Jack in the box, p.9
Jack in the Box, page 9
21
Lomond was talking in his sleep, something about a canoe and a waterfall. He sounded untroubled, more curious than anything else. Maureen, giggling to herself, was in the middle of making a note of this before she forgot, so that she could wind him up later, when his phone detonated, startling them both.
‘Right,’ Lomond said, in the sudden businesslike tone of a drunk shaken awake before he falls off his bar stool. ‘Yes. Hello.’
‘Sir.’ Smythe – the phone would have told him that, but Lomond’s vision still swam. ‘We got a tip in from a snout. It looks like there’s another one.’
‘You’re joking!’ He was out of bed, kicking off his shorts.
‘It’s complicated, sir. It’s not exactly new.’
‘Where?’
‘Hazell Court. Old tower block.’
‘They not coming down soon?’
‘At some point. Been derelict eighteen months, maybe two years.’
‘I’ll be over in a minute . . . two minutes.’
Once he’d hung up and struggled out of his long-sleeved top and stumbled for the en-suite, Maureen said, ‘Another one. Meaning another murder.’
‘Aye.’ Lomond mussed his hair.
‘Feels like we only just got rid of the last one.’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Isn’t your fault. Unless there’s something you want to confess.’
‘You’ll be careful, though. Last time wasn’t good.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ he said soberly.
‘I read things about that woman who was killed. I heard someone broke into her house. Middle of the day.’
‘Nothing to worry about. No need to do anything out of the ordinary. Lock the doors, alarms on, be smart.’
‘God, remember last time? The Ferryman protests? You almost got bloody killed.’
‘Sullivan can handle that carry-on this time. I’m staying well out of it. I’ll do the donkey work, nothing else. If it’s a serial job, we’ll catch him. They make mistakes without realising it. If he’s from outer space, we’ll catch him. If he travels through time, we’ll catch him.’
Maureen frowned. ‘What in God’s name were you dreaming about?’
‘An ice cream van. I think there was an ice cream van in it.’ Lomond paused, frowning. ‘Nah, it’s gone.’ Then he got in the shower.
*
Chick Minchin crept up on Lomond while he watched the remains being lifted onto the table.
‘Jesus, Chick.’
‘Sorry, Lomie.’ Minchin wore a smart shirt and trousers as usual. Lomond thought he recognised the tie, a yellow and black chequerboard that reminded him of burnt cheese on toast. The pathologist uncoiled this from around his neck and laid it over a hook alongside his suit jacket. ‘You got a coffee down you?’
Lomond tapped the paper cup on the table with the end of his finger. ‘That’s my third. It’ll do for now.’
‘We’re into serious territory here, are we not?’
‘We are,’ Lomond said. He took up the empty cup for want of something to do with his hands. ‘Soon as I saw the position of the legs, the hands, I knew it.’
Minchin nodded. ‘Off the record, there’s too much similarity to ignore.’
The stark white lighting, the shiny silver instruments and the bleached-clean surroundings made for a stunning contrast to the condition of the body. Even over and above what Lomond had seen so far in his career.
Beyond the observation window, Anita Khavari and a junior pathologist prepared for the post-mortem. Brown flesh, sightless eyes, denuded bones slipping through green-flecked black mould like a daring show of leg in a vaudeville show. Lomond could detect nothing from this position, but he knew the smell. Smythe had been on it when Lomond and Slater had arrived. She’d struggled to speak afterwards, which wasn’t like her.
‘Male or female?’
‘I’d say male,’ Minchin said, ‘but we’ll check to be sure.’
‘Not so decomposed as you’d think. How long?’
‘This is the thing – no insect activity, really. Not as much as I’d expect. And flies get in everywhere, as you’ll know. Even given he’s been stored in a fridge. I’d say he’s been dead six weeks – done November, maybe. After the leaves turned, anyway.’
Lomond nodded. ‘Any chance he was in a fridge that was switched on?’
‘Then dumped? Aye, it’s possible. We’ll check, see if there’s any sign the flesh has been frozen. Given he’s not been totally skeletonised, that’ll give us a chance to check one or two things. Body’s a mess, but if it had been there for six months, say over the summer, it’d be worse.’
‘Same deal as the other day, in Fairham,’ Lomond said. ‘This was left to be found.’
‘Thing that strikes me, Lomie – the arms, elbows, knees, chin, all appeared to have been propped up on the stuff that fell out of the fridge with him. Old books and boxes. Whoever did it wanted to preserve the shape of the body. Compression. All folded in on itself.’
‘And stuffed into a box,’ Lomond said.
‘The woman at Fairham was smothered,’ Minchin said.
‘Offer you evens it’s the same.’
‘That’s a bet.’
Lomond nodded towards the tall, slender white-suited figure beyond the window. ‘What d’you reckon to Anita, then?’
‘Oh, she’s a threat,’ Minchin said, a little wide-eyed. ‘Better than me by miles. Calm. Efficient. Gives you chapter and verse, studies, papers, forgets nothing. Great with her hands, on top of that. Plus, she takes a better photo than me.’
‘Ach, you’re not so bad yourself, Chick.’
‘Stick her on the front of a Sunday supplement, she wouldn’t look out of place. I mean that’s just stating a fact, right? Not sexist.’
‘Totally not sexist,’ Lomond said, a tad hurriedly.
‘She’ll be running the place in five . . . maybe even three years. Game’s a bogey, Lomie. I’ve had it.’
‘So – this you checking up on the competition?’
‘Yeah, something like that. Or call it professional interest.’
Lomond smiled. ‘You’re not retiring on me any time soon, are you?’
‘Me? Christ, never. I’ll be on the table over there before that. Besides, who else is going to bust your chops the same way I do?’
‘Everyone else.’
‘You’d better go in. This looks like a menthol job.’
‘You’re not kidding.’ Lomond held up a tub of vapour jelly.
‘I’d have given you a dod on the house. My own brand. Special reserve. The good stuff.’
Lomond unscrewed the cap of the tub. ‘I should have brought the military issue.’ Before they could continue, Khavari’s muffled voice came through the speakers.
‘Before we start, gents, you’d best take a look at this. We’ve found something in one of the hands.’
*
Later, Khavari wouldn’t touch the tea and biscuits, Lomond noticed. Her long black hair was tied back. Close up, her eyes were startlingly black, stealing the light from every source.
‘Well, the opinion was that this was a man in his late thirties, about five foot six inches tall. Stripped naked. Throttled, it looks like, going by a ligature wound deep in the neck.’
Lomond made notes. ‘Seems like you were spot on.’
‘I suppose it does help if you get a great big clue clutched in the dead man’s hand.’
‘Yeah. You didn’t know about that right away, though.’
‘I’ll take that, all day long.’ Khavari clicked on the screen, moving away from the close-up of the ghastly face. The flesh had slipped, revealing a grin that missed a tooth or two. The next image was of a slimy piece of card, which the pathologists had cleaned off. It had been lodged in the crook between the right thumb and forefinger. The embossed plastic revealed his name, and his face. A security pass, and a sun-bleached face, curly-haired, somewhat round-eyed and startled-looking, with a stubbly chin. William Ross.
‘Makes our job easier, that’s for sure.’
‘Like everything else about this body in situ, it suggests it was posed, to me. With a bit of movement, and allowing for the body at the scene falling on the floor, this is exactly the same as the Fairham woman.’
‘And he was killed nearly two months before.’ Lomond tapped his notebook. ‘Different sex, same method.’
‘Not quite,’ Khavari said. ‘Throttled. Kathryn Symes was smothered.’
‘He wasn’t the biggest,’ Lomond noted. ‘But it would have taken a lot of effort to do either of them.’
‘A strong man, to fold them up like that,’ Khavari said.
‘Not to mention the method.’
‘Fridge man was throttled from behind. Harder to do than smothering someone. In theory. We’ll see what the toxicology tests bring up.’
Lomond peered at the edge of the pass, where faded blue lettering fell in a vertical line. ‘“Avalon King” – that’s a builder’s,’ Lomond said. ‘Recognise the font.’
‘Aye,’ Minchin said from the far side of the room. ‘They did some work on my extension. Few years ago now.’
‘I’ll make a couple of phone calls.’ Lomond turned back to Khavari. ‘It looks like we could have the same man. That’s my feeling.’
She nodded. ‘There are a lot of similarities between the way each body was posed. Too many to be a coincidence.’
‘Except he did this one weeks ago. And it’s not the same situation at all. So what’s the link?’
22
When someone slid into the seat next to her, in the briefing room, Smythe jumped.
‘Bad one?’ There was nothing particularly offensive in Myles Tait’s manner, voice, or expression, but something in him conveyed this anyway. Maybe Slater’s right about him, Smythe thought.
‘I don’t know if it’s the worst,’ she said. ‘When I was in uniform I saw an old lady in a flat. Neighbours had been complaining. The smell, you know? I thought I’d seen it before, but she was in an unbelievable state. I remember thinking it was like she was in a cocoon – she was turning into something else. Place was absolutely jumping with maggots. I don’t think anything will top that, but this one . . . it was like something from a video game. The colour, that muddy brown. I’m not sure how to describe it. I want to say mummified.’ She blinked. ‘So, aye, it was bad, is what I’m saying.’
‘Sorry.’ Tait blew onto the surface of his tea. ‘Same killer, eh? Another one. They must absolutely love this city.’
‘Lucky for us, eh?’
‘Love your work . . . hate your work.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Speaking of which . . . you going for it?’
She frowned. ‘Going for what?’
‘You not see it? It was posted today.’
‘No. I haven’t stopped, Myles.’
‘DI.’
‘Oh aye. Where?’
‘Edinburgh.’
‘That suit you?’
‘Yes. Time for a change. And you? You’ll go for it, surely?’
Slater appeared and sat down alongside Smythe, sparing her the need to answer. He nodded in Tait’s direction. Slater being curt wasn’t unusual when Tait was present, but it was usually spiced with the odd gag or flat-out insult. He tapped at his phone, then tucked it in his pocket.
‘You in the mood for lunch after the PM?’ Tait asked.
‘What? No.’ Slater crossed his arms and sat back, sighing. Tait shrugged at Smythe just as Lomond appeared in the room and laid down his folder.
‘OK, folks, I won’t take up too much time here. To confirm what you probably already know: we potentially have a second body courtesy of our friend from Fairham. Died before Kathryn Symes. We believe his name is William Ross, age thirty-seven, been off the system for three years. Last known working as a labourer at a building firm called Avalon King. He’d been there since school, until he got his P45. Since then, nothing much. Remaining family is his mother and an older brother, neither of whom sounded particularly cut up about it. No one reported him missing. Cara and Myles, I want you to get talking, find out anything you can about William Ross. Try the family again, see if you can dig out what happened.’
Tait lifted his hand. ‘Any last known movements or contacts?’
‘No, and that’s bothering me. It’s all far too vague. William Ross himself is far too vague. We’ll put out some appeals in the press.’
Smythe asked, ‘Does any of this tie in with Kathryn Symes?’
‘We don’t know how,’ Lomond said, ‘but it certainly looks like it.’
‘Are we sure it’s the same killer?’ Smythe asked.
Lomond clicked on the link. There was the image Smythe had been confronted with that afternoon. Almost like muscle memory, her palate and gullet were in revolt, just for a second. Silence fell on the room at the sight, while the smattering of detectives and uniformed police collectively tried to process what they were seeing, and then instantly rejected it. It wasn’t a gasp, or even an inhalation. It was an un-noise, an anti-flinch. ‘What I want everyone to pay attention to is the position of the body. Head, arms, elbows, all stuffed into a tight space. William Ross was folded into a fridge, and the limbs were propped up with detritus – landfill, apparently – so that the body would retain its position.’
‘That level of decomposition . . . when was he killed?’ Tait asked. ‘Meaning, was the body actually stored in the fridge before it was switched off and wheeled over to Hazell Court?’
‘Anita and Chick are in agreement – the body was never refrigerated. But it had been enclosed for nearly two months.’ Lomond hesitated. ‘It may have been preserved in some way. Somewhere dry, maybe mummified. Even late October, early November, there should have been insect activity or at the very least a more advanced level of decomposition . . . Malcolm, you with us, son?’
Slater was on his phone. He glanced up at Lomond with a look that resembled hostility, Smythe was amazed to note. Without looking away, Slater clicked off his phone and tucked it in his coat pocket. Then he raised a hand, back in character. ‘Sorry, gaffer.’
Lomond blinked, then continued. ‘Malcolm, I want you and Lorna McGill to have a look through the CCTV at Hazell Court. It seems they were a bit lax over there with security – that’s why folk were able to break in. It might be that they don’t have any records, but something might show up. I’m thinking that William Ross’s body was in storage somewhere, maybe an industrial unit, something like that. Then it was moved recently to the room in Hazell Court, for us to find. Or someone to find.’
‘OK.’ Slater caught the eye of the short, thick-set plainclothes officer, who nodded in return.
‘I’m going to speak to Avalon King, see what comes up,’ Lomond went on. ‘That’s a link between Kathryn Symes and William Ross. Avalon King built the Fairham estate where Kathryn Symes lived. I’ll want to have a look at their security system set-up as well.
‘That’s all for today. Everyone else, I want all tips dealt with and followed up. And for the moment, we are not sharing with the press that the two cases may be linked. The state in which the bodies were discovered doesn’t need a public airing just yet either. I’ll look forward to your reports.’
Lomond remembered the ghastly images he’d left on the big screen just in time before he stepped away from the lectern. With one or two hasty clicks, they were gone.
‘Georgia on your mind?’ Tait said to Slater, grinning.
Slater was back on his phone. His reaction was delayed, but still faster than most. ‘Your ma won’t leave me alone, Myles. I want you to have a word.’
Tait snorted. ‘My ma would never have sent you out the door looking like that. Care to explain the jacket?’
Slater extended a finger, nodded to Smythe, then caught up with McGill.
‘Not like him,’ Tait said, nodding towards Slater’s back.
‘Dodgy case, isn’t it?’ Smythe offered, zipping her notes up in her bag. ‘It gets to you sometimes.’
23
Nicole Kingsley didn’t move a muscle. She sat there at the centre of a huge black coat that seemed to double in size when she sat down. Her breath steamed up in the cool air, wisps of it trailing from her sharp nose. If she was impatient or bored, there was no outward sign of it. There was no outward sign of anything. She’d even let the tea grow cold, having sniffed, made a face and simply left it to die on the table after its delivery from the vending machine. A pretty face stared out from underneath long blonde hair that had taken a while to straighten that morning. Nicole believed in looking good while doing dirty work. She was forty-two, but she could have passed for at least a decade younger.
The sun was a welcome sight that morning after the snow, low and sickly as it was in early January. It bleached the wall of the Portacabin, casting long shadows on the tatty items pinned to the notice boards, the printouts and pictures excised from newspapers. Someone’s got some Photoshop skills, Nicole noted.
At last, the door to the cabin opened. Nicole kept perfectly still, her hands folded. She’d kept her gloves on – pearl white, as was the pashmina draped around her shoulders. She regarded the big, bumptious man in the uniform with a look of open amusement. He carried a comically oversized travel mug in one hand, steaming hot.
Joe paused, as if caught doing something. ‘Right,’ he said, at last.
‘Your shirt’s . . . um . . . down there.’ Nicole nodded towards him.
He felt each button before finally reaching the smooth point where the button had been dislodged by his belly. ‘Right,’ he said again, fixing it.
‘You’ve had a busy time of it,’ she said. ‘Polis talking to you, eh, Joe?’
‘Aye,’ he said.
‘Hell of a thing to see,’ Nicole said. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘It’s . . . it was bad,’ Joe said.
‘No one wants to see that.’
Joe shook his head. He moved towards the table. Before the mug could be placed on the lacquered surface, she said, ‘Don’t bother getting comfortable.’
‘You what?’
