A Wreath for my Sister (6 page)

His eyes could turn different shades of green. She had noticed this before. Emotion changed their colour, whether it was anger or love. And sometimes it was simple lust.

‘You never gave me a chance to explain anything,' he said.

She looked at him with the faintest tinge of irritation. ‘What the hell is there to explain? It's the oldest story in the book. Married man meets single woman. They make sparks in bed. He goes home, which is where he belongs.' She stopped. ‘Look, Matthew, I don't know whether you loved me or not. In a way it's irrelevant. You're married to Jane. Still. Please, don't insult my intelligence or integrity. I don't mind but I do like to know where I stand.'

Matthew had a habit when he was ruffled of running his fingers through his short blond hair, making it stick up. He did it now and gave a short, rueful laugh.

‘You're a very determined person, Jo,' he said quietly. ‘But I think you've misunderstood me completely. And that's what I want to talk about.'

They had arrived at the mortuary. She opened the car door. ‘Will you ring the Coroner or shall I?'

‘You can,' he said. Then he surprised her by leaning across and giving her a soft kiss on the cheek.

‘What was that for?'

‘For being brave.' He laughed. ‘I know you hate PMs. Now come on, let's see what mysteries the morgue throws up.'

An hour later Matthew was washing his hands. ‘Well,' he said. ‘A nasty way of killing someone, especially after a pretty violent rape.' He stopped. ‘Her underwear was removed. She was obviously dressed up. For a date, maybe. If so it was a cheap date. Despite the glamorous dress' – he indicated the sodden pile of red material the mortician had cut off the body – ‘the stomach contents show a small amount of cider. Nothing more. No food. I think initially she might even have agreed to intercourse.'

‘Not technically a rape, then?'

‘Perhaps technically he had her consent. But he didn't have her consent to the rest. The lovemaking became increasingly violent. There was a lot of bruising. And it culminated in this.'

He fingered the wire ligature, cut carefully to preserve the length of broom handle twisted into it. ‘It'll have to be sent off with all the other samples. I'll keep the knot, but I suppose you want some of the cable.'

She nodded. ‘It'll be important for the investigation.'

‘Of course the real prize is the semen.' He dried his hands on the hospital towel. ‘Find me a suspect, Jo, and I'll prove it was him.' He stopped. ‘It'll be a cut-and-dried case thanks to DNA profiling.'

‘That and the rest of the evidence,' she said. ‘But if only it was so easy. Unfortunately I'm already picking out the defence. “We made love, Your Honour ... I wasn't the one wot killed her. She was beggin' for it.'”

‘You're wasted in the force, Jo. You should have been an actress.' He narrowed his eyes. ‘I can just see him now.'

‘Then perhaps, Dr Levin,' she said, ‘you'd do me the courtesy of telling me who it was.' She glanced back at the slab. ‘Anything more?'

‘I only wish there was because he's a dangerous character, Jo,' Matthew warned. ‘Turned on by sex and violence. Be careful.'

‘I've always got Mike near by.'

‘Make sure you have.'

He dried his hands on a paper towel. ‘Now, how about lunch?'

She shook her head. ‘Absolutely not. Report to Colclough then a visit to forty-five Jubilee Road.' She held out her hand. ‘Bye.'

It was the turn of the two older children to be miserable. Ryan, the baby, was happy now that Christine had found a suitable milk and cereal mix, and Christine's seven-year-old daughter Sheila made a fine little mother. But Sharon's two other children, October and William, were unconvinced and kept up their demands to know where their real mother was.

‘Where is she, Chris?' This time it was October who was asking, her blue eyes wide and still innocent.

Christine stared at her impatiently. ‘I don't bloody know,' she said, the first prickings of uneasiness starting to make her irritable.

Sharon was a good mum. All right – the first night she might have been excited ... having a good time. Maybe she'd had too much to drink and was too pissed to drive home. But two nights had gone by now, and she hadn't rung. For the thirtieth time Christine crossed the room to the telephone. Perhaps it was out of order. But the familiar burr of the dialling tone was loud. There was nothing wrong with her phone.

William Priest had started whimpering. ‘Mummy ... Mummy,' he kept saying. October's eyes began to fill with tears and the pair of them wailed in unison.

Joanna called to see Chief Superintendent Arthur Colclough as soon as she arrived back at the station. He was looking grim. The Super was a large man, overweight with big jowls and drooping cheeks that always reminded her of a Staffordshire bulldog. Years of eating the wrong food and sitting behind a desk had made his body cumbersome and sluggish. But his mind was clear and quick and Joanna was acutely aware that it was largely to the Super that she owed her position. She respected him. She also liked him.

‘Sit down, Piercy, and fill me in,' he said.

‘The body of a young woman,' she told him, ‘no more than thirty. A farmer found her lying on the moors, not far off the Buxton road, dressed for a night out.'

He nodded. ‘How long had she been there?'

‘A couple of days, the pathologist said, and that matches up with the snow picture. It started on Tuesday night. Driving was difficult on the moors after about ten, according to the Met office ...'

‘Cause of death?'

‘Strangulation.'

‘When are we looking at?'

‘Some time late on Tuesday night,' she said, and felt she needed to defend Matthew. ‘It was difficult for Dr Levin to be absolutely sure, because of the sub-zero conditions. But the farmer was positive she wasn't there early on Tuesday evening.' She stopped. ‘Besides, cars couldn't get through from about midnight until the plough cleared the road early the next morning. The picture I have is of a date some time Tuesday evening. She was picked up, assaulted, murdered and her body dumped.'

His eyes looked shrewd. ‘And what were the findings of the PM?'

‘She'd been garrotted,' she said slowly. ‘A wire ligature that almost cut the neck, twisted with a length of sawn-off broomstick.'

Arthur Colclough frowned. ‘Nasty,' he said. The one word spoke reams.

He looked at her. ‘You've samples?'

‘Raped first,' she said quietly.

‘So it was sexual?'

‘It looks like it.'

Colclough shifted his bulk in the chair. ‘Have you got any suspects, Piercy?'

She shook her head. ‘Not yet. I'll go round to her address this afternoon and set the wheels in motion.'

‘Fine. And make use of the PNC2. I want to know if it links up with any other killings or rapes, both in this area and around the country.' He stopped. ‘If it isn't a purely domestic business we'd better be very careful – don't you think?'

‘Yes, sir.'

He peered at her. ‘What's your gut feeling, Piercy?'

‘I don't know, sir. I can only say ...'

‘Yes?' he prompted.

‘I'm a bit uneasy,' she finished. ‘Nothing in particular. It's just it was a very professional killing.' She met his eyes. ‘I think your idea might bear fruit, sir, though' – she frowned – ‘I don't recall anything like it.'

He nodded.

‘There's something else, sir. The fact that the girl was dressed up to go out. A red dress – cheap but smart – a lot of make-up, high-heeled shoes. I just wonder if she was set up, invited out.'

‘To be raped and then murdered?' Colclough looked appalled.

‘It looks like it.' And the mention of the shoes reminded her. ‘One of the shoes is missing. Korpanski is scouring the moors. But if we don't find it there's a possibility it's been kept as a souvenir.'

‘Make that a priority, Piercy,' he said. ‘Get the lads to scour that moor. If it's found up there – well, that's fine. But on the other hand ...' His eyes were bright, ‘It could lead you right to his door.'

And she agreed with him.

His attention moved back to her. ‘You can have all the men you need, Piercy,' he said. ‘All leave will be cancelled until you've got the killer.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

‘Sure you can handle it?'

‘I'm happy – so far.'

Colclough was watching her. ‘Do you have a name for this poor unfortunate?'

She nodded. ‘Handbag found by the body. Credit cards, purse ... Her name, we think, was Sharon Priest. And we have an address – forty-five Jubilee Road. It's a large council estate on the edge of the moor.'

‘So you'll start your investigations there?'

‘Korpanski and I will go round this afternoon,' she said, ‘look into her family, friends, boyfriends, husband, ex or current. I'll get the uniformed lads to ask around the bars and pubs, find out where she was going dressed so smartly.'

‘Anything else?'

‘No, but I think that's enough to start with,' she said. ‘Then there are the shoe shops, clothes shops. Her dress looked fairly new. And there's her work – if she had a job.' She smiled at him. ‘I've got plenty to be getting on with, sir. I'll probably link into the computer early this evening.'

Colclough jerked his head towards the window.

What's going on on the moors?'

‘The usual, sir,' she said. ‘Fingertip search and stop the motorists.'

He stood up then, escorted her to the door. ‘Fine. You're going to be busy.'

She smiled and watched his eyes twinkle.

‘Good luck,' he said.

The children had at last become absorbed in a Walt Disney video. Christine Rattle watched them, smoke curling from her mouth as she pondered what the hell to do with them. She didn't have a key to Sharon's front door and she needed clean clothes for October and Ryan. William was no problem. She had given him something of Tarquine's to wear. She glanced across the road, wondering if she could get in through the back door, or if Sharon still kept a key under the flowerpot. The house was quiet, deserted, curtains drawn. And instinctively she knew it would not be Sharon who drew them back.

As she watched, a police car slid to a halt outside and almost in a daze Christine knew it meant bad news. She picked up the baby, stuck him on her hip, opened the front door and crossed the road.

Korpanski glowered at her. He hated sightseers. But Joanna stared. ‘Hi, Chris,' she said.

Christine looked at her and felt a stab of fear. She jerked her head towards the silent house. ‘What's goin' on?'

‘Do you know her?'

Christine nodded at the baby on her hip. ‘Been mindin' her kids,' she said. ‘Now what's goin' on?'

‘Got a key, love?'

Christine Rattle looked at the burly Detective Sergeant then she blinked. ‘She used to keep one under the flowerpot,' she said. ‘What is goin' on?'

Joanna made her decision quickly. ‘You get inside, Mike,' she said. ‘I'll talk to Christine.'

Together they walked back, across the road, towards Christine's house.

The children were still absorbed in the cartoon characters. Christine plonked the baby between them and told them to ‘Mind 'im.' Then she shut the connecting door firmly and sat down opposite Joanna in the kitchen.

‘Are you goin' to tell me, then?'

Christine was a thin woman with a hard face, premature lines, work-roughened bony hands and fuzzy, permed hair that lacked colour. But Joanna knew her well. She knew she was honest and punctilious and did a full day's work that would put many men to shame. Somehow on her meagre wages she afforded decency, clothes for her children, heating and food. And the house, Joanna had noticed, was spotless.

As was her own cottage ever since Christine had been coming round.

‘Did you know Sharon well?' she began.

But Christine was too quick for her. ‘What's happened?' she insisted.

Joanna swallowed. ‘We're not sure,' she began.

Christine looked fierce. ‘I was one of her best friends,' she said. ‘I was mindin' her kids for her. If anything's happened I've got a right to be told.'

‘We've found the body of a woman.'

Christine's face grew blank and she glanced around the kitchen. ‘What about the kids?'

Joanna reached out and touched her hand. ‘We aren't sure yet that it is Sharon.'

Christine looked at her dumbly.

‘A woman's handbag was found on the moors,' Joanna continued. ‘The contents suggest that it was Sharon Priest's.' She paused for a moment. ‘Near the handbag was the body.'

‘Oh my God.' Christine turned white. ‘What did she look like?'

‘Slim, dyed auburn hair – thick, styled, back-combed. She was wearing a dark red dress ...'

She didn't need to say any more. Christine fumbled across the table for her bag, drew out a cigarette and lit it with shaking hands.

Joanna stood up and filled the kettle. ‘I'll make you a cup of tea, Chris,' she said kindly.

Christine Rattle was fighting back tears. She sniffed and then looked at Joanna. ‘What happened to her? Was it the snow?'

Joanna shook her head.

Christine stared at her. ‘When?' she whispered.

‘We think it was late on Tuesday night.'

Christine took a shaky drag from her cigarette. ‘She was on a date,' she said. ‘She was going out with someone.'

‘Who?'

‘I don't know his name,' she said, frowning. ‘It was a guy she met through the personal column.'

‘Had she been out with him before?'

Christine bit her lip. ‘No,' she said. ‘She hadn't met him. He'd been writing her letters. It was her first date. That's why I did her hair for her.' She dabbed her eyes with a tissue. ‘And she wore her best dress. He told her to wear it.'