Good Girls Don't Die (5 page)

Ivo Sweatman picked up the story from his news feed. A strangled young woman wasn’t much in itself, but she’d been identified as Rachel Moston, a twenty-one-year-old law student, due to graduate this summer from the University of Essex: the perfect kind of senseless tragedy to arouse the wrath and sorrow of the hard-working, family-minded readers of the
Courier
. Then he noticed that she’d been murdered in Colchester, which was where he’d toyed with the idea of doing a piece the day before about a missing student. He had no plans for the weekend, it was a sunny day, and maybe a trip out to Essex on expenses would liven things up. Didn’t matter whether the two incidents were related; they were now. If something bigger came along, he could easily dash back to London before the Young Ferret had a chance to sharpen his elbows.

The media conference was the usual affair. He didn’t recognise Hilary Burnett, and had the impression that she was relatively new, not only to Essex but to police culture. That could go either way, but he’d make sure to be extra
friendly in case her inexperience left her unguarded. He scanned the room. Not many people here: a local BBC news crew, a couple of stringers; didn’t look like any of his esteemed London colleagues were on to it yet. He’d left a message for Roxanne Carson at the Colchester
Mercury
, but she’d not got back to him. In any case, he guessed she might be the elfin-looking girl with a mass of dark curly hair in the second row. He’d noticed that women seldom sat right at the front: too afraid of being thought ball-breakers. He waited for her to catch his eye, then smiled and shifted along so he could sit behind her. He leaned over the gilt and red plush chairs – why were these places always furnished like second-rate bingo halls? – and held out his hand.

‘Ivo Sweatman, chief crime correspondent on the
Courier
. I think we spoke the other day?’

She looked thrilled, bless her. ‘Hi, yes. Roxanne.’

Her hand was dainty, but he recognised a kind of gluttony in her eyes that he approved of. He was satisfied now that he’d been right to abandon his desk, even if it did mean leaving the Young Ferret to dream he was king of the castle in the interim.

‘So what’s the latest?’ he asked.

‘They’ve not added to the previous statement.’

‘Are they linking it to Polly Sinclair?’

‘Keeping an open mind. Still hoping Polly will turn up.’

‘What do Polly’s parents say?’

Her face fell, and he guessed she was ticking herself off for not having thought to make the call.

‘If they’re going to talk to anyone, it’ll be you, won’t it?’ he cooed. ‘After that lovely interview you did.’

She blushed; she actually blushed! This was almost too easy: like shooting fish in a barrel.

‘I’ll call them as soon as this finishes.’

He was about to say ‘Do it now’, but a hush fell as Keith led the way to the long table set up facing the sparse audience. Behind him was a huge image of the red, white and blue Essex Police crest, topped by
Taking a lead in making Essex safer
– a brand motto the force might live to regret. Ivo had worked a lot of cases with Keith when he’d been a DCI in the Met, and his old pal now gave him a businesslike nod. Hilary Burnett spotted it, and Ivo rather suspected she would be none too keen on them getting together to rehash old times. Next to Keith was a slender, rather lovely young woman who reminded Ivo of his first wife. Probably his daughter as well, except it was at least ten years since he’d set eyes on her.

Hilary opened with a feeble joke that nobody had come to listen to her, and lost no time introducing the senior investigating officer, Detective Superintendent Stalgood, who was accompanied by Detective Sergeant Fisher, a member of the enquiry team for Rachel Moston’s murder.

After the usual platitudes about liaising with the university authorities to offer reassurance and advice, concerns for student safety and stepping up patrols, the SIO got down to the nitty-gritty, which didn’t amount to much. Apart from confirming that the cause of death was strangulation, making this officially a murder enquiry, and a bland
catch-all that they were vigorously pursuing several possible leads, it was obvious they had nothing – or nothing they wished to share.

‘This is an incredibly difficult time for Rachel’s family and we are keeping them informed of every step of our investigation,’ said Keith, wrapping up his spiel. ‘I and my officers are committed to bringing her killer to justice as quickly as possible.’

Hilary indicated that they’d now take questions from the floor and Ivo shot to his feet, notebook ostentatiously in hand. ‘Ivo Sweatman,
Daily Courier
. Do you currently have anyone under arrest?’

‘Not at this time. As I say, we’re pursuing a number of leads.’

‘Is there a link between Rachel’s murder and the missing student Polly Sinclair?’ Ivo asked. He was gratified that a couple of heads swivelled in his direction: the other pillocks either didn’t know about Polly or had been too slow to make the connection. He was almost sorry he’d done their job for them, but he was more interested in poking Keith to see what reaction he got.

Disappointingly, it was Hilary who took the question. ‘Only one in seven thousand, four hundred missing people are victims of homicide. This force alone handles over two thousand missing person reports per year, ninety-nine per cent of which are resolved. Despite our ongoing concern for Polly Sinclair’s well-being, we have no reason at this stage not to believe she will yet be found safe and well.’

Ivo could tell from the way Keith’s lips narrowed that he
was annoyed by this pointless attempt at deflection, which only went to confirm Ivo’s surmise that Hilary was out of her depth. Ivo caught Keith’s eye, raised a provocatively ironic eyebrow and, sure enough, Keith rose to the bait.

‘We have not so far been able to locate Polly, and her disappearance is entirely out of character. Her parents are naturally extremely anxious, and our concern for her welfare grows with each passing day.’ Keith spoke with what sounded like genuine passion. ‘We are keen to hear from anyone who has seen Polly, or has any information about her whereabouts or movements since late Friday night. I’d also like to make a direct appeal to Polly herself to get in touch with us.’ He turned to face the TV camera directly. ‘If you’re watching this, Polly, please contact us. You’re not in any trouble. We simply wish to make sure that you’re safe and well, and we will completely respect your privacy.’

‘Two girls apparently victimised in a matter of days,’ pressed Ivo.’ You’re sure you’re not on the lookout for a serial killer?’

Well used to this game, Keith gave him a look of weary forbearance and answered with a terse ‘No’.

Seated behind Roxanne, Ivo couldn’t help but catch some covert eye contact between DS Fisher and the cub reporter. DS Fisher caught him looking, and immediately tried unsuccessfully to camouflage the direction of her gaze, confirming Ivo’s feeling that this story was definitely a runner.

‘I’d urge you not to get ahead of yourself, Ivo,’ Keith continued. ‘And not to alarm the public unnecessarily.’ He
deliberately swept his gaze around the room, away from Ivo. ‘I reiterate, we have made a thorough search of the surrounding area near to where Polly Sinclair was last seen, and we remain gravely concerned about her disappearance.’

‘Polly was last seen after she left the Blue Bar, is that correct?’ Ivo allowed his pen to hover innocently over his notebook. ‘Where was Rachel Moston last seen?’

‘My officers are continuing their enquiries to establish the circumstances surrounding Rachel’s tragic death, and we will of course keep you all informed. We urge anyone with any information to come forward as soon as they can.’ Keith nodded briskly to Hilary and rose to his feet.

‘Thank you, everybody,’ Hilary called over the immediate buzz of voices. She waved a folder above her head. ‘I have spare media packs if anyone wants one.’

Ivo leaned over to speak in Roxanne’s ear. ‘Who’s the Ice Maiden?’

She turned to look at him and then followed his gaze. ‘Old friend of mine,’ she whispered eagerly. ‘Grace Fisher. Only arrived this week.’

‘Where was she before?’ he asked casually, as they edged out together along the row of chairs.

‘Major Investigation Team at Maidstone.’

‘And how come you know her?’ he asked, prompting her to go ahead of him towards the exit.

‘We were at uni together. Sussex.’

‘Why did she make the move here?’ Ivo expected Roxanne to get wise and clam up, but she was either greedier or greener than he thought. Or both.

‘Her marriage broke up, I think,’ she told him. ‘She was married to another copper.’

They paused at the street entrance. ‘Don’t suppose you can recommend the best place to stay?’

‘Sure. The Queen’s is central, and it’s just been modernised.’

‘Look,’ Ivo gave his most disarming smile, ‘I really could do with some help. Makes all the difference, working with someone local. Don’t suppose there’s the slightest chance I could buy you dinner?’

This time she at least attempted to dissemble. ‘Sure,’ she said nonchalantly. ‘I don’t think I’ve anything much else on tonight. Nothing I can’t shift.’

‘Great. Thanks so much.’ He hoped he wasn’t laying it on too thick. ‘See you in the bar at the Queen’s about seven?’

‘Perfect.’ She walked away, a spring in her step, already scrolling down the screen of her mobile.

By the time he’d checked in, rearranged his room the way he liked it and connected his laptop to the hotel wi-fi, tomorrow’s story was already written in his head.
Six days in hell … Parents’ anguish as police sources deny that a manhunt has begun for a serial killer who may already have slain blonde-haired Polly Sinclair …
He still had plenty of time to file his copy. He’d rather not have to run with the photos of Rachel and Polly available on the police media website; it would be better to get exclusive pictures. He could probably scrape something off Rachel’s social media pages, but he’d head out later to see what else he could pick up. Meanwhile he’d
do a little digging into Hilary Burnett, discover the best way to curry favour there. Later on he could set Roxanne the task of extracting exclusive material out of Polly’s parents.

He thought back to when he’d first started in Fleet Street, back in the days when it really
was
Fleet Street; he’d had a night editor who insisted that any journalist worth his salt always carried a letter of resignation in his back pocket. Times had changed, and these days Ivo preferred simply to make sure he always had some kind of advantage over anyone even remotely connected with a story, or enough anyway to give him an edge over any opposition.

He poured himself some fizzy water from the minibar. If he was going to stay in town for more than a few days, he might track down a local meeting: you never knew who you might run into in the fellowship. Then he kicked off his shoes and settled himself comfortably on his bed with his laptop. Everybody knew that Keith Stalgood kept a whacking great skeleton in an unlocked cupboard, but while he was at it, he might as well check out the Ice Maiden, too: shouldn’t take more than a couple of calls to Sussex University and Kent Police to get to know DS Fisher a whole lot better.

As Grace watched the young woman cry, the adrenaline that, since today’s dawn start, had so far overcome her combined hangover and lack of sleep began to ebb away. She, too, would have liked to sit with her head in her hands and shut out the world for a moment. Caitlin and Amber were Rachel Moston’s housemates, and, like the murder victim, also third-year law students about to graduate. It was Caitlin who was weeping, tears of helplessness and disbelief that made her look like she must have done as a child. Amber, shocked into silence, had backed off to one side of the room as if needing the wall for support.

Upstairs in Rachel’s bedroom fellow officers were working their way through her belongings; on the kitchen table her laptop lay already bagged up with an evidence seal.

‘Are you really sure it’s her?’ asked Caitlin.

Grace nodded. She did not give details of Rachel’s parents’ visit to the mortuary, nor the anguished phone call they had subsequently received from Rachel’s boyfriend.

‘Were you with her last night?’ Grace asked instead.

‘No. We were at a gig on campus,’ explained Caitlin. ‘That’s why we weren’t really sure where she was. I’d texted her, but she didn’t reply.’

Grace nodded: they’d already read Caitlin’s text on the mobile also found in the jacket that had cushioned Rachel’s head.

‘How would she normally have got home after a night out?’

‘Train. If it’s late, then a taxi. There’s usually other people heading back to Wivenhoe so we can split the fare.’

‘Your landlord is Pawel Zawodny?’ asked Lance. Caitlin nodded. Grace also saw Amber pay attention for the first time.

They had learned that this three-bedroom house on Alma Street, one of the prettier roads in Wivenhoe, was the most recent of Pawel’s student lets. Grace could see how he had extended the ground floor into a small conservatory to create a single, light living area. The walls were painted a similar blue to Polly and Jessica’s tiny courtyard, with dark-grey built-in shelves. The floor was an inexpensive wood-effect, but nicely done and in a tone that matched the slatted blinds. It was obvious that he took trouble over his projects, that he was, just as Lance had said, organised and precise.

‘Do you know his other tenants?’ Lance asked. ‘He has a couple of other student houses in Wivenhoe.’

Caitlin shook her head.

‘Might Rachel have known Polly Sinclair?’

‘Don’t think so. I only know the name because people are talking about her.’

‘Is she the one who’s gone missing?’ Amber spoke for the first time since introducing herself.

‘Yes,’ said Lance. ‘Rents a house in Station Road. Drinks at the Blue Bar.’

‘Second-year modern languages,’ added Grace, but both girls shook their heads. Caitlin began to cry again, and Amber came to sit beside her, tucking her knees up under her chin and placing an arm around Caitlin’s shoulders while looking up at the two detectives with big frightened eyes that reminded Grace of the exaggerated animation of Puss in
Shrek
.

‘Did Rachel often go to the Blue Bar?’ asked Lance.

‘I guess. We all do if we’re in Colchester. It’s a good place to meet up.’

‘One of your tutors, Dr Beeston, drinks there, too,’ said Grace. ‘Was he friendly with Rachel?’

‘Matt? No!’

Grace smiled. ‘You seem pretty sure.’

‘We try to avoid him, that’s all. He fancies himself too much as a player.’

‘Rachel wouldn’t have been meeting him there?’

‘No way.’

‘Have you ever felt threatened by him?’

‘Nah. I mean, he’s a nice enough guy, I suppose.’ Caitlin paused. ‘He’s fine as a teacher.’

‘But you wouldn’t socialise?’

‘No.’

‘So what do you mean, then, when you say he’s a player?’

‘He hits on the newbies, before they wise up. He’s a bit lame, that’s all.’

‘Bad enough for anyone to complain to the faculty?’

Caitlin merely shrugged, so Grace moved on. ‘Can you think of anyone Rachel might have felt threatened by?’ she asked. ‘Anyone hassling her or giving her unwanted attention? A rejected boyfriend, or someone from home?’

Caitlin looked to Amber, who dragged her gaze away from Grace only to shake her head.

‘Rachel’s really straight, you know?’ Grace had to strain to hear Amber’s quiet voice. ‘Easy. Kind. Her life is just friends, family, boyfriend, work.
Was
,’ Amber corrected herself, reaching for Caitlin’s hand. ‘
Was
kind and easy. This can’t be happening! She had such a good job lined up and everything. She can’t be dead! It’s not fair!’

‘I’m really sorry.’ Grace spoke as calmly as she could. ‘Just a couple more questions, then we’ll leave you in peace. Firstly, did Rachel have a red jacket, cut like a bomber jacket, with button-down breast pockets?’

Caitlin nodded miserably.

‘Was vodka a drink she liked?’

‘I don’t know. Not particularly.’

Grace knew that the officers upstairs had already checked for any vodka bottles in the house, and that the rubbish had been bagged up and would be taken away for examination. She gave Lance a slight nod, indicating he should take over the questions.

‘Do you see much of your landlord?’

‘He was here yesterday, to mend the shower,’ said Caitlin.

Lance looked triumphantly at Grace. ‘What time was that?’

‘About six. He came over specially, because we wanted showers before we went out.’

‘And Rachel was here then?’

‘Yes.’ Caitlin’s eyes filled once more with tears.

‘How long was he here?’

‘Not long. It just needed a new fixing in the wall.’

‘How do you get on with him?’ Lance asked.

‘Fine. Pawel’s a good landlord. Makes a real effort.’

Grace noticed that Amber, staring at her hands in her lap, was picking at her nails. ‘Would you say the same, Amber?’ she asked gently.

Amber looked as though she’d been caught out at something. ‘Oh, yeah, he’s fine,’ she said dismissively, hiding her hands.

‘All his tenants are women,’ Grace observed, as if the thought had only just stuck her. ‘No issues there?’

‘No,’ Amber answered, with the kind of moody shrug a teenager might give. Grace wondered what she wasn’t saying, and why. She looked at Lance, but he appeared not to have noticed anything amiss.

‘OK, thanks,’ Grace said. ‘We may have further questions, and we must ask you not to touch any of Rachel’s belongings.’

‘You’ll probably get the press banging on your door,’ Lance warned them. ‘Or trying to make contact with you through your social media. We can’t tell you what to do,
but we’d very much prefer you not to talk to them or engage with them in any way as it can complicate the enquiry. They can be very persistent, so let us know if it gets too much.’

‘You may be better going to stay with friends tonight.’

‘I just want to go home,’ said Caitlin. ‘Is that all right?’

Grace nodded. ‘You’ve got our cards. Just send us your contact details.’

She and Lance let themselves out and walked back to the car.

The midsummer solstice was approaching and it wouldn’t be dark for several hours yet, but as Lance drove, Grace watched the trees already casting flickering shadows across the road. The way out of Wivenhoe led past small post-war council estates and then a ribbon of bungalows. She could see stretches of woodland beyond and it was not long before they reached agricultural land. Where was Polly, she asked herself. What vital lead were they missing?

She summoned to mind the image of Rachel’s body early this morning lying on the sharp-edged broken bricks, roof tiles and lumps of plaster of the demolition site. Grace had seen other crime scenes, other bodies that sprawled on the ground as they had fallen or been thrown down, dumped or pushed aside, bruised, bloodied and bloated corpses with splayed legs, ungainly arms, faces pushed into mud and dirt – or worse. Never had she seen a murder victim left the way Rachel Moston’s killer had left her.

There had been no attempt to conceal the body. As soon as it was light, Rachel had been spotted by someone walking past. She’d been laid down decently, the violating bottle
hidden modestly beneath her skirt, so much so that the office cleaner who called the emergency services had thought at first it was someone playing a prank, lying down there deliberately as some kind of practical joke.

Had Rachel been carrying her jacket, Grace conjectured, or had her killer removed it in order to fold it beneath her head? For, despite the crude indignity of the vodka bottle, Grace was sure there was something genuinely tender and regretful, an air almost of sorrow or contrition, about the way Rachel had been so delicately laid down on the rough ground.

She thought back to when they’d spoken to Matt Beeston. Despite his obvious alarm that Polly might have made some kind of complaint against him, he hadn’t been in the least regretful. There had been no hint of apology, either, in the direct way Pawel Zawodny had eyed Grace up and down in her summer dress that first day. She hoped they weren’t looking in entirely the wrong direction by concentrating on what connected Polly and Rachel.

She became conscious of Lance glancing at her from time to time as he drove. ‘Sorry,’ she said, smiling. ‘Too tired for small talk. D’you mind?’

‘No. But –’

‘What?’

‘Another time.’

‘No, go on.’

‘You know there’s talk about why you left Kent?’

She felt clammy and sick. All the old tension and broiling injustice and hurt came flooding back. She looked angrily
out of the side window, waiting for the rush to subside: it wasn’t Lance’s fault, after all.

‘I thought you ought to know.’ He sounded half apologetic, half aggrieved.

‘Thanks,’ Grace said, turning to look at him. ‘Really, I appreciate it. Better to know.’ She took a deep breath, bracing herself for the worst. ‘So what are people saying?’

‘Why don’t you tell me first what happened?’

‘What, I’m a suspect?’ She laughed bitterly.

‘If you don’t want to talk about it –’

‘No. It’s fine.’ She tried to work out how little she could get away with. ‘A guy called Lee Roberts, a very popular uniformed constable and star of the police national cycling team, got busted red-handed along with the dealer who was selling him banned steroids and amphetamines.’

‘Word is you fitted him up.’

‘It was a clean bust,’ she told Lance sharply, and hoped her burning face wouldn’t give her away. ‘But I had been concerned about him. He’d always had a short fuse and was starting to get paranoid, showing signs of amphetamine psychosis. There was an incident with a prisoner. I didn’t think it should’ve been hushed up and I said so. Spoke up about him needing help, too. No one did anything, but then when he got caught, he blamed it all on me.’

‘And you left Kent because –?’

‘I quit.’ All over again, she tasted the bitter disappointment of her DCI’s silent relief when she’d handed him her letter of resignation. ‘Like I say, Lee Roberts was a very popular guy.’

‘And you weren’t?’

‘Obviously not.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘Pretty much. Does that fit with what you’ve heard?’

‘I guess so.’

Grace could see from the tight set of Lance’s mouth that he wasn’t entirely satisfied, but this would have to do, for now, at any rate. She wasn’t going to start telling him about the hate mail, the dog turds in her desk drawer or how Lee’s girlfriend spat in her face one weekend in a crowded supermarket aisle. She had no evidence to prove her fellow officers had waged such a war of attrition against her: after all, who could she go to? Not the police, that was for sure.

To her relief, her mobile rang, and she thanked whatever stars were looking out for her. Duncan’s name appeared on screen, and she put him on speaker. ‘Hey?’

Duncan’s excitement filled the car. ‘Transactions on Matt Beeston’s credit card show he was buying drinks at the Blue Bar last night. Same time Rachel Moston was there. Not only that, he was there the night Polly disappeared, too.’

‘He never mentioned that,’ said Grace.

‘Correct.’

‘Rachel’s housemate just told us that he’s a player, hits on the new students.’

‘Even better. The super wants him picked up right away. Plus the clothes he was wearing last night.’

Lance pushed back against the steering wheel and pressed his foot down on the accelerator.

‘Thought you’d be disappointed,’ she teased.

‘Why?’

‘You placed your bets on the Polish landlord.’

‘Ah well, you know what they say: he’ll come again!’ His eyes on the road, Lance didn’t seem too bothered by the investigation’s swift change of focus.

Grace settled back in her seat, reflecting that if only this had been an entirely fresh start, without any of the rotten stuff from the past still hanging over her, she’d have been well satisfied by the progress they were making.