Deep Cover (8 page)

Pilcher paled. His brow furrowed.

‘You don't know anything about that?'

‘No!' His reply was aggressive, defensive.

‘We'll find out who she was soon enough, and all roads will lead to Rome. If there is a connection between the late “Irish Mickey” Dalkeith and the deceased woman who lay concealed under his dead body, we'll find out. Well, we'll say good day, Mr Pilcher. Thank you for your time.'

Driving back to central London, Vicary asked Brunnie what he thought of Pilcher.

‘A nasty.' Brunnie glanced to his left as the car slid by the wealth of north-west Surrey, ‘too hard to be a stockbroker, like Durham E-wing hard; too ready to get rid of us and too frightened when you mentioned the fact that Dalkeith had died as if leading us to the shallow grave. Frankly, it would not surprise me one little bit if Pilcher was an alias and that he is well known to us under a different handle.'

‘Yes.' Vicary smiled but kept looking straight ahead. ‘My feelings exactly. We need to find out just who he is – pick that up, will you?'

‘Yes, boss, I'll get right on it. My curiosity is well aroused, very well up.'

For the second time that day John Shaftoe considered a corpse which lay upon the stainless steel dissecting table in the pathology laboratory of the London Hospital, although, on the second occasion, he had no need to adjust the height of the microphone which was attached to the anglepoise arm above the table. ‘Did you have a good lunch, Billy?' He grinned at his nervous assistant, who he thought was looking more than usually pale and unwell.

‘It was OK, sir. Usual hospital canteen food but it filled the gap.'

‘Good. So, two in one day, not bad . . . once did four in one day. I needed my sleep at the end of that day, I can tell you.'

‘Yes, sir,' Button whimpered.

‘Well . . . let's press on.' Shaftoe spoke clearly for the benefit of the microphone. ‘The deceased is a frail-looking, undernourished person of the female sex. She is of Northern European or Caucasian racial extraction. Her age is as yet to be determined, but she is young and post-pubescent, and probably in her early teenage years.' He paused. ‘Immediately obvious is the extensive bruising to the neck, which is indicative of strangulation. I also note ligature marks to her wrists.' He pulled up the eyelids, one at a time. ‘Petechial haemorrhaging is noted, which further indicates that she was strangled. Care to look?' Shaftoe turned to Ainsclough who was observing the post-mortem for the police.

‘Yes, sir.' Ainsclough, clad from head to toe in the requisite green paper coveralls, stepped from the side of the theatre to the dissecting table and stood beside, and slightly behind, Shaftoe.

‘Little black dots in the whites of the eyes . . . see? Blood spots, sometimes, if not black, they have a reddish hue, always a good indication of strangulation or asphyxiation, but we have to be careful not to jump to conclusions because such can also occur naturally, in the event of a brain haemorrhage, for instance, so this, in itself, is not conclusive proof of murder.'

‘I see, sir.'

‘But taken together, with the bruising to the neck, I think I am on safe ground to state, unless I find anything to the contrary, that this young girl was murdered by manual strangulation, as opposed to being strangled by use of a ligature.'

‘So murder, in that case, sir?'

‘Yes. Murder most foul.'

‘Thank you, sir.' Ainsclough retreated to the wall of the laboratory where he once again stood in deferential silence.

‘So the deceased, who regrettably had a short life, was also short in life in terms of her stature. Can you pass the tape measure, please, Billy?'

Billy Button picked up a yellow retractable metal tape-measure from the bench close to the dissecting table and handed it to Shaftoe, who extended the tape from the head to the balls of the feet of the corpse. ‘Four feet ten inches tall or one hundred and forty-seven centimetres in her cotton socks, poor thing. God rest her.' Shaftoe took a metal file and scraped under the fingernails of the deceased, and deposited the detritus thereunder into a self-sealing cellophane sachet. ‘She might have clawed at her attacker's face and captured his . . . or her . . . DNA. Might . . . might, but the ligature marks on her wrists indicate that she was restrained peri-mortem, so we'll have to wait and see what forensics can tell us. How old do you think she is, Billy?'

Button shrugged. ‘Not old, sir.' Button looked at the thin, wasted frame, the ribs, the thin waist, the painfully thin legs which protruded under the starched white towel that had been placed over her middle, the tiny feet. ‘I see what you mean about being fortunate, sir.'

‘Yes, it's all a matter of context, Billy, all a matter of context.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘So we crack on, we continue. I will avoid damaging the face; she still has to be identified. Any ideas yet, Mr Ainsclough?'

‘None as yet, sir. We're trawling through the missing persons reports, but she may be from outside London, as many young people are. If that is the situation here, she will only be registered as a mis per locally, that is local to her home.'

‘I see. Well, her hands are undamaged. I'll cut them off and send them to the forensic laboratory together with her nail scrapings. They can lift her fingerprints. She might have a record. She might be known to you.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

‘So, now we'll see what she had for her last meal . . . but, flat tummy, wasted, drawn looks, indicate little intestinal gas, which further indicates a recent time of death. I anticipate an empty stomach, she is close to anorexic.'

Shaftoe took a scalpel and drew it across the stomach. Little gas escaped. He opened up the incision and peered into the stomach cavity. ‘Yes, as I suspected. No food at all.' Shaftoe took a length of stainless steel and worked it into the mouth and prised the mouth open causing the jaw to give with a soft, cracking sound. ‘Rigor is established,' he announced, ‘thus placing the time of death between twenty-four and forty-eight hours ago but that is a very inexact science, as you know.'

‘Understood, sir.'

‘Ah . . . she is British, distinctly UK dentistry, and work was done quite recently, so dental records will be able to confirm any ID if her fingerprints are not on file, or if a relative can't identify her.'

‘Yes, sir,' Ainsclough replied, raising his voice to enable it to carry across the laboratory.

‘She didn't leave you a message, no notes under the tongue or between her teeth and gums. I'll check the other body cavities and send a blood sample for analysis, but it's looking clearly like a case of strangulation after a period of being restrained. So I assume my report will be for the attention of Mr Vicary?'

‘Yes, please, sir.'

Frank Brunnie sat at his desk and read the ‘no trace' result from his enquiry.

‘That,' he murmured, ‘that I do not believe.'

‘You sound disappointed.' Penny Yewdall glanced up from her desk which faced Brunnie's. ‘Something amiss?'

‘What isn't amiss? The whole wretched planet is amiss in one way or another.' Brunnie leaned back and put his feet on his desktop.

‘If Harry Vicary catches you sitting like that you're in the soup. You know what recent promotees are like . . . new brooms sweeping clean; out to make a name for himself.'

‘Yes, he had a narrow escape. He's consolidating now.'

‘So I heard. Drink, wasn't it?'

‘Drink it was. He was given six months to get his act together, which he not only did, but he also did very well in the Jim Coventry murder.'

‘That's the one in which Archie Dew was shot?'

‘Yes. Harry did well in that case. So, he sobered up, impressed their Lordships, got promoted, and he's back on track, but he's out right now . . . so . . .' Brunnie let his feet remain on the desktop. ‘But this guy –' Brunnie tapped the computer printout – ‘“no trace”, “not known” . . . no way, he's a nasty. He smelled nasty, he looked nasty and I tell you, did he look alarmed when we told him that the guy Irish Mickey Dalkeith had gone to sleep in the snow right over the shallow grave of a woman . . . or did he look alarmed? Guess which.'

‘I should guess . . . er . . . alarmed.' Yewdall put her pen down and leaned back in her chair. ‘What does the Land Registry say?'

‘Same. The house in Virginia Water is registered in the name of one William Pilcher.'

‘You need a DNA sample or some item with his fingerprints on it.'

Brunnie grinned. ‘For that I will take my feet off the desk for Mr Vicary.'

‘You see, pretty girls do have their uses,' Yewdall said with a smile.

‘So I am discovering. Fancy a trip out to sunny Kilburn?'

‘Not particularly,' Yewdall replied. ‘It will take much to drag me to sunny Kilburn, not my favourite part of the Great Wen . . . but . . . but . . .'

‘But?'

‘But anything to get away from this wretched paperwork. I know the value of it, but if I wanted to work in an office I'd have been a secretary or a bank clerk. So, let's go.' She stood and reached for her coat. Brunnie did likewise.

Thirty minutes later, Brunnie and Yewdall entered the premises of WLM Rents on Fernhead Road, W9, and were greeted by J.J. Dunwoodie snapping to attention with his eager to please attitude. Brunnie suddenly felt afraid for the safety of Dunwoodie, having just met his employer. He seemed to Brunnie to be akin to a lamb protecting a tiger.

‘Your boss?' Brunnie said, shortly, abruptly.

‘Mr William?'

‘Yes, we need something he has touched.'

‘Oh.' Dunwoodie paled. ‘I don't know if I could . . . if I should.'

‘Why?' Yewdall smiled. ‘He couldn't have anything to hide; he's a very respectable, hard-working, clean-living businessman, a veritable pillar of the community.'

‘Yes . . .' Dunwoodie stammered, ‘he is . . . but.'

‘But what? When did he last come here, to this office?' Brunnie pressed.

‘Today's . . . about two, three days ago. Three days ago in the afternoon, late afternoon.'

‘Where did he go?'

‘He left to visit a property and then he was returning home.'

‘No . . . no . . . where in here? Where in this office did he go?'

‘Well, he went into the back office.' Dunwoodie indicated the door behind to the left of him. ‘He keeps that door locked; even I can't go inside there. I don't know what's in there.'

‘Even you?'

‘Well, I mean that I am the office manager and I can't go in that room. All I need to access are the files kept in the cabinets. Everything I need is in those cabinets.'

‘I see, so where else did he walk?'

‘Nowhere . . . just into the back office, watered the plants, then left to view the property Mr William hopes to acquire.'

‘He watered the plants?'

‘Yes.' Dunwoodie pointed to a row of six money plants that stood on top of the filing cabinets in terracotta pots.

Brunnie noticed a small, red plastic watering can at the end of the row of money plants. ‘Did he use that watering can?'

‘Yes . . . yes, he did.'

Brunnie walked across the hard-wearing felt carpeting and picked the watering can up by the spout. He took a large plastic bag from the inside of his coat and placed the can within it. ‘This will do nicely.' He smiled.

‘Can you do that?' Dunwoodie spluttered.

‘With your permission,' Yewdall said, also smiling.

‘Well, I don't . . . I mean . . .'

‘Thanks.' Brunnie turned toward the door. ‘We'll return it.'

‘Did you buy it locally?' Yewdall asked.

‘Yes, the hardware shop, five minutes' walk from here.'

‘So go and buy another one, an identical one, then no one will ever know, will they?'

‘I will have to tell Mr William,' Dunwoodie squeaked.

‘No,' Brunnie turned back and faced Dunwoodie, holding eye contact with him. ‘No. No. No. For your own sake . . . no.'

‘For my own sake?' Dunwoodie's face paled.

‘Yes, for your own sake.' Brunnie remained stone-faced. ‘Lock up the office and go and buy a watering can from the hardware shop. A watering can identical to this one, and return and place it on top of the filing cabinets.'

‘Simple as that,' Yewdall added.

‘You know, fella,' Brunnie continued, ‘I don't know what you think of your boss, but I can tell you that it won't be the same as what I think about him. So go and buy another watering can and mention our little and very brief visit to no one.'

‘No one,' Yewdall added, ‘no one.'

In the car, driving southwards in slow moving traffic, Yewdall glanced to her left at the residential houses and occasional shop. ‘Any more stunts like that,' she said, ‘and you'll have us both put against a wall and shot.'

Brunnie grinned. ‘You put the idea in my head, but at least we're going to find out who Pilcher really is, and Dunwoodie will be safe if he buys another watering can and keeps his mouth shut.'

Yewdall turned to him. ‘If,' she said coldly, ‘if, it's a big if . . . a very big if.'

Vicary smiled. It was serious. Very serious, but he managed to smile. In the margin of the report on Michael ‘Irish Mickey' Dalkeith's blood toxicity, which spoke of milligrams per millilitre of alcohol being present, John Shaftoe had clearly anticipated Vicary's bewilderment and had written in a neat hand, ‘sufficient to knock out a horse'. Vicary said ‘Thank you' aloud and laid the toxicity report to one side, and picked up the post-mortem report, also submitted by John Shaftoe, in respect of the shallowly buried, skeletonized corpse which was found beneath Michael Dalkeith's frozen body. The post-mortem findings had been compared to information on missing persons and Vicary saw that, worryingly, quite a few women of about five feet tall in height had been reported missing, and were still missing, in the Greater London area within the last fifteen years. The vast majority, however, were very young – teenagers or early twenties – but one, just one missing person's report stood out as being the most promising potential match to the post-mortem findings. Rosemary Halkier was thirty-five years old when she was reported missing some ten years earlier. The mother of two children, she had been reported as a missing person by her father with whom she was living at the time in Albert Road, Leyton, which was, as if fate was helpfully intervening, very close to Vicary's route home. If he left the tube train just one stop earlier than usual, he could very easily call in at the Halkier household, make a brief enquiry and then walk home from there in less than fifteen minutes. Vicary glanced out of his office window. He noted the sky to be low and grey but, thankfully, it was not raining, and as such it made a stroll from Leyton to Leytonstone on a dry winter's evening seem very inviting. Very inviting indeed. He stood and worked himself into his overcoat and screwed his fedora hat on to his head. He signed himself ‘Out – not coming back', and walked out of the Murder and Serious Crime Unit. He took the lift to the ground floor and exited New Scotland Yard by the main entrance in front of the triangular sign which read, ‘Working for a safer London'. He took the District Line to Mile End and there changed on to the Central Line and, as he had planned, left the tube at Leyton.