning to drink anything alcoholic, and going to most other places with George, it hardly seemed worth it. On the other hand, at her age and earning her income, it would be absurd to be carless. And anyway she sometimes needed it for out-of-London cases.

  ‘Ms Maguire,’ said a crisp female voice she did not recognise, ‘you don’t know me, but my name’s Maggie Roper. I was given your name and number by Anna Grayling this afternoon. I’m researching a sixty-minute documentary about women and the law. I wondered whether you’d be prepared to talk to me? I’m particularly interested at the moment in this secret dining club for important women lawyers. I don’t know whether you’re a member?’

  Trish raised her eyebrows at that one. She assumed the researcher was talking about SWAB, the Society of Women at the Bar, which had always sounded like the most civilised of organisations to her. Said to be devoted more to dining in seriously good restaurants than any kind of dreary institutionalised networking, it wasn’t precisely secret, but members tended to avoid talking about it. Occasionally one would list it in her Who’s Who entry, but such publicity was frowned on by the others. Trish was not yet a member, but she cherished a private hope that it would not be too long before the founders decided she could be invited to join. She certainly wasn’t going to jeopardise her chances by talking to any television researcher about it, even a friend of Anna’s.

  Click. Beep. A man’s voice, older than any of the others, and with an Trish lilt in it. ‘Trish, m’dear. I know you don’t like answering letters, so I’m phoning instead. Are you there now? If not, will you give me a ring? My number’s in the book. Will you ring, Trish? It would be nice to talk. We’ve a lot to say to each other, one way and another. And we don’t have to meet if you –’

  Trish cut off the voice and the remaining four messages. Her hands were shaking and she felt very cold.

  ‘Trish,’ George said quietly, from behind her.

  ‘Don’t say it.’ She did not look round. ‘I know what you think. You’ve told me three times already. But I don’t want to have anything to do with him. He’s only getting in touch now because he read about me in that article in The Times. It’s always the same: if I’m ever quoted or mentioned in the press, he starts pestering me again. It’ll stop eventually, it always does. Until the next time.’

  ‘But why not see him?’

  ‘Why should I? He never wanted to have anything to do with me when I was a child, when I needed him. Now that I’m successful, he wants a piece of me. Well, I’m not prepared to give it to him.’

  ‘He’s your father, Trish. You really ought to make peace with him.’

  She stared at the silenced answering machine, gathering her patience and all her skills of advocacy. It wasn’t fair to have to use them at home as well as in court.

  Then she turned, feeling as stony and calm as any cemetery statue, to say: ‘He lost the privileges attached to fatherhood when he abandoned my mother and me.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re being melodramatic and rather silly.’

  She felt the anger spreading through her brain. It was an old fury, uncontrolled and frightening, which she thought she had conquered long ago. He opened his mouth. ‘Don’t say it, George. Whatever it is, don’t say it. This is none of your business.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘No. You have no right to tell me how to behave to my father.’ There was a knock at the door. They both turned towards it, George feeling in the inside pocket of his suit for his wallet.

  ‘I’ll do it. This is my flat,’ said Trish, not forgetting that George often paid for the takeaways he ordered when they were in Southwark, just as she often paid in Fulham. In the middle of such a quarrel she could not bear the thought of his buying her food.

  Knowing that he was nearly as angry as she – and hurt, too – made her clumsy as she scuffled in her bag for the necessary money. In the end, she gave up and handed over two twenty-pound notes. The young man in the motorcycle helmet gave her the change and a large brown carrier-bag.

  Without another word to George, Trish walked straight past him to the kitchen, where she assembled a trayful of plates, glasses, cutlery and bottles of cold lager, which she then brought out to the large dining-room table. Still in silence, she fetched another tray and laid out all the foil boxes and bags, putting a serving spoon beside each. When she saw the number of dishes that George had ordered for himself, two kinds of vegetables and rice as well as the meat-filled naan, main course and starter, she wanted to tell him what she thought of his eating habits, on the basis that if he could give her orders about the way she should behave to her father, she could give him orders about protecting his arteries. But she didn’t because that wasn’t how she operated – and, besides, she knew she’d already hurt him.

  She could feel an urge to apologise for that, but the words were going to stick in her throat unless he admitted he’d been in the wrong first.

  ‘It might be different,’ she said, in a voice that vibrated with the effort of keeping it under control, ‘if my father had ever apologised for leaving us. But no. All he does is make demands.’

  George looked at her. His eyes had none of the warmth or the amusement she was used to. They looked hard and very dark. ‘It’s difficult for some men to apologise, Trish. It goes against everything they’ve learned since the nursery. But it doesn’t mean they don’t feel apologetic.’

  �
��Well, they should have the guts to come out and say so. Like the Japanese.’

  He did not comment, so she silently picked up her fork. They both started to eat and later made polite conversation, as though they had only just met. They commented on the food they were trying to swallow, and asked each other questions about the day’s work. Trish almost expected one of them to ask whether the other had been abroad recently or seen any good films.

  She gave up eating when she was only a quarter of the way through her naan and there was more than half the lamb untouched.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ George asked, putting down his own fork.

  Surprised by his choice of words, because he must have known precisely what was wrong and why, Trish answered coolly that she had found she was not particularly hungry after all.

  ‘Nor me,’ he said, wiping his mouth on the napkin she had provided. ‘In fact, I think I’d better be getting home.’

  Trish, who was longing for him to tell her he understood how he had made her feel and was sorry for it and would not infringe again, nodded. ‘Yes, that might be best.’

  ‘Thank you for my supper,’ he said, getting up.

  ‘Not at all.’ She stayed sitting at the big, pale wood table.

  When he had let himself out, closing the front door with scrupulous care, Trish put her head in her hands. How could he not have understood?

  She had told him all about her father soon after they had first made love and he had seemed to understand then. She could not remember the precise words he had used, but she could re-create the warm safety she had felt as she listened to him.

  In an unprecedented orgy of talking it all out, she’d told George everything about how hard it had been to pretend not to mind her father’s desertion so that she did not add to her mother’s burdens. George had said then that he could see why she had grown up determined never to be at any man’s mercy. Why couldn’t he remember that now?