Cut Short (6 page)

  'They seem on the level,' Carter commented as they drove off.

  'Not much help though,' Black replied.

  'Perhaps Robert Lakeland will be more definite.'

  Black grunted. 'Couldn't be less definite than those two,' he said. 'Shame people can't be more observant. Not much use, were they?' He sounded disappointed.

  Carter smiled indulgently at his young colleague. 'You can't expect every interview to shed light on the case,' he said equably. 'It's early days. We haven't even got the post mortem report yet.'

  Black nodded. 'DCI's probably there now. What do you make of her, then?'

  'DCI Gordon?' Carter grinned. 'I've worked with her before. She's bloody good. Formidable woman though. It doesn't do to get in her bad books.'

  Black nodded. 'I'll remember that,' he said.

  'And watch out for Geraldine Steel,' Carter added. 'She's one of those rare officers who seems to sniff out a villain by instinct.'

  'Bloody women,' Black grumbled amiably. 'Too bloody clever.'

10

Mortuary

Geraldine saw at once why the pathologist was known at the police station as Dr Death. His emaciated features smiled at her in a ghastly grin, which stretched his skin tightly across his jutting cheekbones, a fitting death mask for his grisly work.

  Gazing down at Angela Waters, she felt a familiar anger and a tremor at the responsibility. Someone had strangled the breath out of Angela Waters' young body with his bare hands. She glanced up at Peterson who was staring at the dead woman as though trying to memorise every sickening detail. Geraldine followed his gaze. At twenty-two Angela Waters looked about twelve. Her long blonde hair appeared natural but looking closely Geraldine saw the roots were dark. The dead girl had probably been a natural blonde who'd turned mousy as she grew up. She had heavy lidded blue eyes, a turned up nose and thin lips. In death, she'd acquired an ethereal quality, her skin implausibly pale above livid bruising on her jaw and neck.

  Geraldine turned her attention to the pathologist. His eyes met hers above his mask, sharp yet compassionate.

  'We know she was twenty-two,' he began, 'but physically she appears younger, slightly malnourished.'

  'Anorexic?' Geraldine asked.

  'Bulimic. You can see the discoloration on her finger joints.' He raised one of the dead girl's hands. 'See this rough skin on her knuckles, from making herself vomit. Teeth are discoloured and beginning to decalcify. There are erosions and inflammation in the lining of the lower oesophagus.'

  Geraldine heard Peterson groan softly but she didn't look up. She was focusing on what the pathologist was saying. At the same time, she was recording his voice. A copy of his detailed written report would lack the immediacy of his live commentary. In any case, Geraldine liked to record her own responses at the time. It helped her build a picture of what had happened.

  'She's just a kid,' Peterson muttered behind his mask. Angela Waters had not been much younger than the DS, but she looked like a child.

  'She was grabbed by the arms,' the doctor pointed to bruising on the dead girl's lower arms, 'and her wrists were secured.'

  'Was something used to tie them?'

  The doctor shook his head. 'Difficult to say. It's possible.'

  'Do you think her attacker could've held her wrists together behind her back with one hand?'

  He nodded. 'It's possible,' he said again. 'A man with large hands. She's got skinny wrists. They've been crushed together quite violently. It's possible.' He moved round the table to the victim's head. 'A hand over her mouth,' he indicated bruising on her jaw.

  'One hand holding her arms behind her back, the other over her mouth,' Geraldine repeated.

  'Bastard,' Peterson said vehemently.

  'Strong and fairly large, I'd say,' Geraldine went on purposefully.

  'She was dragged along the ground,' the doctor continued.

  'Before she died?'

  'Yes. There are scratches and grazes here, on the back of her legs. We found a thread under the nail of her right thumb,' the doctor went on. Geraldine looked up at him quickly. 'She seems to have managed to wriggle one hand out from beneath her. This little finger broke when she tried to grab onto something, probably after she was thrown to the ground.'

  Geraldine tried to picture the scene in her head. Probably tall and certainly strong, the killer would have crouched down as he pulled the struggling girl into the bushes, her legs dragging along the ground. She must have reached out in panic with the one hand she managed to free when he seized her throat.

  'You're saying they've found a thread from his clothes?' Peterson asked, excited. Geraldine waited.

  'It's a cheap dark grey fabric, 75% polyester, 25% viscose. The sort of stuff you might find lining an anorak, or it could have come from a scarf or woollen gloves.'

  'Any indication where it's from? Any traces of sweat or—'

  The doctor interrupted him. 'Nothing so far. No blood. It's pretty old, that's all the initial analysis showed. Could be second hand. It was only one thread of fluff.' He shrugged apologetically. 'And there's nothing to prove it came from the killer.'

  'You don't think it could've caught under her nail before the attack?' the sergeant asked.

  Millard shrugged. 'There's no way of knowing.'

  'Fuck,' Peterson burst out. The explosive syllable reverberated in the sterile air.

  'There's more,' the doctor said, ignoring the interruption. Geraldine looked at him again. 'There are indications of physical abuse. A cracked rib,' he pointed at the right side of her chest, 'she's had a broken wrist, and there are scars from old cigarette burns.' He indicated several small marks on her shoulder and abdomen.

  'How recent were these injuries?'

  The doctor hesitated. 'In the past year or so, perhaps. I'm afraid I can't be more specific. I doubt if these injuries were accidental, but they may have no bearing on the cause of death.'

  'Then again, they may have,' Peterson replied grimly. Geraldine was silent. She was thinking about Angela Waters' attacker. He was probably tall, with big hands. He was wearing an old anorak with a dark grey fleecy lining, or a grey scarf. She frowned. It wasn't much, but it didn't sound like Johnny Drew.

11

Neighbours

Most of the shops below the flats where Angela Waters had lived with Johnny Drew were boarded up. Carter and Black were working their way through the others. They peered through the grimy window of an abandoned printers where a few broken shelves hung from metal struts on the walls. A pile of unopened mail lay inside the door, gathering dust. Apart from that the interior was bare. On the other side of the stairs leading up to Drew's flat a narrow florist's was more of a corridor than a shop premises. There wasn't enough room for two people to stand side by side between shelves of dreary plants without being poked by a protruding stick or frond. Everything looked neglected. A young girl with dark hair stood chewing gum behind a short counter at the far end of the shop. She stared at them blankly when the DI held out his warrant card.

  'Do you know a woman called Angela Waters, lives upstairs?' Carter asked her.

  'Knew her,' the girl answered. 'Dead, isn't she?'

  'How do you know that?'

  The girl jerked her head upwards. 'Told me, didn't he? Johnny. You lot ought to fuck off. Leave him in peace. Stop pestering him. You got no right.' She seemed faintly animated.

  'How well do you know John Drew?' Black asked her. She shrugged and said nothing. He repeated the question with an exaggerated show of patience.

  'Who says I know him?'

  The DS sighed. 'You said he told you about Angela Waters. So, how well did you know him?'

  The girl frowned. 'Customer,' she said. 'Comes in here, buys flowers on his way home.'

  'Was he a regular customer?' Carter asked.

  She nodded. 'One of the best, he is.'

  'Do you know why he bought flowers? Was he feeling guilty about something? Did he and his girlfriend argue much?'

  The girl shrugged. 'How should I know? He bought flowers, that's all I know. Perhaps he likes flowers. That's what I do, I sell flowers. I'm not a fucking mind reader. And I don't go round snooping on people.' She gave them a filthy look. Even if she knew something that might help their enquiry, she wasn't likely to talk to the police. All the same, Carter put his card on her grubby counter.

  'If you think of anything that might help us—' he began.

  'Fuck off, pig,' she cut in. She picked up the card and flicked it onto the floor, glaring at him as she did so. The card landed by Black's feet. Neither of the detectives bent down to retrieve it.

  They climbed the dank concrete stairs and tried the flats on either side of Johnny Drew's. No one was in at number 15. A woman came to the door of number 14. She stared at them with the same glassy expression as the girl in the flower shop had worn. A man's voice yelled from some where inside the flat.

  'Is it Billy?'

  'Nah,' she called back over her shoulder.

  'Do you live here?' Black asked.

  'What's it to you?' She began to close the door. Carter showed her his warrant card. She barely glanced at it. 'It's the filth,' she shouted. From behind her came sounds of swearing, shuffling and thumping.

  'We'd like to ask you a few questions about one of your next door neighbours,' Carter said.

  'It's about them next door,' the woman called out. A man in a grubby white vest appeared in the hallway behind her, scowling. Carter explained they were making enquiries about John Drew who lived at number 14a.

  'What you want to come bothering us for then?' the man demanded. 'Ask them next door.' He pushed past the woman. 'What you want to talk to them for, Cindy?' He shouted as he slammed the door.

  Carter shrugged. 'There's something they're not telling us,' he said quietly.

  'Something? They didn't tell us anything,' Black replied. He looked fed up. 'This is a complete waste of time. People who live on an estate like this are never going to tell us anything.'

  'I grew up in a place like this,' Carter told him evenly.

  'You ought to know then,' Black replied. Carter didn't respond; nothing seemed to rile him.

Cindy at number 14 turned on her partner as soon as the door closed on the two detectives.

  'You could've told them, Jeff.'

  'Told them what?' He scratched his chest through his vest and yawned.

  'About him next door, that Johnny.'

  'What about him?'

  'About his hitting her.' Jeff snorted and turned away as she continued her tirade. 'It's not funny. At it all the time, he is. She had a broken arm one time, remember? He done that. And I seen her with a black eye more than once. He's put her in the hospital three times since we been here. It's not right. He shouldn't be allowed to get away with it.'

  'So? What's it got to do with me?'

  'Well, I just think you could've told them, that's all.'

  'What the hell would I want to go and do that for?' he asked. He shuffled back along the hallway to the living room.

  Cindy followed him. 'Because he's gone and done it this time, hasn't he?' She raised her voice. 'Why else are the filth coming round here asking questions? Use your loaf. He's topped her this time, for sure.'

  'Don't be daft. Where's the remote? And don't you bloody shout at me,' he added, 'or you'll be getting a black eye and all.'

  Jeff threw himself into a chair and picked up the remote control. He flicked through channels on the Sky box.

  'Now my programme's finished,' he grumbled. 'Bloody filth. They got no right, disturbing decent people. Get us the dope, will you? It's under the floorboard.'

  'What's it doing there?'

  'I bloody put it there, you daft cow. What did you think I was going to do with it? Wait till they come in for a poke around? You should've told me what they were after straight away.'

  Cindy didn't move from the doorway. 'You should've said something,' she repeated stubbornly, folding her arms 'I'm telling you, he done it.'

  'Says you. Only you don't know what's happened. You don't know anything for sure. It's all in your mind, that's what. But let's just suppose you
are
right, for once in your life.' He twisted his head round to face her. 'We don't know, mind. We don't even know she's dead. But let's say she is, and it was him done it. He's still going to be living right next door us, all the same. Is that what you want? A murderer,' he said the word in a spooky voice, wriggling his fingers at her, 'living next door to us knowing you told the filth he beat her up. You want to go pointing a finger at that piece of shit? You might as well ask him to put you next on his list. Think of it, he might be right behind you one night, coming up the stairs, nursing a grudge against you. Because he's a nasty piece of work, make no mistake. You don't want to mess with Johnny Drew.'

  'We can't just do nothing.' Cindy protested. Jeff stared at the television and she shrugged. 'I'll put the kettle on then, shall I? Poor cow,' she added under her breath. Jeff was right about one thing: Johnny Drew was a piece of shit. Cindy hoped they'd put him behind bars and throw away the key.

12

Pub

Carter and Black went to check out the rest of the shops. The dark-haired girl stared at them balefully from the doorway of the flower shop as they walked down the parade. Next door was a Chinese take-away. The DI brandished a mug shot of Johnny Drew at the girl behind the counter, who looked at it then thrust a menu at them. When Carter displayed his warrant card, the girl nodded and muttered something they couldn't understand. Black showed her a picture of the victim.