Cold Killing Page 5

  He could see Sean was about to jump in again, but he wasn’t ready to surrender the floor just yet.

  ‘However, the prints we have recovered have already been sent to Fingerprint Branch for searching. At the very least it may tell us something about who the victim associated with. Always useful.’

  Sean nodded his appreciation.

  ‘And last, but not least, we are lucky the carpet in the hallway is new and of good quality. It was nice and deep and we found the scene quickly enough to recover some interesting shoe marks that hadn’t yet degraded.’ Roddis took a series of photographs from his file and attached them to the board like a doctor preparing X-rays for viewing. The shoe marks looked like negatives.

  ‘This set –’ he pointed to two photographs – ‘belonged to the victim. We matched them easily enough. They belong to a rare type of Converse training shoe and the unique marks on the soles, the scars if you like, matched the individual cuts and marks on the victim’s shoes.’

  Roddis took a step to his left and pointed at another footprint photograph. ‘This size ten Dr Marten belongs to the PC who first entered the scene. Fortunately he remembered his training and walked along the side of the corridor the door closes on, so he didn’t destroy what I’m about to show you.’ Again Roddis took a step to his left and pointed to the board.

  ‘This mark,’ Roddis continued while tapping the next photograph, ‘was made by someone else entering the scene. It was made by a flat-soled leather shoe that was bought recently. We can see by the almost total lack of scars these shoes have hardly been used at all. Even if we recovered the shoe that made this indentation, there wouldn’t be enough unique marks on the sole to be of much evidential value. We would need approximately fifteen unique scars before evidentially we could prove they were one and the same.’

  ‘Are you suggesting this guy deliberately wore new shoes to avoid leaving a distinctive footprint?’ Sally asked.

  ‘I’m not here to suggest anything, DS Jones. I’m just here to tell you what we found. Suggestions are your field, I believe.’

  Roddis moved to the final set of images. They looked strange even in the photographs. Long scars ran across the sole in all directions and appeared too thick. Roddis touched the photographs, tracing the scars with his finger.

  ‘We puzzled over this for quite a while,’ he told them. ‘We ran a lot of tests to try and replicate the marks. Nothing. Then, in the absence of any other bright ideas, we tried something. We put normal plastic shopping bags around the soles of a pair of shoes and bingo, exactly the same sort of marks. I’m no betting man, but I’d put my pension on the fact this mark was made by the same shoe as here –’ he pointed at the previous photograph he’d discussed. ‘Only now the shoe has a plastic bag over the sole. You can still see the shape of the shoe sole, and it certainly matches the other sole for size as well.’

  Sally spoke again. ‘Why put bags over his shoes? He’s already walked the scene without bags, so why bother to try and hide his prints with plastic bags on the way out?’ The room was silent in thought.

  Think simply, Sean reminded himself, break it down. They were jumping ahead – trying to guess the killer in a game of Cluedo before one throw of the dice. Concentrate on the basics. It made no sense to walk into the scene without covering his feet and then cover them to leave. So if he didn’t do it to hide his shoeprints, why did he? Sean’s imagination came to his rescue, taking him back to the murder scene, looking through the killer’s eyes, seeing his hands as he bent over and carefully pulled the plastic bags over his shoes and secured them. Seeing what he saw. Feeling what he felt. The answer leapt into his mind.

  ‘We’re trying to be too clever,’ Sean said. ‘He didn’t do it to hide his shoe marks. He had the bags over his feet to make sure he wouldn’t get blood on his nice new shoes.’

  Sally picked up the train of thought. ‘And if he went to the lengths of protecting his shoes, then it’s probable he protected everything. His whole body.’

  She and Sean stared at each other. Everybody in the room was thinking the same thing. The killer was a careful bastard. The killer knew about forensic evidence. The killer knew what the police would be looking for. The killer could think like a cop? Sean broke the silence.

  ‘Okay. So he’s careful. Very careful. But he will have made a mistake somewhere. We haven’t had the lab results yet, so it’s too early to assume the killer’s left a clean scene. Let’s not give this man too much credit. He’ll probably turn out to be another anorak living at home with his mum, trainspotting and masturbating when he’s not out stalking celebrities − probably watched too many cop shows on the Discovery Channel and now he wants to put all his new-found knowledge to the test.’

  The atmosphere in the room lightened. Sean was relieved. He didn’t want a tense team. They mustn’t already fear the investigation could be a sticker, an investigation that dragged on and on without getting anywhere. Failed investigations felt like a contagious disease, infecting all those involved for years, limiting future career options, moves to the more glamorous Metropolitan Police units such as the Flying Squad or the Anti-Terrorist teams.

  He spoke again. ‘Sally, did your team finish off the door-to-door?’

  ‘Pretty much, guv’nor. Nothing to add since last time. Nobody can remember much coming and going from his flat, which fits with the lack of other people’s fingerprints inside the scene. He had the occasional guest, but certainly no parties.’ Sally shrugged. ‘Sorry, boss.’

  He moved on. If Sally hadn’t turned up any eyewitnesses, there weren’t any. Sean had no doubt about that.

  ‘Dave?’ Sean looked at Donnelly, who shifted in his seat.

  ‘Aye, guv’nor. We’ve been working through the victim’s address book and have got hold of most of his closer friends. The ones who appear frequently in his diary. We’ll track down the remaining friends and associates soon enough.

  ‘So far, they all say the same thing − victim was a nice kid. He was indeed a homosexual. One of his buddies, a guy called Robin Peak, had a relationship with him in the past. He was pretty sure Daniel was working as a male prostitute. Not hanging around public toilets in King’s Cross, though. Apparently he was relatively high-end, hence the decent stuff in his flat, but this Robin guy said Daniel would hardly ever take clients back there. Only a select few who could afford to pay the extra hundred pound or so he charged for the privilege. He would usually go to their places or a decent hotel, or sometimes he would take care of a punter in nearby toilets, though it cost extra if you wanted him to slum it.

  ‘His flat was very much a secret hideaway. Only a handful of people knew where he lived, and we’ve spoken to most of them. None of them come across as the knife-wielding maniac type. We have all their details anyway.

  ‘According to Mr Peak, the victim liked the club scene. The gay club scene. It’s also how he met most of his clients. He’s well known at a number of gay nightspots. We’ll begin checking them out as soon as.’ Donnelly looked around the room.

  ‘How many?’ Sean asked.

  ‘About five or six.’

  ‘Have any of his friends been able to tell us where the victim was on Wednesday night, Thursday morning?’

  ‘No. But the consensus is that he would probably have been at a club called Utopia, down in Vauxhall. Under the railway arches. His usual Wednesday hang-out.’

  ‘Good,’ Sean said, before passing out instructions in his usual quick-fire way. ‘Andy – you keep on the lab’s back. I want my results as soon as possible. Sooner.’ DS Roddis nodded.

  ‘Dave – take who you want and get to work tracking down witnesses who were at Utopia on Wednesday. Start with the employees.’ Donnelly scribbled notes on a pad.

  ‘Sally – take whoever’s left and begin checking intelligence records for people who have assaulted homosexuals in the past. Not any old bollocks, I mean serious assaults, including sexual assaults. Start with the Met and if that’s no good check our neighbouring forces,
and then go national if you have to.’ Sally’s head nodded in agreement as she too scribbled notes. ‘Check the names lifted from the victim’s address book first – you never know your luck.’

  Sean threw it open, causing the increasing murmurs to temporarily fade. ‘Can anyone think of anything? Have we missed anything? Anything obvious? Anything not so obvious? Speak now, people.’ No one spoke. ‘In that case the next get-together we have will be on Monday, same time. I need some results by then. The powers that be will want easy answers to this, so let’s find them and finish this one before it turns into a saga.’

  The meeting broke up as noisily as a class of schoolchildren being dismissed for the weekend. Sean walked to his office alone, closing the door behind him. He picked up a large envelope waiting on his desk and without thinking emptied out the contents. Copies of photographs of the victim spilled out in front of him. He stared at them, not touching them. He spun his stool around and looked out of the window – the sun still brilliant in the sky. The photographs had caught him off guard. If he had known they were in the envelope he would have taken time to prepare himself before spilling hell across his desk.

  Now he wanted to retreat from his world. He wanted to phone his wife, to be in touch with a softer reality for a minute or two − he wanted to hear her reassuring doctor’s voice. He wanted her to tell him unimportant things about their daughters Mandy and Louise. Kate would be getting them ready for a trip to the park. He needed a snapshot of his other, better life, but he delayed a few seconds, long enough for ugly thoughts to rush his mind. He closed his eyes as the image of his father’s fist slammed into his face, the face of his childhood – hot, stinging breath growing ever closer. He pressed his knuckles into his temples and pushed the past away. Once his mind cleared, he reached for the phone on his desk and dialled the number he knew so well, praying it would be answered by a voice that existed in the here and now and not just a mechanical-sounding recording of the person he needed to hear alive. Moments later the phone was answered by a friendly but businesslike voice – the voice of his wife.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, the pitch of her voice rising on the ‘o’.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘I guessed it probably would be – the number was withheld.’

  ‘Aren’t the hospital numbers withheld?’

  ‘Some are. For a second I was afraid I was about to get called into work for some emergency or another. Anyway – how you doing?’ Sean answered with a sigh she’d heard many times before. ‘That good, eh? Is it a bad one?’

  ‘Is there such a thing as a good one?’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’

  ‘Anyway – what you doing?’

  ‘In the park with the kids. Too nice a day to be stuck inside. What about you?’

  ‘In my office looking at … looking at some reports,’ he lied as his eyes fell on the crime-scene photographs. He knew Kate could handle it, better maybe than he could, but such things had no place in the park with his wife and children on a sunny day.

  ‘Sorry,’ she sympathized, trying to read his voice for signs. ‘Sean?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You sure?’

  He sighed again before continuing. ‘Just … the block the crime scene was in reminded me of … you know.’

  ‘Sean,’ she counselled, ‘a lot of things remind you of your childhood – that can’t be helped. Your past will always be part of you – nothing can change that.’

  ‘I know,’ he assured her. ‘But the memories, the images are so much more real, vivid when I’m in or close to a crime scene. Most of the time I can almost forget my childhood, but not when I’m in a place like that – not when I’m in a scene like that.’

  ‘I understand, but we’ve talked about this – many times. It becomes more vivid because you use your imagination as a tool, and when you open the door to your imagination you’re going to allow some demons out, Sean. It can’t be helped, but it can be controlled – you’ve already shown that.’

  ‘I know,’ he admitted. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Why don’t you come home a little early – have some normal time for a couple of hours – drink too much and fool around?’

  ‘No chance of that,’ he told her. ‘Not for a few days yet, anyway.’

  ‘Any idea how long this one’s going to take?’

  ‘How long’s a piece of string?’

  ‘That’s not good.’

  ‘Is it ever?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kate told him. ‘When you’re at home, with us – that’s good.’

  ‘When I am there.’

  ‘Well then be here. Remember all work and no play makes Sean a—’

  ‘Makes me a what?’ he interrupted, thinly veiled anger suddenly in his voice.

  ‘Nothing,’ she answered. ‘I was just … nothing. I have to go now – the kids have run off. I’ll see you tonight. Be careful. I love you.’ The line went dead – dead before he had a chance to say sorry for snapping at her – before he had a chance to ask about the girls – before he had a chance to tell her he loved her too.

  6

  Friday − late morning

  Sean drove the car through heavy central London traffic while Donnelly spoke, his notebook flipped open on his thigh. ‘The man we need to talk to works for some international finance company, Butler and Mason. After this morning’s briefing I popped into one of the nightclubs on the list. Place in Vauxhall. They were cleaning up last night’s mess, but the head of security was still there. He also works the door at the club during opening hours.’ Sean listened without interrupting. Donnelly checked his notebook. ‘Stuart Young’s the guy’s name. Now, he says he knew our victim; not bosom buddies, but he knew him to speak to and he knew he worked the club for clients too.’

  ‘He was okay with that?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Apparently so. As far as he’s concerned, it happens. If he tried to stop every bit of naughtiness that went on in the club they wouldn’t stay in business too long.’ Sean raised his eyebrows. ‘And young Daniel was apparently subtle about it, didn’t have too many clients, kept it all nice and low key.’

  ‘If I was a cynic, I might suspect Mr Young was turning a blind eye because Daniel was paying him to do so.’

  Donnelly continued. ‘Either way, Young confirms that Daniel was in Utopia on Wednesday night.’

  ‘Was he with anyone particular?’

  ‘Afraid not. According to Young, Daniel spent some time with a couple of his regulars, guys who have been going to the club for years.’

  ‘Have we spoken with them yet?’

  ‘I spoke with them both myself. I gave Young my number and asked him to phone around the victim’s regular tricks. Amongst those who already got back to me are the men he was with Wednesday night.’ Donnelly flicked through his notebook again. ‘Sam Milford and a Benjamin Briggs. Both seemed pretty upset by the whole thing, both happy to provide samples. Neither great suspect material.’

  ‘Any other clients been in touch?’

  ‘They certainly have. The grapevine has been working nicely for me, but they all seem much of a muchness − all very upset, all willing to cooperate. No great suspects yet, but maybe that’ll change when I meet them face-to-face.’

  ‘But you don’t think so, do you?’

  Donnelly shrugged. ‘The victim’s clients aren’t looking too likely, so I did a little bit more digging.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Okay.’ Donnelly sounded like a mock game-show host. ‘Possible suspect number one – Steven Paramore, male, thirty-two years old, white. Sally had Paulo check local intelligence records and he found this guy, recently released from Belmarsh having just served eight years for the attempted murder of a teenage rent boy back in 2005. Apparently he almost beat the victim to death with his bare hands.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘After his release he went back to live with dear old mum, whom I’m sure must be fucking del
ighted.’

  ‘What’s his address?’

  ‘Bardsley Lane, Deptford.’

  ‘Close to Graydon’s flat,’ Sean said.

  ‘Close enough,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘And he’s a very angry man – served nearly a full sentence because of his bad behaviour inside. It’s also suspected he’s a closet homosexual himself.’

  ‘Is that what you think our killer is?’

  ‘What, a homosexual?’

  ‘No. Angry.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Maybe. Check him out anyway. In fact, have Paulo check him out – he dug him up.’

  ‘No problem. Now, moving on to suspect number two: Jonnie Dempsey, male, white, twenty-four years old, an Aussie, works as a barman in Utopia and is known to be a friend of Daniel’s, although no suggestion yet he was anything more, but … Anyhow, he was supposed to be working the night Daniel was killed, only he didn’t show. And he hasn’t been seen since. The manager’s been trying his mobile and home numbers relentlessly, but no joy. Jonnie Dempsey is very much missing. Daniel’s secret lover?’ Donnelly suggested.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Sean sounded unconvinced. ‘Like I said, this doesn’t feel like a domestic.’

  ‘Maybe it’s not,’ Donnelly half agreed. ‘Maybe there’s more to Jonnie Dempsey than anyone’s giving him credit for?’

  ‘Fine. Find him. Check him out. But neither Paramore or Dempsey look like they work at Butler and Mason International Finance, so why are we here? Whose day are we about to spoil?’

  ‘The guy we’re about to fall out with is called James Hellier.’ Sean noticed Donnelly didn’t have to refer to his notebook to recall the name.

  ‘And why should I be interested in James Hellier?’ Sean asked, trying to clear his mind of the avalanche of admin and protocol he’d had to deal with since the investigation began. He needed a clear mind if he was going to have any chance of thinking freely and imaginatively.