Authors: Clare Donoghue
Dave cleared his throat. ‘As I suspected – and Jeanie agrees – the victim hasn’t made much transition from the fresh stage.’
‘I can see that,’ Jane said, still stunned by what she was seeing. ‘Cause of death?’ she asked, although her question felt precipitous. The girl simply didn’t look dead.
‘Asphyxiation would be my guess,’ Dave said. ‘I’ll need to confirm that, but from my preliminary examination there are no other significant signs of injury. There is a contusion on the back of her head, over to the left here,’ he said, pointing to the side of the girl’s head; her hair was slightly matted with blood, ‘but that wouldn’t have killed her.’
‘How long has she been down here?’ Jane asked, looking over at Jeanie.
Jeanie shook her head. ‘My best guess would be five to six days at the most. There’s no rigor.’
‘She died down here?’ Jane asked, her voice hollow.
‘Yes, I would say so,’ Jeanie said, ‘given her body position.’
Jane held her breath. What must it have felt like to be trapped down here, in the dark? It didn’t bear thinking about, but part of her needed to know, needed to feel what this girl had felt. ‘Can we lose the light for a second?’ she asked.
‘Sure,’ Dave said, reaching for a radio attached to his belt. It crackled and then he spoke. ‘Can you kill the lights for thirty seconds, please?’ There was no response, but then the three of them were plunged into darkness.
‘Oh my God.’ Jeanie said. ‘The poor girl.’ It sounded as if she was holding back tears. The three of them were silent in the blackness.
‘Jeanie and I are done here,’ Dave said, gesturing over at Jeanie as the lights bloomed back into life. ‘Are you almost finished?’ he asked, blinking.
Jane was about to agree when she remembered what had started this whole circus. ‘You two go on up. I just want to check something. I won’t be a second.’
‘Are you sure?’ Jeanie asked, raising her eyebrows.
‘Yes, thank you, Jeanie,’ she said, looking over her shoulder and smiling. ‘I’m okay now.’ And she was. From the state she had been in topside, Jane had half-expected to come down here and have a panic attack. But she was fine. Now it was all about the job. All about evidence, clues and piecing together threads. This was the bit she enjoyed. This was the part she was good at. She listened as Dave and Jeanie made their way out and into the excavation shaft. She crawled forward and looked up at the far north-east corner. Again, SOCO had outlined the area in luminous pink. Jane looked at the tube first. It wasn’t a tube. Now that she was down here, its purpose was clear. It was an air-hose. Whoever had done this had allowed the victim air, at least to begin with. But why bring the girl down here to die and provide her with air at all, for however brief a period? It didn’t make sense. Unless, of course, her suffering had provided some kind of twisted entertainment. Jane turned her attention to the wire and what she knew she would find at the end of it. A tiny camera.
I feel light-headed today. At least I think I do. It’s hard to tell real from imagined down here. Even as the thought runs through my mind I realize I don’t know that it is, in fact, ‘today’. The word implies daytime, daylight – luxuries I no longer have. It is almost thrilling not knowing. An unexpected thrill. I want to document how I feel, to share it, but I can’t. There is no light. I have no pen. No paper. There is only me and the darkness.
I should be scared, but I’m not. The silence comforts me, enfolding me in its nothingness. I feel cradled like a child in its mother’s arms. A strange calm has overtaken my body and mind. I feel light, almost giddy, like I’ve had too much to drink. I crawl around, my hands tracing smooth walls of mud. There are no imperfections, no cracks to hold onto. I start to laugh, a childish giggle. That isn’t right. This isn’t normal. I begin to feel sick, to panic, but then I remember: lack of oxygen can cause a feeling of euphoria. That must be why I feel so good. Relieved to have solved the riddle, I make my way back to the centre. I know it’s the centre. I know this space, but why the centre? Why do I choose to be here rather than in a corner or leaning against a wall? A shiver runs over my shoulders. The cold seeps through my clothes and dampens my skin. I pull my legs up to my chin, my arms wrapped around me. I can hear a song in my head. I only know the chorus. It’s Kings of Leon – ‘Your sex is on fire’. I begin to hum the tune as I push off one of my trainers and wiggle my toes. Pins-and-needles. My big toe is numb.
25th April
–
Friday
It was only nine-thirty in the morning, but Jane felt as if she had been in the office for a full shift already. She had left the house early, but not before having some breakfast with Peter and her mother, who had stayed over again. She was just waiting for a phone call from her father, requesting his wife back. Peter had chattered away while she ate her toast. He didn’t want to go to school. Would the teacher let him outside at break-time? He always found it hard being back after a holiday. She had tried to reassure him, but he kept spooning his cereal up and tipping it back into the bowl over and over again. The anxiety rippled off him like a heatwave, ageing his young face. She sighed, tipped her head back and eased it from side to side, her fringe brushing against her forehead. She could smell the burning oil from the takeaway shops that lined Lewisham High Street. It turned her stomach. She couldn’t fathom how anyone could eat a kebab and chips at this time of the morning.
She was waiting for a call from MISPER. A photograph and a description of the girl in the tomb had been emailed over to their office last night. Jane hoped that at least this part of the investigation would be straightforward. She needed a name. The girl hadn’t looked like a vagrant or someone invisible to the system. The post-mortem was scheduled for later on today or early tomorrow, depending on the ID and Dave’s workload. The Exhibits team was detailing and examining evidence gathered from the site. A headache was taking up residence in her left temple. She massaged the spot with the tips of her fingers and closed her eyes. An image of the air-hose and camera poking into the tomb came into her mind. Such benign objects in themselves, although their purpose felt anything but. She couldn’t stop thinking about the girl: about her final hours, trapped in the dark, terrified, screaming. Jane ran her fingers over her eyebrows, pushing the thoughts away. She pulled her chair back to her desk and began checking through her emails.
There were several from the Exhibits team; two from Roger, her SIO; one from Despatch and a couple from the lab. There were at least a hundred more, but she didn’t have time to deal with them right now. She had to focus all of her attention on the girl in the tomb. Each piece of evidence filtered out, expanding the investigation into different departments, involving more and more officers. The speed at which a case moved in the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours could be intimidating: a lot of plates spinning or balls in the air, whichever analogy you preferred. Jane had to keep a tight grip if she was going to avoid mistakes. Of course as soon as there was a name to go with the young girl’s face, the investigation would explode, but for now she was in control. Her eyes were drawn to an email from Lockyer. She had already read it. Read it more than once, in fact. He was having a ‘day off’. He had emailed Roger, copying in Jane and saying, ‘I won’t be in the office today. On my mobile, if you need me.’ That was it. No reason or apology. She ran her fingers through her hair, her fringe crackling with static. He had chosen to take a day off now?
The DNA results on the blood found in Mark and Sue’s utility room still weren’t back. Sue had provided a sample of Mark’s hair for analysis, but everything seemed to be on a go-slow. The discovery of the girl’s body in the tomb had overshadowed the fact that the original call-outs had pointed towards Mark. Jane had managed to speak to Sue late last night, to reassure her that everything that could be done was being done. In reality she couldn’t do much until the blood results came back and Roger, and the officer in charge over at MISPER, decided which department should run the case. Given the trainer found in Elmstead, she thought the discussion should have happened yesterday, but that decision was above her rank. She could still hear the tremor in Sue’s voice. The poor woman was trying to hold it together for her children, but that couldn’t last. Whatever department ended up with Mark’s case, the reality was that he had been missing for three days.
Her mobile started to ring. She reached over a stack of files and answered it. ‘Bennett speaking,’ she said.
‘Hi Jane,’ a familiar voice said. ‘It’s Alan. I’ve got good news for you,’ he continued, clearing his throat.
Jane pulled her notepad towards her and uncapped her pen. ‘Okay,’ she said. This was the call from MISPER that she had been waiting for.
‘I’ve got two files for you. I’m emailing then over to you now,’ he said. He sounded as if he had a cold, the ends of his words muffled by phlegm. ‘The first one is a Margaret Hungerford, goes by “Maggie”. Twenty-six years old, five foot six, Caucasian, shoulder-length hair, dark brown, hundred-and-twenty pounds, reported missing on Monday 21st April by her mother, Elizabeth Hungerford, fifty-five years old. The mother provided a photograph, which I’ve attached to the email. Looks like your tomb-girl,’ he said.
‘And the second?’ Jane asked. Two possible IDs meant a delay in the post-mortem but, more than that, it meant two possible families. The last thing she wanted to do was have to put two terrified sets of parents through the ordeal of identifying the body.
‘Joanna Bailey, twenty years old, five foot five, Caucasian, short red hair, dyed, hundred-and-seventy pounds . . . ’
‘Hang on, Alan,’ she said, her pen hovering over the new description. ‘I thought these were both IDs for my tomb-girl,’ she went on, feeling appalled by the ease at which she had adopted Alan’s terminology.
‘No, sorry,’ Alan said with an audible sniff that made her wince. ‘Didn’t I say? My brain’s shot today. Hungerford relates to your tomb-girl; the second, Bailey, is the last missing girl on the Stevens case. A friend of hers saw the appeal and recognized her from the photograph. Joanna Bailey visited the station last night to confirm her identity. My team has done the necessary regarding support for her and her family, et cetera, but I’ve told her that your department will be in touch, as you’ll need to question her in relation to the prosecution.’
Jane hadn’t thought about the Stevens case in days. With Mark’s disappearance and the burial site in Elmstead, the girl in the second photograph had dropped off her radar. The fact that Joanna Bailey had been found was a huge relief, but it wasn’t down to her. It was dumb luck. Luck that benefited Jane: one less thing to juggle. She shook her head. She was trained to move on, tick it off the list and begin the next task, in order of priority. Her whole life was a list of priorities, but it was in a constant state of flux. She couldn’t avoid the inevitable feeling that she was always on the verge of letting something slip, or letting someone down.
‘You still there?’ Alan asked as he stifled a bout of coughing.
‘Yes, sorry. That’s great news, thanks, Alan,’ she said, writing and underlining Joanna Bailey’s name on her notepad. ‘What was she like?’
‘Er, she was sweet, quiet. She was shocked, as you’d expect. Why?’ Alan asked.
‘No reason. Just curious, I guess,’ Jane said. She couldn’t help wondering how Bailey had taken the news that she was a potential target for south-east London’s first-ever serial killer. The truth was that she didn’t have the time or the head-space to find out. She was already onto the next case, the next victim. She put a tick next to Joanna Bailey’s name and pushed her personal feelings aside.
‘Files should be with you now,’ Alan said, sniffing. ‘I’ll talk to you later?’
‘Yes, sure,’ she said. ‘Thanks, Alan. Hope you feel better.’
‘Me too, because right now I feel like death warmed up.’
She managed to smile, but her thoughts were elsewhere. She had a name to go with the face in the tomb. She now had a dozen things to action, and a dozen more after that. ‘Cheers, Alan,’ she said, pushing ‘End’ on her phone. The emails were already sitting in her in-box. She clicked on the first one, opened it and double-clicked on the attached photograph. Maggie Hungerford. It was her – the girl from the tomb. It meant the post-mortem would have to wait. The girl’s parents would have to come into the station to formally identify the body. But first Jane had to tell them that their daughter had been murdered.
25th April
–
Friday
Jane climbed into the squad car, put on her seatbelt and started the engine. ‘You ready?’ she asked, turning to look at Penny, a senior detective constable on the murder squad from Lockyer’s team. Penny had volunteered to accompany Jane when she informed Maggie Hungerford’s next of kin. Roger had provisionally signed off on five officers for the investigation. Jane didn’t have full authorization to choose Penny as one of them, but with Lockyer out of the office, what choice did she have? Her investigation couldn’t be put on hold, and he hadn’t bothered to reply to any of her emails.
As Penny clicked her seatbelt into place and put on a pair of large round sunglasses, she turned to Jane. ‘I hate this part.’
‘You and me both,’ Jane said, putting the car into reverse and slipping on her own Ray-Ban sunglasses, an extravagant treat for her thirty-fifth birthday. She put the Hungerfords’ postcode into the satnav, pulled up to the exit of the car park and out into Lewisham’s mid-morning traffic. Rain or shine, day or night, Lewisham High Street was busy. However, today’s volume of traffic and the lack of blaring horns seemed to suggest that everyone who wasn’t at work had decided on a jolly to a park or a pub, or both, starting their weekends early. No one appeared to be in a hurry.
Maggie’s parents, William and Elizabeth Hungerford, fifty-six and fifty-five respectively, lived over in Greenwich. It was a straight shot down Lewisham Road – three miles and six minutes, according to the satnav.