Breakneck point, p.3
Breakneck Point, page 3
‘What’s going on here?’
The senior investigating officer, I assume.
Cobb’s face flushes red.
‘Just doing my job, sir.’
The SIO smooths his sandy-coloured hair back into place.
‘What, by stopping other people doing theirs?’
‘I thought she was off Major Investigations.’
‘Well, she’s not, otherwise she wouldn’t be here, would she? I’m DI Bob Holt. Come through, Ally.’
I don’t know Holt but guess he’s Stride’s replacement. After I was ‘redeployed’ I haven’t paid much attention to what’s been happening at the MI unit. I wonder how he knows me. Then again, the force’s ranks aren’t heaving with CSIs who’ve blown the whistle on police corruption halfway through a murder trial.
Ducking under the tape, I surface on the other side to see Holt marching back towards the end of the quay and Cherish, a twenty-metre bronze statue of a serpent coiled around a woman’s naked torso, balanced on a tall plinth. Loaned by a local artist, it’s loved and loathed in equal measure. I’m in the loathe camp. There’s nothing positive about a dismembered body. I catch Holt up.
‘Thanks,’ I say, resisting the temptation to add that I can fight my own battles.
‘Look, I’m not going to beat around the bush. If I had my way, I wouldn’t have you anywhere near my investigation, but I’ve got one on long-term sick and the new lad, Jake Harris, would be out of his depth in a puddle and I need this wrapping up quickly so let’s just get on with it.’
I’m guessing he’s also a mate of Stride’s, but this isn’t the time or the place to launch into a rant about police corruption and, besides, I’m not looking for a new best friend.
‘So, what have we got?’
‘Young girl. Druggie. Probably strangled. Woman out walking her dog this morning found her.’ He machine-guns his words like a man for whom time is a luxury only others can afford.
‘Who else has entered the scene besides the dog walker?’
‘A special got here first. Did a good job of securing it, by all accounts. That just leaves me, Alex, the pathologist, and Jake, of course.’
‘No one else?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’
The forensic tent is perched awkwardly on the steps beneath the statue. Any more than this light breeze and it’ll be in the sea. Jake’s clearly no architect.
PC Bryant, the police officer posted at the entrance, nods at Holt before eyeing me with what? Contempt? Loathing? Disgust? Hell. It’s probably all three. I snatch his clipboard, scribble my name and thrust it back at him. I’m not the one who tried to fix a murder trial.
Holt zips himself back up into his forensic suit and we both slip on a fresh pair of blue shoe covers. I tuck my hair into the hood of mine, ensuring it fits snugly around my face and there are no loose strands.
Inside the crime scene tent a lanky young man also in a white forensic suit is leaning against the railings. Jake, I assume. God knows what Holt has said to him but his cheeks blaze with enough embarrassment to have raised the temperature in the tent by several degrees. Holt clearly gave him the hairdryer treatment. He introduces us and Jakes snaps to attention.
‘This is Ally Dymond. She’ll be managing the scene. Do as she says.’
‘The DI told me to wait for you.’
‘That’s fine. You’ve laid the plates.’ I nod at the metal rectangular plates placed at regular intervals round the plinth, protecting the scene from curious coppers and their size tens. ‘Good job. Right, let’s get on, shall we?’
The girl’s body isn’t immediately obvious which still surprises me, even after all these years. Violent death: such an abrupt, unprepared-for ending that I always expect the corpse to retain a residual aura, drawing me towards it. It doesn’t.
Then, there she is, a scrap of a thing lying on her side across the steps, her white-blonde hair swept over her face, her mayonnaise arms flopped at her side and freckled with needle pricks – just another casualty of the town’s buoyant drug business. Like I said, the real Bidecombe is never more than a few streets away from the tourist areas. She looks young, not much older than Megan, although I quickly archive that thought. It never takes me to a good place.
I kneel beside the girl’s body for a closer look. Holt’s right. There’s only one obvious injury: a thick red mark rings her ballerina neck. It’s the most likely cause of death and it wouldn’t have taken much. It never does. I’ve met many horrified at how easy it is to snuff out a life. One hard squeeze would have tipped her into oblivion in less time than it takes to make a cup of tea.
‘You said Alex has already seen her?’
Alex Blandford is the Home Office pathologist, but my question draws no response, forcing me to glance up at Holt who’s engrossed in his phone. Sensing my eyes are on him, he slips it into his pocket and makes a show of hitching his trousers to squat beside me.
‘Yeah, been and gone. Most likely asphyxiation caused by manual strangulation. Obviously, we’ll know more after the PM.’
‘What about time of death?’
‘Only a rough approximation at the moment, but somewhere between midnight and three.’
‘Do we know who she is?’
‘Janie Warren, nineteen, local girl.’
The name triggers a memory. Her face obscured by her hair, I hadn’t recognized her at first, but, of course, the white-blonde bob, the diminutive figure – we’ve met before.
‘I photographed a Janie Warren five months back. A domestic. Her boyfriend, Chris somebody, high on crack, beat the hell out of her.’
‘Yeah, that’s her. The local CID filled us in. It was a nasty assault.’
I remember Janie, hellbent on taking her ‘bastard boyfriend’ to court. He was a total deadbeat; the kind of guy Megan will bring home in a few years just to wind me up. Then, out of nowhere, she drops the charges. He’s been under a lot of stress, she’s been nagging him, it isn’t his fault he snapped, etc., etc. She told me they were even trying for a baby. Everything’s going to be fine. One big happy family. Things will be different, but they never are. I should know.
‘So, what are you thinking? The boyfriend finished what he’d already started?’
Holt checks his watch.
‘I don’t think it. I know it.’ He stands up, straightening his back then wincing with regret. He must be close to having his thirty years in, probably already booked tickets on a luxury liner somewhere in the Med. That seems to be what cops do when they retire – go on cruises. ‘Doubt we’ll even need to rely on forensics for this one so don’t overdo it.’
I stand up too.
‘How come?’
Holt’s phone buzzes in his jacket. He fishes it out and carries on talking as he punches his reply. His multi tasking would be impressive if it wasn’t so damned disrespectful.
‘We’ve got CCTV showing the two of them on the corner of Argyll Street at around eleven. They turn left onto Quayside and head towards the end of the quay where they drop out of sight. Then at twelve-thirty, you see him, Chris Banstead, legging it back from the quay. There were only two of them on the quay and there’s only one way in and one way out.’
‘What about the live cam footage?’
‘We checked. They don’t record it because it costs extra, but we won’t need it. The guy’s as guilty as they come. We’ve already brought him in.’
‘Has he admitted it?’
‘No, but he will. At the moment, he won’t even believe she’s dead. Says they came here, smoked weed, had sex and he left her to clean herself up while he went off to a mate’s to play Call of Duty.’
‘Classy guy.’ I run an eye over the steps. ‘OK, we’ll get the visuals done first. Then we’ll bag up the spliffs and the cans. Do you have her phone?’
‘No. We’ve searched. We’re thinking he might have thrown it in the harbour.’
That isn’t good. Phones are evidential gold, revealing every detail of our lives including the ones that help convict murderers, although it’ll take more than a strangled drug addict to get the police divers out.
But something else is troubling me.
‘That’s odd.’
‘What?’
‘There’s a lot of sand around.’
‘Well, we are by the sea.’
I meet Holt’s smirk with stone. Lame gags and murdered girls aren’t a great combo for me. I glance at the harbour, now full and bobbing with boats.
‘You’re right, the tide was out last night.’ I know full well that isn’t what he means. ‘But you said the CCTV picked them up on the corner of Argyll Street and Quayside, which means they walked around the harbour rather than crossing the sands to reach the quay.’
‘Maybe they went for a romantic stroll earlier.’
Holt glances at his watch, tipping my irritation into annoyance and just a couple of phone beeps away from full blown anger. What little attention he’s given this girl is rapidly waning. He’s already ticked the boxes on this one and filed it under ‘D’ for domestic, but I haven’t finished.
‘You might also want to check the boyfriend’s footwear.’
‘Why?’
I point to a shoeprint on the top step, its delicate grooves perfectly sculpted in sand. There’s even some lettering, a ‘V’, maybe. Probably part of the manufacturer’s mark.
‘It’s too big to belong to a female so that rules out your dog walker. It’s not a police boot either. I’d say it’s most likely a brogue of some kind, though I reckon the boyfriend’s more of a trainer kind of a guy, don’t you?’
Holt fixes on the mark like he’s trying to magic it away.
‘Could have been left earlier by a tourist,’ he says finally.
‘Unlikely. It rained until around eleven-thirty last night. It would have been washed away. This was made after it stopped raining.’
It isn’t the first time I’ve screwed with a detective’s cosy theory and, in Holt’s case, I can’t deny a blast of pleasure because, as much as he wants to, he can’t ignore this.
‘OK, we’ll check his shoes, but even if the shoeprint isn’t his, I’m confident there was no one else involved in Janie’s murder.’ His phone stirs again. He leaves it where it is. ‘Look, I’ve got to get back to the nick. We’re massively short-staffed at the moment.’ He looks at me like it’s my fault, which it is. No one wants to join a unit that has the stench of corruption about it. ‘I’m briefing on a child abuse inquiry going on in the south of the county.’
‘What about the PM?’
‘It’s at two-thirty. I’ll try to make it, but if I don’t, carry on without me.’ He turns to leave. ‘And Ally?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s no need to sweat this one. We’ve got the guy. It’s just a case of going through the motions. When you’re done, send me a copy of your report.’ In other words: don’t think for one minute you’re back on Major Investigations. ‘One more thing…’ He hesitates long enough for me to know I’m not going to like this. ‘I want Jake’s name on all the exhibits in case he’s called to court.’
‘What? Why?’
‘You know why.’
Jake’s frowning. He’s no idea what Holt’s talking about, but Holt’s not getting away with this.
‘I’m perfectly capable of giving evidence in court. I can’t help it if your bent colleagues think it’s a good idea to fix a trial. Besides, I’m leading the scene and Jake is too inexperienced for the dock.’
Jake’s expression agrees with me.
‘And I’m the SIO.’
Holt says this like it trumps everything and although I’m a civilian CSI and he can’t technically order me to do anything, not like he can a lower-ranking police officer, he’s right. It’s his show, so much so he doesn’t wait for my response, and then it’s just me and Jake.
This time it’s my phone that rings in my pocket. It’s Megan again.
‘Do you mind, Jake? It’s my daughter.’
‘Sure.’
Megan hurls a list of ailments down the line, evidence as to why I must collect her from school immediately. My temples begin to throb. I don’t need this. Not now.
‘I can’t come. I’m at work. Go to the nurse and get some Nurofen.’
‘They won’t give me any. You never signed the consent form. Please come and get me, Mum.’
‘I can’t, Megan. I’ll text the school nurse.’
‘I could be dying for all you care.’
She hangs up on me for the second time today, leaving me staring at my home screen, my favourite photo of a pre-teen Megan flashing a smile I’d forgotten she had. Something’s up. I’m not sure what, but it’s not like her to phone me from school. I try to get hold of Penny, but she’s not picking up and I can’t bring myself to call Bernadette.
‘Do you need to get your daughter? I can crack on here.’
Jake’s words aren’t dripping with confidence. I look down at Janie’s pale, thin corpse that looks like it’s been tossed aside like chip paper. I can’t leave her. This needs to be done right if we’re to nail her killer and Jake isn’t up to it. Not yet.
‘No. She’ll be fine. Thanks, though. Let’s get on with it. Remember, if in doubt, bag it. The first and most important rule of crime scene investigation, Jake, is assume nothing.’
But as we place the numbered markers next to the items we plan to remove, I can’t help thinking about Megan. She didn’t sound ill. She sounded upset.
4
The CSI appears at the entrance to the tent. She tugs back the hood of her white protective suit and wisps of dark hair dislodge themselves from her hair clip. Just like Danielle’s would on a windy walk, before everything changed.
Scanning the quay, she spots him and gives him the thumbs-up. He waves back. ‘They’re ready for us.’ He calls over to Trisha who is leaning against the wall of a takeaway, forking chips into her mouth, trying to chomp away the memory of Bill, no doubt.
She rolls her eyes. Interrupting mealtimes always makes her irritable and she hesitates, trying to decide whether or not she can save the chips for later, before reluctantly dumping them in the bin.
The crowd murmurs at their arrival, parting to make way for them, sensing they’re finally going to get to see something interesting. He can’t blame them. There’s something beguiling about the dead. Some of them. He swings the police tape over their heads. The PCSO nods his approval. No one questions the paramedics.
Climbing into the back of the ambulance parked behind the police cordon, he unclips the trolley and guides it off the vehicle and towards Trisha. Between them they lower it onto the ground and wheel it towards the white tent and the waiting CSI.
‘Hi, I don’t think we’ve met before, have we? I was on Major Investigations until recently. Most of our jobs were in the south of the county. I’m back on division so I guess we’ll be seeing a bit more each other. I’m Ally Dymond, by the way, the CSI.’ She looks down at her gloved hands, streaked with dirt. ‘Probably best if we don’t shake hands.’
‘Hi, Ally, I’m Trisha Wilkins and this is Simon Pascoe.’
‘Nice to meet you both. I just wanted to apologize for keeping you waiting so long,’ the CSI says, but she doesn’t mean it. She couldn’t care less that she’s kept them hanging around for hours.
‘No problem,’ says Trisha.
‘Great, well, we’re ready for you now,’ the CSI says.
Hoisting the trolley over the railings which surround the statue, they park it just inside the tent’s entrance, away from prying eyes, and follow the CSI inside.
‘She’s just round here.’
The CSI guides them around the base of the statue. In his peripheral vision, he’s aware of a pale, ribbon-like form on the ground, but he doesn’t dare look down for fear of how the sight might affect him.
The only other person present is the other CSI who is hovering on the steps below the statue like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He looks about fourteen, wet behind the ears and totally out of his depth.
The CSI turns to them. ‘There’s not much room in here so Jake and I will get out of your way while you move the body. If you can keep to the metal plates that would make our lives a lot easier.’
Trisha smiles.
‘Of course. No problem.’
The CSIs leave and it’s just the two of them.
‘Poor kid,’ mutters Trisha, heaving a sigh. ‘Come on, Si, let’s get this done.’
He nods and finally glances down.
There she is, draped across the stone steps, exactly where he left her.
* * *
Jake worries me. At first, he’s quite chatty and our conversation flows, but after I task him to photograph Janie’s body it trickles to nothing.
That’s fine. He needs to concentrate. He gets one chance to photograph the body in situ and he can’t afford to mess it up. He checks and rechecks the camera screen ensuring he’s photographed her from every conceivable angle, but, by the time the paramedics remove Janie’s corpse, he’s slipped into one of those silences that long-in-the-tooth CSIs like me know to avoid.
We return to the CSI van with armfuls of brown exhibit bags and I search for something neutral to say, anything to drag him back from whatever dark hole he’s fallen down.
‘So, did you go to uni?’
‘Yeah. I did Photography. What about you? Did you go?’
‘For a while.’ No need to mention an unexpected pregnancy and subsequent arrival of Megan cut short a Materials Science degree at Oxford. ‘So why come here? It’s not exactly a crime hotspot. It could be years before we have another murder.’
‘I couldn’t be anywhere else. I love surfing. If I’m not at work, I’m down at Morte Sands.’
‘My favourite beach. Terrible signal, too, so there’s no chance you’ll be interrupted riding the waves.’ Jake forces a smile. ‘Seriously, it’s good to have interests outside your job. It’ll keep you sane.’
