“As we speak, traffic are looking at CCTV footage from the early hours of Saturday morning from cameras covering Forest Road West and adjacent streets. With luck, we’ll see Miruna being picked up and maybe we’ll get a number plate. The killer’s probably using a stolen vehicle, but information on the location of the owner could help.”
He paused and waited for the group to catch up with their notes. Jennifer raised her hand.
“Yes, Cotton?”
“Did the pathologist say any more about the blows to the head, boss? How hard they were?”
Hurst nodded. “He reckons they were hard enough to knock her out but not intended to kill. However, the skin was broken and there was minor bleeding.”
Still scribbling on her pad, Jennifer called out another question.
“What about the weapon? Could the pathologist say what it might be?”
“Up to a point, yes. It had a rounded end, probably a cosh of some sort. Maybe hard rubber rather than metal. We’ll get more on that from the pm.”
“So we could be looking at premeditation as opposed to, say, an argument that escalated,” persisted Jennifer.
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, boss, not many people drive around with coshes in their cars. It could have been brought along for the purpose of killing her or knocking her out.”
“Good point, Cotton.”
Hurst noticed Derek Thyme’s hand hovering in a tentative wave.
“Something to add, Thyme?”
“Was there any sign of the polythene bag at the scene, boss?”
“No,” said Hurst, shaking his head. “But of course the killer could have shoved it in his pocket.”
He turned to a whiteboard behind him covered in photographs and notes in felt-tip pen.
“Now, the other thing that’s important is the girl’s clothing. As you can see from the photos, she was wearing a short denim skirt, a red sleeveless top and a thin shiny black plastic jacket with a fluffy fake fur collar. Her underwear appeared to be in place so it seems that if there was any sexual activity, it could have been oral. The mouth swabs should confirm that.
“However, we only found one shoe, which she was wearing on her right foot.” He pointed to a photo. “As you can see, it’s quite dressy with a high heel and a pointed toe. So far, there’s no sign of the other one. The SOCOs conducted as thorough a search as they could last night and they’ll be back about now to check the whole area again in daylight.”
A hand went up at the back of the group, one of the civilian intelligence officers.
“What about the couple who found the girl? Can they be ruled out of any involvement?”
Hurst turned to Rob McPherson to answer the question.
“Totally,” said the DI. “Firstly, Miruna had been dead for over half a day when she was found so they would’ve had to murder her somewhere else and then take her to the scene. Secondly, they arrived on a tandem, not in a car, and thirdly, they are, in my opinion, genuinely spooked by the whole incident, the girl especially. No, we can rule them out.”
Mike Hurst checked his watch. “Right, if there’s nothing else, I’ve got to brief Superintendent Freneton. The pm’s set for tomorrow morning at ten. Horace Lawson has kindly agreed not to start until after the morning briefing. DI McPherson and I will attend. Thyme, you will be coming with us. You’ll be exhibits officer so you can bag and label the girl’s clothing for submission to the lab. Meanwhile, go and join in with checking out the CCTV recordings. The more eyes we get on those, the better.”
Jennifer felt Derek shrink into his seat beside her.
“Christ, what did I do to win that one? I hate post mortems and the boss knows it.”
“Stand at the back and close your eyes if it all gets too much,” said Jennifer as she caught Hurst’s eye, wondering what he had for her.
She soon knew. “Cotton, we have the address where Miruna was staying. Go with Sergeant Bottomley and see what you can find out about her. There are a couple of uniforms already there to stop the two other women she apparently shares with from disturbing her things.”
“Lucky sod,” muttered Derek.
Chapter Six
Friday, 30 May
Still wearing her holy-roller outfit and wig, with a headscarf to hide much of her face from the high-angle side-view shot she knew the CCTV camera would record, Amelia Taverner checked in to the Old Nottingham Hotel at two in the afternoon.
She leaned over the desk, speaking quietly to the receptionist. “Hello. I called last night to make a reservation. My name is Taverner.”
The receptionist hit a few keys on her keyboard.
“Mrs Amelia Taverner?” she said, without looking up.
“Yes. I asked for a second-floor room.”
“That’s right, Mrs Taverner. We’ve put you in room two zero eight. It’s a nice room with a view over The Park.”
“Sounds perfect, thank you.”
Amelia took the form the receptionist had pushed towards her, filled it in and slid it back across the countertop.
“Thank you,” said the receptionist, finally looking up from her monitor. “If I could just take a credit card number as a guarantee. It won’t be charged at this stage and you don’t have to pay with it when you check out, if you’d prefer not to.”
No, thought Amelia, but even if it’s not charged, the number will still be in the system, so I might as well use it. Using cash is unusual and might raise a flag in the receptionist’s memory. Use a card and the girl will have forgotten me before I reach the lift.
The receptionist handed Amelia a folded card containing her magnetic room key.
“Do you have a car, Mrs Taverner? The keycard opens the gate to the car park, but I’ll need to take the number.”
“No, I don’t. I came up by train.”
“No problem,” assured the receptionist irrelevantly. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us.”
Amelia remained in her room only long enough to deposit her padlocked holdall, after which she headed back out of the hotel to the nearby multi-storey car park where she’d left her white transit van. She needed to change out of her disguise and get back to work before she was missed.
By six p.m., she was back in the hotel, dressed once again in her forgettable clothes and wig. She knew that Henry would leave for the theatre by half past the hour at the latest, but she needed to be sure. There was no point in putting all her plans into place if Henry had suddenly reported sick and let his understudy play the role that evening.
She needn’t have worried. At six fifteen, from her spot in the corner of the lobby, Amelia heard the lift roll into action as it was called from the second floor. It returned carrying Henry Silk who strode through the lobby and out of the main door, dressed as usual in jeans, cream linen jacket over a thin brown woollen pullover, multicoloured woollen scarf and what Amelia was beginning to regard as his trademark dark blue baseball cap pulled firmly down over his head.
Keeping a distance of about fifty yards, Amelia followed Henry to the Theatre Royal and watched him disappear through the stage door. She allowed herself a slight smile. All systems go.
Back at the hotel, she checked the car park once again to make sure Henry’s car was still in its usual place and then returned to her room. She hung a ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door and set about unpacking the holdall she had brought with her earlier and a second one she’d arrived with at six o’clock. She checked and rechecked that she had everything she needed. Satisfied, she sat back on the bed to relax until it was time.
At ten o’clock, the alarm on Amelia’s smartphone pinged. She always set it in case she dozed off, although she never had. She picked up the ancient Nokia lying next to it, one with an unattributable prepaid SIM card, and punched in a number. The call was answered after two rings, the voice on the line heavily accented even when it had only said ‘Hello’.
Amelia put her hand over her mouth and dropped her chin. She had practised this accent
many times, but she could never be complacent; it had to sound authentic, especially since she wanted to sound like a man.
“Zis is Klaus. I called you yesterday. You can be ready for me at one o’clock?”
“I had other calls for tonight, good clients,” lied Miruna Peptanariu. “I don’t know if I come.”
Amelia sighed. This wasn’t the first time this had happened. The girls were greedy and so unsubtle.
“Forget ze other customers. I have booking with you. I make it worth your time.” She paused to ensure she had the girl’s attention. “Double what we agreed.”
“Double?”
Amelia could hear the change of heart in the girl’s voice.
“Yes, and more if you really please me.”
“I be there. Call ten minutes before so I can get straight into car.”
“I’ll call at one.”
Amelia ended the call and swung her legs from the bed.
The woman who left Amelia’s room bore little resemblance to the one who had checked in several hours earlier. She was dressed in a smart, mid-grey business suit, the skirt’s hemline two inches above her knee, an expensive, pure silk, cream blouse under the perfectly fitting jacket. The luxuriant hair of her blond wig fell effortlessly onto her shoulders, its style assisting her carefully applied make-up to lengthen her face, while rimless, slightly tinted spectacles spoke of a senior, decision-making position in a boardroom. A Prada handbag and matching pair of black Manolo Blahnik shoes completed the picture, the shoes lifting Amelia’s already tall frame to six feet.
Carrying a large ring file crammed with totally fictitious papers, she walked to the lift, careful to keep her face down to avoid the Cyclopean gaze of the camera above the door.
Michael was still young enough to regard any woman of more than late twenties as a mother figure, especially one who was elegantly dressed. Hence his attention hardly drifted from the card game on his computer screen as Amelia glided gracefully from the lift to the bar and settled herself at a table by the far wall, one from where she had a good view of the lobby.
She opened her file and unclipped some papers, spreading them over the table. Removing a Cartier fountain pen from her handbag, she settled to the pretence of reading through her papers and making notes in the margins. Constantly aware of all movement in the lobby, she saw Michael suddenly look up and notice her. He hurried over, full of apologies.
“I’m sorry, madam, I was busy with late bookings and I didn’t see you here. Can I get you anything?”
“An orange juice,” replied Amelia dismissively.
He brought the drink along with a bowl of unwanted peanuts and left her to it. Miserable cow, he thought.
At eleven fifteen, Amelia heard the hotel’s main door open followed by the now familiar sound of Henry Silk’s stride as he made his way to the bar. Unlike Michael, Henry was old enough to regard an elegantly dressed woman of around forty as anything but a mother figure, and he settled on a bar stool to enjoy the view while Michael poured his vodka and tonic.
“Help yourself to one,” said Henry as he took the glass. Michael thanked him, and, catching Henry’s eye, he nodded towards Amelia, flicking a finger under his nose.
Henry smiled to himself. Someone dressed like the woman sitting across the room from him exuding an air of total confidence was on another planet from Michael; she would make mincemeat of him in seconds.
Amelia let Henry enjoy his drink for a few minutes, and then, when she gauged he had more or less finished, she gathered her papers together, stacked them in the file and stood to walk towards the lobby. She allowed herself to catch Henry’s eye for the first time and as she did, she stumbled on the carpet and dropped the file, the papers scattering across the floor.
“Damn it!” she spat, “I’ve just sorted them all out.”
“Oh dear,” sympathised Henry as he jumped from his stool. “May I help you?”
“That’s so kind, thank you,” replied Amelia through an embarrassed giggle. “What an idiot. Think I’ve had one vodka too many.”
“And there I was about to offer you another,” said Henry as he knelt on the floor gathering the papers.
“Thank you, but I don’t think I should.”
She took the sheaf of papers from him and tapped its edge on the countertop. “I knew I should have clipped them in; serves me right for being lazy.”
“It could happen to anyone,” said Henry. Then he laughed. “Well, anyone in three-inch heels on an uneven carpet. Are you sure you won’t have another drink?”
“Quite sure, thanks.”
She held out her hand. “Thanks for coming to my rescue; this skirt is hardly suitable for scrabbling across the floor picking up papers. Jane Brown. Boring, isn’t it, but there we are.”
“A name’s only a name, unless you think that it influences your character. Henry Silk at your service, Ms Brown.”
Amelia frowned. “That sounds familiar.”
“Bit like Jane Brown,” shrugged Henry with a smile. “Loads of them around.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think so. Henry Silk? Of course, I’m sorry, I should have recognised you. I saw your photo on a hoarding outside the Theatre Royal. Aren’t you starring in the whodunnit that’s playing there?”
“Guilty as charged, m’lady,” said Henry, touching his brow with a forefinger.
“How interesting,” gushed Amelia. “Much more exciting than my line of business.”
“Which is …”
“Hedge funds.”
“I’m sure it has its moments,” replied Henry, not sounding convinced.
“Well, on payday it certainly does. But tell me, why the baseball cap?” She pointed to the cap Henry had placed on the bar.
He smiled. “You probably don’t have much time to watch TV if you’re tripping around the country funding hedges, but for my sins I appear in a soap that grips the nation’s couch potato classes four nights a week. The character I play is not particularly nice, you know, aggressive, always looking for a fight. I suppose I must be doing something right since many people assume that I’m really like that. Couldn’t be further from the truth, actually. But the upshot is that I’ve had more than a few likely lads picking fights with me.
“Fortunately, one of the plus sides of acting is that in order to look convincing in certain movies or TV parts, you get to learn a few basic survival skills, like horse riding, fencing and in my case, boxing. So I can look after myself. But I still try to avoid unnecessary confrontations and the best way is to remain incognito. Hence the cap when I’m walking around a city like this.”
He paused and turned his head towards the bottles behind the bar.
“Look, I’m thirsty after spouting my lines all evening. I’m going to have another. Surely you’ll join me.”
Amelia smiled. “You’re a persuasive man, Mr Silk, but I think we might have a problem.”
Henry looked puzzled. “Really?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding towards the lobby. “Our young barman is rather occupied.”
Henry followed her eyes and saw that Michael was attempting to field a crowd of Korean businessmen trying to check in, several of them gazing hopefully at the bar.
“Mmm,” muttered Henry. “This place is going to degenerate into a noisy pit of boozing, toasting and drinking competitions within minutes. Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m in the habit of following my drink down here with some far classier vodka I keep up in my room. I always have a bottle of Belvedere with me, and this week’s no exception.”
“That’s the Polish one, isn’t it? Very fashionable.”
“I believe so, but I don’t let fashion dictate what I drink; I leave it to my taste buds.”
“Well, I don’t know, Mr Silk, I hardly know you and you’re inviting me to your room. My mother told me about actors.”
Henry laughed and held his hands up defensively. “Drinks only, Scout’s honour.”
“I’m not sure that Scouts
are allowed to drink vodka, Mr Silk. It was certainly frowned upon in the Girl Guides. But that was a while ago so I don’t think the pledges still hold. And it’s not often I get the offer to share an expensive vodka with a famous actor.”
“More like infamous,” said Henry, as he picked up his baseball cap.
Michael was so flustered dealing with the Korean businessmen that Henry chose not to disturb his train of thought by calling goodnight. Amelia smiled to herself — an added bonus: Michael would have no idea whether Henry left the bar with her or not. As they approached the lift, Amelia opened her handbag and peered inside.
“Damn. I’ve left my phone in my car. I’m expecting a text from my boss.”
She pointed to the door leading to the stairs. “I’ll run down and get it. What’s your room number?”
“Two zero two. But I can wait, if you like.”
“I should take the lift while you can.”
She nodded towards three of the group at reception that Michael had managed to process and who were now walking towards them.
“I’ll be there in a moment.”
Amelia headed off in the direction of the stairs while listening for the lift doors to close. She walked down as far as the door to the car park where she waited for a minute before climbing back up to the second floor.
Henry answered the gentle tap on the door almost immediately and stood aside to let Amelia in. She held up her phone and smiled.
“That’s good,” said Henry. “Can’t be without the things these days. Did you get your text?”
Amelia shook her head. “Not yet. The old soak’s probably in a bar somewhere.”
He ushered her towards two armchairs by the window.
“Here we are,” he said, retrieving a black bottle with elegant gold lettering and motif from the fridge. “Belvedere Unfiltered. My particular favourite. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll pour. You’ll take it on the rocks, I assume?”
Irrefutable Evidence Page 3