The Retribution (4 page)

‘Sorry to drag you out,’ Carol said.

She didn’t really mean it, Paula thought. But Carol had always been good at making sure her team never felt taken for granted. Paula’s eyes didn’t leave the road. She drove well over the speed limit, but within her capabilities. Nobody wanted to be remembered as one of those cops who mowed down an innocent member of the public in their haste to reach the dead. ‘Not a problem, chief,’ she said. ‘Elinor’s on call, so we were just having a quiet night in. A game of Scrabble and a takeaway.’ Carol wasn’t the only one who wanted to keep everybody sweet.

‘All the same … ’

Paula grinned. ‘I was losing anyway. What have we got?’

‘Reekie was on an open line, so we didn’t talk detail. All I know is that he thinks it’s right up our street.’

‘Not for much longer,’ Paula said, aware of the bitterness and regret in her voice.

‘It was happening regardless of whether I stayed or not.’

Paula was startled. ‘I wasn’t blaming you, chief. I know whose fault it is.’ She flashed a quick glance at Carol. ‘I was wondering … ’

‘Of course I’ll put in a good word for you.’

‘Actually, I was hoping for a bit more than that.’ Paula took a deep breath. She’d been trying to find the right moment for days, but there had always been something in the way. If she didn’t take advantage of having Carol to herself now, who knew when the opportunity would arise again? ‘If I was to apply, would there be a job for me in West Mercia?’

Paula quirked a smile. ‘I could live with that. I think I’ve done my fair share at the sharp end of fucked-up.’

‘Can’t argue with that. If it’s what you want, I’d do my best to make it happen,’ Carol said. ‘But I thought you were pretty settled here. With Elinor?’

‘Elinor’s not the issue. Well, not like you’re suggesting. The thing is, she needs to climb up the next step on her medical career. She heard there’s a good job coming up in Birmingham. And Bradfield to Birmingham is not a commute any sane person would want to do. So … ’ Paula slowed for a junction, scanning the road in both directions before she whipped through. ‘If she’s going to go for that, I need to consider my options. And if you’re going to West Mercia, I thought I might as well trade on my connections.’ She glanced at Carol and grinned.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Carol said. ‘There’s nobody I’d rather have on my team,’ she added, meaning it.

‘I got on really well with that sergeant we worked with on the RigMarole killings,’ Paula said, pressing her point. ‘Alvin Ambrose. I’d be happy to work with him again.’

Carol groaned. ‘I hear you, Paula. There’s no need to push it. And it may not be down to me, in the end. You know how it is right now, the way the cuts are biting into front-line officers.’

These were the occasions when Carol understood that, no matter how good a cop she was, it would never be enough. Always arriving after the fact grew harder to bear the longer she did this job. She wished Tony was with her, and not just because he would read the scene differently from her. He understood her desire to prevent episodes like this, events that shredded people’s lives and left them with gaping holes in the fabric of the day-to-day. Justice was what Carol craved, but these days she felt it seldom showed up.

DS Reekie hadn’t said much and she was glad of that. Some things went beyond words, and too many cops tried to keep the horror at bay with chatter. But nothing could keep a sight like this at arm’s length.

The woman was naked. Carol could see several thin superficial cuts on her skin and wondered if the killer had cut her clothes off her. She’d ask the CSI photographer to make a point of getting them in his shots so they could make comparisons if the clothes turned up.

The woman’s body had been fixed to a cross with sturdy six-inch nails through her wrists and ankles. Carol tried not to wince at the thought of what that must have sounded like; the crack of hammer on nails, the crunch of bones, the cry of agony echoing off the metal walls. Then the cross had been propped up against the wall upside down so that her dyed blonde hair skimmed the gritty cement floor, her roots a dark line across her forehead.

‘He must be bloody strong,’ Paula said. ‘To shift a wooden cross with a body on it, that’s hard work. I don’t think I could do it.’

The white-suited figure working closest to the body turned to face them. His words were slightly muffled by his mask, but Carol could hear them clearly enough. She recognised the Canadian accent of the Home Office pathologist, Grisha Shatalov. ‘The wood’s only two by six. And there’s nothing of her. I’d say classic addict physiology, except there’s no sign that she was injecting. I bet you could lift and drag her into place without too much effort, DC McIntyre.’

‘How long has she been dead, Grisha?’ Carol said.

‘You never ask the questions I can answer,’ he said, weary humour in his tone. ‘My best guess at this point is that she’s been dead for around twenty-four hours.’

‘The unit’s been empty for about four months,’ Reekie said. ‘The security guard didn’t notice the back door had been forced.’ There was no mistaking his contempt.

‘So how did we find her?’ Carol asked.

‘The usual. Man walking his dog last thing. The dog made a beeline for the back door. It must have smelled the blood.’ Reekie wrinkled his nose. ‘Hardly surprising. According to the owner, the dog charged the door, the door swung open, the dog vanished inside and wouldn’t come when called. So he went in, torch on. Took one look and called us.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘At least he had the good sense to grab the dog before it completely fucked up the crime scene.’

‘But Dr Shatalov reckons she was killed last night. How come the dog didn’t find her then?’

‘Never trust the body finder,’ Reekie said.

Like we didn’t know that.
Carol stared at the body, clocking every detail, wondering about the sequence of events that had led this young woman here. ‘Any ID?’ she said.

‘Not so far,’ Spencer said. ‘We’ve got a bit of a street prostitution problem out towards the airport. Eastern Europeans, mostly. She’ll likely be from there.’

‘Unless he brought her out from the city. From Temple Fields,’ Paula said.

‘The first two were local,’ Reekie said.

‘Well, let’s hope Grisha can get her looking human enough to ID via a photo,’ Carol said. ‘You said, “the first two”, sir. You’re sure this is a series?’

Reekie turned back to the body. ‘Show her, doc.’

Grisha pointed to what looked like a tattoo on the inside of the woman’s wrist. It was partially covered with blood, but Carol could still make out the letters. MINE. A message that was repulsive, sick and insolent. And yet, in the back of Carol’s head, a devil whispered, ‘Make the most of this. If you go to West Mercia, you’ll never see a crime scene as interesting as this again.’

The transfers had been painstakingly created from photographs Vance had taken on his contraband smartphone. They replicated in exact detail the elaborate and garish body art that covered the arms and neck of Jason Collins, the man who was currently sleeping in Vance’s bed. For Vance was not in his own cell tonight. The distraction he’d created had worked perfectly.

A photograph of Damon Todd’s wife leaning into Cash Costello’s brother at some nightclub bar had been all the currency he’d needed. Vance had casually dropped it on the ping-pong table as he’d walked past during the association period that evening. Inevitably, just as he had planned, someone had picked it up and homed in on its significance straight away. Catcalling and taunts followed and, inevitably, Todd had lost his temper and thrown himself on Costello. That would be the end of their spell on the Therapeutic Community Wing, all good behaviour undone in one uncontrollable flash of temper. Not that Vance cared. He’d never been bothered by collateral damage.

What mattered was that the ruckus had diverted the attention of the wing officers just long enough for Vance and Collins to make their way back to the wrong cells. By the time things had settled down and the screws were making the final round of the cells, both men had their lights out, pretending to be fast asleep. No reason to doubt each was where he was supposed to be.

By the time he’d finished, his head was sweating and fine trickles of perspiration ran down his back and sides. He’d done the best he could manage. Put him side by side with Collins and it would be easy to tell the real tatts from the fake, but unless things went horribly wrong, that wasn’t going to happen. Vance picked up the copies his helper on the outside had had made of Collins’ glasses and slipped them on. The world tilted and blurred, but not too much for him to cope with. The lenses were far less powerful than Collins’ own ones, but a cursory check would demonstrate that they weren’t plain glass. Details, it all came down to details.

He closed his eyes and summoned up the sound of Collins’ nasal Midlands accent. For Vance, that was the hardest part of the impersonation. He’d never had much of a gift for imitation. He’d always found himself sufficient. But for once, he was going to have to lose himself in someone else’s voice. He’d try to keep the chat to a minimum, but he had to be ready to avoid a response in his own warm generic tones. He recalled the scene in
The Great Escape
where Gordon Jackson’s character gives himself away with an automatic response when he’s addressed in English. Vance would have to be better than that. He couldn’t afford to relax, not for a moment. Not until he was free and clear.