Captives (16 page)

    'Keep Britain tidy, eh?' he murmured quietly.

    Gregson ignored his remark, his gaze fixed on the girl's torn and mutilated genital area.

    He stuffed her full of rubbish.

    Gregson looked at her other injuries, at the wounds in her chest and throat. The cuts on her face and hands. He pointed to the bad gash across her palm and the lesser ones on her fingers.

    'Defence cuts,' he noted. 'She was trying to fight him off.'

    'I'll tell you what puzzles me,' said Finn, looking down at the body. 'Why didn't he burn her as well as himself?'

    Gregson could only shrug.

    'Why did he burn himself,' the DI mused.

    'Was there any ID on him?' Finn wanted to know.

    'If there was, it went up in smoke with him. What about the girl?'

    'Paula Wilson, twenty-three years old. Single. She lived with her parents.'

    'Have they been told yet?'

    Finn nodded.

    'They've got to come in and identify the body, poor sods,' he said.

    'What was she carrying when he attacked her?' Gregson wanted to know.

    'Just a handbag.'

    'Anything taken?'

    'She had credit cards and fifty-seven quid on her. As far as I can tell he didn't even look in the bag.'

    'Because he didn't intend stealing anything,' Gregson said flatly, pulling the cover back over the body and getting to his feet. His knees cracked loudly as he straightened up. 'He got what he wanted.'

    'And then torched himself? It doesn't make much sense, does it?' said Finn.

    'Just like the other one didn't,' the DI reminded his partner. Both men looked at each other. 'Hell of a coincidence, isn't it? One man robs a bank, doesn't take any money, kills six people then burns himself up. A few days later another man mugs a young woman, but he doesn't want her money; all he wants to do is kill her then, when he's finished, he sets fire to himself. Like you said, perhaps Guy Fawkes night has come a bit early this year.'

    'You think they're linked?'

    'What the fuck do you think?' snapped Gregson irritably. 'Two murderers commit motiveless crimes then burn themselves to death within one mile of each other in the space of a week. You're telling me there's no connection?' He shook his head. 'What we've got to find out is who they were and what the hell that connection is, because I've got a bad feeling about this.'

    'Like what?'

    'Like, they might not be the only two.'

    

    

    He paused before the mirror and adjusted the knot in his tie, finally satisfied that it was straight. Then Jim Scott took a last look around the room, checking that everything was tidy.

    He'd been up since seven-thirty that morning, dusting, picking up any stray pieces of paper from the floor. He even managed to force himself into doing the washing-up, which had been lying in the sink for a couple of days.

    Scott polished the handle of the door to the room which used to be his father's. He didn't go inside. There was no need. There was nothing to tidy up in there.

    He had rung Carol at 8.30 that morning and asked her if she would see him after work. Would she come back to his flat? They could get a take-away and eat it when they got back. He had found himself gripping the receiver tightly.

    
Please say yes.

    She had agreed without her customary reticence. Scott had put the phone down and shouted triumphantly, punching the air as if he'd just been informed he'd won the pools or come into a vast inheritance. All the anger and disappointment of the past few days was forgotten. She was going to spend the night with him. That was all that mattered.

    She'd been to the flat on a number of occasions before, usually staying the night. When they'd first started seeing each other it had been almost every night. He studied his reflection in the mirror again, noticing that his smile had faded slightly. He wished that things could be as they were in the beginning. There had been passion between them then. There had never been any excuses about not being able to see him then.

    Not like now.

    Scott crossed the bedroom to the cabinet beside the bed.

    So much they had to talk about.

    He slid open the top drawer.

    The Beretta 92S automatic lay beside a pile of handkerchiefs.

    He looked at the weapon for long moments.

    So much they had to talk about.

    Scott slid the drawer shut once more.

    

    

    Carol rolled over in bed and sighed, gazing at the poster of James Dean on her bedroom wall.

    Beneath the picture of the film idol were the words: BOULEVARD OF BROKEN DREAMS.

    They were the only kind of dreams she knew.

    Broken. Wrecked.

    Ray Plummer had rung about twenty minutes before Scott to apologise that, again, he couldn't see her. He'd make it up to her, though, he had said. He'd get her something nice. Something expensive.

    When Scott had rung she'd said yes to him almost without thinking. Now she began to realise what she had agreed to do. To spend the night with him. By agreeing to spend the night, had she also agreed to sleep with him? They had been lovers, after all, still were occasionally; although the term lovers was redundant as far as Carol was concerned. They had sex occasionally. That was it. In her mind, there was no involvement, nothing other than physical contact.

    She knew it was different for Scott.

    But she knew that there were other reasons why she must see him tonight. She had no doubt that he was becoming suspicious of her. Of her excuses. She needed to spend time with him to allay those suspicions for a while.

    Until when?

    Until it was time to tell him that it was all over between them?

    Until it was time to move in with Plummer?

    Time for the final escape.

    Carol rubbed her face with both hands and thought about getting out of bed.

    For some reason she looked across at the phone, perhaps expecting it to ring again.

    Only this time it might not be either Scott or Plummer.

    When it had rung earlier that morning she had hesitated for interminable seconds before picking it up, remembering the call of the previous night. It had taken a monumental effort of will and courage finally to snatch up the receiver. Even in the light of day she felt the fear pricking her as she pressed it to her ear and spoke into it. She had been hugely relieved to hear Plummer's voice.

    Should she tell him about the calls?

    Perhaps she should tell Scott.

    
Tell someone, for God's sake. Don't keep it to yourself.

    And if she did tell them? What could they do? She herself had no idea who was making them. Or why.

    Carol swung herself out of bed and headed towards the toilet, glancing at the phone as she passed. She paused in the doorway, looking down apprehensively at the phone.

    He wouldn't ring, she told herself. Whoever he was, he wouldn't ring now. Not so early. He seemed to prefer the hours of darkness.

    Whoever he was.

    She suddenly reached for the jack plug and. pulled it from the socket in the wall.

    She was safe from his calls now.

    At least for the time being.

    

    

    The stench was appalling.

    DS Finn pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and held it close to his nose as he peered down at the body.

    'He's not as badly burned as the first one,' said Phillip Barclay, prodding the remains of the dead man's face with a probe. A piece of blackened skin came away from the cheek, exposing the bone beneath.

    'Will that make identification easier?' Gregson wanted to know, his eyes never leaving the corpse.

    'Theoretically,' the coroner told him. 'But his hands are very badly burned; that rules out finding him by his prints. It looks like it's going to be dental records again.'

    'Provided he's in the files,' Finn added, his voice muffled through the handkerchief.

    Gregson looked at his companion as if contemptuous of the fact that he found the stench of burned flesh so repellent. Then he returned his attention to the body.

    'Any further progress on the first one?' he asked.

    Barclay could only shake his head. He seemed more interested in his new subject. He used a probe to force the jaws open a little wider, peering into the black maw that was Bryce's mouth. Even the tongue was burned, black and swollen by the ferocity of the heat. Two fillings in the dead man's rear teeth had indeed melted and Barclay chipped away at the molten matter with one end of the probe, cursing when a whole tooth came free of the scorched gums. He retrieved it from the back of Bryce's throat with a pair of tweezers, dropping it with a dull clink into a small kidney dish.

    'See the hands,' he said, lifting the first two digits of the dead man's left hand, indicating how the fire had stripped away the flesh and bone as far as the first knuckle. What remained resembled ash and Gregson feared it would simply blow away should a strong breeze fill the room.

    All around them the steady hum of the air conditioning, keeping the room at an even sixty-five degrees, was the only sound apart from their voices.

    'What about the girl?' said Gregson, moving to the metal table next to Bryce.

    Laid out on it, her nakedness exposed for all to see, was Paula Wilson. Her skin was already tinged blue in places from loss of blood. The savage gashes made by Bryce's blade stood out even more vividly against the paleness of her flesh. Gregson stared down at the corpse, into the open eyes. He allowed his gaze to wander over the slashed throat, past the punctured chest. He looked briefly at the cuts on her hands, at the dark bruises which Covered her torso and upper thighs like ink stains on blotting paper. The flesh of her vagina was torn and swollen. Her pubic hair had been shaved off during the course of the autopsy. The Y-shaped incision from pelvis to throat had also been made by Barclay in his quest to discover more about the nature of the girl's death. It may have seemed obvious from the state of the wounds in her throat and chest, but he had to follow procedure.

    Gregson saw that her entire body was a mass of cuts and bruises, some small, some huge. The fatal cuts.

    'Cause of death, as you can see, was stabbing,' said Barclay. 'Although I found petechiae which would seem to indicate he…'

    'What the hell is that?' snapped Gregson.

    'Small haemorrhages in the blood vessels of the eyes, usually associated with strangulation or suffocation.' He pointed to her battered face. 'That would have happened when he pushed her face into the mud.'

    'The wound in the throat was the death wound,' the pathologist continued. 'She lost an enormous amount of blood.'

    'What about the things he stuffed inside her?' Finn wanted to know, glancing at the ravaged vaginal area, the flesh around it blackened with bruises.

    Barclay shrugged his shoulders and turned to the work-top behind him. He picked up a small plastic bag and laid it beside the dead girl's body.

    'I took eight separate articles from inside her vagina,' he said, indicating the contents of the bag. The stone. The ring pull.

    'Sick fucker,' hissed Finn. 'What the hell would he want to do that for?'

    'Was she raped?' Gregson asked.

    Barclay shook his head.

    'The vaginal swabs showed evidence of urine, but that was hers. The killer left no bodily secretions of any kind. Rape wasn't his motive. He just wanted to kill her.'

    'Well, he made a fucking good job of it,' Finn said flatly. He nodded towards the defence cuts on her hands. 'Looks like she put up quite a fight.'

    Barclay nodded slowly.

    Gregson, one hand cupping his chin, stood staring down at the body.

    Vagina stuffed with rubbish.

    He had seen something like this before.

    Coincidence?

    'Was she dead when he did it?' Finn asked. 'When he shoved those things inside her?'

    'No,' Barclay said matter of factly. 'The amount of bleeding from the vagina would indicate she was still alive. Aware of what he was doing. My guess is, if she'd been dead he wouldn't have bothered.'

    'Like I said to you earlier,' Finn began. 'Why not torch her as well as himself?' He looked at Gregson, who had wandered back to look at the incinerated corpse of Bryce.

    The DI stood as if mesmerised by the body before him.

    The stillness of the pathology lab was beginning to make Finn uneasy and the infernal stench of burned flesh was repulsive. He waved a hand as if to dispel the odour. He thought about lighting up a cigarette, even reached for the packet, but Barclay's disapproving glance finally dissuaded him.

    'Is your report finished?' Gregson asked the pathologist.

    'Almost.'

    'I want it as soon as it is.'

    He turned and headed for the door, followed by Finn.

    'I want to know who those two fucking blokes are,' he said sharply. 'And I want to know fast. There's two now. There might be three soon.' He opened the door and walked out.

    Finn scuttled after him.

    'Frank, do you know something I don't?' he said irritably as they walked towards the lift, their footsteps echoing through the corridor. 'You said something back at the murder site about the two suicides being linked.'

    Gregson nodded.