Death Bed (7 page)

D
onna recollected climbing a lot of stairs and supposed she must be in an attic. The burning in her wrists and ankles had woken her from a dream of Lily’s cooking and she could almost taste the food in her mouth, as she lay there nauseous with hunger. No light penetrated the slits around the blind that covered the window so she assumed it must be night. She was dimly aware of a subtle change in the atmosphere. The room felt somehow emptier and the rank musty odour had gone. As if to compensate, the sickening smell of excrement and sweat seemed stronger. Lying in her own filth, she couldn’t believe she had ever been clean. Her past life was a dream. As she became fully awake, pain dominated her consciousness so that the foul smell, even her hunger and thirst, faded into insignificance beside it.

A distant door slammed. She felt the vibration of footsteps before hearing them and then sudden light dazzled her. Squinting up at the man, she saw he was holding the chipped cup out towards her and endured the agony of moving her head to gulp at the water.

‘Thank you. Thank you,’ she mumbled.

Her head began to clear slightly.

‘I’m so hungry.’

For a second she thought he was angry again, so she added hurriedly, ‘thank you for the water. Thank you.’

He raised his hand, not to strike her but to force food in her mouth. She swallowed and gagged, her tongue too sluggish to search for crumbs stuck to her lips, her eyes watering with disappointment.

‘Would you like some more?’

‘Yes please. I’m starving. Please.’

A feeling close to joy seized her as he pushed another mouthful of bread between her lips. It slid awkwardly down her throat and this time she didn’t choke. She looked up at the man and he smiled at her.

‘Thank you,’ she repeated.

He leaned forward and fiddled with something by her neck.

‘There.’

He stepped back.

‘I’ve loosened the chains so you can sit up now if you want.’

She wriggled her hands but her wrists were shackled as tightly as before, only the chains were longer so she could move her arms further from the bed. She raised one arm, the movement arrested by a terrible pain in her shoulder. Glancing down, she saw her wrist, raw and bloody from the chafing.

‘Sit up,’ he ordered. ‘That way you’ll be able to see better.’

‘See what?’

‘The collection of course.’

He went over to the shelves and after some deliberation selected a small irregular bowl and held it up above his head.

‘This Tibetan drum was once a human skull. I don’t know exactly how old it is, but it could be several thousand years. The Buddhists used them in tantric rituals when they made sacrificial offerings to their protective gods.’

‘I don’t understand. Where does it come from?’

‘I just told you, it comes from Tibet.’

‘No, I mean, what’s it doing here?’

‘I bought it. They’re not hard to come by if you know where to look. In Tibet, and parts of Nepal and China, it was commonplace to use human skulls for drums and begging bowls.’

He took another one from the shelf and held it in front of his face. She could see his eyes gleaming as he gazed at a small bowl decorated with delicate blue mosaic.

‘You’re looking at a fourteenth century Aztec human skull overlaid with turquoise.’

He replaced it carefully on the shelf and picked up an undecorated upturned skull.

‘This one was found less than two hundred miles from here. It had been hidden underground since the last ice age, over ten thousand years ago.’

He held out his hand.

‘Look, you can see scratches where the soft tissue was scraped away, and marks where someone banged the jagged rim with a stone to try and smooth it down so it could be used as a drinking cup.’

He grinned suddenly.

‘They’ve got a replica of a skull cup like this on display in one of the London museums.’

He returned the skull cup to its shelf and picked up a small comb.

‘It’s not just cups and bowls. The pre-Aztec civilisations took human bones from their dead relatives and used them to make combs like this one, and buttons. I’ve got one somewhere.’

He felt on the shelf.

‘Here it is.’

He held up a tiny object, too small for her to see clearly.

‘And this one’s a needle. They turned bones into household items after their relatives died.’

‘How did they – get them out?’

She dropped back on the bed, exhausted from the effort of supporting her head.

‘They removed the flesh and muscle. None of that’s any use once a person’s dead, is it? Decay is inevitable. Only bones are permanent. Femurs, tibias, skulls, they used them all.’

‘Why?’

He frowned at her.

‘What do you mean, why? Don’t you understand anything? People die and rot away, decompose to nothing, but bones remain. The Aztecs understood that. So a bone from a woman who was good at sewing would be made into a needle, to preserve the gift. Or they might make a button out of someone’s bone to keep their memory alive.’

He ran his hand along the edge of the shelf and picked up a small bone which he held up to the light. Despite her lethargy she could tell it was precious to him, and curiosity overwhelmed her disgust.

‘What is it?’

‘This one is a phalanx,’ he explained as though he was a teacher.

‘A phalanx?’

‘A fingerbone.’

He stroked the small bone and smiled.

‘Each bone is unique. Like you.’

He turned to Donna.

‘You’re unique.’

She stared up at him through her pain and exhaustion. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, aware that he had said something kind, and afraid of provoking his temper if she didn’t respond.

Exhausted, she closed her eyes and succumbed to darkness.

‘S
o Donna Henry’s gone missing, and we’ve got an unnamed body.’

The detective chief inspector tapped a series of pictures showing Donna Henry’s smiling face and the corpse that had been discovered near Tufnell Park station.

‘They’re both attractive black women in their early twenties. Is there a connection here, or are we wasting resources following up Donna Henry’s disappearance, if she
has
disappeared?’

He looked at Geraldine facing him across his desk.

‘What do you think?’

‘There’s no reason to assume anything’s happened to Donna Henry,’ she said slowly. ‘The chances are she’ll turn up.’

‘That’s what her mother said, isn’t it?’

Geraldine flicked through her notebook and read aloud. ‘Donna will turn up. She always does. I never know where she is from one day to the next.’

‘Her mother should know, I suppose.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He smiled, but his voice revealed his irritation.

‘Call me Reg. It bothers me, though,’ he went on, gazing down at the photos with a worried frown.

He turned to his screen, clicked on a map and twisted his monitor around so Geraldine could study it with him.

‘We’ve got a triangle. Tufnell Park where the second victim was found is less than two miles from the pub in Camden where Donna Henry was last seen, and two miles from her flat in Highbury Fields which is three miles from Camden Town. It’s all a bit too close for comfort, isn’t it?’

He looked up at Geraldine. It took her a few seconds to realise it wasn’t a rhetorical question. She liked Reg Milton’s seemingly consultative approach but she didn’t know anything about him or his reputation, so resolved to be cautious. The detective chief inspectors she’d worked with in Kent had been quite domineering and she wondered if Reg was equally controlling, just less forthright in his approach. At any rate, he seemed to think there was a connection between the two women and Geraldine agreed with him.

‘I don’t think it’s a coincidence either, sir – Reg – a victim turning up and another woman going missing at the same time.’

‘Because?’

‘I don’t believe in coincidences.’

‘What about their colour? Is there any significance in them both being black?’

‘We can’t rule that out, although it might be more relevant that they were both young and good looking.’

She paused, realising she was speaking about both women in the past tense, as though she believed Donna Henry was dead.

Reg nodded and leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk, his finger tips touching.

‘I see we’re thinking along the same lines, Geraldine. Of course, that’s not necessarily a good thing,’ he added, with a smile. ‘Oh well, let’s hope we’re both wrong and the missing woman turns up.’

He sighed.

‘She’s only been missing for three days and I wouldn’t have given her a second thought if it wasn’t for this dead woman. Let’s focus on finding out who she is. Until we know her identity, we won’t be able to work out if there’s any connection between them, will we?’

After she left the detective chief inspector’s office Geraldine went straight to the Major Incident Room where Sam Haley was chatting to one of the women entering data onto the computer system. Geraldine checked the details they had for the dead woman but all they knew about her so far was what they had established from examining her corpse.

She went to consult the Safer Neighbourhood Team but they had nothing on David Crawley or any of his neighbours.

‘Littlefield is a quiet close, gov’nor,’ the sergeant told her. ‘There was a bit of bother going on at one time between two of the neighbours, and we had a domestic along there a few months back, but nothing out of the ordinary, and other than that it’s quiet. All the houses have been converted into maisonettes, some owner occupied, some rented, and there’s a small block of flats left over from the sixties. It’s a bit of a hotch potch in many ways, but there’s no trouble to speak of. Sometimes there’s a bit of a barney along the main road by the station, of a weekend, but there’s never been any real trouble in Littlefield. Until this.’

He shook his head, as though the alley that ran between Tufnell Park Road and Littlefield Close was a child who had unexpectedly misbehaved.

‘Neither David Crawley or his girlfriend is on our radar, and no one we’re interested in lives in the street. Some of the tenants aren’t English of course, but they’re no bother.’

Geraldine and Sam drove to the burger bar along Holloway Road where David Crawley worked as a grill chef. It was part of a chain and the first manager they spoke to didn’t seem to know who he was. The second was more helpful.

‘Dave? Yes, I know Dave. He’s alright, is Dave. Has something happened to him?’

‘No. We’d just like to ask you a few quick questions, for the purpose of elimination.’

‘Elimination? Is he in some sort of trouble then?’

‘No, but we’d appreciate your answering a few questions. How long has Mr Crawley been working here?’

‘Oh at least a year, maybe two. That’s a long time for us. I could look it up, if you like.’

‘No, that’s fine. Is he reliable, would you say?’

‘What, Dave? Oh yes. He turns up on time and puts in a good shift. He’s no trouble. Nice guy too. Bit of a laugh.’

His landlord wasn’t able to offer them any other useful information.

‘Crawley? In Littlefield Close?’ he repeated, shuffling through a fat file. ‘He’s been in the property for seven years and he’s never caused any problems. Pays his rent. He went through a phase.’

‘A phase?’

‘Yes. First it was a hall carpet, then it was a hoover, and then there was … something else. Oh yes, a chain on the door. But he settled down after a while. They usually do. He pays his rent on time, and frankly that’s all I’m interested in, as long as they look after the place.’

Back at Hendon, Geraldine checked how the review of CCTV footage from Tufnell Park station and the wider surrounding area was progressing, although she didn’t hold out much hope of finding anything significant. They didn’t even know what they were looking for. Finally, she set up a TV appeal hoping to try and jog someone’s memory.

‘The body of a young black woman was discovered near Tufnell Park tube station in North London last Sunday morning. Police are appealing for information.’

‘It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack, without actually knowing where the sodding haystack is,’ Sam grumbled.

‘Let’s wait and see.’

Geraldine did her best to sound encouraging.

‘You never know what we might find.’

‘You’re right,’ Sam agreed uncertainly. ‘Something’s bound to turn up.’

T
he other women were nattering, heads bent over desks, busy at keyboards. One of them passed around photographs of her new grandson and Lily made suitably admiring noises. When her phone rang, she jumped.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Lily Smalls?’

‘Who is it?’

Lily knew better than to acknowledge her name before she knew who was asking.

‘This is Detective Sergeant Haley.’

Lily felt her heart palpitating and for a second she couldn’t breathe, let alone speak.

‘Lily? Are you there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Lily, the woman who was found in Tufnell Park on Sunday morning isn’t your missing flatmate, Donna.’

‘What? Where is she then?’

‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid we don’t know that.’

‘So who’s the woman you found, if she’s not Donna?’

‘We’re working on establishing an identity now.’

‘You mean you don’t know who she is.’

‘Like I said, we’re working on that.’

‘Well, how do you know she isn’t Donna then?’

‘Donna’s mother has confirmed the body we have isn’t her daughter. It’s not Donna.’

‘What - ’

‘We thought you’d like to know, but please contact us when Donna turns up so we can take her off our list.’

‘But - ’

‘Thank you.’

The line went dead.

‘Are you alright, Lily?’ one of her colleagues asked, and immediately several pairs of curious eyes turned to look at her. ‘You do look pale.’

There was a general murmur of agreement.

‘She does look pale,’ another voice chimed in as though Lily wasn’t there.

‘Are you sure you’re alright?’

Lily found her voice. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

That was a lie. She wasn’t fine. She still didn’t know where Donna was. An official looking letter had arrived at the flat that morning addressed to Donna and Lily was worried. What if the electricity bill hadn’t been paid? She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. She didn’t even know what arrangements Donna had made for paying the mortgage. She imagined going home one day to discover bailiffs emptying the rooms, seizing Lily’s belongings, such as they were, along with the contents of the flat.

‘Are you sure you’re alright?’ someone asked her.

‘I said I’m fine. Stop going on at me, will you!’ Lily snapped.

Several colleagues looked round at her in surprise and she realised she had been quite rude. Embarrassed and agitated, she stood up.

‘Actually I don’t feel well. I’m going home,’ she announced.

She scurried from the room, but she didn’t go straight home. Instead, she took the train to Angel and found the police station off Upper Street. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say when she got there, but Donna was still missing and no one seemed to be doing anything about it. It was time to force the police to take her disappearance seriously.

A few people were sitting on a row of metal seats which were fixed to the floor along the wall on the far right. After a few seconds’ hesitation she marched up to the desk, her legs trembling. A woman looked at her, unsmiling, from behind a glass screen.

‘Yes?’

‘Can I speak to - ’

Lily fumbled in her purse for the card the inspector had given her.

‘Detective Inspector Geraldine Steel. I have some information for her. It could be important.’

Someone shifted in one of the chairs behind her. Out of the corner of her eye Lily saw a man staring at her and regretted having spoken so loudly. Not everyone liked people who gave information to the police. The woman behind the screen took Lily’s name and asked her to wait while she made a call.

‘The inspector’s not in the building. Would you like to see someone else?’

‘No.’

‘What’s it about?’

Lily hesitated then bottled it.

‘It’s alright,’ she said. ‘I’ll just go.’

She turned on her heel and fled, wishing she hadn’t given her name.

When the doorbell rang that evening, Lily wasn’t surprised to see the detective inspector standing outside.

‘You’d better come in,’ she said. ‘It’s about Donna isn’t it? Is there any news?’

‘You came to see me at the police station,’ the inspector reminded her. ‘What was it you wanted to tell us?’

She spoke kindly, but Lily could tell she was feeling impatient.

Lily hesitated, wondering how she could justify her panic visit to the police station.

‘I don’t want to waste your time, but – can I get you a cup of tea or something?’

‘No, thank you. Now what it is you wanted to say?’

‘It’s just that I’ve been thinking, and I wondered if Geoff might have got something to do with it, kidnapped her or something.’

It sounded stupid, but it was the only thing she could come up with on the spur of the moment.

To Lily’s surprise, the inspector produced a notebook and leaned forward attentively.

‘Who’s Geoff?’

‘Donna’s ex, Geoff. I only met him once. He seemed like a nice guy but Donna told me he was boring and that’s why she broke up with him. She said he was pathetic.’

‘Pathetic?’

‘That’s what she said. I don’t think she’d been seeing him for very long, but he had a thing about her.’

‘What sort of thing?’

‘She said he kept pestering her, wanting to see her, but she wasn’t interested.’

‘How long ago did they split up?’

Lily shrugged.

‘I don’t know really. Not long before I moved in and I’ve been here two months.’

‘Was she seeing anyone else?’

‘No. She said she just wanted to have a good time. She didn’t want to be tied down. Not yet anyway, not at her age. That’s what she said anyway.’

‘So how did Geoff take it when she ended their relationship?’

Lily shrugged again.

‘I don’t know really. Like I said, she finished with him before I moved in here.’

‘Did she say anything about how he reacted?’

‘No. Only that she was glad to see the back of him.’

The inspector sighed and shut her notebook.

‘Lily, I understand your concern, but we can’t suspect Donna’s ex has done something to harm her just because she left him.’

‘Well I don’t think he would’ve been very pleased about it. And now she’s gone missing and I just think something might have happened to her and someone should be doing something about it.’

‘We’re doing everything we can, Lily, but your flatmate’s only been missing for four days and people do usually turn up. It’s rare for anything else to happen.’

‘She seems very anxious,’ Geraldine told Sam when they met later on. ‘She’s a lot more worried about Donna’s disappearance than Mrs Henry is.’

Geraldine didn’t respond when Sam said she thought it strange that Mrs Henry wasn’t concerned.

‘Don’t you think it’s odd?’ Sam persisted.

‘What?’

‘About Mrs Henry. How can a mother not care if her own daughter goes missing?’

As she finished writing up her notes, Geraldine couldn’t help thinking of her own birth mother, who didn’t seem to care about her at all. However hard she tried to put the knowledge of her adoption out of her mind, she seemed to be constantly reminded of it, and decided to confront the social worker again. This time she would insist on being put in contact with her mother. Alone in her office, she closed the door and looked up the number of the adoption agency. She had to wait a few moments before the social worker dealing with her case came on the line.

‘Hello, Geraldine, it’s Sandra. How can I help you?’

The social worker sounded weary.

‘I want to meet my mother.’

There was a pause.

‘You’ve seen your file, Geraldine. I’m afraid your mother has declined to meet you. I thought we established that on your last visit. I’m sorry but there’s nothing more I can do about it. If you’d like me to arrange for you to talk to someone - ’

‘You don’t understand,’ Geraldine interrupted. ‘She made that decision a long time ago. People change. She might feel differently now. At least you could ask her.’

‘I’ll see what I can do, Geraldine. And remember, if you’d like to talk to someone, we can arrange that.’

‘I’d like to talk to my mother,’ Geraldine insisted.

She didn’t care that she sounded petulant. Until she heard the words from her mother’s own lips, she would never accept her rejection as final.