Gagged & Bound (16 page)

‘It was months before he trusted me enough to give me anything DC Taft could use. But one day he sent me to his dad again, who gave me a note, see, and told me to deliver it, just like DC Taft hoped he would. So I took it. And when he’d read it and given it back to me, like the rules are, instead of burning it, I put it in a paper bag, like DC Taft said, and took it to her.’

‘So where is it now?’

‘I don’t know,’ she whimpered as the other one hit her again. ‘All I know is she said it would be safe, no one would ever find it.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know.’

She saw the fist coming and felt it crunching into her face. That must have been when she passed out.

A sound outside made her jump, pulling against the knife-like plastic. She gasped. She couldn’t help it.

The door opened, letting in some light from outside. A man came in, then others followed. It was just bright enough to see there were five of them. The last one shut the door carefully.

Sam didn’t know if any of them were the men who’d been hitting her because they were wearing the same white all-in-ones with hoods and masks. The man in front was carrying something. She couldn’t quite see what it was. Then the ceiling lights came on. She saw he had a reel of wire in his hands and a stick and a bag.

‘Know what these are, then, Sam?’ he said, sounding exactly like Johnnie.

It was a small boy who found the body. His mother had kept him home from nursery because he’d been sniffly and fractious at breakfast and there were rumours of a chickenpox outbreak in the neighbourhood. She’d wanted him to stay indoors, but he’d become unbearable, flinging himself around the house, refusing to play with any of his toys and getting under her feet in the kitchen, so she’d put on his boots and duffel coat and taken him to the common.

Miraculously he’d cheered up as soon as he had open space all round him and was off chasing pigeons as if he’d never spent the last hour trying to make her pick him up and read to him. She idled along behind him, revelling in the spring sunshine and the cheerful smiles of most of the dog walkers.

‘Mummy!’ he shouted from out of sight, sounding as though he was about fifty yards away. She could hear him easily, despite all the other human and mechanical noises, like a bat picking out the squeak of her offspring from a thousand others. ‘Mummy! Come and look.’

‘I’m coming, Tommy,’ she said, expecting some interesting beetle or other. He was always presenting her with strange natural history specimens, usually dead and sometimes smelly. ‘What is it?’

‘I’ve found a lady. She’s got her head in a bag.’

‘We mustn’t disturb her, Tommy,’ she said as she got nearer, wanting to remove him fast from any strange care-in-the-community case. ‘Come along now.’

‘No, come and see.’ He towed her towards a clump of bushes at the edge of the path. ‘Round here. She’s just sitting there on the ground with her head in the bag. I said hello, but she didn’t move.’

‘Wait here. On the path. I’ll go and look.’

A minute later, her hands fumbling for the phone in her pocket, she was trying to breathe normally. Through her head was running huge gratitude to the Fates that had made her son see an interesting curiosity instead of a terrifying corpse.

Knowing how many false emergency calls were made by people who hadn’t learned to lock the keyboard of their mobile phones, she thought she’d do better calling the local police station. She’d programmed the number into her phone as soon as Tommy had been born, determined to have every possible protection ready in case anything should threaten him.

She explained what she’d found on the common, and precisely where, repeating herself when she was asked to confirm everything she’d said. After a minute or two, she was told to wait while she was put through to someone else.

‘I understand you have found what you believe is a dead body,’ said the new female voice.

‘That’s right. At least my son found it. He’s three. So I came to look.’ She took a deep breath to steady herself, rather proud of the way she was keeping her thoughts in order. ‘She’s in a sitting position, with her head in a polythene bag. It’s kind of like a freezer bag: pale-blue plastic.’

‘Is there anyone else there?’ The officer’s voice was sharp, urgent.

‘No. She’s behind a stand of bushes on the right of the main path near the tree stumps where the children play. About a hundred yards probably from the railway bridge.’

‘OK. Some officers are on their way to you. What’s your name?’

‘Maggie. Maggie Sullivan.’ She looked round for Tommy and was glad to see him happily fiddling with something at the edge of the path. He glanced over his shoulder, as though he could feel her gaze, and shouted something about a worm. ‘Lovely, Tommy. That’s really good. You stay there and watch the worm.’

‘Great, Maggie,’ said the policewoman’s voice in her ear. ‘You’re doing exactly the right thing. The officers will be with you very soon. Don’t go near the body, and try not to let anyone else.’

‘You mean there could be evidence on the ground?’

‘That’s right.’ There was a new warmth in the voice, as though its owner had smiled. ‘You said it was a woman’s corpse.’

‘Yes.’ Maggie realised the officer at the other end of the phone was keeping her talking to try to stop her running off or interfering with the body. She hadn’t planned to do either. ‘Or a transvestite. But I think it’s a woman. Small feet and glamorous shoes, and a pink-leather mini-skirt. She’s black, by the way. Oh, no!’

‘What’s the matter? Come on, Maggie, what’s happened?’

‘There’s a dog, a Labrador, sniffing all round her. What about the evidence? I’ll go and—’

‘No! Don’t do anything. If the owner is in sight, get him or her to call the dog off, but don’t approach the body. OK, Maggie? You’re doing really well.’

‘I’m not giving birth, you know,’ she said crossly, waving at an ineffectual-looking woman with a dog’s lead dangling from her hand. ‘Get your dog away from here. I’m on the phone to the police. They want it out of the way.
Now.
No,
don’t
come any closer. Call it off, for heaven’s sake!’

‘Labby! Labby!’ shouted the woman, but Labby was much
too interested in the body. ‘Labby! Oh, please, Labby. Please. Come on. Come on!’

‘People who can’t control dogs shouldn’t have them,’ Maggie said quietly into the phone. ‘In case something happens, you ought to know that it looked as though there was something in the woman’s mouth.’

‘Something?’ The officer’s voice was even more urgent. ‘Like what?’

‘A pencil or a stick or something. I didn’t see clearly enough to say what, but definitely something.’

‘Good for you, Maggie.’ The urgency had softened again, but echoes of it remained. ‘Now, if you look up towards the main road, you should be able to see my officers. Are they there?’

‘Yes. Two, in uniform. Coming fast.’

‘Good. We’ll need to talk to you and to Tommy. Stay with the officers and I’ll send a car for you. I’ll see you very soon. My name’s Inspector Lyalt.’

 

Twenty minutes later, Caro watched the sensible woman walk beside her prancing child towards the police car. There wasn’t much more either of them could say, but they would have to be officially interviewed and a statement taken from the woman. In the meantime, she herself would wait here at the crime scene, until the tent had been erected, the police surgeon had pronounced the body dead, and the whole scientific team assembled.

As soon as she’d told the chief superintendent that it looked like a classic bag-and-gag killing, he’d ordered her to secure the site, since she was already there, and be ready to hand over to the SIO, the senior investigating officer, as soon as one had been appointed from the Major Incident Team.

‘But, sir, can’t I …?’

‘Don’t even think about it, Caro. You’ve got more than enough work as it is, and you could cause trouble to all kinds of
operations if you go trampling over organised-crime turf. As you should know better than most.’

Caro detested the thought of the victim’s death, and what she must have suffered before she died, but the knowledge that taking part in the investigation could have given her a way into the Slabbs and their police contacts was almost more than she could bear.

 

‘It’s ghastly,’ she said to Trish later, as they sat over drinks in the Café Rigoletto. ‘I’m not allowed to work on the case, so all I can pick up are the snippets everyone in the nick knows. It sounds like a traditional bag-and-gag, but with extra refinements.’

‘Like what?’

‘You don’t want to know. Someone had been trying to make her talk.’

Trish controlled a shiver. ‘Do they know who she is yet?’ ‘Yes. A model with acting ambitions called Samantha Lock.’

‘Johnnie Slabb’s girlfriend, you mean.’

Caro’s mouth opened, then shut firmly, before she collected herself and said: ‘How do you know?’

‘I saw a photograph of them together at a charity pop concert. D’you think she did the dirty on the family? Or is this someone else taking revenge on Johnnie Slabb?’

Caro’s anxious expression broke into the familiar smile Trish hadn’t seen for a long time. ‘You
are
amazing.’

‘What?’

‘There’s a specialist in organised crime advising the investigating team. She says there’s been a war between the Slabbs and a newish Albanian gang for some time. Her view is that it’s possible the Albanians killed Sam Lock and dumped her, bagged and gagged, to thumb their noses at the Slabbs.’

‘That would make sense. Unless—’ Trish broke off to sip her Campari-soda.

‘Unless what?’ Caro said impatiently as the espresso machine behind her hissed like the air brakes of a pantechnicon.

‘Could she have been the source of Stephanie’s mysterious evidence?’

Caro pushed back her chair, inadvertently knocking into an old man, who was pulling himself along between the chair backs to get to the door. Steadying him, apologising to him and calming the non-verbal outrage of all the other regular customers took some time. At last she sat back, facing Trish again.

‘Aren’t you adding two and two and making about eight?’ she said. ‘Why on earth should she have been Stephanie’s source? What’s the connection between a beautiful young black model and a frustrated woman police constable?’

‘Apart from the fact that they’re both dead, you mean? On the surface, nothing,’ Trish said. ‘But Stephanie claimed to have evidence from the inside of the Slabb organisation, didn’t she?’

‘She did.’

‘And Sam’s death looks like a typical Slabb punishment for informing, doesn’t it?’

‘It does.’

‘Has there been any suggestion of any other information about the Slabbs reaching any of your lot?’

‘Not that I’ve heard of.’

‘Then isn’t it possible that Sam Lock has been killed as a punishment for giving something to Stephanie? Wouldn’t it be more than a coincidence to have two quite separate people secretly collecting evidence against them?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know. But Stephanie hadn’t passed on her information, so even if Sam was her source, how would the Slabbs know anything about it?’

‘There you have me,’ Trish said. ‘I don’t know. But I’d have thought it was definitely worth your people looking into. Stephanie had been talking to helplines and senior officers
about John Crayley’s connection with the Slabbs. What if you’re right and one of the officers she trusted is bent?’

‘Don’t, Trish.’

‘There’s no point hiding from it. If he passed on to the Slabbs what Stephanie had told him, and they carried out an internal investigation and found it led to Sam Lock, this could have been the result. Don’t look so sceptical, Caro. Isn’t it possible?’

‘I suppose it is. But I don’t see how anyone – you, me, or the hottest brains in the Serious and Organised Crime Group’s Project Team – could ever prove it now that both women are dead.’ Caro’s face was a screwed-up mask of frustration. ‘I don’t believe in mystics or spiritualism.’

Trish stuck to her guns. ‘You wouldn’t need either. There has to be someone who knows exactly what Stephanie was doing, and what evidence she had. Someone other than bent cops and the Slabbs, I mean.’

‘Unlikely. I asked around after her death. She hasn’t lived with anyone since John Crayley and, although she did have friends, none of them sounded close enough to be a trusted confidant.’

‘There has to be someone,’ Trish said again. ‘I don’t believe you can be the kind of whistle-blower she was without someone to nourish your outrage. Maybe you could do a one-off on your own, but not go on and on, facing down the loathing of your contemporaries and your senior officers for years at a time.’

‘I don’t know that the
senior
officers disliked Stephanie, whatever the rank and file may have thought of her.’

‘Come on, Caro. They must have. It’s only natural to dislike someone who shows you up as incompetent enough to have dishonest, inefficient or bullying staff.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Think how lonely she must have been after John left her.’ The idea of it had been at the back of Trish’s mind for much of the last week. As she spoke, its ramifications were becoming
clearer to her. ‘She must have had someone to talk to. Probably not a colleague, not a current one anyway, because that wouldn’t have been safe. If it were me, especially after my lover had dumped me for my best friend, I’d go for someone a bit detached, probably in every way. I mean personally as well as professionally. I think you ought to look for a civilian, who may once have worked with the police and admired Stephanie, but who had no sexual interest in her.’

Caro laughed. There was no humour anywhere in the bitterness of the sound. ‘Turning psychic now, Trish? Maybe your crystal ball will tell us how we can find this mythical person.’

‘If her parents are still alive, you could try asking them who wrote condolences and follow those up,’ Trish said, forgetting her idea that Stephanie could have been the renegade Slabb schoolgirl. ‘Or you could hang about at the funeral and try to spot someone unexpected in the congregation.’

‘It’s a thought. About the funeral, I mean. Although it’ll be packed because it was such a high-profile killing.’ Caro’s face and voice were both softening as she talked. ‘It’s on Friday afternoon. D’you want to come with me? See if you can spot your mystery contact? I shouldn’t have been so bitchy – you might be right. You often are.’

Trish was surprised. ‘I thought they never released bodies of murder victims for burial until the defence had had a chance to have a second autopsy done.’

‘That’s not always true. Sam’s will have to stay in storage until we put someone on trial. That’s the kind of case where the defence will want their own post mortem. This isn’t. Everyone knows how Stephanie was killed and where it happened – and when – so there’s no scientific evidence attached to the body. And a funeral’s necessary. A police officer killed in the line of duty needs a big ceremony, with a lot of top brass there. It’s a respect thing.’

‘OK. I’ll come, if you think there’ll be room for me. Where’s it to be?’

‘A church in Clapham, with the burial at a huge graveyard near St George’s Hospital in Tooting. I can email you the details. Three o’clock start.’