Frozen Grave (2 page)

‘So she was held down and raped,’ said Carter.

‘There are multiple footwear marks around the body,’ Sandford said as he angled the light for Harding.

‘Which would explain the hasty exit,’ said Carter. ‘Everyone in here was involved in this in some way.’ He looked around. ‘Maybe she came in here with someone.
Maybe this wasn’t her usual place to sleep and she drifted onto someone else’s turf. She pissed someone off.’

Carter was watching Dermot as he moved a mattress and propped it up against the wall then knelt to examine it.

‘Someone’s been bottled by the look of it. There is fresh blood on the mattress – still wet.’

‘No evidence of wounds consistent with being bottled,’ said Harding. ‘It looks like someone tried to strangle her though.’ She moved to one side so that the detectives
could see the ligature around the woman’s neck.

Dermot stood and held something in the air for them to see.

‘Expensive knickers.’

He walked across and passed them to Carter.

Carter looked at the label. ‘La Perla. Very posh.’

‘There’s also one half of a pair of stockings attached to a suspender belt,’ Dermot said, taking the knickers back from Carter and putting them into a crime-scene bag. He
handed the stocking across. ‘Just one so far.’

‘The other one is round her neck,’ said Willis, who was squatting level with the body and leaning into the room to get a better look.

‘This is expensive lingerie,’ Carter said, holding the stocking. ‘This outfit must have cost a hundred quid – probably two. La Perla is expensive, isn’t it,
Doctor?’

‘Yes.’

Carter knew there was no point in him asking Willis. Dermot walked back across the plates and resumed his examination of the mattress.

‘Do we know the cause of death, Doctor?’ asked Willis.

Harding turned the woman’s head away from her.

‘There is a crush wound to the skull, a lot of blood lost here, and possible brain injury.’ She shone the light onto the woman’s face. ‘But there are so many other
poss—’ She paused mid-sentence. She moved the light closer. Her voice quietened: ‘We’ll have to get someone else to perform the post-mortem.’

‘What’s the problem, Doc?’ Carter moved towards the body, stepping on the first plate.

Dermot stopped working and stood upright.

‘I know her.’

‘You sure?’ asked Carter.

‘Yes . . . of course I’m sure – I wouldn’t say it otherwise. I don’t know her well but I’ve met her a few times. Her name is Olivia Grantham. Early forties.
She lives in Brockley, south-east London. She works for a solicitors’ firm in London Bridge, near the Shard.’

‘Any idea what it’s called, the place she works at?’

‘Spencer and Something. As far as I remember, she’s a junior partner.’ Harding started to pack away her kit.

Sandford and Dermot were poised, listening to the outcome of the conversation.

‘When was the last time you saw her, Doctor?’ Carter asked.

‘Not sure, about six months ago, probably.’

‘Could she be sleeping rough here, Doctor?’ asked Willis.

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ snapped Harding. ‘You don’t go downhill that fast. The last time I saw her, she was drinking cocktails and hoovering a line of
coke.’

‘How exactly did you know her?’ Carter asked, interested now that Harding had painted a scene and accidentally painted herself into it.

‘Through friends. Social events. That kind of thing.’ Harding stood, ready to leave. ‘I’ll organize for someone to do the post-mortem for me and I’ll let you know
what time it’s happening.’ She turned to Sandford. ‘When you’re ready for her to be moved, phone me and I’ll send someone down to collect her.’

As Harding passed him, Carter turned and followed. By the time he got outside, she was already half out of her forensic suit.

‘You all right, Doc? It’s not easy when it’s someone you know.’

Harding didn’t look at him. She opened the boot of her car and deposited her bag inside.

‘I told you, I didn’t know her well. Merely a social acquaintance.’ She glanced his way as she got into her car.

‘But still . . .’

She held his gaze. ‘But still, nothing, Inspector. Don’t read into it.’

Carter hovered by the door. ‘Do you know what street she lived in?’

‘No.’

She slammed the door.

Carter was watching her drive away as Willis came out of the building and joined him.

‘What was that all about?’ he said, peeling off his suit. ‘She was even more abrupt than usual. She couldn’t wait to get away, could she?’

‘She had to, guv – difficult position to be in. I guess she must have felt really bad seeing her friend like that.’

‘Yeah, right . . . she doesn’t have any friends.’ Carter looked around as he made a mental map of the area. ‘The nearest station is Woolwich Arsenal,’ he said.
‘And that’s a good eight, ten minutes’ walk, especially in heels. She’d got to have been wearing heels with that outfit. I think she would have got here by car – she
drove or took a taxi. We need to find out all the local taxi firms; see if there’s any CCTV as well.’

‘Yes, guv.’

He took out his phone to make a call to the crime analyst back at the office.

‘Robbo? We have a possible name for the victim: it’s Olivia Grantham, early forties. Dr Harding recognized her. She thinks she works in a solicitors’ office at London Bridge
– Spencer and Something. See if you can find it and an address in Brockley for her. There was a fight here; someone got bottled; check the A&E departments as well. Do you know what,
Robbo? This place is the same derelict buildings where we had that Polish man kicked to death a few years ago. That’s progress for you.’

He ended the call and looked back towards the entrance of number 22. ‘What a place to end up in: “Shit Central”,’ he said as he discarded his suit and handed Willis a bag
for hers. ‘Got to hand it to Sandford and that lot in there – it’s a shit job but someone’s got to do it.’ He smiled a little at his quip. Willis didn’t react
but took the bag from him as she stared down the street.

‘Don’t get it, guv. Who comes to a place like this on a Sunday evening dressed in expensive lingerie?’

‘I agree – I don’t know many women who wear stockings unless it’s to add spice to the bedroom. This is certainly
not
a romantic setting to slip into your La
Perla. If Harding is right about her, then Olivia Grantham didn’t need to slum it.’

‘I’ve seen some women in the changing room at the gym wearing them,’ Willis said. ‘Coming straight from work, I suppose.’

‘Really?’ His eyes glazed over for a few seconds.

‘Okay, well maybe some women wear them for work as well, but I think the majority of women put them on especially. But
not
especially to come into a shithole like this. Plus, it
was sleeting last night. Not the kind of night to walk around in your underwear.’

Willis bagged up her suit and signed it off in the logbook as she thanked PC Gardner.

Carter took out his coat and handed Willis hers. Willis was studying a street map of the area on her phone.

‘See if Robbo has that address for Olivia Grantham’s place and we’ll go there now,’ said Carter.

‘He’s already sent it – 103 Station Road, guv.’ Willis began reading it from her phone. ‘Runs from the High Street to . . .’ She stopped talking and began
running towards shouts coming from the end of the street.

Carter shouted across to Gardner.

‘Call for back-up but stay here, tell Sandford what’s going on.’

Willis reached the officer and helped him up from the ground.

‘You okay?’

‘Yes. I’m okay. I couldn’t stop him, I’m sorry. He came out of nowhere and the dog charged me.’

‘What did he look like?’ asked Carter as he got to them.

‘In his late twenties, scruffy, blood on his face, hands . . . he had on a grey woolly hat pulled down over his ears. His dog looked like it had been in a fight too. It’s
light-coloured – one of those big ugly ones. He came out of the space behind the bins over there on the second to last property.’

‘Did you see where he went?’

‘He ran off into Hannover Estate.’

‘Okay. Help is on its way. Be ready. There could be more people hiding.’

They started towards the estate. Carter reached inside his jacket for his phone, dialling as he ran.

‘We’re going after a suspect in Hannover Estate – entrance opposite Parade Street . . . I need a car around the back of it. Looking for a white male with dog. He’s
injured. Be careful – the dog will attack.’

They ran past the row of scruffy garages and lock-ups in the parking area. Carter signalled to Willis that he had seen something and was headed towards the gap between the tower block and the
four-storey building that flanked it. She began to follow but then slowed as she heard a sound coming from the garages. She went to call to Carter but he was already twenty metres away.

Willis walked towards the last of the garages, plastered in graffiti, spray-painted in blocks of colour and covered with the name ‘Hannover Boys’.

‘Police.’ She waited for a reply. ‘Come out and show yourself. Come out now.’

Carter was out of sight by this time. She stepped towards the door and pulled it open.

‘Police – come out. I need to see you.’ She took a step inside the garage and shone her torch around. The walls were covered in graffiti. There was silence. She heard a shout
go up from Carter and a dog bark. From somewhere outside she heard running. She turned to leave but stopped – in front of her was a man wearing a woolly hat, his face slashed by a gaping
wound that ran over the top of his nose and split his eyebrow before it pierced his cheek in a semi-circle. He was holding the dog by its collar as they blocked her way.

The dog reared and snarled as it bared its teeth.

‘It’s okay. Keep calm. Make sure the dog stays under control. Are you all right?’ The man didn’t answer. He was breathing hard. The front of his T-shirt was soaked in
blood. ‘Look, you need help – your face needs seeing to. Let me help you.’

He held the dog’s collar in a stronger grip with one hand as he touched his face, then looked at the wet sticky blood on his fingertips.

‘Something happened on Parade Street last night. Did you see it?’

He didn’t answer. He looked nervously towards the sound of someone approaching outside.

‘You need to come with me.’ Willis took a step closer and the dog lunged forwards at her. She held up her hands for calm. ‘I can help you.’

He shook his head, released the dog, and ran.

The dog lingered in the doorway, snarling before it turned and followed its master. Willis ran outside – both man and dog were gone. Carter was jogging towards her.

‘I thought I saw him but it turned out it wasn’t him. Where were you?’ he said as he got within earshot and stopped to catch his breath. He looked at Willis’s expression.
‘Are you okay? What happened here?’

‘The suspect was hiding in here with his dog,’ answered Willis.

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing – he ran. He looks like he’s been glassed or bottled.’

They heard a police siren, then four officers came running their way.

Carter met them.

‘Two of you get back in the car and see if you can find a white male with a dog. Willis?’ He turned to her to finish the description.

‘Twenty-five to thirty-five. Grey woolly hat. Dark blue jacket, combat trousers. He is bleeding on his face. His dog is sandy-coloured – a cross-breed, bull mastiff, bulldog type. It
will attack.’

‘The other two of you get some crime-scene tape and cordon this area off. Get the keys from the council,’ said Carter. ‘I want all of these garages searched. I want SOCOs here.
We’re looking for a match with the scene at 22 Parade Street. That lad must have left his blood somewhere. Willis?’

‘Guv?’

‘We’ll leave them to it and head over to Brockley.’

As they drove south of the River Thames, they were snagged in a morning queue of traffic. Carter tapped his thumbs on the leather steering wheel as he watched the traffic inch
forward. He looked across at Willis.

‘Oy!’

He shifted in his seat so he could turn more towards her as the traffic was stationary.

‘I wish you’d shut up – you’re driving me mad with your constant chatter.’

She shook her head apologetically. ‘Just thinking it through.’

‘Think and talk. Tell me what we’ve got here.’

Willis took out her notebook.

Carter put the car into first gear, eased a few feet further into the traffic jam, then started the conversation:

‘The woman . . . Olivia Grantham . . . goes in there, dressed for sex. She goes in there and she can’t get out.’

‘Yeah – the men get carried away; fights break out and she gets killed; then they get scared and do a runner,’ said Willis.

‘Where did they go then?’ asked Carter, not waiting for an answer as he continued: ‘We need to get officers going into every hostel, every empty building where they sleep;
we’ll start with those within a mile radius and then we’ll widen the net if we have to. I need all the off-licences in the area contacted, to go through their tills and see who paid for
that brand of half-bottles of vodka we found in there. Who are the heroin and crack dealers in the area? Also, I want officers all over that estate. Someone must have seen something.’

‘I think we should post extra officers on the surrounding streets too, guv,’ said Willis as she made notes. ‘The people who sleep there are bound to try and come
back.’

‘Exactly. We will. We’ll round them up. Bring them in, fingerprints, DNA samples.’

‘We might find some evidence in the lock-up, guv.’

‘Ring Sandford now and tell him what we found.’

Willis got off the phone to Sandford.

‘He’ll get over there as soon as he is able. He says to wear suits when we go into Olivia Grantham’s flat. He’s going to want to go in there next.’

Carter laughed. ‘Tell him to get his head out of his arse and do his job – we’ll do ours – pompous git.’ Carter went back to drumming his thumb on the wheel.

The caretaker answered his buzzer at the entrance to the mock-Georgian block of smart flats where Olivia Grantham lived. He was expecting them and handed them the keys to her
apartment.