Mother of Demons (9 page)

Chapter Seventeen

They came down the slope parallel to each other and finished together at the bottom. Karin was laughing. “You’ve improved a great deal in two hours, Jason.”

“The benefit of having an excellent teacher,” he said.

“You flatter me,” she said.

“Let me buy you dinner tonight, by way of a thank-you.”

She shook her head. “You’re very kind, but I’m afraid the hotel does not encourage fraternization between instructors and their guests,” she said.

“Then we won’t tell them.”

“I couldn’t. I could lose my job.”

“I’m only here for three nights. The day after next, I’ll be walking the gloomy London streets and wishing I was back breathing alpine air.”

“Three nights?”

“Yes.”

She looked at her watch. “I must go. I’m late for my next student. Thank you, Jason. It was fun today.” She inclined her head and pushed away on her skis.

“Gallo’s,” he called after her. “I’ve booked a table for eight o’clock.”

She looked back at him and gave a shrug. “I can’t.”

“Well, I’ll be there. I hope you are too,” he shouted to her disappearing silhouette.

And if she wasn’t? Well, he was here for two more nights. Plenty of time.

He’d just entered his hotel room and flopped down on the king-size bed when his cell phone rang.

“Harry. How are things your end?”

“We found Markos today.”

“Really?” he said, feeling his spirits start to sink. “Do you want me to cut this short?”

“No. We found Markos, but he’s dead. We still haven’t found Alice, so the search goes on. Have you made contact with the girl yet?”

“I’ve just got back from a very pleasant two hours with her on the slopes.”

“Did you find out anything? We still need to learn everything we can about Markos: his motivations, what made him tick. Anything that might give us a lead to where Alice is. When are you seeing her again?”

“Hopefully tonight. I booked a table first thing this morning on the off chance.”

“Why do you say
hopefully
?”

“Because dating guests is against company policy.”

“Do you think she’ll show up?

“I hope so, or else I’ll have to book another lesson, and my legs are aching like a sonofabitch after today.”

“Well, good luck.”

“How did he die?”

“I won’t know until I speak to the pathologist, but it was pretty brutal. His flesh was cut up like hamburger. Enjoy your dinner.” He rang off.

“Thanks for that, Harry.” Jason lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes. Within seconds he was asleep.

“What killed him, Duncan?” Harry said into the phone.

McBride, the Home Office pathologist, frowned. “Between the two of you, you and Detective Inspector Tyler are making my life very hectic. What’s the story there, Harry? I thought the department didn’t use outside agencies.”

“It’s mutually beneficial, though whether it will continue, now Markos is dead, is open to speculation. Well?”

“The body was a mess—a massive loss of blood from wounds that were inflicted ante mortem. He must have suffered horribly. I’m still trying to find out what was used to cause those kinds of injuries, but as yet my findings are inconclusive.”

“What’s your best guess?”

“Harry, you know me better than that. I don’t speculate. I deal in facts. All I can tell you is what actually killed him.”

“Go on.”

“Cause of death was a single stab wound to the aorta. I say
to
the aorta, but actually what pierced his chest went right through his heart and came out the other side.”

“A knife like the one that killed Kerry Green?”

“No, nothing like that. That knife left a star-shaped entry wound, and you could see tearing of the surrounding tissue as it was removed. No, whatever penetrated Mr. Markos’s heart was something cylindrical and about three-eighths of an inch in diameter: a rod of some kind, metal, wood, maybe fiberglass. Whatever it was left no residue in the wound. It was a very clean hole. Thinking about it, it could be a glass spear. We’re still running tests. I’ll let you know as soon as I have something more definite.”

“Time of death?”

“Ah, that I can pin down by his liver temperature,” McBride said. “Between the hours of two and four this morning.”

“Any drugs in his system?”

“The toxicology report has come back negative for drugs, prescription or otherwise. Your boy was clean.”

“Okay, Professor. Call me when you’ve got a better idea about the weapons used.”

“We’ve got the footage you wanted from Traffic,” Gillian said as Susan and Bartlett arrived back at the station.

“Is it something we can use?” she said.

“It’s in the player in the incident room.”

“Get everyone in there. We’ll watch it together.”

Five minutes later the incident room was packed. Bartlett switched on the television and pressed Play on the DVD player. There was a short run of blank white screen, and then they were sitting and standing, watching footage of Waterloo Bridge taken at three fifteen the previous morning.

There was no traffic on the bridge until a car drove along and stopped on the westbound carriageway. A figure dressed in a black hoodie got out of the car, went around to the rear, opened the trunk and pulled out a lifeless body of a girl. Hoisting the corpse onto his shoulder, the figure took two steps and launched the body into space over the side of the bridge. Then, without looking back, the figure slammed the trunk shut, climbed back behind the wheel and drove away. The whole incident had taken less than two minutes.

“Play it again,” Susan said.

Bartlett pressed Play again and the footage repeated.

“And again. And I want you all to watch carefully and tell me if there’s something we can use to help us find Kerry Green’s killer, because I’m fucked if I can see anything useful.”

They watched it again. When it stopped, Susan said, “Well?”

“It’s a light blue Peugeot 207. We’ll have the plate once this goes down to the lab.”

“It’s probably stolen,” Susan said. “He drives onto the bridge, bold as brass, and parks in clear view of the camera, dumps the body and drives off. He was making no effort to hide what he was doing. He doesn’t care, thinks he’s fireproof.”

“You can’t get a look at his face,” Witherspoon said. “It’s hidden by his hood.”

“You can’t even tell if it’s male or female. Could be a girl,” Tom Fox said.

“A bloody strong one if it is. Hauls that body out of the trunk as if it’s a rag doll,” Bartlett said.

“So basically nothing we can use,” Susan said. There was silence in the room. “No, I thought not. It’s been that kind of day. Jake, get down to that club in Soho and show Kerry’s photo around. Take Brian with you. I think it’s about bloody time our luck changed. If anyone wants me, I’ll be in my office.” She stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

She walked into her office and closed the door, sat down at her desk, took out her electronic cigarette and started puffing on it furiously. What a godawful day, she thought and stared down at her hands. They were visibly shaking. Every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was the butchered body of Anton Markos lying on the stone altar. She stood again and rushed to the toilet, barely making it through the door before she threw up.

“Come in and close the door, Harry,” Crozier said.

Harry walked into Crozier’s office and shut the door behind him. He sat down at the desk, feeling every inch the errant schoolboy hauled up in front of the headmaster.

“Are you losing control of this?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Don’t be bloody coy with me. You know exactly what I mean. You have a member of the public living the high life in Austria at our expense; you’re letting Violet Bulmer lead you by the nose—”

“That’s not fair, Simon. Vi has—”

“Shut up, Harry. I haven’t finished. You’re letting Violet Bulmer lead you by the nose through this case. And you’ve involved the Met in one of our investigations. I’ve just had Deputy Commissioner Mackie on the phone, tearing me a new one because you’re involving his force without going through the correct channels.”

“Can’t you get the Home Secretary to have a word in his ear? Quiet him down?”

“I can do that and will probably
have
to do that. But you’re missing the point. You’re leaving us very exposed here. The press is already sniffing around at Barking, threatening to break the story in the nationals. The wrong people are starting to ask the wrong sort of questions. So I ask again, are you in control of this?”

“Inasmuch as I can be,” Harry said.

“What kind of answer is that? I expect this kind of escalating mess from Robert Carter. I don’t expect it from you.”

Harry crossed and uncrossed his legs. He took a deep breath and measured his words carefully.

“West is a very good investigator. I’ve been watching him develop over the last few years. In fact he’s
so
good, I’m going to recommend he join us full-time when he gets back from Austria. Vi’s a valuable outside asset. She isn’t
leading me by the nose
, as you put it. She’s brought some things to our attention, that’s all. I’m following through.”

“Yes, with her leading you by the nose.”

Harry glared at him. “And Detective Inspector Tyler came to me for help, not the other way round, so if Mackie wants to go around chewing people’s ears off, he should start looking in his own backyard first.”

Crozier looked at Harry steadily. “Finished?”

Harry opened his mouth to speak again, but snapped it shut.

“Good. Harry, I’m not being unreasonable here. I know events can unfold in ways you don’t expect. I’m just asking that you be more circumspect in the future. Department 18 works because it operates under the radar. By involving outside people and outside agencies, we leave ourselves open to scrutiny, by the media and by people higher up the governmental food chain than me. Understand?”

Harry nodded.

“So where are you taking the hunt for Alice Logan next?”

“You want me to carry on then?”

“Of course I want you to carry on. We offered Vi Bulmer our help. It would be churlish to withdraw that offer. We agree that she’s been a great asset to us in the past, and I want that to continue, so we’ll do what we can to help her. Just tighten the reins and don’t let her run the operation. This is a Department 18 investigation. Don’t let other people hijack it. And if the press come sniffing around…”

Harry gave him an
are you kidding me?
look.

“Well, I’ve made you aware of my feelings.”

“Thanks for sharing. Anything else?”

“Just go and do your job, Harry.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do,” Harry said bleakly. He got up and walked out of Crozier’s office. The most galling thing was, Crozier was right.

The telephone rang on Susan’s desk. What now? She picked it up. “DI Tyler.”

“It’s Harry. Do you fancy going out for a drink tonight? There are a few things I’d like to run by you.”

“Haven’t you had enough for one day?”

“Yes, actually I have, but I’d still like to take you for a drink. Do you know the Wellington in Bridge Street?”

“I know it. It’s five minutes away.”

“Meet you there in about half an hour?”

“Okay,” she said and put down the phone, picked up her electronic cigarette and inhaled deeply.

Chapter Eighteen

Not for the first time in his life, Crozier felt conflicted. He felt he had no choice but to allow Harry to continue his investigation. He trusted Harry’s instincts, but he also knew that Harry’s main weakness was that he often thought with his gut and not his head. Sometimes Crozier had to ignore their friendship and pull rank. Increasingly he was finding it a difficult thing to do.

“Trudy,” he said into the intercom on his desk. “Hold my calls. I’ll be out of the office for an hour.”

“You’re late for your appointment with Dr. Merriman.”

“Exactly. That’s where I’ll be if you need me.”

He walked out of his office and took the elevator up to the next floor. Here the layout was softer, less formal than in the rest of the building. He walked along the corridor to an office that looked more like somebody’s lounge than a place of work. The door was open and he could see Dr. Julia Merriman sitting, relaxed in her office chair, legs crossed, leather-bound textbook open and propped up on her knee.

He tapped on the door.

She looked up from the book and beckoned him inside. “Come in, Simon,” she said.

Crozier entered the wood-paneled office. She put the book down on a coffee table, picked up a yellow legal pad and rose from her seat to greet him.

Julia Merriman was in her early forties, tall and effortlessly elegant. Her honey-colored hair was swept back from her face in a timeless chignon. “Take a seat,” she said and indicated a black leather chair opposite her own.

She waited until Crozier sat down, adjusted the knife-edge crease on the trousers of his Savile Row suit and made himself comfortable, and then she sat herself and opened the legal pad and consulted her notes.

“Sorry I’m late. I had a meeting,” Crozier said.

“No problem. Coffee?”

He shook his head “No thanks. So, Julia, am I making progress quickly enough for you?”

“It’s been sixteen months since you were attacked, Simon. It was a life-changing, traumatic event. Do you think you’ve made progress quickly enough?”

“I’m not really sure what benefits these therapy sessions are meant to be.”

Julia adjusted her spectacles on the bridge of her nose and stared at him over the top of them. There was a slight smile playing on her lips. “I’ve heard that you’re a new man,” she said. “More relaxed, less irritable, more patient. Do you think that’s a fair assessment?”

“Well. That would depend who you’ve been speaking to.”

Her smile widened. “I never reveal my sources,” she said. “But I find it useful to discover how you’re being perceived by the people you work with. It gives me a clearer impression of the progress you’re making.”

“So are you ready to sign off on these sessions and let me get back to work?”

“These sessions are mandatory in cases where an operative’s life has been on the line,” Julia said.

“I know,” Crozier said. “It was me who instigated them five years ago.”

“Then you should appreciate the benefits of them.”

“I introduced them for my operatives, who often find themselves risking their lives during the course of their work. Not for me, who, for most of the time, sits behind a desk and directs the operations.”

“Then I would have thought these sessions would be even more important for someone in your position. Why are you so eager to bring them to a close? Don’t you enjoy them?”

“I don’t think
enjoy
is the appropriate term. I’ve found them enlightening, and they’ve helped me reassess my life since the attack, to help me realize what is important and what is trivial.”

“Then not such a waste of time?”

Crozier smiled and shook his head. “No, I suppose not. And you’re cheaper than Harley Street.”

Julia scribbled something down on her pad. “Right then, shall we begin?”

“Very well,” Crozier said, settled back in his chair and crossed his legs.

The music was loud enough to make the floorboards throb in the Abyss.

Bartlett and Witherspoon moved through the gyrating bodies on the dance floor, flashing Kerry Green’s picture to little or no response. They rendezvoused at the bar. Bartlett ordered a whiskey, Witherspoon lemonade.

“Ever felt out of place?” Witherspoon said.

“Like a nun in a monastery,” Bartlett agreed.

Witherspoon sipped his lemonade. “Do you see who’s down the bar from us? Three o’clock.”

Bartlett turned his head and looked along the length of the bar “Terry Butler,” he said quietly. “Did you know he was into this scene?”

“I thought mugging old ladies was more his form of entertainment.”

There was a girl hanging on to Butler’s arm. Too young to be drinking, bleached blonde hair and smudged eye makeup. “Who’s that with him?”

“Never seen her before,” Bartlett said. “Come on, let’s go and have a chat with them.”

They moved along the bar and pulled in next to Butler and the girl.

“Hello, Terry. You into this death rock scene?”

Butler picked up his glass and tried his best to ignore them. Witherspoon grabbed his arm and forced it back to the bar before Butler could take a sip. “Don’t be rude, Terry. I said hello.”

“’Lo,” Butler said.

Bartlett pulled the photograph from his pocket and held it out for them both to see. Butler looked at it blankly, but the girl pulled the photograph from Bartlett’s fingers and looked at it closely. “That’s Kezza.”

“Kezza?”

“Kezza. Kerry Green. She was in here the other night. Left with a friend of yours, Terry. Fin whatever-his-name-is. Is she all right? I haven’t seen her since then. Has she been in an accident?”

“She’s dead,” Witherspoon said.

The girl’s face blanched.

“Dead? How?”

“Murdered.”

“Shit.”

“We’d like both of you to come back to Waterloo Road station with us, to give a statement.”

Butler was poised, ready to run. Witherspoon tightened his grip on his arm. “Don’t even think about it, Terry.”

Butler looked to the girl and mouthed, “Stupid bitch.”

Witherspoon saw that the girl was confused, as much by Terry’s anger at her as by the presence of the two policemen and their request. She’d probably never been in trouble with the police before.

“I’ll miss my train,” she said weakly.

“We’ll get someone to take you home afterwards,” Bartlett said. “Come on. Our car’s outside.”

The Wellington public house in Bridge Street was a relic of a bygone age. Resisting all efforts to modernize and turn it into a gastro-pub, or worse, the landlord had retained most of his regular patrons and added to their number by attracting those looking for an adult evening, free of bland, piped music and families with unruly preteens whose idea of going to the pub was to run from table to table and annoy as many people as possible.

Harry ordered tonic water from the bar and found a corner booth from where he could watch the door. Susan walked in before he had drunk halfway down the glass.

He stepped out of the booth, caught her eye and beckoned her over to the bar. “Glad you could make it,” he said. “What can I get you?”

“White wine spritzer, please.”

Harry attracted the barman’s attention and ordered her drink.

“Not drinking, Harry?”

He pointed to the glass of tonic water sitting on the table in the booth. “I’m good.”

The barman set the glass down in front of Susan. She picked it up, took a sip and followed Harry back to the booth.

“I’ve walked past this place lots of times but never come inside. I thought it was an old man’s pub.”

“It is,” Harry said. “I’m an old man.”

“I wouldn’t have said so. What are you? Mid fifties?”

“Round about.”

“That’s not old.”

“Kind, but I think I’ve aged ten years after today.”

“It
was
pretty gruesome,” she said, and started to take her electronic cigarette out of her bag.

He moved and covered her hand with his own. “Sorry,” he said. “They don’t allow them in here.”

She sighed and let the cigarette drop back in the bag.

“That’s what makes these bloody things so pointless. You can’t use them on planes, in pubs and restaurants. What are we quitters supposed to do?”

“Go outside with the regular smokers and freeze your tits off while you suck.”

“Is that progress?”

“No, but it’s much better for you.”

“If you say so.” She smiled. “Were you as shocked as you seemed, finding Markos like that?”

“It wasn’t what I expected to find. I thought it was going to be Alice Logan under that sheet.”

“I must admit, that was what I feared,” Susan said.

“She’s still missing.”

“Yes, I realize that. Do you still want my help trying to find her, or have you brought it all in under Department 18 business?”

Harry didn’t answer. He took a swig of his tonic water and shuddered slightly.

“Are you okay?” she said.

“This stuff is not the same when it’s not diluted with vodka.”

Someone chose a song on the jukebox menu and Elvis started to croon.

“God,” Susan said. “This takes me back. I never got into the Vegas Elvis, but he was a hunk before he started wearing white jumpsuits.”

“I’m surprised you’re old enough to remember.”

“You’re not Irish, are you?”

Harry shook his head.

“Only you’re full of the old blarney.”

“I lived out there for a while. Maybe it rubbed off on me.”

She laughed.

Off duty, Susan was much easier to be with. He had thought twice before asking her to come for a drink, but he had a feeling that beneath the no-nonsense, prickly persona, there was a much softer side to her.

“How long did you live in Ireland?”

“A few years, after I quit the department.”

“You quit?”

“Oh yes, I quit.”

“May I ask why?”

He shook his head. “Do you like being in the police?”

“It’s a job and I’m good at it. I’m not much good at anything else. My house looks like a bomb’s hit it, and I’m a lousy cook. I live on TV dinners and takeouts most of the time.”

“Yes, well, I’m guilty of that too. You’ll have to let me buy you dinner sometime.”

“Are you asking me out on a date, Harry?”

“I thought I already had.”

“And I thought you had some things to discuss about the cases we’re working on.”

“That too,” Harry said with a smile.

“Where do you think Alice could be?”

The smile was wiped from his face and his eyes clouded. “I really haven’t got a clue.”

“You should start with Markos’s apartment in Clerkenwell and his house in the Cotswolds. You might find pointers there to where she’s gone.”

“Yes,” he said. “You’re right. Do you think Markos was responsible for Kerry Green’s murder?”

“That was what I was thinking, which is why I trekked over to Barking.”

“And now?”

“Now, I’m not so sure. There’s definitely a connection. Someone painted a crescent in blood on the wall of the warehouse, and a crescent was carved on Kerry’s body. It could be a coincidence, but it’s a bit of a stretch. At the same time, traffic cameras on Waterloo Bridge filmed someone dropping Kerry’s body into the Thames at three fifteen the night before last. I couldn’t see the face, but it was a much smaller figure than Anton Markos. From the photo in the file you gave me and from what I saw today, I would put him at a bit more than six feet. The person on the bridge I would estimate a good six inches shorter.”

“How did you arrive at that?”

“The person was driving a Peugeot 207. I judged his height by comparing him to the height of the car when he was dragging Kerry’s body from the trunk.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Fair enough. But if not Markos, who?”

“And that, Harry, is the 64,000-dollar question. I’ve got my guys out tonight showing her picture around at the Abyss. It’s a Goth nightclub. She had the club’s reentry stamp on the back of her hand, so we know she was there. If anyone saw her there, we might find out who was the last person to see her.”

“Clever,” Harry said.

“It’s called police work. Can I get you another drink?”

“Same again, please.”

“Tonic water? Don’t you drink?”

“Not anymore.”

Susan gave him a look that said,
I know what you mean, but I’m not going there
. He appreciated that. He found himself beginning to like Susan Tyler—like her very much.

“Tracy…may I call you Tracy?”

The girl from the nightclub nodded. She looked very young sitting in the interview room—young and frightened.

“Tracy, let me say that you’re not in any trouble,” Witherspoon said. “You are here voluntarily as a witness. You’re free to walk out that door at any time, but we would appreciate any help you can give us with our inquiries.”

“Okay,” she said in a very small voice.

“You say you saw Kerry Green, Kezza, at the club the night before last.”

“That’s right.”

“And she was with someone called Fin. Did they seem okay to you? Were they arguing? Did she seem distressed in any way?”

“She didn’t. Nah, she seemed happy, really made up to be with him.”

“And this Fin, you don’t remember his name?”

“Nah. I’ve seen him at the club before and I know Terry knows him.” Her gaze drifted to the ceiling as if she was looking there for the answer to Witherspoon’s question. “It was something Irish. Clancy, something like that.”

A light went on in Witherspoon’s brain. “Clusky? Was it Clusky? Fin Clusky?”

“Could be…yeah…that sounds right.”

“Good girl,” Witherspoon said.

Tracy smiled wanly.