White Crocodile (12 page)

He looked up and their eyes locked. ‘I think you’re right, Tess. I think that Luke was murdered. I also meant what I said in the office. Christ knows what’s going on, but nothing good can come from it, and if you don’t have to be here,
go
. Go home. Get on a fucking plane, and go back to England and then you’ll be safe. I should never have—’ He broke off, shaking his head.

‘Never have what?’

‘Nothing.’ He wouldn’t meet her gaze. ‘It’s nothing important.’

Turning, he started walking back up the lane into the minefield.

‘For fuck’s sake, Alex, stop talking in riddles,’ she shouted after him. ‘Tell me the truth. I can take it.’

He kept walking.

There was someone standing next to the bed. He knew, but he didn’t want to turn his head.

‘Johnny.’ A soft voice, familiar. Johnny remained silent. He heard the scrape of a chair, the creak of wood and an exhalation as Dr Ung sat down, then pressure on the edge of the mattress, and a light touch on his arm. ‘Johnny.’

He was staring at the patterns of light and shade on the mosquito mesh. They were leaping and twisting. It must be windy outside, and wind meant the coming of rain – never one without the other in Cambodia. He hadn’t noticed, hadn’t felt the slight dip in temperature, the swell of moisture in the air, because his fan kept turning night and day.

He turned his head slowly and looked at Dr Ung. ‘What?’

He reminded Johnny of a little bird, with his slight build and neat, precise movements.

‘Ah.’ Dr Ung pressed his hands together. ‘Sorry to wake you,’ he murmured, with mock apology.

Johnny said nothing. He stared blankly into Dr Ung’s face.

‘You look better,’ Dr Ung said. ‘How do you feel?’

How do you think I feel?
After a long pause he said, ‘Fine,’ in a tiny, weary voice. He tilted his head back to the window. It had begun to rain. The rhythmic patter of drops was just audible over the beating of the fan.

He heard Dr Ung sigh. ‘Johnny. Johnny, you have to . . .’

‘No,’ he hissed, twisting back. ‘I don’t want your advice. I don’t need counselling. I just want you to make me better, so that I can get out of this fucking hospital.’ Jamming his eyes shut, he stared hard into the colours blooming on the inside of his eyelids, trying to empty his mind of everything. The fear that he was being hunted, that this was just the beginning. That the Crocodile would eat him by increments. And there was not a damn thing he could do to help himself.

Walking into the autopsy room, Andy Wessex always felt intensely aware of his own body. It was to do with the antiseptic quality of the place: white tiled walls, lino floor, white plastic dissecting tables, a white painted ceiling inlaid with rows of fluorescent lights; air so chill that on late autumn days like this his breath condensed. Every condition of the atmosphere in here was meant to throw the human body into relief, leave no room for ambiguity. The place smelled of disinfectant layered over something brutally primal. Iodine and meat.

Jane Percival was leaning over the table closest to him. A glance at the corpse in front of her, opened from neck to pubic bone, told Wessex that this was his victim. The hair and the skin colour were recognisable, and the rest he would have been happy to gloss over, if he’d had the choice. Percival turned around at his footsteps, laying down her scalpel and holding up a gloved, splattered hand.

‘DI Wessex – nice to see you again. I’d shake your hand if I could.’

She was small and slim, late fifties, grey hair pulled back into a neat chignon, her mild blue eyes intelligent and warm. Wessex liked her best of all the pathologists he knew. She was frank and direct and he’d tried hard to imagine what had led her to choose this career. So he’d asked her once. She’d told him that forensic pathology was the most extraordinary puzzle. All the pleasure of the most complicated diagnoses. ‘But it feels purer than any other branch of medicine, because we don’t prescribe. We don’t have that responsibility. We just observe.’

Now she gestured to the girl on the table. ‘Have you ID’d this poor soul yet?’

Wessex shook his head. ‘The passport led me to an uncomfortable conversation with a couple of good folks in Altrincham, but nowhere else. It was stolen from a half-English, half-Sri Lankan girl who’s staying with her uncle in Colombo, saving turtles. So we’re back to square one, and I need all the help I can get from you.’

Percival’s gaze refocused on the corpse. It was small and painfully thin, like the drug addicts Wessex picked up in Moss Side, who’d go without food for days if it meant they could save up for a hit. Where her eyes and nose should have been there was a ragged hole, the rich cream cartilage of the nose standing proud. Whatever was left in the eye sockets was the colour of burgundy.

‘Foxes most likely,’ Percival said, catching his gaze.

Wessex steadied himself. ‘Not the fat old Staffie then?’

‘No. We’ve got a few teeth marks around the wrist which match the dog, but nothing else. I’d say it was just being inquisitive.’ Percival gave a grim smile. ‘You’d better let the owner know. He probably hasn’t looked at the poor creature in the same way since.’

Wessex’s eyes closed for a moment. ‘How old was she?’

‘Teenager from the length of the long bones. Sixteen. Seventeen.’

‘Do we have time and cause of death?’

‘Yes and no.’

‘And that means . . . ?’

‘Entomology will be more exact, but I can give you a pretty good time of death. Given the fact she was found outside and the state of the weather – which luckily for us has slowed decomposition right down – she’s been dead for around eighty hours, give or take.’

‘OK. So that means middle of the night, three days ago. Sunday night . . . actually Monday morning. One or two a.m.?’

Percival nodded. ‘That would be about right.’

‘And the cause of death?’

‘That’s the “no” part.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Frankly, I’m confused.’ She indicated the mass of bruised intestines pooled inside the chest cavity. ‘It’s a very similar pathology to that which we see in road traffic accident victims. Massive internal injuries. Her insides are basically mush. And here . . .’ Jane Percival slid her hands under the corpse and tilted her. ‘A huge bruise on her back, and her spine is broken just above the pelvis. Also her left femur is shattered. The right leg’s bruised, but no breaks.’

‘So she was hit by a car?’

‘I’m not sure. You found her in the middle of a wood, didn’t you?’

Wessex nodded. ‘Rose Hill woods. It’s surrounded by roads, but you’d struggle to get a car up near to where she was found. Could she have been beaten, with a baseball bat or something like that?’

She shook her head. ‘No. Look. It’s one huge bruise, not lots of them. Even if they blended together, I’d be able to tell that each was inflicted separately. They wouldn’t be as uniform in colour as this.’ Percival slid her hand back out from under the body. ‘Her clothes were torn and the skin is badly scratched all over, and I pulled some splinters and bits of bark from some of the scratches, so it’s wood – living trees – that made the scratches. I also found some spruce needles in her skin.’

‘Rose Hill woods is predominantly conifers.’

‘That makes sense. So she was probably running through the trees, through Rose Hill woods.’

‘To get away from someone?’

Percival shrugged. ‘That’s your department, Sherlock.’

Wessex grimaced. ‘OK, OK. So she was hit by a car in the wood. Or she was hit and then staggered through the wood.’

Percival shook her head. ‘Not with the extent of these internal injuries, or a shattered femur.’

Wessex rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. They hadn’t found any tyre tracks, though the weather wasn’t helping to preserve the crime scene.

‘Doesn’t make sense,’ he muttered.

The smell of the opened body hit him in a wave, made his own insides lurch for a moment, and he shivered, refocused. Sexist though it might be, women and girls always affected him the most.

‘Could she have been carried and dumped there?’

‘Perhaps. But I didn’t find any foreign DNA on her body. No hairs, no blood on her skin or under her fingernails, nothing – though the slushy rain and sleet over the past few days has pretty much washed it clean. She doesn’t have bruises consistent with being carried over a significant distance.’ Percival stepped back from the table. ‘A body gets heavy after a while, even one as emaciated as this. Carried over the shoulder, she’d have faint bruises on her stomach and thighs. In the arms, well, it would have to be a pretty solid guy, so maybe you’re looking for Popeye.’

Wessex gave her a grim smile. ‘You’re not giving me much, Jane.’

‘You’re the detective, Andy. I’m just a middle-aged lady who likes dead people.’

Wessex bent down, indicating the victim’s right thigh with the tip of his index finger. ‘Something to go on at least.’ A plain black tattoo – a symbol – nothing he recognised as one of the Manchester gang tattoos, but new gangs were being formed all the time, so that didn’t mean much. The ink fuzzy where it had leached into the skin around it. ‘An old one by the state of it.’

‘Not old. Just an amateur job. I’ll have the ink analysed and I’ve already sent off the DNA samples and taken a blood sample for testing. I bumped into Viles this morning and she said you didn’t have much to go on, so I’ve asked the lab to be quick.’

‘You’re a sweetheart.’ He rubbed a hand across his eyes and yawned. ‘Give me a call if you find anything else.’

‘We’ve still got a bit to do, so we might turn up something useful.’

Wessex peeled off his gloves, dropped them into a yellow biohazard bin and made his way over to the sink.

Percival held up a finger. ‘There’s one other thing, though, that might interest you.’

Wessex looked back. ‘Yes?’

‘She’s had a child.’

‘I know.’

‘What?’

‘I know. Barely more than a child.’

‘I said she’s
had
a child. She’s given birth.’ Percival cast him a stern look. ‘You’ll be doing her a favour if you get some sleep, Detective Inspector.’

There was something about Jakkleson’s office which invariably made MacSween intensely uncomfortable. The orderliness. The obsessive, damn womanly fastidiousness of the place. He always suspected that he wouldn’t be able to find what he was looking for in here and usually he was right. Now, after a desultory minute of searching through the desk drawers and a quick scan of the cupboard, when he realised that Jakkleson had probably stored the personnel files in his filing cabinet, to which he had the only key, MacSween went back on to the landing, leaned over the banister and yelled down the stairs.

‘Jakkleson, for Christ’s sake come up here and find something for me, will you.’ He leaned against the window – watching the flowers in the garden wilt in the heat, a bent figure shaded under a checked krama scarf and straw coolie hat making its enervated way down the potholed road outside the gates – while Jakkleson’s light tread approached on the stairs. ‘Huan’s file?’ he asked, when he heard the footsteps stop. ‘Any ideas? I can’t find a damn thing in this museum of yours.’

Jakkleson paused in the doorway. He raised a hand to his ear. ‘It’s . . . all the personnel files are in there.’ Stepping forward, he pointed to the filing cabinet.

‘Get it out for me, will you,’ MacSween said, remaining by the window. ‘I want to trawl through, see if I can work out where Huan could have got to.’

MacSween waited, fingers tapping a restless motif on his thigh, watching while Jakkleson flicked through the personnel files.

‘What? What’s wrong?’

Jakkleson had stopped, brows knitted together. He tilted forward and ran his finger along the top of a couple of adjacent files, checking the names, straightened, flicked through the files again.

‘
What?
’

‘It’s missing. Huan’s file is missing.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘It’s not here. It is definitely not here.’

‘OK.’ MacSween nodded slowly. He felt suddenly lightheaded. ‘Sooo . . . where could it have got to? Is it lost?’

Jakkleson shrugged. His forehead had flushed under the white-blond slick of his fringe. ‘I don’t know. But I . . . I did notice something this morning. I should have paid more attention to it at the time, perhaps.’ He withdrew the key from the filing cabinet and tapped his forefinger on the lock. ‘It’s dented. See. The lock is dented. I think someone opened the filing cabinet without a key.’

‘Oh, Christ.’ MacSween raised his index fingers to his temples as if he was suddenly immensely tired. ‘This is in danger of turning into a mess. A complete fucking mess.’

When he crossed the room and inspected the lock himself, he saw that Jakkleson was right. Someone had tried to force it. ‘It wasn’t like this yesterday?’

Jakkleson shook his head.

‘You’re certain?’

‘I notice things like that.’

‘Aye, you do.’ MacSween cleared his throat. ‘Any ideas, Tord? Any ideas who it might have been? Who could have taken that goddamn file?’

Jakkleson remained still, silent, staring at the lock. ‘No,’ he said finally, rolling his eyes up to meet MacSween’s, shaking his head. ‘As you know, my office is always unlocked. It could have been anyone who has access to this building. Absolutely anyone.’

Battambang airport was one narrow strip of pitted tarmac framed by palms and frangipani trees and lined on either side by military hardware: ancient Russian T-54 tanks, a couple of armoured personnel carriers, three helicopters in muted camouflage. An ageing Royal Air Cambodge propeller aircraft had coasted to a stop on the runway as Tess parked, and a straggle of people were now filing down its rickety steps. Inside the tiny single-storey terminal building a couple of uniformed customs officials stood behind a long table. A policeman lounged in a corner, scanning the new arrivals from the window through mirrored Ray-Bans. Posters lined the wall behind him: one advertising the ancient temples of Angkor Wat, another Lake Tonle Sap, a third warning visitors of the danger of AIDS – the same baggy condom she had seen illuminated in the flash of Tord Jakkleson’s camera.

Two civilian helicopters were stationed on the near side of the runway. Tess threaded her way towards them. The rain had stopped and the evening was bright and clear, but it was late enough that the shimmering liquid waves that come with real Cambodian heat had melted to a cooler, dusky haziness. She was still filthy from the minefields – the mud now dried and cracked on her combat shirt and shorts – but she hadn’t wanted to go home to change before coming here. She wanted to catch whoever flew the MCT helicopter before they left for the day.

The two choppers looked as if they had been put to bed: windows covered with reflective material, doors locked, caps with ropes attached to them on the end of each rotor blade, tied down to prevent the blades spinning free in a sudden wind. Nearby was a shabby clapboard building with a corrugated-iron roof, white paint flaking from its walls. It looked as if someone had decided to redecorate, taken a paint stripper to it and then changed their mind halfway through the job. But the door was ajar, propped open with what looked like a car battery.

Inside, a young Khmer man in an oil-stained vest and boiler-suit trousers was lounging in a plastic chair, feet on the desk, eyes closed, a full ashtray resting on his lap. Thick black hair, bleached with a badger’s streak, hung long over his forehead giving him the look of a rebellious schoolboy.

The room was stiflingly hot, the air so close that when Tess leaned in she felt as if a huge invisible hand was pushing her back. She was aware of a jumble of oddments on surfaces: piles of paper, dirty cups and plates, a radio, assorted bits of metal that looked like engine parts. A fly buzzed loudly against the single window.

Taking a step back, she knocked on the doorframe, and the man’s legs jerked as if he’d been slapped. He bolted upright, feet thumping to the floor, the ashtray clattering from his lap. Seeing her, he pushed himself to his feet, sweeping his hands down his vest in an unsuccessful attempt to dust off the ash.

‘Hi. Sorry to barge in on you like that.’ She stepped into the room, holding out her hand. ‘I’m Tess Hardy. Do you speak English?’

His head bobbed. ‘Yuh. Some. Some.’ He wiped his hand on his thigh and checked his palm before he took hers with a shy smile.

‘I’m from Mine Clearance Trust, in Battambang. We share one of the helicopters. I’m not sure which one.’

‘Ah, yuh.’ He nodded. ‘This one. MCT share this helicopter with Médecins Sans Frontières.’ He leaned over the desk and tapped his index finger on the grimy glass, indicating the helicopter furthest from them. It was bigger than the other, with a sliding door in its side. Large enough to take a stretcher.

‘Do you fly it?’

‘Ah.’ Again the shy smile, then a shake of his head. ‘No.’

Tess’s heart sank; the feeling must have telegraphed itself straight to her face.

‘Mr Seymour,’ he said quickly. ‘Mr Seymour fly that helicopter.’

‘Is he here?’

‘No. Not here.’

‘Has he left for the day?’

He looked confused.

‘Gone home?’ She waved a hand towards the door. ‘Home.’

‘Ah, yuh.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘Australia.’

‘
Australia?
’

‘Yuh. Gone home three days daughter get married, back—’ He paused and cast his eyes to the floor, lips moving as he silently counted. ‘Tomorrow tomorrow.’

‘Friday?’

He shook his head. ‘Tomorrow tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow . . . tomorrow? Oh, you mean the day after tomorrow? Saturday?’

His smile this time had a nervous tilt to it. ‘Yuh. Saturday. Late-late Saturday night-time.’

‘Look,’ she said, trying to keep the high note of impatience out of her voice. ‘I need to know about Monday. They – we – radioed from the field to say that we had an emergency, that we needed the helicopter immediately. But it didn’t come. It did not arrive. I need to find out why. Do you know what happened?’

He lifted his shoulders in apology and shook his head.

‘Does Mr Seymour keep a log, a book, something I could look at?’ She put her hands together, opened them flat, shut them again.

He nodded. ‘Ah. Yuh, book. Here.’ Beckoning her to follow, he snaked through the debris to the back of the hut and stopped in front of a large chipboard desk. A broken plastic fan was screwed to the wall above it. Surrounding the fan was a collage of posters and photographs: a koala squashed into the fork of a tree; Sydney Opera House, its white roof lit sunset red; a blond, tanned family dressed in singlets and matching Bermuda shorts on a white sand beach dotted with sunbathers.

‘Here. You look.’ He opened the desk drawer and pulled out a large red book, which he handed to her.

‘You must have lots of things to do,’ Tess said, sitting down, casting him what she hoped was a convincing smile. ‘I’ll be fine. You’ve been very helpful.’ Thankfully, he took the hint and left.

The book was thick, a page for each day of the year. She flicked over the pages until she reached October, then flicked back page by page until she found Monday 26th. There in spiky capitals were the words ‘Emergency call – 8.30 a.m.’ She lifted a hand to brush the trickles of sweat from her eyes, then read the words again. ‘Emergency call – 8.30 a.m.’

She sat back. Eight thirty? Was that right? It felt a bit late. But then she’d been so traumatised that she’d had no real idea what time it was when she had heard someone yelling – ‘Helicopter.
Helicopter
’
– into their radio.

Whatever.
The call was there, logged, official. The call had been received and then what? Nothing. Nothing else written on that page. She flicked back a page and ran her eyes up the lines. The Sunday was blank, but on the Saturday there was another entry: ‘Emergency medical supplies drop, Thma Pok, Médecins Sans Frontières.’ A similar entry for MSF for the Thursday before but to Banteay Srei this time. On the Monday – exactly a week before Johnny’s accident – the helicopter had been serviced. There were no other details, nothing about any mechanical problems or any repairs that might have been carried out, only that a service had been conducted.

Closing the book, she swivelled around in the seat. She was alone. Through the window she could see the young man walking across the tarmac, a bucket swinging from his hand. A whistled version of Lady Gaga’s ‘Marry the Night’ drifted through the door.

Turning back to the desk, Tess began rummaging: through the papers littering the desktop, the single drawer, running her gaze over the notices on the walls, pulling the bin out to check its contents – empty – glancing over her shoulder every few seconds to make sure she was still alone. But there was nothing that related to Monday 26 October. Wearily, she pushed herself to her feet.

Outside the sun was sinking, flooding the runway with orange light. She pulled her sunglasses from her pocket and slipped them on. The young man was running a soapy sponge across the windscreen of MCT’s helicopter; he turned as he heard her approach.

‘Is OK?’

She half-nodded. ‘Thanks, yes, but I’ve just one more question. Last Monday, in the morning, Mr Seymour’s diary says that he did receive our emergency call. But, as I said before, the helicopter didn’t arrive. We radioed again, but there was no answer. Did Mr Seymour say anything to you about it? Anything at all?’

‘I was not here.’ He pointed to the other helicopter. ‘Flew Phnom Penh. Left morning, six. Back late.’

‘OK.’ She held out her hand. ‘Thanks very much for your help.’

‘Come back Sunday,’ he urged, as he shook it. ‘Speak Mr Seymour.’

She nodded. Sunday was a whole seventy-two hours away.
Anything
could happen by then.