Shallow Waters (8 page)

25

“What
the hell do you mean there's another body?” I stood from the desk
corner, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, a
hyper-alertness that would not benefit the situation. I had to take a
step back, to be professional about this.

The
rest of the room was silent. A collective breath held. The thought of
another murdered child was impossible to comprehend. I looked at Ross
for answers.

“I
was checking the overnight incident logs for morning briefing and,
well, a child's body has been found early this morning. It's close to
the previous dump site, Alfred Street and is a similar MO.” I gave him
a querying look. “Just off Mansfield Road again, though further into
town this time, top end of Huntingdon Street. A naked girl, suspected
similar age. From initial reports it looks to be a dump site and not
the initial crime scene and there are similar markings on the body.” He
handed me the log, his hair flopping down over his face as he looked
down. He continued, “She has bruising around her wrists and neck. Rosie
Green is high profile within the force, so it didn't take attending
officers long to realise this was likely to be connected and the call
was made to the control room. The first officers on scene have asked
for our assistance and for Jack's attendance.”

My
head was spinning. Did this new location away from the more residential
area and closer to the actual city mean anything or he was just
wandering and finding somewhere to dump? “Please tell me we have an
idea on identification this time? Anything on the original messages
coming in?” I attempted to scan the document Ross had given me but he
could give me the highlights right now.

“She
didn't have anything on her, so there is no identification we can use.
I can start to pull out some of the missing persons files of similar
aged girls with close and matching descriptions and come back to you.”

I
ran my fingers through my fringe. “Good. Thanks Ross.” What was
happening? Another child murder, and in our area. What did this mean
and were they really connected?

Grey came into my line of vision. “I'm going to attend the scene. See what we have and report back as soon as I know anything.”

He
nodded, the sand ripples across his head deepened “This could mean your
team and working practices are reviewed. You need to be making inroads
Hannah and quickly.”

I
snaked the car left past the clock tower of the Victoria Centre and
northwards. The city was waking up. Cars were on the move and the few
people out on foot had coat collars pulled up, scarves wrapped tight
around necks with their focus set on getting to where they were going
as quickly as they could and out of the cold. We turned onto Huntingdon
Street and saw chaos. The crime scene was just off here, on Alfred
Street. It would be easier to park up and walk the rest of the way.
This area of the city was always grey, the buildings gradually falling
into disrepair, both small industrial buildings and homes. The street
was busier and a lot less organised than the last scene, or so it
seemed. A frost had covered the area overnight and the morning sun was
weak, doing little to dispense with it. As I parked the car I could see
the police activity had created a lot of attention. These kinds of
scenes were always worse in daylight hours and caused quite a stir.
People wanted to see what had happened and were gathering, no doubt so
they could take photographs on their mobile phones and distribute them
on the social networking sites. Something to brag about. No regard
given to the loss of life or its effects on remaining family. They
would show an outward display of horror at what they perceived they
knew, but it wouldn't stop the photographs or conveying of information,
correct or otherwise.

It
wore my patience, the current trend in capturing everything and
splashing it all over to gain popularity. It left a bitter taste in my
mouth. A child had lost her life and all people were interested in was
sharing every last detail with their mates.

I
picked up my pace as I strode to the crime scene cordon, taking care on
the hidden patches of black ice  underfoot. Tape flapped across an
entryway to the scene. A baby faced uniformed cop stood rigidly by the
cordon. His job was to stop anyone who didn't need to be in there and
to list those who entered. It didn't matter if the chief constable
himself wanted to pass. If he didn't need to be in there messing up the
scene, then he didn't get in. Some of the new probationary cops often
found turning away officers of rank a difficult concept. This cop oozed
crime scene anxiety. He had the look of a startled rabbit as we
approached.

“DI Robbins.” I raised my ID. “Major Crimes Unit.”

He
looked at my warrant card and lifted his notepad to register our
details on the major incident log. “Ma'am,” he acknowledged. His hand
shook a little.

“What's your name?” I asked.

“Tony
Hitchen, Ma'am,” he scribbled Aaron and Sally's names into the log
along with mine. Loops curled up and down, but in a broken and
stuttering fashion.

“Tony,
this cordon needs to be a lot further out for two reasons. One, to
widen the scene so the crime scene techs have enough room to get all
the evidence they need and, two, can you see all the people gathering?”
I shifted my head sideways in a nod towards the gathering crowds,
keeping my hands down in my pockets for warmth. Tony looked more
apprehensive. “They shouldn't be this close. Our victim needs some
dignity afforded her. Do you think you can widen this scene and remove
the crowds please?”

“Oh yes. Sorry Ma'am. Right away. I'm sorry.”

I
could see I'd made him more nervous. It wasn't my intention, but it was
better coming from me than some of the more heavy handed DI's it was
possible he would come up against at his next one. “It's something to
remember in the future. Preserve the scene as wide as you feel it needs
to go. Don't be afraid to make it over wide. Over wide we can bring in
if we need to, but not wide enough makes it difficult. It means the
area is contaminated. Widening our scene is about letting our teams
work in a professional manner and our victim gets respect. OK?”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

Just as we were pulling on the white forensic suits my phone rang.

“DI Robbins.”

“Han, it's me. Heads up, I'm walking into your scene as we speak.”

26

“What the hell do you mean, you're walking into my scene?” I hissed into the handset.

Sally and Aaron stared at me. Most of the time they were discreet when I was on a call, but this had caught their attention.

“I've
been sent to cover it. Nothing I can do.” I looked around as Ethan's
voice from the phone came closer and louder. He was striding towards
us, one hand pushed in his pocket, the other holding the phone to his
ear.

This
was difficult. I flinched. My relationship with Ethan was private. I
hadn't shared it with any of my work colleagues. My love life wasn't
any of their business but the fact that he was press wasn't going to
help me explain any relationship with him I might have. Journalists
don't tend to be trusted, but can be helpful in some situations,
especially when we need to get information out to the wider public. It
means a balancing act has to be navigated. I didn't even know how to
define our relationship, so having him arrive at one of the most
demanding crime scenes of my career so far was not helpful. My head
started to throb. I wasn't sure how he was going to play this, but I
appreciated the heads up, even if it was the briefest of heads up in
the history of warnings.

“DI Robbins.” Ethan approached me, playing it cool, lanyard around his neck making visible his press credentials.

Aaron and Sally exchanged a quick look between them as they appeared to make a connection to the phone call.

“Ethan
Gale, what can we do for you?” I didn't wait for an answer. “We are
very pushed down here right now, all we can say is that there is an
incident and we are dealing with it. We will, of course, make a press
release when we know more.”

“I
know you will; thank you.” He smiled. I didn't know whether I wanted to
punch him for coming down here and putting me in this position or smile
back. I chose the third option which was one of being professional. I
looked him in the eyes.

“My
editor, Patricia Hart, sent me down because we have a woman she
believes to be the victim’s mother at our offices. She’s quite
distraught, as you can imagine. Patricia asked me to come and see if
you could give the woman anything either way so she can get on with
grieving or continuing to hope her daughter could be alive.”

Now
I wanted to punch him in the face. “Why does your woman believe the
person involved in our incident is her daughter and why the hell would
she not call the police with what she knows and questions she has?” The
dull throb in my temples was changing from a feeling of anxiety to one
of irritation.

Ethan
ran his hand through his hair “She doesn't believe she gets a fair
hearing from the police.” He paused as I tried to assimilate what he
was telling me. “She feels discriminated against because they come from
the poorer part of town. She asked us to bridge that gap for her. She
heard there was a girl found here. Word travels fast and with the
description doing the rounds, she feels it's Allison.”

Tension
ran from my head and down through my limbs as I fought to control my
anger at the situation. “We haven't released a description yet.”

“As
you know, DI Robbins, word travels fast and uses a variety of methods.
I hope you don't mind if I wait here so I can let Allison's mother
know.”

“You
can stay outside the cordon as long as you want to, Mr Gale. We will
however, be needing to talk to this woman if the child does turn out to
be Allison.”

A
short distance away, Aaron and Sally were now sat on the edge of the
crime scene van as they pulled on white forensic booties.

I lowered my voice. “How dare you do this to me; couldn't they send someone else?”

“Han,
I'm sorry, Allison is my story, so they sent me down. I'll hover until
you let me have something. I will try to be discreet, but this isn't
looking good is it?”

At
that point I knew he was talking, not just about Allison, but about the
fact that this was the second child murder in the city in such a short
period of time. “Keep your profile low, Ethan. I'll talk to you later.”

Ethan nodded. 

“What
was that about?” asked Aaron, his discretion unable to hold out any
longer. “A mother sitting in a press office, rather than contacting us?
Seriously? We have to go to the press to speak to the potential parent
of our victim? That's ridiculous.”

I
couldn't disagree with him. I pulled my phone back out of my trouser
pocket and dialled the office. Ross answered. Updating him I requested
he locate the missing persons file on a female by the name of Allison –
hell, I didn't know her surname. I covered my phone with my palm and
turned to where Ethan was stood, his eyes down to his phone, fingers
tapping at keys. “Ethan. Surname?”

He stopped punching at the phone. “Kirk. Allison Kirk.”

I
resumed my conversation with Ross. “Allison Kirk.  And pull up all
the information we hold on both her and her mother and then go wider to
extended family, associates and links that come up.”

“Wow, some people, huh.”

“Yeah, Ross. Thanks for the help.”

“No worries boss.”

Aaron and I walked into the scene, a little more prepared for what we
were about to witness, but preparation is complicated when it comes to
children and violent deaths.

This
time the girl was inside an industrial bin. I wondered on the
significance. Maybe the offender had had more time. Time to lift her
and load her into the bin rather than throwing her down. Did this mean
he was disturbed last time? House to house, and knocking at commercial
buildings hadn't brought anything to light, but we were still working
it.

Jack was already in the bin with the child.

“Jack?”

“Ah
Hannah, just the person.” Jacks voice echoed out from the depths of the
bin. “I've had a preliminary look at our young girl and you're the
person I need to talk to. Give me a moment and I will join you.”

Sally
was talking to Tony Hitchen, the first officer on the scene, getting
details. He would have to write up a statement later, but for now we
needed an account from him, including who had called it in and how they
had come across her. Aaron was talking to Doug who was now waiting on
Jack.

“Give
me a hand would you dear?” Jack attempted to get his spindly legs over
the edge of the container whilst holding on to his medical bag, spotted
socks visible under his dark trousers. I reached up and grabbed the bag
handle allowing him to pitch himself up and over. The smell he was
bringing up with him: rotting vegetables and meat, scorched the inside
of my nose. My stomach leapt again. I clamped my mouth shut and ground
my teeth together.

“What have we got, Jack?”

“It's not good, Hannah. It would appear it is the same offender as our last one.” The use of the phrase
last one
wasn't Jack forgetting Rosie's name or being insensitive, the habit of
not using a victim’s name made it a little easier to deal with, taking
the person out of the offence and dealing in the facts. “She's been
dumped naked and she has multiple bruises over her body and welts
around her wrists consistent with something being tied around them and
then there's the same strange patterned band around her throat.” He
pulled off his gloves from the inside out and balled them. “She also
has semen stains on her and visible signs of a vicious sexual assault.
I've done the swabs, though it was far from easy in there.”

“Shit.
We need to be moving fast before this bastard strikes again.” I was so
angry. “Is it possible for you to do the PM today?”

“Of course, whatever I have tabled in already I will request be moved over for someone else to pick up. As soon as she's ready.”

My phone vibrated in my pocket, I pulled it out.
Ross
.

“What have you got Ross?”

“I've
found a misper form with photograph for a girl with the name Allison
Kirk. I'm going to send it to you on your phone so you can compare it
with your victim there.”

“Okay. What's the info on her?”

“Well,
she's a regular misper, though she isn't currently recorded as missing.
She comes from a broken home. Dad's serving time for a bunch of armed
robberies and mum keeps moving in new uncles for Allison to get used
to.” The term
uncles
had a tone of irony added to it. “The usual scenario results in
domestics with divisional uniform officers in attendance after new
uncle whacks mum. Children's services are involved, but haven't deemed
Allison at any particular risk and left her in the home. Allison's
reaction to all this, not surprisingly, has been to go off and do her
own thing on a regular basis and the missing person reports have been
filed because Allison's social worker reported her missing when she
failed to attend for scheduled meetings. Mum says she always turns up,
so she never worries. That's the excuse, and it also seems to depend on
if she is shacked up with someone new, at which point she doesn't care
where Allison is, what she's doing, or who she's doing it with. I
phoned the social worker, Christine Evans, and she said Allison is a
good kid who deals with the hand she’s been given, the best way she
knows how. She engages with services when she is around, but very
often, she just isn’t.”

“She sounds like the type a predator would target. Vulnerable and insecure. Send me the photo and I'll have a look.”

Less
than a minute later I was looking at a photograph children's services
had provided on one of the multiple occasions Allison Kirk had gone
missing. Looking back at me was a slight blonde haired girl, dark
make-up around her eyes and thick foundation covering what would have
been a pretty young face. She had a ‘who gives a shit’ look about her,
but beneath was a fragile vulnerability.

I
wasn't about to climb into the commercial bin, because I didn't need
to. The fewer people contaminating the scene the better. I approached
Doug and Aaron.

“Doug, I take it you've photographed the child before Jack climbed in there?”

Doug took a deep breath before answering. “Yes, of course.”

“Would
it be possible to have a look at a head shot of her? I've got a
possible ID from a tenuous source and have a photograph on my phone of
one of our mispers. I need to compare the photographs.”

Doug
was already bent over his digital camera, flicking through images. “No
worries.” On the small screen I saw shots of the scene as Doug had
walked into it, the industrial bin and then the shots of the girl
inside. When he found one with her face he handed me the camera. The
girl on the screen wasn't wearing foundation; she was pale, bad teenage
skin showing, her cheeks gaunt and her eyes dark and hollowed, though
this time the darkness wasn't supplied by black make-up pencils. The
girl with the dead eyed stare was Allison Kirk.