Everyone Lies (35 page)

Simms rushed to meet him at the cordon tape. ‘Is it a body?’ she said. ‘It is, isn’t it? What state is it in? Is it identifiable? Come on, Nick, will it
tell
us anything?’

‘Hey, slow down,’ he said.

But she couldn’t slow down; she felt locked out, ostracized, and there were things she needed to know. ‘Nick, I’m going to have to account for my actions.’ Electricity seemed to spark under her skin, and the muscles in her hands and arms jerked spastically.

He stared at her. ‘What do you mean,
account for your actions
? You found a body, Kate – you don’t need to justify yourself to anyone.’

She snuffed a laugh. ‘I found a body by conducting a search out of my jurisdiction,
without
informing the local police authority
or
consulting my next-in-command. I’m pretty sure Superintendent Spry will say I have a
lot
of explaining to do.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk on the way back.’

She stepped away from his guiding hand. ‘I’m not ready to leave yet.’

He stared at her and, after a few moments, he shook his head and dropped his hands to his sides. ‘The victim is female. She’s buried in a shallow grave – it’s a crouch burial – she’s curled in the foetal position under a thin layer of concrete.’

She rifled mentally through course notes and review sessions with Nick Fennimore at the Crime Faculty, but couldn’t recall the facts she needed. ‘I know concrete draws out water, but does it dissolve flesh? Is it mummified – I mean, does concrete preserve body tissues, or destroy them? We need to know if the injuries match our—’

Fennimore lifted his chin sharply, reminding her of the group of uniforms standing twenty yards away.

‘Concrete gets hot as it sets,’ he told her. ‘Very hot. And the body’s in plastic, so it wouldn’t be desiccated, it’d be cooked – the DNA is destroyed.’

‘Shit!’

‘Kate.’ He glanced again at the huddle standing near the burnt-out car wreck.

‘What?’ she said.

Fennimore caught hold of her arm at the elbow, steered her a few steps down the road. ‘You
do not
want uniform cops to be the first to hear what we’ve both been thinking for the past hour.’ His eyes flashed angrily. ‘Because once they have it, they’ll spread it like a virus.’

Neither one of them had spoken the words out loud; they didn’t need to. A Manchester Met police officer in charge of a murder investigation had yomped over the Pennines to Hull at the suicide hour, in secret, and just happened to stumble across a body – it didn’t take a huge leap of imagination to think there must be more. But while police like a major crime for the overtime and trips out on expenses, ‘serial killer’ had implications. ‘Serial killer’ said police at various levels hadn’t been doing their jobs, crimes had gone unnoticed or, worse, ignored.

He let go of her arm and they turned their backs to the cops who were now blatantly earwigging the exchange.

‘I need answers, Nick.’ She spoke quietly, keeping her frustration locked down so tight she could hardly breathe. ‘This might be their jurisdiction, but it’s my investigation, and I can’t do it blindfold.’

‘Okay. First off, even if the concrete has destroyed her soft tissues, we
will
get DNA from her teeth.’

She felt the knot at the back of her neck loosen a notch.

‘Now, one question at a time, all right?’

She nodded. ‘Will we get indications of whip marks?’ It was the one thing they had which would link Tanya’s attacker to Marta.

‘As I said, the grave is shallow – no more than a shell scrape, really. The concrete is acting as a kind of cap over the body and the ground under the tiles is damp. If the dorsal surface of the body has been in contact with the ground, then the back and buttocks would remain damp. As you know, damp flesh can turn to adipocere, and
that
might show striations in the flesh caused by a riding crop.’

‘That’s a hell of a lot of “ifs”.’ Despite that, she felt a glimmer of hope. ‘When will we know?’

‘It could take a couple of days just to lift the body out,’ he said quietly and calmly. ‘We can’t just go in and dig her up. He buried her, then retiled and regrouted, yet there was more blood – where did that come from? Not from Tanya – her injuries weren’t severe enough. So there could be other girls tortured here who didn’t come forward. There could even be another body.’

‘Oh,’ she said, swallowing a wave of nausea.

‘The forensic archaeologist will have to stratify the site. She’ll work very slowly and
very
painstakingly, sampling, bagging and tagging the tiles, the grout, the new concrete, the old concrete, layer after layer. There could be vital evidence in or on the plastic sheeting, in the soil, or maybe he dropped something into the concrete without realizing. The wrapping itself could be traced back to point of origin—’

He broke off, and she looked into his eyes; he was telling her that they were doing everything they could.

‘You need to know if we’ve got a definite connection,’ Fennimore said. ‘I understand that. But if it takes longer, it takes longer, and you’ll have to accept it.’

‘I know.’ She bowed her head.

‘It’s probable the room has been sealed for some time, reducing the risk of contamination, and it’s cold, and surprisingly dry, which means there’s an excellent chance of finding the victims’ DNA from the blood spatter. They might even get
his
DNA from the rings and the hook.’

She was suddenly angry again. ‘Why the hell didn’t they do that two years ago?’

‘Scientists can only do what the police ask them to do.
Jesus
, Kate, you
know
that. The fact is, they weren’t even asked to collect evidence from this building.’

She exhaled through her nose. ‘I’d love to know who led
that
investigation.’

He shrugged – that was something to pursue in the future. ‘We’re supposed to be meeting Alastair Varley in Manchester this afternoon,’ he said. ‘I need to email him about the new developments, and my laptop is back at the hotel – we really should be heading back, Kate.’

She’d forgotten about their meeting with the forensic psychologist, and she had yet to make peace with her superintendent. She nodded and they headed back to her car.

As she fired up the engine, her phone rang. She slid off her glove and fumbled in her pocket, cursing, answered without looking at the screen.

‘Hello, Kate.’ It was Tanford. ‘I got your email. I noticed it was sent just before midnight last night – you’re putting the hours in, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah, well, you know how it is, Tanno.’

‘You wanted to know about the Henrys … I’m not sure I can tell you any more than Field Intelligence.’ He sounded apologetic.

‘Field Intelligence says the two of them are clean,’ Simms said.

‘Depends on your definition, I suppose. For what it’s worth, a lot of the girls are on drugs, and the lads probably dabble themselves, but it’s a given in their trade. Like I said, it’s not much.’

‘Thanks for checking, Tanno,’ she said. ‘I appreciate your taking the time.’

‘Always a pleasure,’ he said. Then, ‘I sent the Snowstorm report – did you get it?’

‘I haven’t got email access,’ she said. ‘I’ll get to it as soon as I get back to the office.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘Fishing expedition,’ she said.

Like a good cop he waited a few seconds longer, allowing the silence to create pressure on her to reveal more, but she resisted, filling the silence with her thanks.

He chuckled. ‘I get the message: all right, I’ll butt out. Only, mind you don’t hook any sharks on that rod and reel of yours.’

They set off with the coming storm a hint of grey shadow at their backs, filling the rear-view mirror, while ahead the sky was clear, and, beneath it, the Pennine hills shone like new linen, twinkling under bright sunshine.

35

‘Every couch potato and dim detective with satellite TV is an expert in forensic psychology.’

A
LASTAIR
V
ARLEY

The Old Nag’s Head was a Victorian pub off Deansgate, one of the oldest in the city and proud of it; a row of carriage lanterns hung above the etched glass windows, and the white paintwork and its rich gold-and-black trim had been recently freshened up. As snow began to fall, you could believe that at any moment a hansom cab drawn by a gleaming black horse would come trotting round the corner at a clip.

Kate Simms stepped through the door, dusting snowflakes from her hair. Fennimore knew how her meeting had gone with Detective Superintendent Spry before she’d even opened her mouth.

‘That bad?’ he said.

She sat down, shucking off her coat, and reached for the coffee and sandwiches he’d ordered from the bar.

‘He accused me of abandoning my own investigation “in pursuit of personal glory”.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Oh, it gets worse – the inquiry is inter-authority now, and ACC Gifford has the overview. I needn’t tell you that if Gifford finds out that you’ve been advising me, he will not be pleased.’

‘Has he been in touch yet?’

She shook her head. ‘Nor Humberside police. Spry says he speaks for them all “in expressing his appreciation”, but “the means and manner of disposal of the body” – in his opinion – indicate “a disconnect between Marta’s death and the Hull murder”.’

A gust of cold air blew in and they looked towards the door, to a solemn-looking man in a Barbour jacket and cord trousers.

Fennimore stood to greet the newcomer, smiling.

Professor Varley did not smile; Fennimore sometimes speculated that he lacked the necessary facial musculature. His face was long and narrow, and his hairline seemed to recede by a few millimetres annually, lengthening his undertaker’s visage as the years went by.

They shook hands, Varley’s hand cold and hard in his palm, and Fennimore made the introductions. Kate wiped her hands on her napkin and stood.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I missed breakfast, so this is brunch – got to eat when you can.’

Varley apparently didn’t find the comment worthy of a reply.

She extended her hand. ‘Chief Inspector Kate Simms.’

He took, squeezed and released it quickly without making eye contact.

Fennimore wished he’d warned her about the Professor, but when they exchanged a glance, she seemed to be saying in the quirk of her eyebrows,
And I thought you had zero social skills.

She reached for the cafetière and turned the handle towards Varley. ‘Help yourself.’

He seemed irritated to have to perform the task himself, but after a slight hesitation he poured himself a coffee and took a sip.

‘So …’ Fennimore said.

Varley set down his cup. ‘In my opinion – bearing in mind the geographical locations and time frame involved of course – Rika, Marta and your mystery victim were subjected to both expressive and functional violence of such close similarity in method and sequencing as to make it extremely unlikely that there is no causal connection.’

Simms threw Fennimore a helpless look.

‘So, in your opinion all three women were tortured by the same man.’

Varley frowned, irritated. ‘I believe that’s what I just said.’

‘My superintendent thinks that the difference in MO proves there’s no connection between the Manchester victims and Hull,’ Simms said.

‘
Difference
,’ Varley said sharply. ‘What
difference
?’ Varley resented intrusions into his area of expertise.

‘Marta was dumped at the back of a city-centre hotel; the Hull victim was buried.’ Kate shrugged. ‘Different MO.’

‘Oh, of course. How stupid of me. When it comes to the criminal mind, every couch potato and dim detective with satellite TV is an expert in forensic psychology.’ Varley’s expression hadn’t changed, but he might as well have spat on the floor.

‘The modus operandi of a violent criminal is only a means to an end,’ he said, enunciating his words precisely as though she was hard of hearing. ‘It evolves, is subject to change, adaptive to environmental circumstances. Killers may be monsters, but they are not animals – they are human – and like any human with a modicum of intelligence, they adapt and evolve. They learn. The
method of disposal
of the body in this case is unlikely to be part of his fantasy – so he may vary it at will, and according to immediate circumstances.’ He paused. ‘Do you follow?’

Fennimore glanced at Simms; she didn’t seem offended by his patronizing manner, and he guessed she’d goaded Varley so that she would have good, strong arguments to take to Spry on her return to base.

She brushed the crumbs from her fingers. ‘I’m just a dim detective, so I hope you won’t mind if I translate that into English. You’re saying he made use of what was available. The bonus for him is, if his behaviour is unpredictable, he has less chance of being caught.’

Varley’s eyebrows were thin and straight, and rarely betrayed any emotion, but the way his eyes swivelled from her to Fennimore and back denoted a certain level of surprise.

‘More or less,’ he said, begrudgingly. ‘I do not like the word “signature” of which our American cousins are so fond, but it may help a lay person like you to understand.’

Her eyebrows twitched, but she didn’t comment.

‘The
signature
, therefore, is something the perpetrator
must
do to fulfil a psychological need; it fulfils his fantasy. These fantasies do not arrive fully formed. They are rehearsed mentally, over and over, sometimes for many years before selecting the first victim. Signature acts have emotional significance, and are therefore stable and unchanging. You need to look at the
consistencies
, rather than the
differences
, when comparing these assaults – focus on the actions that remain constant. In this case, those actions are physical and mental torture.’

‘The use of a riding crop,’ Simms said.

‘The whip marks
are
unusual in themselves,’ he agreed. ‘The cross-hatching is highly unusual. This is expressive, rather than functional violence.’