Death Bed (11 page)

R
obert Stafford sat down heavily opposite Geraldine and Sam. Pasty-faced and dishevelled, he looked very different from the ebullient man they had met the previous day. There was an unhealthy sheen on his pale forehead and his cheeks were grey with stubble. His hair was no longer arranged in a miserable attempt to conceal his bald pate but hung unkempt and absurdly uneven on either side of his face.

‘You don’t look too good, Robert. Rough night was it?’ Geraldine made no effort to hide her satisfaction.

‘This is disgraceful! I’ve been here overnight and now you’ve kept me here all day, without any explanation. I demand to see a solicitor.’

‘Is there something on your mind you’d like to share with us?’

He dropped his gaze and sat, shoulders hunched, scowling at the floor.

‘Let’s start at the beginning. We’re in no hurry. We can keep you here for as long as it takes. You told us yesterday you were a regular visitor at the Paradise Parlour.’

Stafford mumbled something.

‘Speak up please.’

‘I went there for the massage.’

‘Speak up.’

‘I went there for the massage,’ he repeated more loudly. ‘It helps with my back problems, and it’s good for relieving stress.’

‘I bet it is,’ Geraldine said cynically.

Stafford glared at her.

‘You should try it sometime.’

‘You went there to see Jessica Palmer, also known as Jessica Jones.’

Stafford mumbled again, looking down.

‘You’ll have to speak up.’

‘I said yes. That’s right. It’s not a crime is it? She gives a good massage.’

‘She wasn’t a trained masseuse,’ Sam pointed out.

Stafford glanced across at the sergeant, irritation showing in his face.

‘I can’t help that, can I? I don’t ask to see their qualifications before the treatment.’

‘Didn’t it bother you that she was black?’ Geraldine asked.

‘What?’

‘Jessica was black. Didn’t that bother you? It’s a simple enough question, Mr Stafford.’

‘What do you mean, bother me? Why would it bother me? Are you calling me a racist?’

‘It seems odd that you would visit a black masseuse given that you were a member of the National Front.’

‘Oh my God, that was more than twenty years ago. So what? Didn’t you do stupid stuff when you were a teenager?’

‘Are you saying you think joining the National Front is stupid?’

Stafford considered.

‘I’m saying I think politics is stupid.’

Geraldine returned to the victim.

‘Tell us about your relationship with the black masseuse, Jessica.’

‘There was no relationship.’

‘You saw her regularly.’

‘Her - or one of the other girls. It made no difference to me. She was just one of the girls there. There was nothing special about Jessica. Nothing going on.’

‘That’s not what we heard.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘We were told you used to ask for Jessica. She was a good looking girl.’

Stafford didn’t answer.

Geraldine put a photograph of Jessica on the table in front of him.

‘That’s Jessica, isn’t it?’

‘It looks like her.’

‘She doesn’t look like that any more.’

‘What do you mean?’

He scowled up at Geraldine without raising his head.

‘Jessica’s dead, Robert.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘You tell me. Her face is a real mess now. Black eyes, broken nose - ’

‘What? You don’t think I did that to her?’

He stared at Geraldine, his eyes wide in astonishment. She thought it was genuine.

‘I never touched her. I swear to God I never touched her. This is crazy.’

‘When did you last go to the Paradise Parlour?’

Stafford shook his head and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

‘I want a lawyer.’

‘It’s a straightforward question.’

Geraldine raised her voice.

‘When did you last visit the Paradise Parlour?’

He shook his head.

‘I want a lawyer. I’m entitled. And I want to make a phone call. And - ’

‘Take him away and call the duty brief,’ Geraldine said. ‘Interview suspended.’ She smiled at Sam. It was past the end of both their shifts, but neither of them wanted to go home yet.

‘When did you last visit the Paradise Parlour?’ Geraldine resumed when the solicitor arrived.

‘I don’t know. A few weeks ago. I can’t remember exactly. I don’t keep a diary.’

‘You saw Jessica Palmer there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Speak up please.’

‘Yes. I saw her.’

‘And then you suddenly stopped going to the Paradise Parlour, just when Jessica Palmer disappeared.’

‘Now there’s a coincidence,’ Sam commented.

She turned to Geraldine.

‘Only we don’t set much store by coincidences, do we?’

‘Why did you stop going there?’ Geraldine insisted.

Stafford looked at his lawyer before answering.

‘I told you, I went there when my back was playing up.’

‘You went there regularly, every week, and then you just stopped going because your back suddenly stopped playing up?’

‘Yes, I’ve told you. I went there for a while and then I stopped. I didn’t need the massage any more.’

‘Come on, Robert, you’ll have to do better than that. Why did you stop going to the Paradise Parlour? There must have been a reason.’

‘My client has already answered your question,’ the solicitor put in, his voice dry and indifferent.

‘You stopped going because you knew Jessica wouldn’t be there any more.’

‘That’s not true.’

Stafford glanced frantically at the solicitor who was gazing at the table.

‘I went there for a massage when my back was hurting, and that’s all.’

‘Your back hurt every Tuesday in June and July?’ Sam asked.

‘I already told you, it’s an old rugby injury. Weekly massage relaxes the muscles and relieves the tension. It just happened to be Tuesdays that I went. It could have been any day but Tuesdays fitted my work rota. And when my back wasn’t aching any more I stopped going. I would have gone if I’d needed to but there’s no point paying for a massage when you don’t need one is there? I’m not made of money.’

‘What had Jessica done to annoy you? Or was it something she refused to do for you?’

‘My client has already answered that question,’ the lawyer replied.

‘Does your wife know about your visits to the Paradise Parlour?’ Geraldine asked.

‘What?’

‘Your wife. I met her yesterday.’

‘Evelyn?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is she here?’

Stafford looked over his shoulder as though he half expected to see his wife march into the room, brandishing a bottle of prune juice.

‘Does she know about your relationship with Jessica?’

‘There
is
no relationship,’ he replied, his voice rising in frustration. ‘She’s just a girl who works in the massage parlour.’

He gazed at the photograph that Geraldine had put on the table.

‘Or she was,’ he added quietly. ‘The last time I saw her she gave me my usual treatment. I paid up and I left and I haven’t seen her since. I can’t say she’s so much as crossed my mind. I’m sorry to hear she’s dead but it’s nothing to do with me.’

Stafford looked at the solicitor who sat stony-faced at his side.

‘Why am I here?’

He waved his arm around the room and turned back to Geraldine.

‘Why the hell do you want to pin this on me? Are you telling me I’m her only client? Like I said, I’m sorry to hear the girl’s dead but I had nothing to do with it. Why would I? She’s nothing to me. Nothing. Now, I’d like to go home.’

He shut his mouth and folded his arms as though to signal that he wasn’t going to say another word.

‘Charge my client or release him,’ the solicitor said, brisk for the first time.

‘Yes, you can go - for now,’ Geraldine replied, too tired to push any longer for a confession. ‘But don’t leave the area.’

‘We’ll be speaking to you again very soon,’ Sam added.

Stafford muttered angrily under his breath.

P
eter made his way slowly down to the towpath. The rain had given over and he liked to spend time on a bench beside the canal, watching the occasional boat glide past. It was a pleasant spot to sit and contemplate, as long as the rain held off. He wasn’t hungry yet but would probably go along to the homeless shelter later on for something to eat. As he had expected, it was deserted down by the canal. The footpath came to an abrupt end by the entrance to the tunnel where the waterway went underground. Few people ventured this far along the path so the last bench was usually free. Peter’s blistered feet stung like hell as he limped up to it, sat down and scoured the path for cigarette butts. Spotting one he leaned forward, picked it up delicately between his forefinger and thumb and brushed it against his trouser leg. He lit up and leaned back puffing contentedly. After a while he pulled an almost empty can of lager from the pocket of his raincoat and flung his head back to down the last dregs. Then he stood up and, with a furtive glance towards a narrow boat moored on the opposite side of the canal, tossed the can into the bushes behind the bench.

There was no one about as Peter shuffled to the end of the path to take a piss in the undergrowth at the foot of the tunnel wall. As he relieved himself he glanced up the slope and spotted a pile of clothes someone had chucked from the top of the spiral stairs down onto the weedy slope that ran alongside the brick wall. It was rare for boats to go in or out of the tunnel, and he was invisible from every angle, hidden below the wall and the overhanging trees. In any case, it wasn’t a crime to investigate a pile of rubbish someone had chucked away. He scrambled over the low lip, one brick high, at the bottom of the staircase and clung to the cold metal railing as his foot caught in a tangle of ivy on the ground. Avoiding thick nettles he reached out for the clothes and froze, one arm extended. The devil’s face was staring up at him from the weeds, black with white staring eyes.

Letting out a yell, Peter leapt down onto the path and charged back past the bench, the blisters on his feet forgotten. He was racing along so fast he almost barged straight into a man jogging towards him. A young woman was running at his side and Peter nearly shoved her into the canal.

‘Oi, watch out!’ the man shouted angrily as he swerved to one side.

‘The devil’s here, I saw the devil,’ Peter babbled, seizing the man by the shoulders.

‘There, by the tunnel, it’s the devil.’

He turned and pointed towards the stairs with an arm that trembled.

‘Leave it out, mate,’ the man said taking a step backwards.

‘Come on, Giles. He’s drunk.’ The woman pursed her lips.

‘A face,’ Peter repeated. ‘The devil’s face.’

‘He stinks,’ she added, wrinkling her nose.

The two joggers moved quickly on. As they reached the stairs, the man looked over at the slope.

‘Bugger me,’ he said in surprise. ‘There is something there. Oh Jesus, what is that?’

The woman was climbing the stairs. She looked over her shoulder and began to scream, over and over, while the man fumbled in his jacket, pulled out a mobile phone and dialled 999.

‘Police. There’s a dead body down by Islington Tunnel.’

He paused, listening, then gave his name and waited to be connected to the police.

‘Yes, there’s a body, by the entrance to Islington Tunnel,’ he repeated.

He turned to his companion who was still screaming.

‘Shut up will you, Elaine. I can’t hear a word.’

She clapped a hand over her mouth and sat down with a bump on the step behind her, where she dropped her face into her hands.

‘Yes, it’s a dead body. I’m sure. Thank you.’

He rang off and turned to the woman.

‘The police are on their way. They said to wait here and not touch anything.’

She shuddered.

‘Come on, let’s go and sit on that bench until the police get here. It’s alright, Elaine, we’ll be able to leave soon.’

He led her back down the steps, away from the stench, and along the path to the bench.

‘That tramp seems to have disappeared.’

‘He said it was the devil.’

‘Come on. Oh thank God,’ he added as they heard a siren approaching.

‘The police are here.’

A minute later two uniformed officers came bounding down the stairs. Giles stood up and ran to meet them.

‘Was it you who called in to report a body, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘Giles Brown?’

‘Yes. It’s right here.’

Giles led the policeman to the foot of the stairs and pointed to where a dark face was clearly visible, lying on a rough pillow of weeds and bracken.

‘I see sir. And you found it?’

‘Yes. Well, there was a tramp.’

He described how he and his companion had been jogging along the canal path when a filthy tramp had barged into them, gabbling about seeing the devil’s face.

‘The devil’s face, yes sir.’

The constable was scribbling in his notebook.

‘He’d seen the body, you see.’

The other police officer had been examining the body.

‘It looks like she jumped.’

He peered up at the wall.

‘Only she missed the water and landed at the side of the path instead.’

He studied her face, swollen and bruised from the impact.

A few people had gathered on the canal path.

‘Poor cow.’

‘Drugs probably.’

Attracted by the police car parked by the gates at the top of the stairs, a group of young teenagers were watching from above. Their voices floated down in snatches.

‘Has she snuffed it?’

‘Course she has, dickhead.’

‘Did she jump?’

‘Pushed, innit.’

The police officer who had been checking the body turned to his companion.

‘It looks like a suicide but we should call out the Homicide Assessment Team. She’s been pretty badly bashed about. Come on, let’s clear the area,’ he went on loudly while his colleague summoned the rapid response team.

‘A
nother body has been found this morning.’

The assembled team were staring at the incident board in shocked silence.

‘One for us, it seems,’ the detective chief inspector continued, clearly doing his best to sound vigorous. ‘A young black woman was found on the canal path by Islington Tunnel, off Muriel Street.’

‘My God,’ a constable burst out.

‘Is it Donna Henry?’ someone else asked.

‘We’ve no identification yet. There was no purse or phone with the body, but it’s possible we’ve found Donna Henry. The assessment team has been out checking the scene and now we’re taking it over because it looks like Jessica Palmer’s killer’s been at it again. The victim was starved, beaten and chained by her wrists and ankles.’

He paused.

‘And as you can see, her left leg has been amputated below the knee.’

The detective chief inspector turned to the incident board where a photograph of the second victim was displayed, her face beaten, eyes swollen. Apart from the second victim’s missing lower limb, there wasn’t a great deal to distinguish her image from that of Jessica Palmer.

‘So it’s looking like a hate crime,’ Sam said.

‘Not necessarily, but the possibility increases our need to be cautious with the media. As if the case isn’t tricky enough anyway.’

Reg Milton sighed.

‘I’ll speak to the press office straight away, before anything gets out, if it hasn’t already. We need to handle this very carefully. No one speaks to anyone outside this room about the investigation or the victims. Is everyone clear about that?’

There was a murmur of consent.

‘The victim was fully dressed above the waist. We’re hoping more clothing and shoes might turn up as the area’s searched. Well, let’s get going.’

Geraldine turned to Sam.

‘Let’s see what the post-mortem can tell us and then we’ll check out where the body was found.’

Geraldine studied post-mortem reports closely, but she also liked to hear pathologists’ comments in person shortly after bodies had been examined. The reports were invariably considered and accurate, but there was always a possibility a thought might crop up in conversation that could suggest a line of enquiry she might not otherwise have considered. Following procedure sometimes wasn’t enough.

‘No stone unturned, eh?’ Sam responded when Geraldine explained her reason for going straight to the morgue after the briefing.

‘That’s what I say,’ Geraldine replied and was surprised when the sergeant laughed.

‘I know. You say it all the time actually.’

Geraldine was pleased that Sam felt comfortable enough to tease her, and they drove to the morgue in companionable silence.

‘At least this one doesn’t smell so bad,’ Sam said with forced cheerfulness when she opened the door. Geraldine had the impression the sergeant was bracing herself to view the mutilated corpse.

The pathologist looked up and nodded as they entered.

‘Another one for you,’ he said. ‘We don’t know who she is. Her prints and DNA have been sent off.’

‘When did she die?’ Geraldine asked.

She tried to focus on the dead woman’s face, comparing her injuries to those sustained by Jessica Palmer, but her eyes were drawn to the crudely amputated leg.

‘Within the last twenty-four hours.’

‘Can’t you be more specific about the time of death? Stop hedging and make an educated guess.’

Geraldine took a deep breath and forced herself to control her impatience. It wasn’t the pathologist’s fault if he couldn’t be more accurate, he was just doing his job.

‘It was probably some time last night, around midnight, give or take an hour either side.’

They stood in silence for a few seconds staring at the dismembered body. The face was grotesque, eyes bloodshot, nose and cheeks swollen. They had a photograph of Donna Henry that her flatmate had given Geraldine, but the dead woman’s face was so misshapen it was impossible to be certain it was her. The skin on her arms and legs was scratched, her right hand and wrist were a mess of bloody torn skin.

‘The victim was in her mid to late twenties,’ the pathologist resumed. ‘She had looked after herself, her hair had been well-cut, although you might not think it to look at her now, and her clothes look expensive, but she has recently been chained and starved, exactly like the last girl, and she was severely dehydrated.’

He pointed to her face and arms as he went on.

‘Many of these injuries to her head, arms and upper body were caused while she was still alive, but her left leg was clumsily amputated at the knee after her death.’

Sam looked troubled.

‘Are you sure she was dead? Only you said you couldn’t tell if Jessica Palmer was alive or dead when her finger was cut off, and if this was done while she was still alive - ’

The pathologist was quick to reassure her.

‘The two are quite different and in this case, yes, I’m sure it was done post-mortem. There’s no evidence of bleeding, no sign of the blood vessels contracting and no sign of blood depletion in the body, all of which would be present if the amputation had been carried out while she was alive. The signs are not so clear cut – if you’ll pardon the pun - with the removal of the finger, where the blood vessels are much finer. This amputation wasn’t done with the rather delicate saw that was used to remove Jessica Palmer’s finger. A much larger heavy duty blade was used to sever the leg. There are other post-mortem injuries probably resulting from her fall, some skin damage and broken bones. The victim was already dead when she was dropped from a considerable height.’

‘What’s the cause of death?’ Geraldine asked.

‘Similar to the last one, only in this case the injuries to her head certainly occurred after she died, probably in the fall, the nose broken and one cheek bone smashed. She was severely dehydrated and malnourished, and she was chained before she died.’

He pointed to the dead woman’s wrists and ankles and glanced up at Geraldine.

‘Is this beginning to sound familiar?’

‘Was it the same chain as the one used on Jessica Palmer?’

‘Either that or one exactly like it.’

Dr Mann touched the dead woman’s lips delicately with the tip of a finger.

‘But the other conclusive piece of evidence so far that we’re looking at the same killer is that this victim had two molars removed after she was dead, just like Jessica Palmer. The same two teeth. It’s possible the facial injuries were sustained during the extraction.’

‘That’s weird,’ Sam said.

‘Yes, it’s certainly an odd pattern,’ the pathologist agreed cheerfully. ‘It’s almost like a calling card, as though the killer wants us to know these women were killed by the same hand.’

‘Taunting us, you mean?’ Sam was indignant.

‘I don’t suppose he gave us a second’s thought when he was pulling out his victims’ teeth and sawing off body parts,’ Geraldine said. ‘There’s something else going on here, some other reason he wants them.’

‘As a souvenir, you mean?’ Sam said. ‘Then why doesn’t he just take their teeth? It all sounds damned odd, if you ask me.’

Geraldine frowned.

‘The man who did this is damned odd.’

‘You said the teeth he extracted are the most conclusive evidence so far? Might there be more?’ Geraldine asked.

The pathologist nodded.

‘I found traces of white fibres under the victim’s finger nails. I’ve sent them away for analysis but I’m guessing they match those we found on Jessica Palmer. It’s the same man alright.’

‘So he’s killed twice,’ Sam said.

‘Possibly more than twice,’ Geraldine answered quietly. ‘We don’t know whose blood was on the fibres found under Jessica Palmer’s nails. Someone else’s blood had stained those sheets before she was there. This girl here could be the killer’s third victim, or for all we know there could have been more before that - and others to come if we don’t find this man and stop him.’

‘That’s certainly a concern,’ the pathologist agreed.

‘This woman was killed around midnight,’ Sam said.

Geraldine nodded. The same thought had occurred to her.

‘It was around half past ten when Stafford left us,’ Sam continued.

‘He’d have had to work quickly.’

‘But it’s possible,’ Sam insisted. ‘And he’d certainly be strong enough to do - that.’

She nodded at the victim’s left leg before turning to the pathologist.

‘You said she was killed around midnight, give or take an hour or two either side?’

He nodded.

‘Well that gives us until one, and he left the station at ten-thirty. That would give him nearly three hours, Geraldine, easily enough time to kill her and drive the body here. You don’t think we could have panicked him into doing it? Or perhaps there are two of them and his partner killed her and he disposed of the body once he got back, and our questions had nothing to do with it.’

‘No, I think this man works alone. They usually do. But finding him is the extent of our responsibility. Whatever he chooses to do, it’s not down to us,’ Geraldine said firmly. ‘Even if he felt provoked by our questioning, we’re not to blame for his actions.’

‘Or hers,’ the pathologist added.

Sam looked surprised.

‘Surely you don’t think this could have been done by a woman?’

‘Why not?’ Geraldine asked.

‘A woman could be strong enough to overpower these girls,’ the pathologist agreed.

‘And would be more likely to take them unawares,’ Geraldine added.

‘I suppose so.’

Sam didn’t sound convinced.

‘Still, the likelihood is we’re looking for a man, and Robert Stafford’s not out of the frame yet,’ Geraldine said. ‘But whoever it is, we have to find this killer before he – or she - kills again.’

Geraldine glanced at the dead woman and shivered with a sense of déjà vu.