Dead of Winter Tr (15 page)

‘Doctor Harding?’ Ebony found Harding working at her PC. ‘Thanks for making time to go through the autopsy results with me.’

Harding swivelled round on her chair, took off her glasses.

‘How was it with Carmichael?’

Ebony nodded. ‘Yeah. It was interesting.’

‘What’s his life like now?’

‘I don’t think he’s ever moved on from what happened.’

‘How did he react to the fresh evidence?’

‘I don’t know. I feel a bit like I’ve opened Pandora’s box. Maybe that’s exactly what I was meant to do?’

‘Did you ask him about the affair?’

Ebony nodded.

‘What did he say?’

‘He said he was feeling self-destructive at the time.’

Harding frowned and then turned back to her desk.

‘Pull up Mathew’s chair – he’s gone to chase up some results. What do you want to ask me? You have my attention for twenty minutes.’

‘I wanted to go through some of the facts with you and make sure I understand them.’ Ebony opened up her folder and spread out the crime scene diagrams on the floor.

‘These are the original crime scene drawings from the time,’ said Harding. ‘They place Chrissie Newton here in the lounge as we saw when we went there and as I found her when I
certified her death.’

Ebony laid a photo of the body on top of the room plan. ‘Her injuries were vast. We know her killer used anaesthetic. The bleed would have been massive.’ She looked at the photos of
Chrissie Newton’s body. ‘It doesn’t look as if there was enough blood considering their injuries. I mean . . . wouldn’t you expect the blood to be everywhere? What did you
think at the time?’

‘I thought that if she had been laid on something as she was killed that it would be about right. A towel or absorbent sheet. Not too difficult: minimal bleed. When the heart stops so does
the bleeding.’

‘But that would have taken some organizing: coming fully equipped. Not a last-minute thing. This is the photo of how you found Louise.’ Ebony pointed to the group of photos from the
crime scene.

‘Correct.’

‘Does it look like she was placed there to you?’

‘Carmichael moved the bodies.’

‘He moved Sophie, not Louise.’

‘He definitely touched her. They died face up and they were found that way but there was movement in between. The blood had shifted a little and then rolled back to settle down the back,
buttocks and calves.’

‘But Carmichael arrived long after they were dead. Lividity settles after six to eight hours, doesn’t it?’

‘We only have Carmichael’s word that he wasn’t there before.’

‘What about the cross-contamination between the women? It says in the report that the women had each other’s DNA on their bodies: skin cells, blood, hair on their backs? How can you
explain that?’

‘Natural if they’d been sharing the house. They could have lain on the same blanket. Look . . . procedures let us down that day. We cannot be sure it wasn’t a basic mistake
made at the crime scene or when the samples were taken from the bodies.’

‘You took the samples, didn’t you, Doctor?’

‘I did but I wasn’t responsible for ensuring that the bodies arrived to me in the condition they should have been. It’s possible they were contaminated at the scene. And
Carmichael cannot be trusted to recall what he did accurately.’

‘And Carmichael’s DNA?’

‘That was there in abundance. His handprints, his sweat, his saliva on his wife’s hands, his kid’s face.’

‘But semen. If he raped her? How long can semen last?’

‘In a dead body? Two weeks.’

‘And in a live body?’

‘They are swimming about alive, motile, for four to six hours, then they begin to lose bits of themselves: first the tails drop off, then the heads. You can still find heads and tails in
the vagina for up to seven days, in the rectum two or three days and in the mouth less than twenty-four hours.’

‘Did you find motile sperm from Carmichael?’

‘No. His were fragmented sperm.’

‘So Carmichael had sex with his wife a few days before she was murdered.’

‘Probably within the week but not within that forty-eight-hour period. Nothing can be exact. Except he could have used a condom when he raped her. We found tissue tearing around her mouth
which indicates that she was forced to perform fellatio, but all traces of spermatozoa in her mouth had been destroyed.’

‘Was his DNA on Chrissie Newton?’

‘Yes, it was. Under the palm of her hand there was his sweat.’

‘But she wasn’t raped?’

‘No.’

‘I can’t see him as a rapist, Doctor.’

‘Rape is a common tool of warfare, remember. He might have done it before, might have been ordered to. What if he wasn’t even in a state to recognize his wife and child? PTSD could
have done that to him. You say he told you he was feeling self-destructive, that’s why he had the affair. How much more self-destructive can you get than killing the people you love and that
love you?’

‘So if we say it was Carmichael . . . just say . . . he raped his own wife and killed his child. But he didn’t rape the woman he cared least about? Do you think he could have cared
for her?

‘It’s possible.’

‘If Chrissie was targeted then it could have something to do with her father. Do you know James Martingale personally?’

‘I have met him a few times.’ Harding studied Ebony’s face. Ebony felt her bristling. ‘I’ve done the odd bit of private work but it’s not me . . . sucking fat
out of one end to inject in the other. My ex, Simon, works for him. Have you been to see Mr Martingale?’

‘Yes. Carter and I went to the hospital to see him.’

‘What did you think of him?’

‘Nothing like a mad professor type, is he? He’s suave, sophisticated, sort of aloof.’

‘He’s a megalomaniac, but then you have to be to achieve what he has. He is God in his field and he’s managed to make millions out of it. You have to admire that. He gives a
lot away to charity, as I’m sure you know. I wouldn’t have a lot of this expensive equipment if it wasn’t for his generosity. But as a father he failed spectacularly.’

‘I re-read Martingale’s statement . . . He wasn’t in the country at the time of the murders: he was working in his hospital in Poland.’

‘James Martingale was never here for Chrissie, dead or alive. As I say, I think he failed her spectacularly; he just didn’t exist for her. He left her in the hands of a woman with
extreme mental illness . . . who needed to take vast quantities of medication to get through a day without killing herself or someone else; he left her to fend for herself. Thank God he also left
her with enough money that she could board for the whole of her school life; then go far away to a university in Scotland. But as you know, you can’t keep on about it; it was a shit childhood
. . . get over it . . . move on . . . Christ knows you did, didn’t you?’

As Ebony walked back to Fletcher House she mulled it over. Ebony shouldn’t mind Harding being blunt. She was blunt herself. Harding seemed to be offering a friendly hand, albeit in her
usual awkward way. Ebony had to accept that her life was out there for the world to Google, but she didn’t have to like it. Everyone knew about the case of the serving officer whose mad
mother had killed her partner; stabbed him how many times exactly? Everyone knew that her own daughter had arrested her.

The Lansdown had a suite waiting for Carmichael. He’d left his bike back at the Velvet Lagoon in Shoreditch and bought a brand-new silver Jaguar XKR on the way. He had it
valet parked at the Lansdown and then carried his own bag up to his suite.

As he slipped his card in the lock and opened the door it brought back memories of his life with Louise before Sophie came along. He had wooed her with weekends away. He had been romantic.
He’d almost forgotten that. Yes . . . he’d pre-ordered the specific room, the meal. He’d done everything to win her love. So many regrets: he wished he’d never met her. He
wished for her sake that he’d never come into her life.

Carmichael showered and hung his new suit in the steamy bathroom to get rid of the creases. Once he was ready he looked at himself in the mirror. He stood tall and stared at himself as if he
were looking at a stranger. He hadn’t worn a suit since the day of the funeral. It was a long time since he’d looked at himself, in a suit or otherwise. He only ever saw his face when
he bothered to shave. The years working on the farm had turned his body into a lean and muscled machine. There was no fat left on his body or his face. He looked at his expression and hardly
recognized the darkness he saw there.

The music from the piano bar drifted across to him as Carmichael walked through the lobby. He walked across to the bar and ordered a Scotch then checked his phone. He had a missed call from
Ebony. He knew what she wanted to ask him. She wanted to ask what his relationship with Chrissie Newton had been. He had watched her type up her thoughts. He knew that she’d been to see
Harding. Ebony was his eyes and ears. He saw by the GPS signal that she was on her way back to Fletcher House. He flicked his phone back to regular settings and a weather report flashed across the
top of the screen. His phone was still giving him a weather report for the farm.

Carmichael swallowed his drink, signed the bill, and left. Outside, the snow was steadily falling. He jumped in a cab and got it to drop him at the end of Brewer Street. Then he walked along the
narrow street, listening to the Christmas music and the sound of people: a mix of shoppers and party revellers in the build-up to the Christmas holidays. The streets were decked out with Christmas
lights and lanterns. He kept his head down as he approached Cain’s nightclub and ducked inside the door.

Cain’s club was open from nine in the evening until four-thirty in the morning. It was a gentlemen’s club that had gone a little bit shabby. The door was opened for Carmichael by two
doormen while two hostesses in bras and suspenders hovered in the warmth of the inner entrance hall. They escorted Carmichael down a short hallway, past a flight of stairs leading to VIP lounges
and private rooms, and into the main bar area. It was a mix of old exposed brickwork and swathes of red velvet curtain. Its leather couches and exposed brick pillars divided the club into intimate
areas where small groups of men could enjoy a private dance while sitting around drinking.

Carmichael took a seat at the bar. ‘Good evening, sir.’ The barman came across to him. ‘My name is Ray. What can I get you to drink?’

‘Evening, Ray. I’ll have a large measure of good Scotch and have a drink yourself. Tell Mr Cain that Mr Hart is here, please. He’s expecting me.’

‘Of course, Mr Hart, and thank you.’

Carmichael then went to sit in one of the booths. A woman in a black lace corset was dancing on the podium stage where three poles were set in a triangle. She wrapped her thighs around the
centre pole and whipped her sleek ponytail through the air in circles. Carmichael was only half concentrating on her, the other half mentally working its way around the club, matching the layout
Micky had emailed to him with what he saw in ‘real time’. He knew that at the far end of the bar was the door to the cashier’s office and a link to the clip joint, Crystal Blue,
next door. He knew that somewhere past the three poles was the door that led to the upper two floors, the back entrance to the next floor of the club, and Digger Cain’s private apartment. He
knew what Digger Cain looked like. It had been many years since he saw him in the flesh. Not since he had attended a firearms situation when he first joined the Force. A man had threatened a
customer in the building opposite Cain’s nightclub. He’d talked to Digger briefly then. He saw him now emerging from the door at the far end of the bar.

When the dancer finished her set she came over to Carmichael. He watched her walk across. She sat next to him, her body turned towards him.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Carmichael.

‘Tanya.’

When Ray brought Carmichael’s Scotch she ordered a glass of champagne.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Just outside Kiev.’ She had beautiful strong features and her body was as lean and muscled as a racehorse.

Beneath the heavy makeup it was clear she had been pretty once but her skin had suffered from the lifestyle. Her eyes were dead.

‘You’re a long way from the Ukraine. What brings you here?’

‘I came to study English.’

‘You find this is a good place to learn English?’

She studied Carmichael. ‘Not bad. You meet nice people. Nice men like you. Men who might want to see me dance and pay twenty pounds.’ She smiled.

‘Very good. Not quite perfect. You need to work on your intonation. But here.’ He took out two twenties and gave them to her. ‘Maybe later.’

She smiled. ‘Thank you. Are you a tourist?’

‘Sort of. Tell me . . . Is this what you came to the UK for?’ He flicked his head towards the podium.

‘No, I didn’t come here to be a dancer. I came to work with children. I joined an agency to work as a nanny for children but . . . I had to pay the agency back for my flights,
accommodation.’ She looked around and stopped talking, smiled nervously as Ray watched. ‘The agency was not truthful.’ She kept smiling.

‘Let me guess . . . you’re still paying?’

‘Of course.’ She looked at Carmichael, deep and long. She kept a smile on her mouth. ‘Please. I hope I can entertain you some time.’

Carmichael caught a glimpse of the inside of her left arm; it was bruised. She shook her head when she saw him looking at her arm. ‘I’m not a junkie.’ She stopped as she saw
Carmichael’s eyes flash and focus on a man walking their way. Digger Cain was heading towards Carmichael’s table. Tanya got up to leave. Digger sat down and called Ray over to bring him
a drink. Ray arrived with a bottle of Scotch and two glasses.

Digger scrutinized Carmichael. ‘Have we not met before . . . Mr Hart?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Digger had already added up the worth of the man sitting opposite him: a grand for the watch, nearly that for the suit. Five hundred for the shoes. The man had bought the best and he wore it
well. His body was muscled and lean. His height gave him power. His face was tanned and rugged. His hair black, neat, short, understated. He could have been an older Armani model.