Tastes Like Fear (D.I. Marnie Rome 3) (17 page)

‘That was Abi Gull,’ Ron said. ‘In case you were in any doubt.’

‘I wasn’t.’ Noah unzipped the forensic suit and pulled it off.

‘No wonder Emma’s living like a whipped dog with that little bitch working her patch.’

‘She’s thirteen, is that right? She looks older.’

‘They all do. This dump adds ten years to everyone who sets foot in it.’ Ron squinted across Noah’s shoulder and raised a fist in greeting. ‘Kenickie, you old bastard.’

A middle-aged, middleweight man came across the tarmac towards them, his stare flat and sand-coloured, a shade darker than his thinning hair. Acne scars as deep as fire damage marked his face. He nodded towards the tent, juggling the keys to his BMW in one hand, seat-belt creases in the front of his shiny suit. ‘This our girl?’

‘We don’t think so,’ Noah said.

‘Where’s your ball-grinder of a boss?’ Kenickie showed his teeth, humourless. Smoker’s teeth, shrunken gums. ‘Only I don’t fancy chatting to the monkey.’ He looked at Ron. ‘Logan Marsh died, remember?’

Ron nodded. ‘We’re pretty sure this isn’t her.’

‘She was seen here.’ Kenickie swivelled his neck, scanning the estate. ‘Right?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘But you lost her.’ Bringing his stare back to Ron. ‘Got your best people on it, have you?’

‘We’re looking. Joe Eaton’s wife’s helping with the e-fit—’

‘Eaton’s a mess. Admits he was drinking even if he scraped the breath test.’ Eyeing Noah. ‘I thought you lot were up to your ankles in dead body over at Battersea.’

‘And now this.’ Ron nodded. ‘Never rains but it shits.’

‘Pervert.’ Kenickie had his eyes fixed on Noah. ‘Over at Battersea. Heard it was a sex killer.’

Ron ran a finger under his shirt collar. ‘Too soon to say.’ He glanced at Noah, then away.

‘I’d like to run house-to-house here.’ Kenickie bounced on his heels, car keys jangling in his fist. ‘For our girl.’

‘Best leave us to ask the questions. Now that we’re talking two murders.’

‘Three if you count Logan. I know his mum does. She’s in bits, and his dad’s not much better. Pure chance he was on that road that night. They need answers which make sense. Something better than a silly cow out for a stroll and a tosspot full of carbonara and Chablis.’

‘We’re working on it.’ Ron rubbed at his face. ‘Trust me, you wouldn’t want the gig. We’ll be at this all day and night.’

Kenickie bared his bad teeth again. ‘Just as well you’ve got a stroke of midnight on your side.’

A stroke of midnight.
Noah hadn’t heard that insult in a while, but apparently Kenickie was old-school.

‘All right, mate.’ Ron’s hands came up, the way they had when Abi Gull was baiting him. ‘Leave it alone.’

‘Good luck with your pervert.’ Swinging on his heel, away from them. ‘Laters.’

Ron let out a breath through his teeth. ‘Kenny never was a morning person.’ He shot a look at Noah, on the brink of an apology.

‘Cheer up.’ Noah clapped a hand to his shoulder. ‘I’ve had cocktails with worse names.’

Ron squinted at him.

‘Midnight Pervert. Half price at happy hour …’

They turned their heads as Marnie came out of the tent, peeling off the forensic suit. ‘DS Carling, I need you to make a start on the house-to-house. Who saw what, and when.’ She tidied her red curls from her face, nodding at Noah. ‘We need to confirm the identity of the dead girl and contact her family … Was that Traffic’s radio interference I was hearing?’

Ron nodded. ‘They still think the missing girl is theirs. Logan’s mum’s in pieces.’

‘A lot of mothers are in pieces. May Beswick’s, and now this new girl’s. Show the e-fit during the house-to-house, but in connection to May. The RTC can wait.’

‘That’s what I told Kenickie.’

Marnie nodded towards the knot of onlookers. ‘Are those our arsonists?’

Abi Gull and her gang had retreated to the shelter of a doorway, but they were watching, arms across their chests, chins pointed towards the tent.

‘I told them to stay away.’ Ron scowled. ‘They should be in school.’

‘Did they see the body?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Noah said. ‘They knew someone had died, because of the suits and the tent. But I don’t think they saw anything.’

‘Ashleigh went missing in Dartford about four months ago. If anyone on the estate saw her before today, we need to know.’

‘You’re thinking they’re connected,’ Ron said. ‘May and this girl, maybe even Traffic’s?’

‘Too soon to say. No definitive similarities between May’s killing and this one, but let’s keep an open mind. Without encouraging too much speculation from the public, or the press.’

Several onlookers were holding phones, filming the scene.

‘We’ll be on YouTube before we know it,’ Ron grumbled.

‘Let’s hope some of them had their eyes open last night, or early this morning.’

Fran Lennox was making her way towards them, blonde hair spiked with gel, wearing grey jeans and a leather jacket, looking like a pixie dressed as a punk. Abi and her friends watched narrowly, as if they were seeing a rival, not a pathologist. ‘Another fine mess for me?’ Fran asked.

‘Dead girl. DS Jake and I are seeing a link to May Beswick, but you might want to put us straight on that score.’ Marnie nodded at Noah. ‘I’ve got this. You get back to the station and see what you can find out about Ashleigh Jewell’s last known whereabouts, and her next of kin.’

25

Fran knelt at the dead girl’s side, studying her swollen face before touching gloved fingers tenderly to the bruises.

Marnie stayed back, not speaking, watching Fran work. Her presence made the scene feel less like an annihilation. She was taking the temperature of the crime, finding its pulse, feeling for its edges. Until now, Marnie had wanted to cover the dead girl, hide her from prying eyes. She’d seen the way Ron had looked at the body, embarrassed and angry. A teenage girl dumped like garbage, appallingly vulnerable. With Fran kneeling beside her, she looked safe.

‘She’s been dead less than twelve hours, possibly as few as six. Time of death? Let’s say between nine p.m. and one a.m. Strangled, like May. Same pattern of bruises, same size too. You might be right about it being the same killer.’ Fran raised her head and scoped the immediate area. ‘Not much of a tableau here. No writing, either. Unless it’s well hidden, under her clothes.’

‘Not a tableau, but a message, maybe. Just as there was in the penthouse.’

‘May as an angel, this poor girl as trash?’

‘If it’s the same killer.’

‘She’s May’s age. Or thereabouts.’

‘We think she’s Ashleigh Jewell. Fifteen. Went missing from Dartford four months ago.’

Fran was holding one of the dead girl’s hands, studying the nail beds. ‘Another one he looked after, if this is the same killer. She was in good shape until yesterday.’

‘He finds them, takes them in, feeds them. Then he kills them. Why? Why take good care of someone you’re going to discard like this?’

‘Maybe they disappoint him.’ Fran was feeling the girl’s abdomen. ‘No obvious sign that she’s pregnant, but I’ll let you know if that’s another similarity with May.’

‘They disappoint him,’ Marnie repeated. ‘Or he finds someone else. Someone new.’

‘You said this girl was missing for nearly four months. That puts her in the same time period as May. He’s not taking them one at a time.’ Fran straightened. ‘Assuming it’s the same killer.’

‘Too much speculation.’ Marnie nodded. ‘Let me know how you get on with the results, anything connecting this killing to May’s, or anything ruling out a connection.’

‘Security’s been tightened at the power station, I take it?’

‘No chance of anyone leaving a second body in the same place. That might have necessitated leaving Ashleigh out here.’

‘Riskier, in some ways.’ Fran looked around. ‘No privacy. More chance of being seen, and of the body being found quickly.’

‘Perhaps that’s what he wanted.’

‘Not the first death on this estate this year, unless I’m wrong.’

‘Not even the first murder. A fatal stabbing back in January, and a drug overdose not long after that.’

‘I remember the overdose,’ Fran said. ‘Young boy, ten or eleven. Horrible waste of a life.’

They exited the tent. Most of the crowd had dispersed, but Abi Gull was keeping vigil with one of her friends. The third girl was gone. Abi had one foot wedged behind her on the wall, paint-stripper stare aimed at the crime scene. The sort of girl who didn’t miss a trick. Marnie wondered how much she’d seen of what had happened here between 9 p.m. and 1 a.m., whether she could be coaxed into sharing whatever knowledge was sealed behind her tight lips.

‘She looks friendly,’ Fran murmured. ‘If looks could kill, I’d be doing your post-mortem next.’

‘She’s in good company. I doubt there’s anyone here who sees us in a good light, and that includes the pensioner being terrorised by our friendly neighbourhood arsonist over there. A deficit of trust all round. And much too much paranoia.’

‘I remember hearing a pregnant mother on the news,’ Fran said, ‘from an estate like this. It might even have been this one. Saying how she despaired of having another daughter, knowing what was in store for her. Sons are no better, I imagine. Drugs, violence, aimless crime. No future, as the tabloid headlines would have it. But in some ways the girls have it worst. They learn to lie and accuse and seduce. No tricks they don’t know and won’t use – that was the gist of the mother’s story. You see girls like that one,’ looking towards Abi, ‘and you know she’s right. How old would you say she is? The same age as our victim?’

‘Younger,’ Marnie said. ‘She’s only thirteen.’

The same age as Loz. Abi’s hardness didn’t look like an act, but Marnie was wary of buying it wholesale. On a place like the Garrett, everyone assumed a disguise. Survival camouflage, adapt or die. Those photos on the whiteboard … Ashleigh blowing a kiss for the camera. May, sweetly demure. Had the killer seen through the disguises? Or was it the disguise that attracted him? Lost girls, their identities already corroded. Easy to dominate, easy to control. Was that how he chose them,
why
he chose them? Girls like that would always want a place to hide, and there were so many different ways to do that. By staying behind bolted doors like Emma Tarvin, or strutting with a gang like Abi Gull. Easy to imagine that Abi wasn’t scared of anything, but Marnie had worn the same disguise when she was thirteen, reinventing herself, refusing to examine too closely the girl she was becoming. Hiding from everyone, even herself.

Abi Gull didn’t move from the wall where she was propped, watching Marnie’s approach through slitted eyes. Her mate stayed nearby, trying to match Abi’s disdain but failing, her mouth a nervous pout when Marnie produced her badge.

‘Detective Inspector,’ Abi read. ‘You’re the boss, then. Seen you on the seventh floor.’

‘You’ve got sharp eyes. Did you see anything this morning, or last night?’

‘What, like a murderer?’ Contempt sing-songing her voice. ‘Like a dead body?’

‘Exactly like that.’ Marnie put the badge away.

‘Just you lot putting up that marquee like it’s party time over there. Who was she anyway?’

‘We don’t know yet.’

‘I heard she was naked,’ Abi’s friend said.

Abi shot her a look of undiluted contempt. ‘Shut up.’

‘You’re Abigail Gull.’ Marnie nodded at the other girl. ‘Are you Natalie Filton?’

‘Yeah.’ Colouring. ‘And?’

‘Where did you hear she was naked?’

‘Nowhere.’ Dropping her eyes to the tarmac. ‘I made it up.’

‘Yeah, you did.’ Abi looked at Marnie. ‘Was it drugs?’ A new edge in her voice. Was Abi dealing, or taking drugs herself?

Marnie shook her head. ‘We don’t think it was drugs.’

‘So she was killed.’

‘Yes.’ The straight answers made an impression; Marnie saw the girl sizing her up properly. ‘If you’ve seen any strangers, it would be useful to know.’

‘Everyone round here’s a stranger.’ Abi flicked a finger at her ponytail. ‘No one gives a shit about anyone else. Not even your mates.’

Natalie bit her lip, but didn’t speak.

‘Seriously. I could drop dead of an overdose and not one of them would bat an eyelid. That cow on the seventh floor would throw a party in your marquee. Tea and biscuits, bitch.’

‘Mrs Tarvin keeps an eye on what happens here. She told us she’d seen a girl two nights ago. A stranger. Red hair, wearing a white shirt. Did you see her?’

They shook their heads, no hint of deception in either girl’s face. Abi said, ‘If you’re taking witness statements from that cow, you’re desperate.’

‘I’ll take a statement from anyone with anything to tell me.’ Marnie handed the girls her card. ‘Keep in touch. And stay safe.’

At the station, Noah handed Marnie the paperwork he’d uncovered. ‘Ashleigh was in the care of Children’s Services when she ran. Her mother and stepfather weren’t able to cope with her at home. She was getting into trouble at school, and with the police. With everyone, as far as I can tell.’

‘So they put her into care?’

‘It was what Ashleigh wanted, according to Children’s Services. They’d tried curfews, cautions; nothing worked. She ran away from home more than once. The last time she said if they made her go back, she’d burn the place down.’ Noah rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘She accused her stepfather of abuse, but there was no evidence to support it, no charges brought. Her mother sided with the stepfather, said Ashleigh was out of control, acting up. Her mum was seven months pregnant at the time, felt she couldn’t cope with Ashleigh and the new baby. Everyone seems to have breathed a sigh of relief when she was taken into care.’

‘Until she ran away. How did her parents react when that happened?’

‘They made an appeal for Ashleigh to get in touch, but the baby was born prematurely and he takes up a lot of their time. They were in the hospital with him most of the first month when Ashleigh was missing. He’s been in and out for operations ever since. Ashleigh’s the least of their worries, that’s the impression I was given by Children’s Services.’

‘When she went missing – that was the first time she’d run away since going into care?’