Cold Killing Page 3

  ‘I hear you have a dead male for me in flat number sixteen. Yes?’ Roddis still sounded irritated.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Donnelly.

  Roddis turned to Sean. ‘Anything special you want from us?’

  ‘No. Our money’s on a domestic, so stick to the basics. You can keep the expensive toys locked away.’

  ‘Very well,’ Roddis replied. ‘Blood, fibres, prints, hair and semen it is.’

  Donnelly and Sean were already walking away. Sean called over his shoulder. ‘I’m briefing my team at eight a.m. Try and get me a preliminary report before then.’

  ‘I might be able to phone something through to you. Will that do?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Sean. Right now he would take anything on offer.

  It was shortly before 8 a.m. and Sean sat alone in his bleak, functional office in Peckham police station, surrounded by the same cheap wooden furniture that adorned each and every police building across London. The office was just about big enough to house two four-foot battered oblong desks and two uncomfortable chairs for the frequent visitors. Two ancient-looking computers sat one on each desk and the harsh fluorescent lights above painted everything a dull yellow. How he envied those TV detectives with their swivel leather chairs, banks of all-seeing all-dancing computers, and most of all the Jasper Conran reading lamps slung low over shining glass desks. Reality was mundane and functional.

  Sean thought about the victim. What sort of person had he been? Was he loved? Would he be missed? He would find out soon enough. The phone rang and made him jump.

  ‘DI Corrigan.’ He rarely wasted words on the phone. Years of speaking into radios had trimmed his speech.

  ‘Mr Corrigan, it’s DS Roddis. You wanted an update for your briefing?’ Roddis didn’t recognize any ranks above his own, but his powerful position meant he was never challenged by his seniors. He decided the forensic resources assigned to each case, and it was he who knew the right people at the right laboratories across the south-east who could get the job done. Everybody, regardless of rank, respected his monopoly.

  ‘Thanks for calling. What you got for me?’

  ‘Well, it’s early days.’

  Sean knew the lab team would have done little more than get organized. ‘I appreciate that, but I’d like whatever you’ve got.’

  ‘Very well. We’ve had a cursory look around. The entry and exit point is surprisingly clean, given the nature of the attack. And the hallway was clean too. Perhaps we’ll find something when we get better lighting and some UV lamps. Other than that, nothing definite yet. The blood spray marks on the walls and furniture have me a little confused.’

  ‘Confused?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Having seen the victim’s wounds, I’m pretty sure the blow to the head all but killed him and it certainly knocked him down. I have a blood spray pattern on a wall that would be consistent with a blow to his head with a heavy object.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘If the victim was prostrate when the other injuries were inflicted then I would only expect to find small, localized sprays, but I’ve got numerous others, over the carpet, broken furniture, up the walls. They’re not consistent with his wounds.’

  ‘Then he must have other wounds we haven’t seen yet,’ Sean suggested. ‘Or maybe the blood is from the attacker?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Roddis sounded unconvinced. ‘No obvious murder weapon yet,’ he continued, ‘but it will probably turn up when we get into the search properly.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Sean asked, in hope more than expectation.

  ‘There are plenty of corres: address books, diaries, bank books and so on. It shouldn’t be too hard to confirm the victim’s identity. That’s it so far.’

  Sean may not have particularly liked Roddis, but he valued his professionalism. ‘Thanks. It’ll be a help in the briefing. Might keep the team awake.’ He hung up.

  Reclining in his chair, Sean stared at the lukewarm cup of coffee on his desk. What would it mean if the splash patterns didn’t match the wounds on the victim? Had the killer been badly injured himself and the blood sprays came from his wounds? He doubted it, especially if Roddis was right about the victim being all but taken out with the first blow to the head. And if he was knocked down with the first blow, then what the hell were the other injuries about? The answers would come, he reassured himself. Wait for the full forensic examination of the scene, the post-mortem of the victim. The answers would come. They always did.

  He stood and looked out of his window down at the station car park. He saw DS Sally Jones outside furiously smoking a cigarette, laughing and joking with a couple of girls from the typing pool.

  He watched her, admiring her. A five-foot-three bundle of energy. Her slender athletic legs contrasted with her slightly stocky, masculine upper-body. He tried to remember if he had seen her fair hair not tied back in a ponytail.

  He loved her ability to connect with people. She could talk to anyone and make them feel that she was their best friend in the world, and so Sean sometimes used her to do the things he would find impossible to do well. Speaking with grieving parents. Telling a husband his wife had been raped and murdered in their own home. Sean had watched in awe as Sally told people unthinkable things and then half an hour later she would be laughing and joking, puffing on a cigarette, chatting with whoever was close enough. She was tough. Tougher than he would ever be. He smiled as he watched her.

  Sean wondered why she was still alone. He couldn’t imagine doing this job and then going home to an empty house. Sally told him she was clearly too much for any man to handle. He had often tried to sense some sorrow in her. Some loneliness. He never could.

  He checked the time. She was going to be late for the briefing. He could call out the window and warn her, but he decided it would be more fun to leave it.

  He walked the short distance along the busy, brightly lit corridor: doors on both sides; old and new posters pinned and stuck to the walls, uniformly ignored by passers-by all too single-mindedly trying to get to wherever they were going to stop and take notice of someone else’s appeals for assistance. He reached the briefing room and entered. His team continued to chatter away amongst themselves. A couple of them, including Donnelly, mouthed a greeting. He nodded back.

  The team was relatively small. Two detective sergeants − Sally and Donnelly − and ten detective constables. Sean sat in his usual chair at the head of a rectangular wooden table, the cheapest money could buy. He dropped his mobile phone and notebook in front of him and looked around − making sure everyone was there. He nodded to Donnelly, who understood the cue. They’d been working with each other long enough to be able to communicate without the need for words.

  ‘All right, people, listen up. The guv’nor wants to speak and we’ve got a lot to get through, so let’s park our arses and crack on.’ The murmuring faded as the team began to sit and concentrate on Sean.

  Detective Constable Zukov spoke. ‘D’you want me to grab DS Jones, boss? I think she’s having a smoke in the yard.’

  ‘No. Don’t bother,’ Sean told him. ‘She’ll be here soon enough.’

  The room fell silent, Sean looking at Donnelly with a slight grin on his face. They both turned to the briefing room door just as DS Sally Jones came bursting in. There was a low hum of stifled laughter.

  ‘Shit. Sorry I’m late, guv.’ The hum of low laughter grew. Sally swatted one of the constables across the head as she walked past. He threw his hands up in protest. ‘I told you to come and get me, Paulo.’ The constable didn’t answer, but the smile on his face said everything.

  Sean joined in. ‘Afternoon, Sally. Thanks for joining us.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure, sir.’

  ‘As I’m sure you’ve all worked out, we’ve picked up another murder.’ Some of the team groaned.

  Sally spoke up. ‘We’re only in summer and already we’ve had sixteen murders on this team alone. Eight still need preparing for court. Who’s going to put tho
se court presentations together if we’re constantly being dumped on?’ There was a rumble of approval around the room.

  ‘No point moaning,’ Sean told them. ‘All the other teams are just as busy as we are, so we get this one. As you’re all no doubt aware, we don’t have a live investigation running so we’re the obvious choice.’

  Sean was prepared for the grumblings. Police officers always grumbled. They were either moaning about being too busy or they were moaning about not earning enough overtime. It was a fact of life with police.

  He continued. ‘Okay, this is the job. What we know so far is our victim was beaten and stabbed to death. At this time we believe the victim is Daniel Graydon, the occupier of the flat where we’re pretty certain the crime took place. But his facial injuries are severe, so visual identification has yet to be confirmed. We are treating the flat as our primary crime scene. Dave and I have already had a look around and it’s not pretty. The victim would appear to have been hit on the head with a heavy object and that may well have been the critical injury, although we’ll have to wait for the autopsy to confirm that. The stab wounds are numerous and spread across a wide area. This was a vicious, brutal attack.

  ‘It is suspected the victim may be gay, and the early theory is that it was probably a domestic. If that’s the case, then the killer himself could be hurt. We’re already checking the hospitals and custody suites on the off chance he was picked up for something else after fleeing the scene. I don’t want this to get complicated, so let’s keep it simple. A nice, neat, join-the-dots investigation will do me fine.’

  Sean looked towards Sally.

  ‘Sally, I want you to pick four guys and start on door-to-door immediately. That time of night, beaten to death, someone must have heard or seen something. The rest of you, hang fire. The lab team is looking at the victim’s personal stuff, so we’ll have a long list of people to trace and chat with soon enough. I don’t expect it to be long before we have a decent idea who our prime suspect is.

  ‘Dave. You go office manager on this one.’ Donnelly nodded acknowledgement. ‘The rest of you check with Dave at least three times a day for your assignments. And remember,’ Sean added, ‘the first few hours are the most important, so let’s eat on the hoof and worry about sleep when the killer’s banged up downstairs.’

  There were nods of approval as the group began to break up. Sean could sense their optimism, their trust in his leadership, his judgement. He hadn’t failed them yet.

  He prayed this case would be no different.

  It was almost 1 p.m. and Sean had spent the morning on the phone. He’d told the same story a dozen times. To his superintendent, the Intelligence Unit, the Gay and Lesbian liaison officer, the local uniformed duty officer, the Community Safety Inspector. He was sick of telling. Sally and Donnelly had returned for their meeting and sat in his office. Sally had brought coffee and sandwiches, which Sean ate without tasting. It was the first thing he had eaten since the phone call from Donnelly early that morning, so he was happy just to get something into his stomach.

  Between bites they talked, all of them aware they hadn’t a moment to waste on a proper lunch. The first days of a murder inquiry were always the same – so much to get through and so little time. Forensic evidence degraded, witnesses’ memories faded, CCTV tapes would be recorded over. Time was Sean’s enemy now.

  ‘Anything from the door-to-door, Sally?’ he asked. ‘Give me good news only.’

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘I’ve still got guys down there knocking on doors, but so far all we’re being told is that Graydon kept himself to himself. No noisy parties. No fights. No problems. No nothing. Everybody says he was a nice kid. As for last night, nobody saw or heard a thing. Another quiet night in South London.’

  ‘That can’t be right,’ Sean argued. ‘A man gets beaten to death within a few feet of what, four other flats, and no one heard it?’

  ‘That’s what we’re being told.’

  Sean sighed and turned towards Donnelly. ‘Dave?’

  ‘Aye. We’ve managed to make copies of his diary, address book and what have you. I’ve got a couple of the lads going through that now. Expect to be informed about next of kin pretty soon. No boyfriend yet, though. No one name coming up over and over. I’ll be sending the troops out to trace friends and associates as and when we have their details. Oh, and the Coroner’s Officer has been on the blower. The body’s been moved from the scene and taken to Guy’s Hospital. Post-mortem’s at four p.m. today.’

  Sean’s mind flashed with the images of previous post-mortems he’d attended as he pushed what was left of his sandwiches to one side.

  ‘Who’s doing it?’

  ‘You’ve got your wish there, boss. It’s Dr Canning. Anything more from the forensics team at the scene?’

  ‘Not yet. Roddis doesn’t reckon they’ll be finished until about this time tomorrow, then as usual everything gets sent to the lab and we wait.’

  A young detective from Sean’s team appeared at the door holding a small piece of paper pinched between his fingers. ‘I think I’ve found an address for the parents.’ The three detectives continued to look at him.

  ‘I’ll take that, thanks,’ Sally told him. The young detective handed her the note and backed away from the door.

  Sean knew his responsibilities. ‘I’ll come too. Shit, this is gonna be fun. Dave, I’ll see you back here at about three thirty. You can take me to the post-mortem.’

  ‘I’ll be here,’ Donnelly assured him.

  Sean tugged his jacket on and headed for the door, Sally in pursuit. ‘And remember,’ he told Donnelly, ‘if anyone asks, this is a straightforward domestic murder. No need to get anyone excited.’

  ‘Having doubts?’ Donnelly managed to ask before Sean was gone.

  ‘No,’ Sean answered, not entirely truthfully. For a second he was back in the flat, back at the scene of the slaughter, watching the killer moving around Graydon’s prostrate form, but he saw no panic or fury in his actions, no jealousy or rage, only a coldness – a sense of satisfaction.

  Donnelly’s voice snapped him back. ‘You all right, guv’nor?’

  ‘Sorry, yes I’m fine. Just find me the boyfriend – whoever he is. Find him and you’ve found our prime suspect.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I know you will,’ Sean told him as he watched him stride back into the main office.

  3

  Late Thursday afternoon

  Sean and Donnelly walked along the corridors of Guy’s Hospital, heading for the mortuary. They were accompanied by Detective Constable Sam Muir who would be acting as exhibits officer – taking responsibility for any objects the pathologist found on or in the body during the post-mortem. Sean wondered if he would bump into his wife, Kate, one of the all too few doctors attending to the never-ending flow of patients through the Accident and Emergency department – the sick and injured from the surrounding areas of Southwark, Bermondsey and beyond. Some of London’s poorest and most forgotten, living in council flats where violence and crime were seldom far away, yet all of their degradation and suffering going unnoticed and unseen by the swarms of tourists wandering around Tower Bridge and Tooley Street. If only they knew how close they were to some of London’s most dangerous territory.

  His mind returned to the victim’s parents. He and Sally had called at the small terraced house in Putney. A desirable neighbourhood on the whole, but boisterous on weekend evenings. Sally had done most of the talking.

  Daniel had been their only child. The mother was devastated and didn’t care who saw her fall to the floor screaming. Her despair was a physical pain. When she could speak, all she could say was the name of her son.

  The father was stunned. He didn’t know whether to help his wife or collapse himself. He ended up doing neither. Sean took him into the living room. Sally stayed with the mother.

  They knew their son was gay. It had bothered the father at first, but he grew to accept it. What else could he do
other than push the boy away? And he would never do that. He said his son worked as a nightclub manager. He wasn’t sure where, but Daniel had been doing well for himself and had no money problems, unlike other young people.

  He hadn’t met any of his son’s friends. Daniel hadn’t kept in touch with his old school friends. He came home quite often, almost every Sunday for lunch. If he had a boyfriend then neither he nor his wife knew about it. Their son had said he wasn’t interested in anything like that. They hadn’t pressed him.

  The father had asked what they were to do now. His wife would be finished. She lived for the boy, not him. He knew it and didn’t mind − but with the boy gone?

  He wanted to know who would do this to his boy – who would do this to them? Why? Sean had no answers.

  As the three detectives entered the mortuary they could see Dr Simon Canning preparing for the post-mortem. A body lay covered with a green sheet on what Sean knew would be a cold, metal operating table. Water continually ran under the body to an exit drain as the pathologist did his work, so that the whole thing resembled a large, shallow, stainless-steel bathtub.

  Some detectives could detach themselves from the ugly reality of post-mortems, bury themselves in the science and art of the procedure. Unfortunately, Sean was not one of those detectives. For days to come images of his own post-mortem would blend with the memories of his shattered childhood. Meanwhile Dr Simon Canning was busy arranging his tools – bright, shiny, metal instruments for torturing the dead.

  ‘Afternoon, detectives.’

  ‘Doctor. Good to see you again,’ Sean replied.

  ‘I doubt that,’ said the pathologist. Canning was pleasant enough, but businesslike and succinct. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Inspector. I’ve started without you. I was just having a bit of a clean up before continuing. Right then, shall we get on with it?’

  The doctor pulled back the sheet covering the body with one quick movement of his arm. Sean almost expected him to say, ‘Voila!’ like a waiter lifting the lid off a silver platter.