Death Call (6 page)

‘No, I don’t,’ Grant said.

‘Do you have her home address, Maggie?’ Carroll asked.

‘Yeah, she was living on the estate down by Old Street, you know, the high-rise, eh, Thatcher Towers, number thirty three, I think....’

‘Did she live alone?’

‘I don’t know.’

Carroll and Grant left the Dream Date Escort Agency just before lunch time and headed down towards Old Street and Jo McCrae’s flat, in the hope of turning up a little more information. After that, it would be back to see William Gibson and his wife Samantha, to double check their alibis. There was still a lot of work to be done, and a lot of pieces yet to fit into the jigsaw.

Chapter 6

Thatcher Towers stood like a monument to the under-achievement of every architect that was ever taught how to hold a pencil. Apart from its grey concrete edifice, the complex had little to offer the outside world, or for that matter, its own insular inhabitants.

Twenty stories high, five flats abreast, Thatcher Towers was everything that shouldn’t exist when it comes to housing. Some bright spark had come up with the design in the 1960s, proclaiming it to be a God-send for homeless families and councils with small budgets, small hearts. Originally called Colonial Towers, the scheme was re-named in 1979 when Thatcher came into power. It bore testimony to the political thinking of the time and remained a good reason to vote any way but Tory.

The lift wasn’t working, so Carroll and Grant walked up the stairs. Six floors later, the two detectives reached the door of number thirty three. All of the front doors along the walkway looked the same, with red glass-panelled doors that bore the scars of family rows and replaced panes of glass. The unprotected balconies offered a violent escape to those who had had enough of tower-block living. It was a long, long way down, Grant thought, peering over the edge, as Carroll knocked on the flat door. There was no reply.

The sound of children playing on the grass verge below, mixed with the din of domestic arguments, drifted upwards like cries for help. Carroll forced the door. Inside, Grant heard what he presumed to be a child.

The living room held a playpen, occupied by a very smelly and upset child of about two or three. It was obvious that the kid had been there since its mother had failed to come home. It looked a mess.

‘Dan!’ Grant called. ‘Get in here.’

Carroll came in from the kitchen area and spotted the child. It was red-faced and filthy.

‘We’d best get Social Services over here,’ Carroll said, shaking his head in disbelief and reaching for his mobile phone. ‘How the hell could she even think of leaving a kid on its own in this dump? Jesus, some people don’t deserve to have kids, do they?’ Carroll concluded, looking over at Grant.

‘No,’ Grant replied. ‘They don’t.’

Grant picked the child up to comfort her and realised that her nappy was, to say the least, soiled. Carroll went looking for the telephone in order to get a hold of Social Services. The flat stank. Dirty dishes in the sink, rubbish practically growing out of a black bin bag and the smell of soured milk combined to present a nauseating cocktail that assaulted the senses.

‘What’s your name, eh?’ Grant spoke in a soft, child-like voice whilst holding the child at arm’s length. The child seemed terrified and was, no doubt, extremely hungry. Grant moved towards the kitchen and went in search of a clean bottle, that he may give the child a drink of water. Being stuck in a playpen for over two days without either food or drink was enough to kill a child in the wrong circumstances, he thought, and these weren’t the best.

The kid latched onto the bottle and teat like a falling climber hanging from a cliff-face. Grant decided that the child must also be hungry, and went in search of some baby food. There was none. By the time Social Services had arrived, the kid had nearly finished the bottle and was looking up at Grant, as he and his partner searched through Joanne McCrae’s belongings.

There wasn’t much to be found by way of personal items in the flat, apart from some cheap make-up and a few photos, stuck to the wall of the bedroom with thumb tacks. They appeared to be of a family in happy times – times that Jo Mac wouldn’t be seeing again.

The social worker picked up Jo’s child and began wiping its face with a damp cloth. The child began crying immediately, only calming down when Carroll made a funny face. Carroll adjourned to the bathroom for a look around.

‘Do you have an address for the mother’s parents?’ the social worker asked.

‘No, not at the moment,’ Grant replied, ‘but I’ll see what we can do for you later on, okay?’

The social worker, a tight-faced woman of around thirty-five, simply nodded and left, carrying the child under her arm like a bundle of dirty washing. The flat was suddenly quiet.

Carroll could find nothing in the flat that could be regarded as important other than the photos, which he took from the wall, and a set of works, stashed neatly under the bathroom sink unit. Jo Mac, it appeared, had been a heroin user. Now there was something that Dr. Henry Young had failed to notice, Carroll thought, happy to have gleaned more information from his search than Young had in his examination.

With no address or contact book it would prove difficult to locate Joanne’s parents. The only chance Social Services had was with the National Identification Bureau, courtesy of the police, who would have to inform Jo’s parents of her death. From there, hopefully, if her parents were still alive, a home might be found for the kid she had left behind. The child she had abandoned to go out working for Dream Date.

Carroll went to the next flat, number thirty-four, and knocked on the door. The sound of a large dog hitting the wire-strengthened glass panelling sent Carroll stepping back in fright. A man came to the door and opened it. He smelled like he hadn’t washed for a week.

‘What do you want?’ he said, running his fingers through his greasy hair.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Carroll. I’m investigating the death of your next door neighbour, Joanne McCrae. I’ll need to ask you a few questions....’

‘I didn’t know the woman,’ he said blankly.

‘You don’t know anything about her?’

‘I’ve heard people say she was a hooker, but that’s all, now is that enough? I’m half way through a video, pal, all right?’

‘Did you know she had a child?’

‘What about it?’

‘Well, have you heard the child crying over the last few days?’

‘That child is always crying....’

‘It’s been on its own in the flat for the last two days – I don’t suppose you’d have thought of ringing the police or a social worker....’

‘Listen, I didn’t know the woman, I don’t know the kid. Now, do you mind?’ The man closed the door, leaving Carroll standing on the doorstep. People don’t care anymore, he thought, making his way to the flat on the other side. There was no reply, and the windows were boarded-up.

Back at the station, Grant found a note on his desk from the Forensic Science Laboratory, detailing some of their findings. For a more thorough report, the note said, he should contact them. He did just that.

Joanne McCrae’s body had turned up samples of semen from one man and pubic hair from two. Whoever she had been with on her last ‘tour of duty’ with Dream Date, could hold the key to establishing the approximate age, race and hair colour of her killer.

The guy at the laboratory spoke brightly on the phone. ‘Yeah, mate, we’ve isolated two different individuals who would’ve been in intimate contact with the victim on the day she died. One, from our tests, appears to be a white male, with fair to blonde hair, around the age of thirty. The other, also a white male, seems to be around the same age, with black hair. The semen sample was from the blonde guy,’ said the laboratory technician.

‘So we’ve got two white males, one blonde, one black-haired, and the semen is from the blonde guy?’ Grant repeated.

‘Correct. There were only one set of prints on the body. They would’ve been one of the two men’s prints, I’d say. We couldn’t find a match for them on computer. We turned up nothing on the fingernail swabs, other than normal debris and some lubrication jelly.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Fibres. We found several types of fibres that wouldn’t correspond to items in the immediate vicinity of the murder. One was a synthetic material, the kind you’d most likely find used in sportswear, the other was denim. Probably old jeans, with traces of oil on them.’

‘What sort of oil?’

‘Motor oil, old motor oil.’

‘Okay, thanks. I don’t know your name?’

‘It’s Noel, Noel Harrigan.’

‘Thanks, Noel, you’ve been very helpful.’

‘If there’s anything else you need, just give me a call, okay?’

‘Cheers!’ Grant said, hanging up.

Carroll stood on the opposite side of the desk and looked at his partner, waiting for a morsel of information.

‘Well? What did he give up?’ Carroll asked.

‘We have two men as possible suspects. Both around thirty, one blonde, the other possibly black-haired. DNA samples for both, and fibres from some sportswear and old jeans, with traces of motor oil....’

‘That could be half the fuckin’ country!’ Carroll remarked.

‘Well, we didn’t know that earlier today, did we?’ Grant said with a smile. ‘At least we’re moving forward....’

‘And the DCI may leave us alone for a few days....’

‘Some hope, man, some hope!’

The next and obvious step was to go back to see Lynn at the Dream Date escort agency, to get an address for the earlier job that Jo Mac had done. Somewhere out there was a blonde or possibly black-haired man that had paid to have sex with Jo the same day she was murdered. If they could get a positive identification of the man, then he would be eliminated from the inquiry, pointing the finger at the other potential suspect. It was a case of simple deduction. Find who it isn’t, then pinpoint who it might be.

Lynn was still at her desk when Carroll and Grant entered, and she looked less than happy at seeing them again. As the afternoon was wearing on, more girls had turned up for work, and there were now eight young and rather good-looking women sitting around in the reception area. Carroll felt a little like a flea under a microscope, as all of the assembled women gave them the once over.

‘We’re here to get details of Jo’s last jobs,’ Grant said.

‘I gave you everything you asked for earlier, officer,’ Lynn said sarcastically.

‘Well, we need more....’

‘You can have all you like, big boy!’ shouted one of the women in the room.

‘We need details of where Jo went on the call before she was murdered – do you have these details?’

‘Let me check,’ she said, fingering through her diary and ledger. ‘We only had one other call for her that night – a call at the Towcester Hotel in Piccadilly. The name was Smith, room number thirty-nine. Is that helpful?’

‘That’s great. Do you know what time the call was at?’

‘Eh, twelve o’clock that night....’

‘You mean twelve on the night before she died?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘What time did she get back?’

‘Just before two o’clock. He booked her for an hour and a half.’

Carroll was being toyed with by one of the young escorts.

‘I’ll do you a special, detective. What do you say?’

‘Not while I’m on duty, darling, not while I’m on duty....’ Carroll smiled at the woman, who was playing with the hair on the back of his neck.