Primal Cut (6 page)

Dexter returned to her car in Charterhouse Street. Something had unsettled her: maybe it was the smell of meat and death that pervaded the place, maybe it was the strange staring eyes of the Garrods. Maybe it was something else. Something subliminal: a connection that the conscious mind
hadn’t quite made. Something she had seen.

Dexter climbed into her car and locked the door. She sat looking towards Smithfield, uncertain how to proceed. After a minute, she saw the Garrods’ van turn down Hayne Street: she watched the strange, ancient vehicle trundle down the incline. It stopped directly in front of her car as it indicated right to make the turn into Charterhouse Street. Ray Garrod sat in the passenger seat, he seemed to be shouting something excitedly to his brother. He hadn’t noticed her. Dexter stared in fascination at the odd pair then allowed her eyes to drift along the side of the van to the text printed there:

‘Garrod and Sons, Family Butchers, Norlington Road, Leyton, E10.’

Dexter felt a sudden shock of excitement.

Brian Patterson worked at Smithfield. Brian Patterson lived in Francis Road Leyton. Francis Road runs parallel to Norlington Road. The Garrods’ shop is on Norlington Road.

Dexter immediately started the engine and swung out into the traffic behind the Garrods’ van. She felt detached from the moment, unsure of where her thoughts were pushing her.

The Garrods buy meat from the stall at Smithfield where Patterson worked. At least one of the Garrods is fucking peculiar. Jesus Christ. Had they driven Patterson back to Leyton after work on
the day he vanished? But who were the Garrods and what motive could they have for killing him?

Detective Sergeant Alison Dexter’s thought process was accelerating. Her mental curiosity demanded satisfaction. She trailed the van all the way back to Leyton then parked up at the end of Norlington Road and watched the brothers unload their new stock.

Pathologist Roger Leach watched John Underwood eating a lunchtime sausage roll with obvious disdain.

‘How can you eat that muck?’ he asked. ‘It’s all ground up bone and fat. It’ll go straight to your heart.’

‘Thank you Doctor Leach,’ Underwood replied spraying pastry across his desk. ‘Your professional opinion is duly noted and duly ignored. Now, tell me about this Shaw character. How did you ID him?’

Leach opened his file. ‘We fingerprinted his remains after we’d brought them in from the railway. Farrell got a match. Leonard Shaw of Balehurst, Cambridgeshire. Farm worker. Convicted of ABH in 1992 after a punch up in a boozer.’

‘Interesting,’ Underwood observed. ‘A bit of
violent previous. Cause of death?’

‘Not the train,’ Leach replied, knowing that was the critical fact that Underwood was awaiting. ‘He was dead when the train hit him.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Pattern of decay to brain tissue and heart muscles. Once you die and those areas are deprived of oxygenated blood they start to degenerate. My guess is that Shaw was dead at least an hour before he was mashed up by the train.’

‘Roger, you are a genius,’ Underwood said between mouthfuls. ‘How did he die then?’

‘The back of his head had been bashed in. Repeated blows with a heavy metal object. We found splinters of steel in his hair.’

‘Murder then?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Someone beat this bloke’s head in and dropped him onto a railway track.’ Underwood looked up; DI Mike Bevan was at the door. He waved him in. ‘Mike have a seat, I’m just finishing off with Roger.’

‘Anything interesting?’ Bevan asked, nodding a hello at the pathologist.

‘Murder. Farm worker with his head bashed in,’ Underwood explained.

‘Charming!’ said Bevan with a smile. ‘It’s like Dodge City up here. I had no idea that New Bolden was such a nest of evil.’

Underwood grinned and turned to Leach. ‘Good stuff, Roger. Anything else?’

‘Just one thing.’ Leach turned a page in his notes. ‘A portion of flesh was missing from the victim’s right arm.’

‘The train?’

‘I don’t think so. It looks more like a bite wound. A pretty savage one at that.’

‘What? From a dog?’ Underwood frowned in confusion.

‘Possibly. It’s hard to say at the moment. We’ll run some more checks. It looks like someone’s tried to rip off his tattoo. There’s half an eagle tattoo left on his upper arm.’

‘It’s an identifying mark,’ Bevan interjected. ‘Maybe whoever killed him didn’t want us to find out his name.’

Underwood checked his notes. ‘Good idea, mate, but we know his name already: Leonard Shaw.’

Bevan started slightly. ‘Leonard Shaw from Balehurst?’

Underwood and Leach exchanged surprised expressions. ‘The very same,’ Underwood replied. ‘Something you want to tell us, Mike?’

Bevan reached into his briefcase and pulled out a sheet of typed paper. ‘Remember I scoped out Woollard’s farm last week? I’ve been running DVLA checks on all the car licence plates I got that
night. One belongs to a Mr Leonard Shaw of 3 Old Lane, Balehurst.’

‘Well, well!’ Underwood exclaimed, ‘what we have here gentlemen is a curious coincidence. Leonard Shaw, a convicted violent offender, attends an illegal dogfight at Woollard’s farm, then turns up murdered less than a week later. I suggest that we go and have a word with Bob Woollard.’

Bevan raised an admonishing hand. ‘John, if you’ll bear with me, I might have a better alternative.’

‘Let’s hear it then,’ Underwood instructed.

At 5 p.m. that evening, DI Alison Dexter drove her Mondeo into the car park of New Bolden leisure centre. She was wearing an old West Ham shirt that she’d owned since 1988 and a pair of black shorts that she’d bought in town earlier that afternoon. She felt vaguely ridiculous but sensed an undeniable rush of excitement.

Kelsi was waiting in the Sports Hall, tying her laces at the side of the football pitch. She smiled at Dexter’s outfit.

‘I thought you were the ghost of Bobby Moore for a minute!’

‘More like Bobby Blunder,’ Dexter replied. ‘I just hope I don’t make a complete fool of myself.’

‘You’ll be all right,’ Kelsi assured her. ‘Come and meet the others.’

Eight other players were kicking a ball between them on the five-a-side pitch. Some saw Dexter’s arrival and turned away from the warm up.

‘I’m Bev,’ said one.

‘Alison,’ Dexter replied.

‘Not another Hammer?’ Bev exclaimed in mock exasperation.

‘You leave her alone,’ Kelsi remonstrated. ‘Remember who scored a hat trick in the World Cup final in 1966. West Ham is the home of football.’

Bev shook her head. ‘If I hear another bloody Geoff Hurst story, I swear I’ll whack you.’

Kelsi quickly introduced the other players, first names only. Dexter, her mind flying, could only remember a couple of them. Once the match had started, Dexter realised that this was a serious drawback.

The game was fast and of a standard that surprised Alison Dexter. She hadn’t played for years, a fact that was very quickly exposed. Her mind wandered between extremes. She found it impossible to control the ball, her first touch was embarrassingly clumsy. Although there were no
complaints from her team, Dexter sensed their frustration as she repeatedly squandered possession and misplaced passes. At half time, her heart pounding against her ribcage and sweat streaming down her back, she collapsed onto a wooden bench next to Kelsi.

‘God, I’m fucking useless,’ Dexter gasped.

‘Don’t be daft,’ Kelsi replied, ‘you’re just out of practice.’

‘I couldn’t trap a bag of cement.’

‘You’re not concentrating on the ball,’ Kelsi advised. ‘Watch the ball right onto your foot. Keep your eye on it as you kick it away again. You are looking up all the time, trying to see the pass before you’ve made it.’

Dexter nodded, realising the comments were valid. ‘Eye on the ball,’ she said.

‘Eye on the ball,’ Kelsi confirmed.

In the second half, Dexter played much more effectively, following Kelsi’s advice to the letter. She started to receive congratulations and encouragement from her team. Now thoroughly warmed up, she found it easier to move about the pitch and even scored with a neat six-yard shot. Her team won 3–2. Kelsi put an arm around her shoulder at the end.

‘There you go, Ali. You did great.’

Dexter enjoyed the touch and the compliment.
Her second half performance had at least been respectable; a vast improvement on the previous catastrophic effort.

Ten minutes later, Alison Dexter stood next to Kelsi Hensy in the women’s changing room. She had already showered in her usual quick and efficient manner: perhaps even more quickly and efficiently than usual. Now as she clambered into her grey tracksuit trousers and police sweatshirt she found her eyes drawn inexorably across Kelsi Hensy’s naked body, lingering with the thrill of the voyeur. Was that all she was? Was she just a thrill seeker without the courage to act on her instincts? She found the idea pathetic. However, the alternative frightened her even more.

Dexter suddenly looked up, her hungry eyes locking onto Kelsi’s. Dexter tore her gaze away, dying of embarrassment inside. How long had Kelsi been watching her?

‘Are you coming upstairs for a drink then?’ Kelsi asked, standing naked directly in front of her and vigorously towelling herself dry.

‘I don’t know.’ Dexter found it hard to look her in the eye. ‘Busy at work.’

‘I saw your interview on TV the other day.’ Kelsi reached into her bag and pulled on a pair of white knickers. ‘I didn’t realise that you were a copper.’

‘The flat feet are a giveaway.’

‘You haven’t got flat feet,’ Kelsi said through a smile.

‘It felt like it during the match.’

‘You did fine. Come up for a drink. You can tell me what you were doing in my company car park the other morning.’

Dexter froze in horror, her mind frantically tearing itself apart in search of an excuse. Kelsi turned away and finished getting dressed. Shortly thereafter, Dexter found herself sitting in the leisure centre bar with Kelsi, Bev and Sue. The conversation washed over and around her. She drank Budweiser from a bottle, twisted with shame inside.

‘It must be interesting,’ Sue was saying, ‘more interesting than being a legal secretary anyway.’

There was a silence. Dexter realised Sue was talking to her.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Being a policewoman. It must be so interesting.’

‘It has its moments,’ Dexter conceded, Kelsi’s smiling gaze burning into the side of her head. ‘It’s good when we put one inside, like that arsehole Braun for example. I was happy to see him put away.’

‘Do the male coppers give you shit?’ Kelsi asked.

‘They used to,’ Dexter replied. ‘Not anymore though.’

The conversation went on. Kelsi stared at Dexter over the top of her beer bottle. It made Dexter feel uncomfortable.
She had been seen in the car park of Kelsi’s company. What did Kelsi think she was doing there? Stalking her probably. But, Dexter reasoned, that’s exactly what I was doing. Half of her wanted to run away, the other half felt an overwhelming urge to stay.

At 9.30 p.m., the party broke up as Bev and Sue left together. Dexter and Kelsi followed them downstairs. At the exit to the leisure centre Kelsi turned to face Dexter.

‘Ali, would you mind driving me home. Getting cabs from here is a nightmare.’

Dexter floundered; she could see Kelsi’s Peugeot 206 parked a few yards away. What did the question mean?

‘I’ve had a few beers tonight,’ Kelsi explained as if reading her mind. ‘I don’t want you to arrest me if I drive into a lamp post.’

‘No problem.’ Dexter pressed her remote control car lock and the Mondeo clicked open.

‘That’s really sweet of you.’

The drive took about ten minutes. Kelsi Hensy lived in a small mews development: six small houses arranged neatly around a central courtyard. Dexter pulled up and parked as directed.

‘Nice place,’ she observed through the windscreen.

‘It’s a bit pokey but I like it,’ Kelsi replied. ‘Come in for a coffee?’ Dexter’s mind swam.

‘Just five minutes,’ Kelsi compromised.

Dexter turned off the engine and followed Kelsi out into the biting night air. On the doorstep of her house, Kelsi turned, put a hand either side of Dexter’s face and kissed her. Stunned, Dexter felt Kelsi’s tongue push into her mouth, insistent and confident. Dexter felt a hot rush of sexuality tinged with a sudden panic. It was an intoxicating mixture that she had never previously experienced.

‘I saw you looking at me,’ Kelsi breathed as they broke off the kiss. ‘I want you too.’

‘This is a bad idea,’ was all Dexter could muster in response.

Kelsi unlocked her front door and drew Dexter inside. The warmth was comforting. They kissed again. Now Kelsi’s hand toyed with the drawstring at the top of Dexter’s tracksuit trousers. Dexter was panicking, awash with desire and confusion, her ability to control was disintegrating. Her tracksuit trousers fell around her ankles.

‘We can’t do this, Kelsi,’ Dexter gasped, the elastic of her knickers tugging at her skin as Kelsi’s hand pushed further.

‘You don’t mean that. You came to my office to look at me. You want me.’ Kelsi kissed her again this time with reassuring delicacy. Alison Dexter felt
herself weakening. She was surrendering to the moment with an intensity that was overwhelming.

She allowed Kelsi to push her back into an armchair.

Rain began to patter at the windows of the house. Sitting in his car outside, a figure, indistinguishable in the dark, watched the rain speckle on his windscreen.

The shop bell tinkled as DS Alison Dexter entered ‘Garrod and Sons, Family Butchers’. It was an old-fashioned shop: ancient grinding machines along the far wall, black and white ceramic tiles on the floor. Bartholomew Garrod was sitting behind the counter reading a book and eating a sandwich.

‘Mr Garrod? Can I talk with you?’

He didn’t look up. ‘What about?’

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Dexter from Leyton CID. I saw you at Smithfield this morning. I’m investigating the death of a man called Brian Patterson.’ She watched him carefully. His expression didn’t change.