Текст книги "Eye Contact"

Автор книги: Fergus McNeill

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

9

Monday, 4 June

Harland stared at the rain as it hit the windscreen, slowly melting his view of the car park into a shifting mosaic of indistinct shapes. With a relentless tip tap on the glass, one drop ran into another and began snaking down in long erratic trickles, new drops quickly falling to replace those that were lost. He leaned forward and switched off the engine, the sound of the rain swelling to fill the silence, then took his coffee from the drink-holder and warmed his palms on the cardboard cup.

It was strange for him to arrive at this time – he was usually early in, late out, stretching the hours away at both ends of the shift – but he wasn’t looking forward to work today. And unless Forensics came up with something significant, he had nothing good for his pointless daily report.

The hot coffee was burning his hands.

It had started so well – a challenging case to distract and occupy his mind, the opportunity to work with Mendel again – but now Blake’s interest meant it was becoming political. He had seen the signs already, but today . . . Today, things would be worse.

The pain in his hands was agonising, but he forced himself to wait.

Outside, the downpour continued. It wasn’t going to ease.

Slowly, he peeled his scalded palms away from the cup, supporting it between the tips of his fingers, breathing through the discomfort, mastering it. He could endure it. He could endure the coming hours.

Rain blew in as he opened the door and climbed out.

PC Gregg looked up as Harland stalked in.

‘Morning, sir,’ he smiled.

‘Morning, Stuart.’ Harland frowned, shaking his arms irritably, water dripping from his sleeves onto the floor. ‘Did you finish going over that CCTV footage from Avonmouth?’

‘Should finish it this morning. Nothing useful so far, though. Sorry,’ he said apologetically.

Harland shook his head. Another dead end for the report.

‘Worth a try,’ he shrugged. ‘Anyway, with a bit of luck Forensics will get something off the body.’

He prowled down the corridor to his office and shut the door behind him. It was a small room, dominated by a large desk and two huge filing cabinets that made the limited space seem even more cramped. The walls were off-white, bare except for a pair of laminated fire-safety notices by the door and a print of an Alpine lake in a simple wooden frame. A coat stand in the corner displayed a spare pair of trousers, as well as a new shirt, still in its cellophane bag.

Water was already seeping through his jacket as he slipped it off and draped it over the radiator to dry. Slumping down into the chair, he switched on his screen and took a careful sip of coffee. There were a few new emails but nothing urgent and, more importantly, nothing from the lab. He slid a printed sheet of paper from under the phone and ran his finger down the list of names until he found what he was looking for and dialled the number.

He sat back in his chair, rubbing tired eyes as he waited for an answer.

‘Good morning, this is DI Harland from Portishead. Has Doctor Brennan come in yet?’

He leaned forward, pulling a notepad and pen towards him.

‘No, I can hold on . . .’

His eye fell on the tiny, gold-framed photo of Alice beside his screen. Blonde hair, demure expression and mischievous eyes . . . For a long time after he returned to work he’d kept that picture in the drawer, unable to look at it. This morning he felt a renewed sense of loss as her face smiled out at him from years ago. He’d tried to bury his feelings, but the part of him that cried out for her rose starkly in his mind once more.

‘Hello?’

The quiet voice on the other end of the line snapped him back to the present.

‘Morning, Charles . . . Tell me you’ve got some good news.’

‘Patience is a virtue, Graham. We’ve only done the preliminary workup and there’s still a lot to go over.’

‘That doesn’t sound encouraging.’

‘It is what it is. Want me to run through the headlines?’

‘Please.’

‘Okay . . .’ Brennan started reading through his notes. ‘Cause of death was asphyxia – she was strangled, and it was hands-on-the-throat as you said. Killer was probably male, judging by the force used and the size of his hands. Oh, and I can’t be sure yet but I think he may have worn gloves.’

‘Really?’ Harland scribbled in his notebook. In warm weather, gloves suggested something premeditated.

‘Yes, thought you’d like that,’ Brennan said. ‘We’ve narrowed the time of death to somewhere between three a.m. and nine a.m. the day before, so the body had probably been out there for twenty-four hours or so when it was discovered. It’ll be hard to get more specific – the tides haven’t done us any favours.’

‘Do you think she may have been washed up from somewhere else?’

‘No. Her lungs were absolutely dry, and there was a clog of undissolved mud in her mouth. It looks as though she was killed right there where you found her.’

‘That’s what we thought,’ Harland agreed. ‘Anything else on the body?’

‘She appears to have taken a serious blow to the stomach. Did you see the bruising?’

‘No . . .’

The door opened and DS Pope wandered into the room. Harland’s shoulders sagged. Somehow Russell Pope just didn’t look like an officer – below average height, slightly chubby figure, with glasses that made his eyes appear small.

‘Morning, sir,’ he mouthed, with a bland smile. His thick hair seemed lighter since the holiday and he was undoubtedly pleased with his tan.

‘Something hit her very hard,’ Brennan was saying. ‘It looks like there was a bit of a struggle but this blow was much worse than the usual knocks and grazes you’d expect to find – one of her ribs was pushed right back into the abdomen.’

Harland nodded and continued to make notes, aware of Pope hovering in front of his desk.

‘I’d say that it happened just before she was killed,’ Brennan continued. ‘But there’s no sign of any interference with the body after death, sexual or otherwise.’

‘Sorry, Charles, just a moment.’ Harland put his hand over the mouthpiece and stared up at Pope. ‘I’m on the phone.’

Pope just nodded.

‘No rush,’ he shrugged, oblivious.

Harland glared at him for a moment, then turned his attention back to the call.

‘So, no DNA then?’ He sighed.

‘Nothing so far.’

‘And the fragments of plastic?’

‘They’re all consistent with the type of sports watch a runner might wear,’ Brennan said. ‘The pieces under the body suggest there may be a small patch of ground that wasn’t swept clean by the waves but we’ve not found anything else in it yet.’

‘Keep looking, will you?’ Harland continued to make notes but his eyes were following Pope around the room.

‘Don’t worry,’ Brennan replied. ‘Look, I have another call waiting, can I get back to you on the rest of it?’

‘Of course.’ Harland put his pen on the desk. ‘Thanks, Charles. Bye.’

He put the phone down as Pope turned to face him with his usual watery smile.

‘Things going badly?’ he asked, with a monotonous contentment that Harland had learned to detest.

‘Today hasn’t started that well,’ Harland answered truthfully, but the irony was wasted on Pope. ‘Was there something you wanted?’

‘Well, first day back after two weeks lying in the sun . . .’ he gave a knowing nod ‘. . . I thought I’d better roll my sleeves up and help you out.’

Harland stared at him coldly but said nothing.

‘The murder on Severn Beach?’ Pope prompted him. ‘I’ve been hearing all about it ever since I got in this morning.’

‘I’m not sure that would be the best use of your time,’ Harland began. ‘Mendel’s up to speed on it already and the team are making progress.’

‘Didn’t sound like it from that phone call,’ Pope said. ‘Strangulation, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘It’s probably a sexual assault gone wrong,’ Pope decided. ‘They had something similar happen over in Newport a few years back – although I think they caught the guy who did that, I’ll have to check – but this’ll turn out to be either a boyfriend or most likely an opportunist pervert, you’ll see.’

Harland put down his pen again.

‘I think Mendel can manage for now,’ he said, firmly. ‘Go and see what else he had on before this cropped up; see if there’s anything you can take off his plate.’

Pope assumed a puzzled frown.

‘Well, it’s up to you, I suppose—’

‘That’s quite correct,’ said Harland.

Pope gave him an appraising nod then shrugged and turned to the door.

‘If it is a failed sexual assault, we should be trawling through the database, looking for someone who fits the profile—’ He caught Harland’s eye. ‘But I’ll go and check if there’s anything that Mendel needs me to wrap up for him.’

Harland waited until the door closed, then looked down and sighed. Staring at his notes, he wondered what he could scrape together for yet another unsatisfactory report.

The photographs of the scene told him nothing new – just that same ghostly silhouette sprawled on the dark mud. He’d been there, seen the body in situ, studied the ground around her, and walked the beach. Nothing. He turned his attention to the list of clothing and personal effects: T-shirt, shorts, sports bra, briefs, sports socks and trainers – proper running ones apparently – and a few keys on a key chain. They’d retrieved several pieces of what seemed to be a cheap digital watch – the kind with a stopwatch timer, ideal for runners. He pondered the pictures of each item, willing something to jump out at him, haunted by a feeling that there was something there but he lacked the wit to see it.

A little after midday, there was a knock on the door and Mendel leaned into the office.

‘You sent Pope to tidy up after me?’ he asked, with a grin.

Harland smiled. ‘Have you eaten yet?’

‘I was going to grab something in a minute.’

‘Come on.’ Harland stood up. ‘Let’s go across the road and I’ll get you a drink.’

The light drizzle eased as they walked along Wyndham Way, but the pub was still quiet when they entered. Harland set a half-pint of beer in front of Mendel, then eased himself in at the table, sipping from a tall glass of Coke as he did so.

‘So, you tracked down the former boyfriend then?’ he asked.

‘That’s right,’ Mendel nodded. ‘Simon Matthews. He’s a lucky boy actually. Turns out he was away on a stag weekend in Amsterdam – flew out of Heathrow early on the Friday, back late on Sunday – so he’s got a whole group of lads plus the Passport Control people as his alibi.’

‘Oh well,’ Harland reflected, ‘I wasn’t really expecting a signed confession from him. If he’s not in the picture he might as well be completely out of it. What about that guy she liked at her work, the married one?’

‘That’d be Phil Teyson – he’s the only married bloke there under fifty – although we spoke to everyone in the firm. Same reaction from all of them – can’t believe it, tearful – just what you’d expect. We did a bit of digging, and I got Sue to have a quiet word with one or two of the girls in the office to see if she could pick up any gossip, but there’s nothing there, I’m sure of it.’ Mendel shrugged, then raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’

Harland nodded slowly, turning a beer mat between his fingers.

‘How did we get on with the neighbours?’ he asked, suddenly.

‘As it happens, we had a very nice chat with the woman who lives next door to Vicky.’ Mendel sat back and smiled. ‘She’s great. Says she doesn’t like to pry, keeps herself to herself, but she knows every bloody thing that goes on in that close – spends a lot of time at the net curtains, I reckon.’

‘Neighbourhood Watch.’ Harland smiled.

‘Exactly. She seemed pretty sure that Vicky didn’t have a bloke – said it was a shame really, a nice girl like that needed to get out and enjoy herself after all she’d been through . . .’

Mendel paused and looked at Harland, trying to read his expression.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

‘Sorry.’ Harland put the beer mat down. ‘The more dead ends we find, the more I’m worried about missing something. You know me . . . By the way, Charles says our killer wore gloves, which might hint at something . . . planned.’

He sipped his drink, then stared at the glass for a moment.

‘It feels too . . . tidy. You know? In the spur of the moment, the heat of passion, people make mistakes, they’re seen, they leave things behind.’

‘But not this guy,’ Mendel said.

‘Not this guy,’ Harland agreed. A faint smile crossed his face. ‘Pope told me it was a sexual assault gone bad.’

‘Pope’s an idiot,’ Mendel scowled.

Harland’s phone was ringing as he strode back into his office. Pulling off his jacket, he grabbed the receiver as he walked round the desk.

‘DI Harland?’

‘It’s Charles,’ said a voice. ‘I just thought I’d give you a call, let you know how we’re getting on with the analysis on that mud.’

‘Get to the point,’ Harland scolded, draping his jacket over the back of the chair. ‘What have you found?’

‘Fibres,’ Charles replied. ‘We’ve picked up several strands of dark blue nylon from the mud under the victim’s chest – anywhere else and it would have been washed away, but this is new, comparatively clean, with no sign of exposure to the elements.’

‘That’s good.’ Harland scribbled the details on his notepad. ‘Do you think the killer was wearing a dark blue top or jacket?’

‘Well, it doesn’t match anything the victim was wearing,’ Charles agreed. ‘No guarantees, of course, but it’s something.’

‘It is.’

‘Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for you at the moment, but we’ll see if we can work out what sort of clothing we’re dealing with. I’ll let you know.’

‘Thanks, Charles.’

He put the phone down. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And, he thought as he switched on his screen, it was something new to put in his report. Smiling grimly to himself, he started to type.

As usual, the kettle was empty. Scowling, Harland moved across to the sink and turned on the tap. How hard was it to refill the damn thing when you used the last of the water? He clicked the switch down hard, then wandered out of the kitchen while he waited for the water to boil.

Moving into the main office, he found PC Gregg leaning back on a chair, drinking a cup of tea. Harland frowned.

‘Nothing to do, Stuart?’

‘Sorry, sir.’ The young officer tipped his chair forward and looked up. ‘Is there something you need?’

‘Finished those statements?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Gregg nodded, reaching for a folder.

‘Then I’d like you to check the victim’s effects. Start with that key chain.’

‘Sir?’

Harland sighed.

‘She had three keys on it,’ he explained. ‘Two will be her front-door keys, but I’d like to know what the third one was for. It’s probably for a door at her office. Find out for me, will you?’

Gregg shrugged. ‘Okay.’

‘And Stuart?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Fill up the bloody kettle when you empty it.’

He strode back to the kitchen to find the water had boiled. Rummaging in the cupboard, he found his mug, then reached over to take a tea bag from the box.

‘Sir?’

Harland turned to find Firth behind him.

‘What is it, Sue?’ he asked.

‘Blake wants you,’ she said, with an apologetic little smile.

Harland gave a quiet sigh and returned the tea bag to its box.

‘Dark blue nylon fibres . . .’ Blake spoke the words slowly, as though pondering their significance. He glanced up with a flat expression. ‘Is there anything specific about them? Any indication as to what kind of clothing they might come from?’

Harland shook his head. ‘Not yet, sir. Forensics only picked up on them this morning.’

‘Pity.’ Blake returned his attention to the report. ‘Of course, it’s good to see some progress, as far as it goes, but I was hoping for rather more.’

Harland said nothing. He sat still, his face carefully neutral as he waited to be told how important the case was. As if he didn’t appreciate that. As if he wasn’t fucking trying.

‘There’s a lot of interest in this case, you know,’ Blake was saying. ‘I want to be certain that we’re exploring all avenues, making the most of our resources.’

Harland’s head snapped up as an unwelcome idea began to form in his mind. This didn’t sound good at all.

‘I believe we’re covering the ground fairly quickly,’ he said, ‘building a picture of the woman and her circumstances. We’ve been able to rule out a number of angles already—’

‘That’s all very well,’ Blake interrupted, ‘but I still feel we might move things along with a bit more urgency.’

He sat back in his chair, eyes fixed on a point high on the wall behind Harland.

‘It’s important that we’re seen to be doing all we can,’ he said. ‘Do you think you have enough manpower on this?’

‘I think the manpower is appropriate, yes.’

Blake paused, then tried a different approach.

‘It wouldn’t do any harm to rattle the cages of a few undesirables,’ he observed. ‘It shows we’re not standing still, and if it is a failed sexual assault, we might get a break that bit sooner.’

There it was: failed sexual assault. Harland felt the tension wash down through his body as his suspicions were confirmed. Pope had gone behind his back and talked directly to Blake. The bastard.

‘I assume you’ve had someone take a look through the database, pulling up any similar cases,’ Blake continued. ‘There’s bound to be a few people with previous form in this area – it might be worth taking a look at them, seeing who can account for their movements and who can’t, that sort of thing.’

Harland sat in silence, his body taut with anger. He stared out at Blake, biting his lip for fear of giving voice to the thoughts that boiled inside him, able only to nod in mute agreement.

‘Well, I mustn’t keep you, Graham.’

He was dimly aware that their interview was at an end and, masking his emotions, got carefully to his feet.

‘Oh, and I see Russell Pope is back . . .’

Harland froze.

‘Let’s get him onto this along with Mendel and the others. I’m sure he’ll have some ideas to contribute, and an extra man should get things done that little bit faster.’

Harland shut the door and stumbled along the corridor. He veered off into the toilets and stood over the washbasins, breathing quickly.

The little shit had gone around him and spoken to Blake directly. Made him look bad. Made him look weak.

He gripped the edges of the sink and screwed his eyes shut for a moment, but he couldn’t shake off the terrible fury that seemed to be smothering him, boring into his skull. His eyes snapped open, glittering with rage as his pale reflection snarled back at him from the mirror. He wanted it to stop but he knew it wouldn’t.

Pope was doing it on purpose – had to be. Manipulative little bastard.

His fingers clawed at the soap dispenser on the wall in front of him, the joints whitening.

Made him look weak.

He lashed out at the dispenser, suddenly needing to hit it, to hurt it even though it was a lifeless object. Again, harder now, his hand swept down, splintering the plastic housing with a loud crack . . .

. . . and then he was himself again, looking at the broken bits of plastic in the sink. His hand felt numb as he turned it over and studied it. For a moment it was fine, then painful red lines bloomed out across his palm and blood began to ooze from the beaten skin.

There was no anger now, just a profound weariness as he ducked into one of the cubicles, grabbing wads of toilet paper to staunch the bleeding. Nobody had seen him. He’d be able to slip out, make some excuse, go home and bandage himself up properly. He ought to be glad.

Huddled there in the toilet cubicle, shivering, he waited for the bleeding to stop.

10

Thursday, 7 June

Harland stood by the window, tracing a line of condensation with his finger as he listened to the voice on the phone. Shoulders tense, he nodded wearily in response to what he heard.

‘No, I understand,’ he sighed. ‘Thanks for trying.’

He ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket, still gazing out at the rain. The droplet under his finger trickled down and seeped into the gap beneath the window frame.

‘Bad news?’ Pope had a talent for the obvious.

Harland’s head drooped and he slowly turned round.

‘Forensics didn’t get anything off those blue fibres,’ he said. ‘They’re from a common fabric used in about a hundred generic clothing lines. It’s just another dead end.’

‘Oh dear,’ Pope said. ‘That’s not much help.’

Harland shot him a withering look, then walked slowly over to the table.

‘No,’ he admitted after a moment, ‘it’s not.’

‘Still,’ Pope continued undeterred, ‘I’ve just been speaking to Gwent Police about that murder over in Newport. You know, the one I was telling you about before? They never got the guy who did that so it might be worth getting a list of any suspects they had and start checking up on them?’

Harland looked at him for a moment, then nodded.

‘I suppose so,’ he shrugged. ‘What have we got to lose?’

He gathered his notebook and his coffee from the table and trudged back to his office.

Vicky’s ex-boyfriend had been out of the country. One by one, her male work colleagues had been looked into and then ruled out. She wasn’t exactly the sort to have enemies – indeed it seemed nobody had so much as a bad word for her – but she was still dead.

And now he was running out of leads. Even their searches on the database had failed to produce any likely suspects, though he’d not been particularly surprised at that. Without a motive – and despite Pope’s theories, he couldn’t see one – it was difficult to know what they were looking for, or how to proceed.

He entered his barren little office and closed the door. Moving slowly round the desk, he sank into his chair and gazed up at the ceiling for a moment. He wanted a cigarette but the blustering rain that spattered against the window made the idea less appealing.

Leaning forward he switched on his screen. Typing was difficult – he’d bound the injured hand himself, perhaps too tightly – and it hurt to use the mouse. And yet he sensed there was still something out there to look for, to dig into, if he only knew where to start. Something he could get a hold on and trace back through the fog that surrounded him. Sighing, working slowly to spare his hand, he began to sift through the records of unsolved cases, praying that he wasn’t about to add to its number.

It was almost noon when there was a brisk knock on the door and Mendel looked in.

‘You look like you could use cheering up,’ he said.

Harland sat back in his chair and shook his head.

‘I’ve got a case that’s turning out to be nothing but dead ends,’ he sighed.

Mendel stepped in and closed the door.

‘They’re not all dead ends,’ he said quietly.

Harland stared at him. ‘What are you saying?’

Mendel gave him a grim smile. ‘Remember the key chain?’

Harland nodded.

‘Well,’ Mendel said, ‘we never did find a match for that third key. Until now.’

‘What was it? Something at her work?’

Mendel shook his head as he sat down.

‘Couldn’t find anything that fitted. But there was a decent thumbprint on it, so in the end we ran it through the system to check. Turns out it wasn’t from Vicky Sutherland at all.’

Harland frowned.

‘Whose was it then?’

‘The print belongs to a Ronald Erskine, and that key will most likely be the front-door key to his flat.’

‘Okay,’ Harland nodded. ‘We’ll need to speak to him, figure out any connection to the victim.’

‘Ronald Erskine’s body turned up four months ago in Oxford,’ Mendel said. ‘He’d been beaten to death.’

Harland sat back in his chair, his mind suddenly racing. His whole perspective on the murder had shifted.

‘This isn’t the first time our man has killed,’ he said after a moment.

Mendel looked at him, then nodded.

‘Changes things a bit, doesn’t it?’

‘Oh yes,’ Harland got to his feet, ‘this changes everything.’