The Price of Love and Other Stories (30 page)

“They’re all pretty weird,” Jackie said. “But the most trouble any of them have is getting it up. Sometimes they need a lot of coaxing, if you know what I mean. Pam never mentioned anyone in particular.”

“What about you? Anyone who stands out as being odd in any way. Maybe someone who wants to save you? Reform you.”

Jackie gave a harsh laugh. “Christ Almighty, there’s plenty want to save me. Even you want to save me. There’s nothing weird about that.”

“Think about it, will you? Try to remember. Anything, however insignificant.”

“I can’t think clearly right now, but I’ll try. There might be a couple of possibilities.”

Banks finished his pint, contemplated another, then decided against it. There was more to be done, including the post-mortem and a little visit to Matthew Micallef. “What about drugs?” he asked.

“What about them?”

“Was Pamela a user?”

“No. But some of the girls are. And before you ask, I’m not one of them.” She held her bottle up. “I like a drink or two, and I drop a Valium from time to time for my nerves, but that’s as far as it goes. I smoked pot once and got so frightened I thought I’d never be right in the head again, so I’ve stayed away from that sort of thing. And needles scare me.”

“But some of the girls use, you say. Heroin? Coke?”

“Sure.”

“Who’s their supplier? Does Micallef get them the drugs, too?”

“I really don’t know. I don’t think so. I mean, like I said, I stay away from him, but I’ve never heard anything about him dealing. I suppose he could do, but I think he’s got enough other stuff going on, stuff he can make seem legal. It’s probably not worth the risk to
him. He’s got quite a thing going with the Chinese, so maybe he gets stuff from them. I just don’t know. Are you sure there’s no way any of this will get back to him?”

Banks glanced around the pub. “There’s only you and me talking here,” he said, “and I’m not telling.” He took out a card from his wallet and gave it to her. “If you see or hear anything,” he said, “give me a ring. And if you’re ever in the least bit worried about something happening to you, about your safety, no matter how wildly unbelievable you think it is, call me.”

“You’re asking me to spy for you?”

“No,” said Banks. “Quite the opposite. I’m asking you to be careful and lie low until we get this sorted out. If you want my advice, you’ll pack up and leave. Take what you’ve got, cut your losses and get out now.”

She clapped her hands together. “You see? You
do
want to save me.”

“I’m not joking.”

“I can’t do that. Not just yet.” She held her thumb and forefinger in a circle that wasn’t quite complete. “I’m
that
close.”

“Then stay as far away as you can from Micallef, and don’t take any dodgy clients. At the first hint of anything wrong, get out. Don’t stop to argue. Just go. You can keep your eyes and ears open, if you insist on staying around, but don’t take any risks. Don’t go asking questions, drawing attention to yourself. From what you’ve told me, this Micallef is dangerous.”

“Do I get paid if I find out anything? Like a real police informant?”

Banks laughed and stood up. “Sure,” he said. “Next time I see you, I’ll buy you another drink. Chicken and chips again, too, if you’re lucky.”

“The last of the big spenders,” she said. “Bye.” And she waved at him as he walked away, her other hand shaking a cigarette out of the packet.
It was after two o’clock by the time Pamela’s parents had made the official identification, and Dr. O’Grady hadn’t even begun the preliminary task of removing Pamela’s outer clothing before Banks arrived at the autopsy suite. Banks wanted to talk to the parents, too, but they could wait till later.

He stood by and watched as Dr. O’Grady began, reciting his findings into the microphone that hung over the table, occasionally asking his assistant for some instrument or other. Banks was glad he’d had a couple of drinks at lunchtime, as he always found postmortems disturbing.

The clothes were bagged and sealed for forensic examination as they were removed, along with the pillows, bed sheets, facecloth and water from the scene. There didn’t appear to be any blood apart from a tiny spot on the pillow case, but if there was, it would show up in the lab.

Underneath her skirt and top, Pamela wore silky black underwear, which Dr. O’Grady also removed. Naked, she looked even younger, though both Jackie Simmons and Pamela’s parents swore blind that she was nineteen.

Dr. O’Grady began his external examination, noting the petechial hemorrhages first, then removing the plastic bags from her hands and pointing out the traces of blood and skin under her fingernails, some of which were broken.

“She clearly struggled for her life,” O’Grady said as he took samples.

“Lucky for us,” said Banks. “If we can identify his blood group, it should help.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.”

He finished with the hands and moved on, using a large magnifier suspended beside the microphone to zoom in on the details of her skin.

But he didn’t need the magnifier when he got to her thighs.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, stepping back, “will you come and have a look at this?”

Banks moved in close and leaned over the body. “She’s been shaved,” he said. “That’s not so unusual with exotic dancers. It doesn’t mean the killer did it. And I think I might be able to find out if he did.”

“Not only that.” O’Grady pointed. “This, too.”

Banks could see a strip of transparent tape between her legs. “What is it? Surely it’s not … ”

“If I’m not mistaken,” said O’Grady, removing the tape carefully with a pair of surgical tweezers, “it most certainly is.” He held up a broad strip of Sellotape in the tweezers and looked at Banks. “Would you believe it?” he said. “The bastard Sellotaped her labia together.”

“Are there any signs of sexual activity?”

O’Grady bent over the body again and Banks backed away. He had no desire to watch the doctor probing Pamela Morrison’s private parts.
Sellotape.
Why? He’d never seen anything like that before. Mutilation, yes. But not this.

“Possibly,” said O’Grady. “I think we have traces of semen here, if I’m not mistaken.”

“She’s had sex recently?”

“Seems that way. It doesn’t have to be the killer, of course. You don’t need me to tell you. A woman in her line of work … ”

“I know,” said Banks. “But I don’t think she worked the streets. I mean, I don’t think she took punter after punter back to that room. It’s possible she had only the one date that night.”

“A bit exclusive?”

“The impression I got, yes. By arrangement.”

“Should make finding him a bit easier, then.”

“Except nobody’s talking,” said Banks.

O’Grady put the strip of Sellotape into a bag and sealed it.

“Better send that over to fingerprints right away,” said Banks.

“According to the SOCOs, the bastard was clever enough to wipe down the surfaces in the room, but you never know.”

“Will do.” O’Grady turned back to the body. “So what do you make of it?”

“I really don’t know,” said Banks. “But the way I’m seeing things now, our killer comes up to the room with her, or she’s already waiting there for him. They undress and have sex, then he suffocates her with the pillow, either while they’re doing it or after. Then he shaves her, or she’s shaved already, places a strip of Sellotape over her vagina, dresses her, poses her under the sheet with her hands and legs together.”

“Washes all the makeup off her face.”

“That, too.”

“Pure. Like a virgin.”

“Like a virgin,” Banks agreed.

“But what kind of nutter does that?”

“I don’t know,” said Banks. “But I’d hazard a guess that it’s the kind of nutter who doesn’t stop at one.”

“He Sellotaped her cunt shut?” said DCI Roly Verity. “I don’t fucking believe it.”

Banks was no prude, but he found Verity’s language deeply offensive on this occasion. Verity hadn’t been there. He hadn’t watched Pamela Morrison’s post-mortem, hadn’t seen her cut open, smelled her insides, like raw lamb.

A couple of fresh-faced DCs lounging with their feet on the table giggled at the comment. Detective Superintendent Hatchard, nominally in charge of the meeting, puffed on his pipe and muttered something about bad taste. Banks said nothing. He still felt sick.

They were in the incident room, about ten of them in all. A coffee urn stood on a table near the door, wadded paper towel under its spout to catch the drips, and a stack of Styrofoam cups leaning like the tower of Pisa beside it. One wall was dotted with crime scene photos, maps, floor plans and scribbled timelines. The ashtrays were already overflowing.

“The way it seems,” Banks went on, ignoring Verity, who was only present at Hatchard’s invitation anyway, a public relations exercise in inter-departmental cooperation, “and Dr. O’Grady and the lab have verified all this now, is that Pamela took her killer to the room with her, or was already waiting for him there. It was a place she used frequently for such assignations.”

Verity laughed. “
Assignations
? That’s a good one, that is, for what
she
did.”

“DCI Verity,” said Hatchard. “If you wish to remain present at this meeting, please refrain from interrupting Detective Inspector Banks in his explanation.”

Verity feigned the look of a chastised schoolboy. “Sorry, sir,” he said, turning to share a smirk with one of the DCs.

Hatchard stuck his pipe back in his mouth.

The whole exchange reminded Banks of how all Hatchard’s meetings were like a class at school with a dull teacher whose grip on discipline was tenuous, to say the least. He went on. “According to my information, she wasn’t a common prostitute, more of a middle-class call girl,” he explained. “She didn’t walk the streets trolling for johns. They came to her. Or they were sent.”

“Did they have references and all?” said Verity, to much laughter from the DCs.

Hatchard tut-tutted.

“Something like that,” said Banks. “Anyway, on the surface of it, this occasion was no different. There were no traces of forced entry, and the door was unlocked when her flatmate Jackie Simmons went there to look for her. She found the body. It says a great deal for her that she called us. A lot of girls in her position wouldn’t, as I’m sure you all know.”

Even Verity nodded knowingly at this remark.

“So it might indicate that she has nothing to hide,” Banks added.

“Or it might mean she’s guilty, sir,” said Ozzy Albright.

Banks gave him an appreciative glance. “Yes,” he conceded. “It
might, at that. Except we’re pretty sure the killer was a man. Reconstructing from the evidence and what I’ve got from the doc and the lab so far, they had sex – or she had sex with someone that night. It doesn’t appear as if they used any protection, because the doctor found traces of semen in the vagina.”

“The johns pay extra for bareback,” said Verity.

“Thanks for that little gem, Roly,” said Banks, flashing him a smile. “I’m sure we’re all that much the wiser for it. Anyway, whatever he paid her, if anything, he took it away with him, because all we found in her purse was a few measly quid and some loose change. At this point, we’re assuming she had her clothes off, or most of them, at any rate. We don’t know how or why it happened, what changed things, but then he suffocated her with the pillow. When she was dead, he applied the Sellotape, put her clothes back on and washed all the makeup off her face. The lab confirms traces of lipstick and mascara on the pillowcase, so she was wearing it when he suffocated her, and the bowl on the bedside table also contained traces of the same substances, as did the facecloth. After this, we assume he arranged the body in the way we found it, covering her with a sheet from the bed. We thought he might also have shaved her pubic hair, but I checked with her flatmate, Jackie Simmons, and it turns out she shaved it herself for the dancing job.”

“Those costumes they wear are a little skimpy,” said Verity. “I can see you wouldn’t want a couple of short and curlies peeking out the sides. Spoils the effect.”

Hatchard ignored him and scratched the side of his nose. “That’s very … er … interesting, Alan,” he said, “but do we have any idea why he’d go to all this trouble?”

“I think you’d need a shrink to work that one out, sir,” said Banks.

“Hmm. Might be worthwhile getting in touch with one of those specialist psychologists we hear about from time to time.”

“It might be,” Banks agreed. Like most police, he didn’t really trust the psychologists they sometimes used to work on possible
profiles of criminals. It was too much like hocus-pocus to him. They might as well use a psychic. But he was willing to keep an open mind.

“What about prints?” Hatchard asked.

“I was just getting to that. It looks very much as if our killer didn’t wear gloves, but he did wipe the place. From what the SOCOs can gather, the surfaces – door, table, drawers, what have you – have all been wiped clean. One of our techs found tiny linen fibres caught on a rough wooden surface, so he probably used a handkerchief. You’d expect prints in a room like … a room used for sexual encounters, but we found none, so he did a pretty good job of obliterating everything.”

“A linen handkerchief, too,” muttered Albright. “Posh.”

“But where he did slip up,” Banks went on, “was the Sellotape. We’ve got a partial from it, and it’s not hers.”

“So if we can find a match … ” Hatchard said.

“Then we may have our killer. But it’s not on file, so we’ve still got a lot to do.”

“Even so,” said Hatchard. “I’d say our SOCOs and lab did an excellent job. A partial print and traces of semen. I trust he’s a secretor?”

“Yes,” said Banks, “so we’ll be able to identify his blood group.”

“Good, good.” Hatchard puffed on his pipe. It had gone out, so he lit it again. Clouds of blue smoke poured out of the bowl and he disappeared in the fug. “I’ve already got the press sniffing around,” he said. “What should I do about them?”

“I think we should keep the evidence of the print and semen, along with the unusual details, to ourselves, sir,” Banks said. “I mean the odd posing of the body and the Sellotape. That gives us something up our sleeves when the false confessions come in. And something we can use to nail the real killer when we find him.”