17 - Death's Door Read online

  Alex smiled as she finished the report; she dictated it on to the same tape as the earlier document, filled in her time-sheet on her desktop computer, then took the micro-cassette along to the secretarial area. Pippa was absent; coffee break, she guessed. She checked her watch and decided that she too could afford five minutes for a break.

  She walked along the corridor to the professional staff rest room, bought herself a diet drink from the dispenser, and picked up a copy of the first edition Evening News from the table, nodding to Grey Bauld, another associate who was the only other person in the room. He was sitting crouched over The Times, concentrating on a sudoku game.

  The picture jumped out at her from the front page. There was something odd about it, something strange about the face, its lack of expression, perhaps. Yes, that was it: the eyes, they were vacant, emotionless. ‘My God,’ she whispered ‘she’s . . .’

  She began to read the story below, to confirm her realisation. ‘Police investigating the murder of a young woman,’ she murmured aloud, ‘whose body was found on an East Lothian beach yesterday afternoon, admitted today that they are no nearer identifying her. Releasing an artistically improved photograph of the victim, media spokesman Alan Royston said, “We are appealing for the public’s help in identifying this unfortunate girl. Anyone who thinks they know her should . . .”

  ‘Artistically improved.’ Alex snorted. ‘She’s bloody dead.’ Although the background was a hazy blue colour, giving nothing away, she would have bet that the shot had been taken on a mortuary table, and retouched later using computer software to make the subject look as lifelike as possible. But nothing can truly restore life, once its light has been extinguished.

  She stared at the page, not realising that she was frowning, until Bauld, frustrated once again by his puzzle, called out to her, ‘What’s up? Did your team lose?’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ she replied. ‘I don’t have a team.’ She held up the paper. ‘It’s this photograph; this murdered girl. I can’t put my finger on it, but I have this weird feeling that I know her.’

  Eight

  ‘I’m very impressed,’ said Louise McIlhenney.

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ said her husband, rising to the bait.

  ‘Yes, it’s Wednesday, you’ve been at home for three days, and not once have you picked up the phone to check on what’s happening at work.’

  ‘That’s the deal. That’s why they call it leave. You go away and you forget about it.’

  ‘Fine. That’s for normal people, but this is you. I’d expected you to be a fidgety bear by now, especially after that burst of shop last night with your pal Mario.’

  Neil smiled at her. ‘You want the truth?’ he asked, looking down at her as she cradled Louis. ‘What’s happening in this house right now is the focal point of my life. It’s more important than any crime, any investigation; at least it is for the next week and a half. He’s just wonderful, you’re just wonderful, and it’s a huge privilege to be able to spend this time with you.’

  She gazed up at him. ‘You really mean that, don’t you?’

  ‘Every word of it.’ He paused. ‘Hey, what about Paula last night? Did she get misty-eyed or what when she was holding the wee chap? Amazing: she’d never held a baby before in her life.’

  ‘Yes, I did notice how she was. I wonder if Mario did.’

  ‘If I get your drift, it’s academic,’ said Neil. ‘McGuire’s tadpoles don’t work. You know that.’

  ‘I only know what you told me: that Mario had a test when he was married to Maggie, and they found that he had a low sperm count. That doesn’t mean they don’t work: it means that there aren’t enough of them to give a realistic chance of one getting through to base camp . . . and that’s all it takes, just one. Did he ever tell you if they suggested a cause of the problem?’

  ‘No. We didn’t discuss it at length, love. He told me, I said, “Tough luck, mate,” and he shrugged his shoulders as if he wasn’t all that bothered.’

  ‘Did he ever have a follow-up test?’

  ‘What would be the point? You either make enough or you don’t.’

  ‘I’ve heard that occasionally it can be a short-term thing, stress-related. I suppose being shot might do it. But even if it isn’t, the sperm that are produced can be used in IVF.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘My first husband,’ she said. ‘He had that problem . . . not that I encouraged him to look for a cure, mind you.’

  ‘Ah.’ Neil chuckled. ‘So based on that, and based on Paula going all teary for a minute or so, you’re packing the pair of them off to the test-tube doctors.’

  ‘No, I’m just saying that if they wanted kids, they might be able to.’

  ‘Maybe, but they’d both have to want them . . . Except,’ he scratched his chin, ‘maybe not. The truth is that Mario would give Paula the Crown Jewels if she asked for them. If she really did want a baby, he’d probably go along with it, regardless.’

  ‘That would be great.’

  ‘Maybe yes, maybe no. McGuire’s a great godfather, he takes it very seriously, but I’m not so sure that he’s one of nature’s dads. I could see him being too hard on a son of his own, demanding achievement beyond the kid’s capabilities, yet going completely in the opposite direction with a daughter.’

  ‘But Paula would be around to counter that; she’d probably behave in the opposite way, so there would be a balance between them.’

  ‘My darling,’ said Neil, ‘I have news for you. Parenting does not work on the basis of good cop, bad cop. Done right, it’s a partnership: you show a united front to your kids in every respect.’

  ‘You mean that “Wait till your father gets home” is not the thing to say?’

  ‘Exactly. Whether it’s correction or encouragement, it has to be done at the appropriate moment, in a consistent way.’

  Louise took his hand and kissed it. ‘I bow to your experience.’ She looked down at the sleeping baby in her arms. ‘Although I can’t imagine this little chap ever needing correction, can you?’

  ‘Oh, he will, and much sooner than you think . . . that’s if his brother was anything to go by.’

  ‘Not his sister?’

  ‘Lauren? From an early age she was correcting me; still is, as you’ll have noticed.’

  ‘There you are: you’re doing just what you said Mario would, being hard on one and soft on the other.’

  ‘Not true. I’m an equally soft touch for both of them, as you well know.’

  ‘I had noticed that, I admit.’ She moved in her chair. ‘Take this one, will you? He should go into his cot for a while, till he needs his next feed.’

  Gently, Neil took the baby from her and carried him upstairs to the nursery. When he returned, he found her in the kitchen, scooping coffee into the basin of a percolator. ‘I wonder how Mario’s doing with his murder inquiry?’ she murmured absent-mindedly.

  ‘You mean how Stevie’s getting on? With a bit of luck, he’ll have an identification of the second victim by now.’

  ‘And if not?’

  ‘He’ll keep trying.’

  ‘The first victim, Stacey, the girl we were talking about last night: would you think I was ghoulish if I told you I’d like to see her work?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t, because having seen it myself, I know it’s the kind of thing you like. She’s dead, but her paintings aren’t.’

  ‘Would it be possible?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not; not for a while, at least. Her parents withdrew all her unsold stuff from the galleries a couple of days after her death. Russ, the dad, told me that they wanted to keep everything that was hers close to them, for a while at least. He said that at some point they might hold a memorial exhibition and auction some of them for charity, but that’s in the future.’

  ‘What about her pad? You said last night that when she walked her dog she was in the habit of stopping to sketch things. So when you found her, you must have found her pad. Maybe I could look at that
. . . or did you give that back to the parents, too?’

  She broke off as she realised that he was staring at her. ‘You know, love,’ he said slowly, ‘sometimes I wonder how the hell I functioned as a detective before I met you.’

  He picked up the phone, dialled the Leith divisional office and asked for CID. ‘This is Superintendent McIlhenney,’ she heard him say. ‘I want you to get hold of DI Steele, wherever he is, and have him call me at my home right now.’

  Nine

  ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant,’ said the proprietor of the Mallard Hotel, as he walked back into the bar, ‘I’ve never seen her before, and neither has anyone else here.’ He handed the photograph back to Ray Wilding. ‘I’ve shown it to my family, and to all the staff on duty, but nobody recognises her.’

  ‘What about the off-duty people?’

  ‘There are a couple of them,’ the man admitted, ‘but they all tend to work alongside other people. It’s unlikely that she’d have been seen by one of them and by nobody else.’

  ‘Fair enough. Look, we may have some posters to distribute around the village. Would you display one for us?’

  ‘Sure, if you think it’ll help. One of my regulars might have seen her.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Law. I’ll bring one down, if it comes to that.’

  The detective left the hotel and turned into the first street on the right. He had almost reached the village hall when he saw Stevie Steele heading towards him. He waited until the inspector caught up with him, then led the way into the building. The pair drew stares from the playgroup children, and glances from one or two of their mothers.

  ‘Any joy?’ Steele asked, as he closed the door of their temporary office.

  ‘Not in the slightest. I did the deli, the chemist, one coffee shop, the Co-op, the butcher’s, the charity shop, the fruit shop, the Old Clubhouse and the Mallard Hotel. There was one old dear in the Co-op who gave me a moment of hope, until she decided that the girl just looked like her granddaughter.’

  ‘Is her granddaughter dead?’

  ‘I never asked. You had no luck either, then?’

  ‘Nah. I called into the golf club, the pro shop, the bank and the post office, like I said. Not a flicker, anywhere.’

  ‘And the DCC?’

  ‘He asked me if he was a suspect.’

  ‘But he didn’t know her?’

  ‘Of course he didn’t bloody know her: if he had that’s the first thing I’d have told you. Ray, if you don’t mind me saying so, that was a fucking stupid question. I feel that we’re off the ball here: let’s get back on it again, sharpish.’ He looked at the uniformed constable who was seated at a table by the far wall. ‘Any reports back from the uniforms on the beach?’

  ‘No, sir,’ he replied. ‘Nothing positive at any rate.’

  ‘Maybe Tarvil will get a result,’ Wilding suggested, in a slightly wounded tone.

  ‘If he had, he’d have called it in . . . or he’d better have.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ the PC interrupted. ‘There are faxes for you, from the lab.’

  ‘More than one?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Let’s see them.’

  He walked across and took them from the man as he held them out. He read through the first quickly. ‘That’s it, Ray,’ he said. ‘Confirmation: the bullet we took from Jane Smith matches the one that killed Stacey Gavin. We’ve got a double murderer on our hands.’

  ‘Is that good news or bad news, boss?’ Wilding asked. ‘Or was that a stupid question too?’

  Steele grinned. ‘No, but that one was verging on the insubordinate. Sorry for snapping at you, mate. I guess being in the spotlight’s getting to me. To answer you, it’s got to be easier to catch one killer than two, so from that viewpoint, it’s probably good. The bad news is that we don’t have a single line of enquiry till we identify the victim, and even then, maybe not.’

  He was in the act of laying the first report on the table when the phone rang. He waited as the constable answered. ‘Gullane incident room.’ Pause. ‘Yes, he’s here.’ Pause. ‘Yes, I’ll tell him.’ He hung up and looked at the detective. ‘Message from Mr McIlhenney, sir. He asks if you’ll call him at home straight away.’

  ‘I wonder what he wants,’ Steele mused. ‘He told me that nothing was going to get in the way of his paternity leave.’

  ‘Maybe he’s been told it has to,’ Wilding suggested.

  ‘And who’d tell him that?’

  ‘DCS McGuire?’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘The chief?’

  ‘Sir James never interferes with CID operations.’

  ‘ACC Mackie?’

  ‘That would be overruling Mario: Brian Mackie wouldn’t do that. Let’s find out what it is.’ He took out his mobile, found McIlhenney’s home number in the phone book, and called it.

  Louise answered. ‘Hold on, Mr Steele. He’s in the kitchen.’

  That’s what I like to hear, the inspector thought.

  ‘Stevie.’ The familiar voice sounded in his ear. ‘Thanks for calling: there’s something I need to check, thanks to my wife’s idle curiosity. When Stacey Gavin’s body was found, did she have any possessions with her, any at all?’

  ‘Some change, a couple of felt-tip pens, and a half-finished packet of white chocolate raisins; they were all taken with her to the mortuary. Then, when we found out what had happened to her, they were sent, with her clothing, to the lab for DNA and fingerprint sampling, in case the shooter had touched them by accident, then returned to us when that proved negative. They’re still at my office in Leith.’

  ‘There isn’t a sketch pad?’

  Steele frowned. ‘No, there isn’t; I’ve told you everything that’s there.’ He was silent for two or three seconds. ‘And yet,’ he went on slowly, ‘her mother told us that she often stopped to draw on her walks with the dog.’

  ‘Exactly. I’m sorry to cut into this new inquiry, but we’ll need to check it out. Maybe she didn’t take it that morning. Maybe she did and the officers at the scene missed it. Or maybe . . .’

  ‘Maybe the killer took it as a souvenir. I’ll get on to it straight away. Griff Montell’s minding the store at the office today. I’ll send him out to talk to Mrs Gavin, and to the Chettle woman as well, if necessary.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I’ll keep you informed, yes?’

  ‘I’m on leave, remember, Stevie: too many phone calls and Lou will kill me.’ He chuckled, and his voice dropped to a murmur: ‘The odd e-mail wouldn’t be noticed, though.’

  ‘Whenever I can. There’s one thing, before I go: as we suspected, Gullane isn’t a separate investigation.’

  ‘After what Mario told me last night, that’s no surprise. Good luck: you’re going to need some, and soon.’

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ Steele muttered, as he snapped his phone shut, ending the call. He turned to the second fax from the lab: as he had anticipated, it was a report on the analysis of samples taken from the unknown girl’s body. He read through it slowly.

  ‘All internal organs normal,’ he said to Wilding, and to Tarvil Singh who had come into the office during his conversation with McIlhenney. ‘Oh, yes! The vaginal swab showed traces of nonoxynol-nine.’

  ‘What the fuck’s that?’ Singh exclaimed.

  ‘A well-chosen phrase, for once, Constable: nonoxynol-nine is the active ingredient, it says here, in contraceptive creams and gels, and it’s also used as a condom lubricant. The finding indicates that the victim had consensual sex in the period leading up to her death.’

  ‘Does it tell us what sort of johnny we’re looking for? Durex, Mates, Co-op own brand?’

  ‘That’s not as daft as it sounds: we might have to ask the lab to check which brands use it. But it doesn’t necessarily mean that a condom was used. It’s sometimes used as back-up by women who have diaphragms.’

  ‘Did the tests on Stacey Gavin show up the same stuff?’ asked Wilding.

  ‘No, but remember, that post-morte
m was delayed for more than twenty-four hours. It might have dissipated in that time. That said, there was nothing, no information from her friends, to indicate that Stacey was sexually active in the time leading up to her death.’ He looked at the report again. ‘Hey, the swab showed something else: two grains of sand.’

  ‘Does it say which beach they were from?’

  ‘Tarvil, shut up.’

  ‘Sorry, boss, but they are clever bastards at the lab. So the guy got his end away with the girl, and then he killed her.’

  ‘Maybe, but we can’t assume that: we have to find him, and then prove it.’ He turned back to the report. ‘Stomach contents . . . tell us nothing, other than that she died hungry. She hadn’t eaten breakfast, and her previous meal had been absorbed . . . apart from . . . This is interesting. A piece of fibre found trapped between two of her back teeth turns out on analysis to be lemon grass.’

  ‘Lemon grass?’ Singh exclaimed. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You married guys should do your share in the kitchen,’ said Wilding. ‘Us single blokes don’t have any option. It’s a plant, a favourite ingredient in eastern food, especially in Thailand.’

  ‘Do we go back round the restaurants, then?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Steele, ‘but let’s not build our hopes up; it’s in pretty common domestic use these days too. Still, we’ve got to start somewhere. There’s a Thai in the main street, isn’t there?’

  The sergeant nodded. ‘That’s right, boss, but it doesn’t open at lunchtime. I checked on my rounds, but there was nobody in.’

  ‘Then find the owner or the manager and talk to him. Show him the photograph; it’s a long shot but we have to take it. If we get lucky and he recognises her, find out if you can who else ate there.’

  Ten

  ‘I have to tell you, ma’am, that being back in uniform hasn’t been on my agenda ever since I moved into CID, and certainly not in a position like this one . . . even if it is only temporary.’

  Detective Superintendent Mary Chambers was normally a confident, assertive woman, and so the anxiety that was apparent on her face surprised Maggie Rose. ‘For God’s sake, don’t call me “ma’am”,’ she replied. ‘You’re about to take over my post. I suppose I thought the same, but then I was offered promotion when Manny English retired, and I didn’t hesitate for long. Don’t worry about the uniform side of it, though; if you don’t want to wear it about the office, don’t bother.’