Tastes Like Fear (D.I. Marnie Rome 3) (10 page)

People hugged trees, didn’t they?

His neck shifted with shadow, filling and emptying the hollow at the collar of his shirt. She’d ironed that shirt. And his trousers. He liked to look smart, a hangover from his old life. He couldn’t let it go, that other life. It ran alongside him like a dog. None of them understood. They didn’t hear him tick. They listened to his rules, and followed his instructions. Ate his food, wore his clothes. But they didn’t know what he
was
, not the way Christie knew.

Rain wetted the window above his head, bumping and creeping across the glass in broken stripes. So long since she’d felt it on her face. Two years since she’d sat on that pavement, moving her feet out of the way of the crowds.
Plink-plink
in the torn can she’d put out, weighted with a stone. Rust on her fingers, like blood. An ache between her legs, and her insides scraped raw. Everything tasting of metal and meat. Harm had saved her. His neck was knotted, smooth. She wanted to rub her cheek there.

Aimee was learning. Sick again, in her bed. Best place for her. A quick learner, Aimee.

Christie wondered which one of them would be next.

The next Grace. The next May.

Ashleigh
, she thought.

Ashleigh was next.

17

Pinned on the incident room whiteboard: May’s photograph, before and after. Missing, with a smile on her face. Found, with bruises about her neck.

‘This writing …’ Ron peered at the photos. ‘Why would anyone do that to themselves? Are we sure it wasn’t done by whoever killed her?’

‘Fran thinks not,’ Noah said. ‘There’s none on her back, and it’s much clearer on her left side. She was right-handed.’

‘Did her mum and dad see the writing when they ID’d her?’

‘It was covered by her clothes, so no.’

Sean and Katrina had acknowledged the dead girl as their daughter not in words but with sounds: a wrenched wail from Katrina; raw sobbing from Sean.

‘Did Loz know about the writing? My sisters always knew my secrets.’ Debbie swung away, to answer the station’s phone.

‘How’s the house-to-house going?’ Noah asked Ron. ‘Any sign of Traffic’s missing girl on the Garrett estate?’

‘Put it this way, I’ve had more doors slammed in my face than you’ve had dirty martinis.’

‘I hate martinis.’

‘All right. So I’ve had more doors slammed in my face than you’ve had blow jobs, Detective Sergeant Pin-Up.’

‘How is Mrs Tarvin?’

‘Same as always. Last line of defence against the crap raining down on that dump.’

‘She’ll be keeping an eye out for our girl, I imagine.’

‘Bound to be. We should be paying her a wage … What?’ Ron had seen the look on Debbie’s face when she put the phone down. ‘Not more bad bloody news.’

She gave an unhappy nod. ‘That was St Thomas’s. Logan Marsh died yesterday.’

More bereaved parents. Noah’s teeth ached. ‘When yesterday?’

‘They didn’t give an exact time, just apologised for not informing us sooner, blamed it on an admin error.’

‘Crap.’ Ron clasped his hands on top of his head, turning away. He turned back almost immediately. ‘We’d better show that writing to Joe Eaton before Traffic decide to arrest him.’

Noah agreed, taking out his phone. ‘I’ll let the boss know.’

At Battersea Power Station, the wind whipped in from the water, clattering the crime-scene tape at Marnie’s back. Fran’s team was clearing up. They’d made the showroom secure, collected all the evidence they could.

Marnie had the mortuary’s chill in her bones, still feeling the blank terror in Loz’s stare, the rage the girl was radiating to keep sympathy at bay. There was too much about Loz that Marnie recognised. She wanted to call Ed, just to hear his voice, but there wasn’t time. She was afraid to let the trail go cold. May had been dead less than twelve hours. They had to capitalise on that, get statements from everyone who’d been on site yesterday. Nineteen people, including Jamie Ledger.

Ledger was clocking off. One of the other guards called, ‘See you, Ledge,’ and the nickname made her wonder whether he’d told the truth about how little he liked the rest of the security detail.

‘You need a signed statement,’ he said, before she could open her mouth. ‘Where’re you doing them? Here, or at the station?’

‘Here. Your boss has opened the sales office for us.’ Plenty of desks between the glossy displays in the room reeking of new carpet, expensive printing.

Ledger shoved his arms into a waxed jacket. ‘I’ll see you over there.’

‘Not me. My team. I’m needed elsewhere.’

‘How’s the family? She had a kid sister, didn’t she? May Beswick. I recognised her from the papers.’ His face shadowed. ‘I just wondered how she was doing.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t talk about it.’

‘Right.’ He straightened up. ‘Tough job, telling the family. I’ve had to do that myself. I wasn’t being nosy, or morbid.’

Marnie nodded, waiting until he’d crossed the site into the sales office before she took out her phone to call Noah.

‘Logan Marsh died,’ he told her. ‘I’m headed over to Joe Eaton’s, thought we’d better see whether the scratches on our missing girl could’ve been writing, like May’s.’

‘Welland will want all hands here. Unless or until we’re sure of a link between the two girls.’

‘Eaton might be able to give us that link.’

‘It’s not a priority. I’m sorry about Logan, but we need the house-to-house team at the power station. We should shorten the perimeter, and keep it tight. I want you back here.’

‘I’m on my way,’ Noah promised.

Marnie ended the call and turned to face the wind, letting its teeth bite her cheek. The rain had eased off, but it would be back, its blunt pressure pushing behind the clouds. She watched the water fold and unfold like a fist, thinking of Logan Marsh in the mortuary, his parents’ pain. Wondering why May had run, where she’d ended up. Well fed, her nails trimmed short. Someone had looked after her. The same someone who’d killed her? Had she felt safe in the weeks before she died? Happy, even?

The phone’s casing was blood-warm in Marnie’s hand, her fingers tracing Ed’s number on the keypad. She’d run, fourteen years ago. Safe at home, but not happy. Running wild when she was thirteen, staying out late, coming home drunk. Testing the boundaries of her parents’ care and patience until she finally worked up the courage to cut the ties and go for good. May hadn’t been wild, not in the same way. She’d come home drunk a couple of times, smelling of cigarettes, but it’d been enough to make her parents wonder if she’d run away rather than been snatched. Loz had accused the police of deciding from the outset that her sister was dead. She was half right. They’d wasted a lot of time wondering whether May was on the streets, asking questions of anyone who might’ve seen her sleeping rough. The wrong questions, as it turned out. May had been hiding, or hidden. At home, she didn’t wash or eat properly. Neglecting herself, resisting her parents’ efforts to put her back on track. Katrina had tried to interest her in clothes, a beauty routine. Spa sessions, retail therapy. Sean took up cooking, hoping to tempt his daughter’s palate back to life, allowing her a glass of wine with meals. Nothing worked. May drifted away. Retreating further and further, until one day she was gone. Then displayed like a child on that bed. Who had taken such good care of her in the last three months of her life? Who hadn’t wanted her to grow up?

Marnie’s phone rang: Fran Lennox. She sought the shelter of a wall, needing to hear the nuances in Fran’s voice. ‘What’ve you got for me?’

‘Blood tests. High levels of hCG. Human chorionic gonadotropin.’

Rain stung Marnie’s skin. ‘She was pregnant? How pregnant?’

‘Seven, eight weeks. No more than that.’

Noah was coming across the site, his head down, long legs dodging puddles.

‘We were wrong,’ Marnie said into the phone. ‘We thought this wasn’t sexual. That the killer saw her as a child. But if she was pregnant, we were wrong.’

‘Or she was with someone else when she first went missing. A boyfriend, perhaps. No ligature marks, or trauma. No evidence of restraint. If we’re talking about a sexual predator, the evidence doesn’t stack up, not yet. I’ll know more after the full post-mortem.’

Noah had joined Marnie, sheltering from the rain.

‘What else was in her blood?’ Marnie asked Fran.

‘No drugs, no alcohol. The only thing throwing a spike is sodium. She wasn’t far off being hypernatremic. That’s salt poisoning, or dehydration. Not enough to interfere with the pregnancy at eight weeks, but not healthy either. If she was being sick regularly, that might account for it. Her parents said nothing about eating disorders?’

‘Nothing. They were sure they’d have known, but they didn’t know about the writing.’

‘Ask her sister about the writing,’ Fran said, ‘and the eating. Siblings usually know a lot more than parents, and from what I saw of the sister, she’s a sharp cookie.’

‘Yes. Call me when you have anything more.’

‘You’ll be the first to know,’ Fran promised. She rang off.

Noah rubbed rain from his face. ‘What’s happened?’

‘May was pregnant. Seven or eight weeks.’

‘Oh God.’ He looked away, pain pulling at his face. ‘So he raped her then he killed her? Do you think he
knew
she was pregnant when he killed her?’

‘The father and the killer might not be the same person.’

‘Do her parents know?’ Noah covered his mouth with the span of his hand.

‘I’ve only just found out. They didn’t think May was in a relationship of any kind. Well, perhaps she wasn’t.’ Marnie straightened, pocketing her phone. ‘Right now we need to concentrate on how the killer got her here. Fran’s worked the immediate area. We need a team pushing back to the perimeter.’ She showed Noah on the map. ‘The only ways in and out are here, and here.’ She pointed to the Kirtling Street entrance Noah had just used, and a second entry point to the east. ‘He could’ve brought her by river, but for now let’s assume he came by road. Colin’s chasing down all the available CCTV. Let’s walk the perimeter, get our bearings.’

In Kirtling Street, the sun was in Noah’s eyes and mouth, tasting sour and yellow.

Marnie glanced at him. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Headache. It’ll pass. So we need to speak with the Beswicks again.’

‘Yes, we do. I’m thinking the news of the pregnancy can wait until we have the full post-mortem report from Fran, but I want to ask them again about the possibility of a boyfriend. And the writing. Fran’s sure May did it herself. I’d like to rule that in, or out.’

‘Debbie thinks Loz might know. Sisters share secrets, she says.’

‘Fran said the same … Do you think Loz will talk to you?’

‘Depends how angry she is.’ Noah had lied about the headache. It was a migraine, making his eyes blaze in their sockets. He’d taken pills, but if it didn’t clear soon, he’d be no use to Marnie or anyone else. ‘When they find out she was pregnant …’

‘They’ll assume she was raped. That’s why we need the full results from Fran. If we’re going to give them news like that, I want it to be in context.’

They stood in the shadow of the power station’s smokestacks, smelling the river and the building works, seeing London changing shape around them.

‘There are seventeen girls of May’s age reported as missing in London right now,’ Noah said. ‘I checked the system first thing this morning. Four of them went missing in the last six months.’

‘You and I both think there’s a chance this killer will do it again. We have to be prepared for that. We need to build a profile, which is why we have to ask the Beswicks about the writing, so that we know exactly what we’re dealing with.’

‘A monster.’ Noah shut his eyes. ‘Whichever way we look at it, whether or not he held her prisoner and raped her before he killed her – we’re dealing with a monster.’

‘We are,’ Marnie agreed. ‘So let’s find out as much about him as we can.’

Noah’s phone played
The Sweeney
’s theme tune. ‘DS Jake.’

‘First CCTV sighting.’ It was Colin Pitcher at the station. ‘Two nights ago, 11.52 p.m. on Battersea Park Road.’

Noah switched to speaker so Marnie could listen in. ‘What are you seeing?’

‘May and another girl. About the same age. Skinny, wild hair. Could be the girl Joe Eaton identified from the crash.’

‘Just the two girls?’

‘Yes. They look scared. At least, May looks scared. The other girl’s got her back to the camera. Body language says a stand-off, or a fight.’

‘Which way were they headed?’

‘North, towards the power station. I’m checking the rest of the CCTV on that route, but it’s going to take a while. Not everyone’s handing it over quickly, no matter how nicely I ask.’

‘Send what you’ve got to my phone.’

‘Doing it now.’ Colin rang off.

They headed back to Marnie’s car. ‘Joe Eaton’s girl?’ she said. ‘Do we need to revert to your original plan and pay him a call?’

‘A girl couldn’t have killed May Beswick, could she? And carried her all the way up to that penthouse? It’s not possible.’ Noah waited for the file to load to his phone. ‘But she and May were headed north. Towards the power station.’

‘Towards the Garrett, too. That’s north of Battersea Park Road.’

In the car, they studied the film.

CCTV footage, washed-out, making ghosts of the two girls.

May’s face was an oval, overexposed under a street light. The other girl kept her back to the camera. She was May’s height but skinnier, in black sweatpants and a hoody. The hood was down, showing a tangle of hair, darker than May’s, and brighter.

‘This was the night before she died,’ Noah said. ‘She’s less than a mile from her parents’ house. Why didn’t she go home? Why didn’t she run? Like this other girl, if it
is
Traffic’s girl.’

‘Bare feet.’ Marnie put her thumb on the screen.

Under the cuffs of the sweatpants, the girl’s toes were white and bony.

‘It’s her,’ Marnie said. ‘Let’s see if Joe Eaton agrees.’

18

Joe Eaton answered the door in his pyjamas. ‘I heard the news. Gina Marsh called. I’d given her my number at the hospital.’ His face was pillow-scarred, left eye still bloodied. ‘Logan died. I said how sorry I was. It’s devastating. He was only just eighteen …’