Evil in Return

Evil in Return
Elena Forbes

Copyright © 2010 Elena Forbes

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Lines from the poem “September 1, 1939” by W. H. Auden are taken from the collection Another Time (Faber, London, 1940), and quoted by kind permission of Faber and Faber Ltd.

First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Quercus, 21 Bloomsbury Square, London, WC1A 2NS, England.
This edition published in 2010 by
House of Anansi Press Inc.
110 Spadina Avenue, Suite 801
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LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Forbes, Elena
Evil in return / Elena Forbes.
eISBN 978-0-88784-281-8
I. Title.
PR6106.O73E84 2010     823’.92     C2009-906504-5

Jacket design: www.headdesign.co.uk

We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.

For Kathryn Skoyles

He pushed open the door and went inside. It was a dark room, little more than a windowless tank, painted floor to ceiling matt black. The peculiar, tangy smell reminded him of the chemical labs at school and made him feel a little queasy. Hip-hop thudded from a player sitting on a chair in the middle of the floor, but there was no sign of anybody. He walked over and switched it off, his ears ringing in the silence. A red bulb hung from the centre of the low ceiling. It was swinging slowly from side to side as though it had been recently knocked and he followed its gyrations for a moment, wondering if the music had been enough to set it in motion. Cupboards ran along one wall with a stainless steel sink unit. Above them, pegged to a wire, was a row of large black and white prints, each showing the same image. Superimposed against a blurred background of trees, two grinning faces floated in the centre, cheek to cheek, arms entwined like lovers. He gazed at the prints for a moment finding it difficult to see straight in the strange, shifting light. He felt dizzy, sort of pissed, although he’d had little to drink. He shook his head but it made no difference. The light was playing tricks with his eyes. The walls were billowing gently like the sides of a tent in a breeze, and when he looked down the floor seemed to be moving. He fell to his knees, struggling to focus, and peered up at the photos, the images swimming in front of him. There was something about the faces . . .

He heard a sound behind him. He looked around towards the open door, saw it close, heard the lock click softly into place. Then the light went out.

1

‘Up there. On the left,’ Mark Tartaglia shouted. Sam Sparro’s ‘Black and Gold’ blasted through the Golf and he gesticulated violently towards the huge stone arch that framed the entrance to the Brompton Cemetery. ‘
Left!
’

Sam Donovan swerved, slammed on the brakes, and pulled up sharp in front of the wrought iron gates where a young uniformed constable was standing. She killed the music, leaned out of the window and flashed her ID. The policeman glanced at it, then peered at Donovan questioningly. Tartaglia caught the momentary hesitation before he handed back her ID. Donovan had noticed it too, he was sure. He had seen it before and knew how it irritated her. She was prettier than most, small and slim, with a neat-featured face and lovely large, grey eyes, hidden today behind Wayfarers. In her summer uniform of combats and T-shirt, with her brutally short brown hair, she looked more like a teenage boy than most people’s idea of an experienced female detective. Whatever other people thought, it was never something that troubled him. He didn’t care how she dressed or how young she looked. What mattered was that she was good at her job, he liked working with her and, more than that, he regarded her as a friend.

It was midday and sunshine streamed in through the car’s front window. As Donovan exchanged words with the constable, Tartaglia turned his head out of the glare and took a final reluctant drag on his cigarette, savouring the moment before tossing it into the gutter. He removed his sunglasses, blew a small insect off one of the black lenses then slid them back on, yawning as he stretched his legs and flexed his shoulders. He had only just come back from a couple of weeks’ holiday in Southern Italy and was finding it difficult adjusting back into the normal work rhythm. Whether it was the heady warmth of the air or the fact that he had had yet another late night, he still felt half asleep, and the drone of cars from the Old Brompton Road was hypnotic. He watched lazily in the wing mirror as a group of passers-by paused by the entrance to gaze and point at the crime scene tape that stretched in front of the gatehouse and the full width of the perimeter on either side. At least there were no journalists hanging around, although it wouldn’t take them long to sniff out what had happened. A suspicious death in a central London cemetery made for good copy.

After signing them in, the constable waved them through the gate and they pulled up just inside behind a group of police and forensic vehicles. Donovan jumped out and as Tartaglia followed, he squinted into the bright sunshine and drew in a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent of newly mown grass. The last time he had been to the Brompton Cemetery had been a Saturday in early spring, when he had taken a short cut through it on foot with his cousin, Gianni. They had been on their way to watch Chelsea play at home at Stamford Bridge, which was just on the far side of the boundary wall. The weather had been overcast and drizzling, the atmosphere decidedly moody. It was difficult to recall now, in the heat of a summer’s day and with the area peppered with the blue-suited figures of the forensic team.

‘Look,’ Donovan said, pointing at his feet. ‘He thinks you’re going to feed him.’

Tartaglia glanced down and saw a small grey squirrel sitting on its hind legs, looking up at him expectantly. He shook his head and held out his hands to show the squirrel they were empty.

‘It’s a positive zoo in here,’ a cheerful voice said behind him. He turned to see Tracy Jamieson, the crime scene manager, barely recognisable in her hooded suit and goggles. ‘We’ve just unearthed a family of foxes from under one of the graves and there must be hundreds of rabbits and squirrels.’

‘I must remember to bring peanuts next time,’ he said. He took off his jacket, helped himself to a jumpsuit from the back of one of the vans, and began pulling it on over his trousers. He was already sweating heavily and hoped he wouldn’t have to wear it for long. ‘So, what have we got?’

‘The victim’s white, male, in his late thirties. He’s been shot in the head. He’s in one of the catacombs over there.’ She pointed away along the drive towards a long avenue of neo-classical colonnades.

‘Do we have an ID?’

‘Name’s Joseph Andrew Logan. His wallet and driver’s licence were on him, and also about two hundred pounds in cash, so it doesn’t look like robbery.’

Tartaglia turned to Donovan, who was struggling with a suit several sizes too big. ‘When you’re done, go and find whoever’s in charge. I want a map of the place. I want to know about opening and closing times and all means of access. And find out about security and cameras.’

‘It’s a South African bloke. Last time I saw him, he was in his office by the chapel,’ Jamieson said. ‘He was talking to one of the DIs from Kensington.’

‘Where’s the chapel?’ Donovan asked, as she sat down on the bonnet of a nearby car and started to roll up one of the trouser legs.

‘It’s a round, domed building at the end of the drive. You can’t miss it. Looks like a mini St Paul’s.’

‘Where’s Arabella?’ Tartaglia asked, spotting the battered, white Volvo estate that belonged to Dr Arabella Browne, the Home Office pathologist. It was parked next to one of the forensic vans and was easily recognisable by its Countryside Alliance bumper sticker. In the thick layer of dust on the back window, some wit had scrawled ‘Also Comes In White’. He was pretty sure it had been there the last time he saw the car.

‘Down in the crypt,’ Jamieson said. ‘She arrived about an hour ago but the photographers hadn’t finished, so she had to wait. She wasn’t best pleased.’

‘Patience isn’t her middle name.’ He zipped up his suit and they started walking together along the drive towards the colonnades. ‘You’re sure the victim doesn’t belong in the crypt?’

She shook her head. ‘The last time anyone was buried in there was over a hundred years ago, and he wasn’t in there yesterday afternoon, according to the bloke who runs the place.’

‘He’s in the habit of checking?’

‘No, but some builders have been using the crypt for storage. Apparently they didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary when they locked up yesterday.’

‘Builders?’ He sighed. ‘So the crime scene’s fucked.’

‘Their stuff is all over the place, as are their footprints. We’ll try and eliminate what’s theirs but he wasn’t killed in the crypt. There are no signs of a struggle or blood or anything.’

‘What about out here?’ he asked, gazing around at the dry, grassy expanse of land, which was the size of several football pitches. It was shaded by tall trees and densely packed with weathered graves and ornate mausoleums that looked at least a century old, many in a poor state of repair. Unless they got lucky, it might take days to search it thoroughly. The cemetery was well known as a gay cruising spot and he thought of the shadowy figures he had seen loitering in and around the colonnades when he had last been there. Was there a gay connection? It was too early to jump to conclusions, but if they could persuade people to talk, they might have some useful witnesses.

‘So far nothing. We started with the area around the colonnades and we’re working our way out.’

‘What time did the builders lock up yesterday?’

‘About four p.m., apparently.’

‘They have it easy. What time was he found?’

‘Just after eight this morning, when the gates opened. Someone was walking their dog and the dog ran off and pawed the door open. His owner had to go in after him. She said there was no padlock on the door and that the chain was just lying on the ground outside.’

‘Maybe the builders left it unlocked.’

‘They say not. The padlock’s missing, by the way.’

Tartaglia left Jamieson at the inner cordon and walked up the drive to the colonnades. Built of yellow stone, they ran for a good hundred feet on either side of the road, with a raised, covered walkway above and catacombs below. In the middle of each section, stairs led down to a pair of large, arched double doors. One set was chained and padlocked, but on the opposite side, one of the doors was slightly ajar and he saw light within. He went down the steps, noticing how the soft sandstone walls and mouldings around the doors were pitted and crumbling. The decay seemed symptomatic of the whole place. The doors were painted black, with ornamental grilles and two large, curling snakes for handles. He pushed the right-hand door and went inside.

The air in the burial chamber was noticeably cooler and heavy with damp. Lying immediately below the colonnade, the ceiling was oppressively low. Shelves were set into the brick walls, stacked with ancient coffins. In many places the wood had disintegrated, revealing the lead linings glinting in the light from the portable lamps. A huge green bell sat upright in a dusty corner with the bronze figure of an angel attached to the back, and a large roll of blue polythene sheeting lay on the floor beside it, along with a roll of wire, a hammer and a Tesco’s bag containing the remains of somebody’s lunch.

Dr Browne, looking like a short, squat snowman in her hooded suit, was in the next-door room, kneeling down beside the body and muttering into a recorder. The dead man sat stiff as a doll on the ground, his back leaning against a wrought iron railing, his legs stretched out in front of him in a ‘V’, feet bare, arms rigid at his sides. He appeared to be of medium height and build and was dressed in a well-worn denim jacket, faded jeans and a dark-coloured T-shirt. His face was in Browne’s shadow. Tartaglia moved closer and crouched down to get a better look. The man was clean-shaven but his face was streaked with earth and what looked like dried blood. A dirty black hole marked the middle of his forehead like an inkblot, the edges tattooed with gunshot residue. The gun had been fired at point blank range.

‘Just the one shot?’ he asked, as Browne finished her sentence and paused the recorder.

She glanced over at him and gave a curt nod of recognition. ‘Far as I can see. Exit wound’s clean. No sign of the bullet.’

‘Tracy said he wasn’t killed down here.’

She nodded. ‘I can’t check the
livor mortis
until I undress him, but there’s no blood spatter or anything. I’ll be able to give you more when I examine him properly later on. Now forensics have done their stuff, I want him bagged up and out of here as quickly as possible.’

‘Someone’s sure worked him over,’ Tartaglia said, noting the heavy swelling around the man’s nose, eyes and mouth. He also picked up the sour reek of vomit and urine. He peered down at the man’s hands, which looked unmarked as far as he could tell, the nails cut short and clean. Not a vagrant, it seemed. ‘What about defence wounds?’

‘Nothing obvious, but he’s got ligature marks on both wrists and ankles. They look ante-mortem. Maybe he wasn’t able to defend himself.’

With a gloved finger, Tartaglia eased back each sleeve of the man’s jacket in turn. The watch on his left wrist was a simple black Swatch. The marks made by the ligatures were clearly visible. The killer had used something fine, with a sharp edge that had cut into the skin like a blunt knife; plastic cable ties, maybe.

‘Have you found the bindings?’

‘No.’

‘What about his shoes?’

‘Double negative.’

The shoes might have easily dropped off when the body was shifted after death, but the lack of ligatures was puzzling. They must have been deliberately removed, although it wasn’t obvious why.

‘What’s all that on his jeans?’ he asked, noticing a large, dark, oily-looking patch that spread across the man’s lap.

‘Blood, I think. I can’t tell where it’s coming from until I get his clothes off.’

Still gazing at the man on the ground, he got to his feet. The killing had all the hallmarks of a professional hit although, unless there was some intended irony, the choice of dumpsite was puzzling. The victim would be around twelve to thirteen stone, at a rough guess: a fair weight, even for someone strong, to lug all the way down into the crypt. He wondered why the killer had bothered when there must have been many more easily accessible hiding places outside in the graveyard. But he had learnt not to over-analyse. Time would tell, and sometimes there was no explanation.

The stale, dank air caught in his throat and he coughed. ‘How long’s he been dead?’

She sat back on her heels and fixed him with watery eyes. ‘Mark, you know how I hate that question.’

‘And you know I have to ask. Just a general indication will do for now. He’s stiff as a board, so I assume we’re not talking that long, although it’s quite a bit cooler down here than outside.’

‘The temperature is lower, but not enough to make a meaningful difference, and it’s heating up a fair bit as the sun moves around. I certainly wouldn’t keep my good claret in here.’

‘So?’

Browne gave a wheezy sigh. ‘Rigor’s fully established, as you say. No signs of it passing off just yet either. My guess is he’s been dead anything from twelve to twenty-four hours, thirty-six at the very outside. I hope that helps. You know what I say . . .’

He nodded. ‘Yes, yes. When was he last seen, when was he found, etcetera, etcetera. He apparently wasn’t here late afternoon yesterday, which means we’re probably looking at closer to twelve hours than twenty-four. I can’t see anyone shifting him down here in that position, can you?’

‘Well nigh impossible, I’d say. As I said, I’ll check the livor mortis later.’

‘But how the hell did they get him here without being noticed?’

Browne shrugged as though it was none of her concern. The space felt suddenly claustrophobic and he decided the rest could wait until the post mortem.

‘Anything else?’ He started to move towards the exit.

‘Well, his hair and clothes are wet.’

‘It’s pretty damp down here.’

‘It’s more than that.’

‘Maybe someone tried to wash him off.’

‘If so, they didn’t do a very good job. He positively reeks.’

‘I noticed. So when do you want me?’

‘I’ll try and squeeze it in this evening. Hope you’ve nothing special planned.’

‘Nothing that can’t wait,’ he said, thinking regretfully of the two pretty New Zealanders who had just moved in next door and who had asked him to drop by that night for a drink and a barbeque. ‘See you later, then.’ Anything to get out into the sunshine and breathe some fresh summer’s air.