Jack Morgan 02 - Private London (6 page)

Chloe breathed deeply and turned towards the van. Two of the remaining three men moved towards her – more cautiously than their colleagues had. One of them holding Laura tight to his body with a muscular arm wrapped around her. She saw the flash of steel as that man pulled a long-bladed knife from his jacket, watched Hannah stumble, heard a scream. Laura fell down and was yanked rudely up.

‘What do you want?’ Chloe shouted at the men, holding her hands forward ready to strike.

‘Just leave now and you won’t get hurt,’ came a quiet hiss from the hooded figure who now held a terrified Hannah against the side of the black van.

Chloe shook her head. ‘Just let them go!’ she said, putting one foot forward, hands held like blades as she moved slowly towards the two men facing her. Her head was clearing now. Something the man holding Hannah had said triggering some kind of memory. She tried to catch hold of the thought but couldn’t, the synapses in her brain still not firing at a hundred per cent – despite the adrenalin that was coursing through her blood now.

She moved forward slightly again, her foot not leaving the ground as she slid it along the uneven surface of the street, doubly glad now that she hadn’t worn heels. The hooded man who didn’t have hold of either Laura or Hannah took a step forward himself. Chloe tilted sideways quicker than he could register and snapped out her right foot, slamming it into his knee.

‘It’s okay, Laura,’ she said to her terrified friend. ‘Everything is going to be all right.’

Laura shook her head, her eyes widening with panic, with shock.

‘Trust me, babe,’ Chloe said, misunderstanding her friend’s reaction. ‘They are not getting away with this!’

She saw the man holding Laura take a step backwards as she inched her foot forward once more. She felt the movement of air behind her. But before she could react a baseball bat swung against the back of her head, crunching into the fragile bone. She collapsed forward and hit the cold cobbled ground.

Chapter 20

DOCTOR HARRIET WALSH knelt down and examined the gaping wounds.

‘Cause of death?’ asked DI Ken Harman.

Doctor Walsh looked back over her shoulder and shrugged. ‘Can’t tell at this stage. No bruising to the neck, no evidence of gunshot damage. The soft tissue and organs have been eaten away in the main.’

‘Murder, though?’

She shrugged again. ‘Maybe. She died, that much is evident, and was then wrapped in this plastic sheeting – left here until she could be disposed of somewhere else, I guess. But then again, it’s my job to give you facts, not to speculate.’

The detective shook his head, disagreeing. ‘Speculating is good. At this stage …’ He cleared his throat. ‘We’re not in a court of law presenting cold facts and hard evidence. We’re pissing in the wind, hoping its direction doesn’t turn against us. So speculate away, give us a thread to start pulling on and we just might unravel the whole damn thing before someone gets hurt again.’

Wendy Lee looked over at him. ‘Do we know who owns the lock-up?’

‘Not yet,’ said DI Harman. ‘But we’re on it.’ He turned to the pathologist. ‘Is it possible she was suffocated by the sheeting?’

Dr Walsh ran her hands gently over the dead woman’s cheeks and shook her head. ‘No indication of it.’

‘If it wasn’t murder … why wrap the body up and hide it away like this?’

Wendy looked down at the woman’s face for a moment or two without responding. Then she said, ‘She looks Middle Eastern to me. Egyptian, perhaps. Jewish?’

‘Maybe Eastern European?’ said Doctor Walsh.

Wendy shrugged. ‘Maybe. Could be an illegal immigrant. Could be she died from natural causes but whoever brought her in couldn’t afford to deal with her death through the official channels.’

‘Human trafficking?’

‘It’s a possibility. We all know that organised criminals out of Eastern Europe and Africa, but not exclusively from those parts of the world, have been bringing in large numbers of women. Holding them to ransom with threats against their children or family back home.’

Harman nodded thoughtfully.

‘It’s a trade worth billions of pounds. And this is an area pretty well know for the seedier side of the prostitution business.’

Harman looked over at the dead body. ‘You think she was a prostitute?’

Dr Walsh looked back at him and shook her head. ‘Just speculating. We haven’t even begun to do a post-mortem on the poor woman. One thing I learned really early on in this game, detective, is – if you leap too early to conclusions …’

‘You can end up landing on your arse!’ Wendy Lee finished for her.

Harriet Walsh turned back to the dead woman and looked at her left hand which was curled into a semi-fist as if she was holding something. The pathologist opened the hand gently.

‘Rigor mortis has set in and then softened so I can tell you she has been dead for a number of days …’ she said and then trailed off. She looked up at Adrian Tuttle and said, ‘Get a shot of this.’

As Tuttle leaned in, his flashgun firing off mini-explosions of light, Wendy Lee leaned forward to look as well.

‘What is it?’ asked Harman.

‘The digitus anularis. The phalange quartus, if you like, on the hand sinister.’

Harman grunted again. ‘I don’t like. What’s it mean in plain Anglo-Saxon?’

‘The ring finger to you and me, detective,’ explained Wendy Lee.

Dr Walsh held the dead woman’s wrist and showed the others the left hand. ‘The phalange or fourth finger on the left hand, counting the thumb as the first finger. It’s been cut off at the second knuckle.’

The detective squatted down, groaning a little as his knees creaked. ‘I’m getting too old for this job,’ he said. ‘You sure it has been cut off and not gnawed?’ he asked. ‘Our hungry rats?’

‘I’ll get it under a microscope but these are clean lines around the knuckle and there has been no rodent activity anywhere near it.’

‘Why have bony gristle when you can have the prime meat?’ said Harman.

‘Not delicately put, inspector. But you make a valid point.’

Harman stood up, groaning again as he did and holding his hands to his suffering knees.

‘How old are you in fact, detective?’ Wendy Lee asked him.

‘Forty-two next month,’ he replied.

‘Maybe you want to think about doing some exercise,’ she said pointedly.

‘It’s all right for you, Dr Lee – you’re a lot closer to the ground.’

Harriet Walsh stood and nodded to her team. ‘Let’s get her down to the workshop. See what we can see.’

‘So what are we looking at, detective?’ asked Tuttle, the first time he had spoken since they had entered the crime scene. ‘Prostitution, trafficking, ritualistic killing. Or an accidental death covered up and the wedding ring removed as possible evidence of her identity?’

‘Could be any of the above.’ The detective inspector shrugged. ‘Truth is … as of this moment I don’t have a clue.’

Tuttle nodded sagely.

The difference between him and Harman was, he did have one. He had a very big clue.

‘Well, let me tell you something else, then,’ he said.

Chapter 21

DI KIRSTY WEBB pulled the zipper on her coat up firmly.

She was leaning against the wall of a building, built sometime in the sixteenth century, and watching her people process the crime scene.

Such as it was. A poorly lit cobbled backstreet off one of the quads of Chancellors University. At least, it would have been poorly lit if the police hadn’t mounted bright halogen lights to photograph and work the scene.

Three female students from the university had been viciously assaulted. One of them kidnapped. One of them slashed with a knife. One of them beaten with a baseball bat and even now fighting for her life in hospital.

Could be a murder case before the night was out.

DI Webb took a sip of her coffee and scowled. The crystal-ball gazers at the Meteorological Office were promising a sunny day for Saturday and she was supposed to have the weekend off. She’d hoped to get in the garden and sort things out.

Fat chance of that now. This case would put paid to all that. Chancellors University was all about old money. And that meant pressure from above. It always did.

So the garden would go untamed for a while longer. Which would have suited her ex-husband, Webb thought bitterly. Her mood worsening as she took another sip of coffee and wondered why she was even thinking about the bastard.

But she knew exactly why. Goddamn him! Tomorrow was their wedding anniversary. Ten years ago instead of punching him on the nose like he so richly deserved, she had simply slapped him and said yes.

She crumpled the styrofoam coffee cup in her hand and watched as the ambulance drove away. Its sirens shrieking into the night air and the noise bouncing of the cloistered walls of the warren of buildings that made up that part of the university.

The lead scene-of-crime officer ducked under the police-line tape and approached. He was followed by DS Andy Crane, Kirsty’s partner.

‘You got anything good for me?’

The SOC officer smiled. He was a handsome man, tall, lean, in his late twenties. ‘Detective Inspector Webb,’ he said, grinning wider. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

‘You’re funny, Richard. Funny like chlamydia.’

‘They say God loves a trier.’

‘They say God loves everyone. Me, I hate most people, so stop flapping your lips like a fishwife and tell me what we’ve got.’

DS Crane shrugged. ‘The paramedic sedated the first one – the knife victim – so we didn’t get much from her. A black van. Hooded men. She wasn’t sure how many. More than three.’

‘They say anything?’

‘No. The one they beat up with a baseball bat tried to stop it, apparently. Some kind of karate nut or some such.’

DI Webb gestured to the taped-off area of the road. ‘Any sign of what we might call clues?’

‘There are some faint tyre marks, and some blood droplets which we are pretty sure are going to turn out to have come from the injured girl’s arm.’

‘Who phoned it in?’

The detective sergeant pointed across to the pavement where a woman in her thirties was drinking a mug of tea, a female uniformed officer speaking to her. ‘Jane Harrington, lectures here at the university.’

‘What did she see?’

‘Nothing. She was on her way home after a late tutorial. The van had gone before she got here. Found one student unconscious and the other hysterical and screaming, with blood pouring down her arm.’

‘Cut badly?’

‘Her wrist was sliced, is all, as the other girl tried to fight them off. Not too deeply. Nothing arterial.’

DI Webb made some notes in a small black book that she pulled out of her coat. ‘Names?’

‘Chloe Wilson is the girl hit with the baseball bat, the woman knifed is Laura Skelton and the woman they took is Hannah Durrant.’

‘All students here?’

The detective sergeant nodded again. ‘Coming to the end of their first year. Chloe Wilson reading law and psychiatry, the other two just psychiatry.’

DI Webb nodded to her assistant. ‘Okay, stay with it, sergeant. I’ll check back later.’

‘Where you going, boss?’

‘The hospital. See if Sleeping Beauty or her sedated friend are ready to be interviewed.’

Kirsty Webb nodded to the uniformed officer – another sergeant – who was standing by one of the police cars. ‘Come on then, Buttons – you get to take me to the ball.’

Chapter 22

LAURA SKELTON WAS sitting up in the bed, her face as pale as the case on the pillow propping her up.

Her right arm was bandaged and tears had streaked her mascara, giving her a bedraggled, gothlike appearance.

DI Webb flashed her warrant card at the doctor and nurse who were standing by Laura’s bed. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Kirsty Webb. Is it okay to speak to Laura?’

The doctor looked across at the young woman who nodded weakly.

‘Thanks,’ said Kirsty. ‘I know you must be pretty shaken up by what happened.’

‘Have you found Hannah? Is she okay?’

‘I’m sorry. But we’re doing all we can. Which is why I need you to try and remember everything that happened.’

‘I told the others all I know.’

‘I understand that. But I want you to go through it again – some detail might be essential.’

‘It all happened so fast.’

‘I know. Start with you leaving the university grounds. You’d been drinking in the union bar?’ Kirsty prompted.

‘Yes. Since six o’clock. But Chloe wanted to get something to eat. She was feeling a little dizzy.’

Kirsty checked her notebook. ‘That would be Chloe Wilson?’

Laura looked over at the doctor, tears starting in her eyes. ‘Is she going to be okay?’

The doctor made a calming gesture with his hand. ‘She’s being closely monitored, Laura.’

‘He hit her with a baseball bat. The sound it made …’ Laura wiped her eyes again, fresh tears running down her face.

‘Take your time.’

Laura gulped some air into her lungs. ‘The street lamp was out and when we turned the corner there was a bunch of hooded men who jumped on us.’

‘How many?’

‘I don’t know,’ Laura said, clearly distraught. ‘It all happened so fast. One of them had a knife.’ Her hand went unconsciously to her bandaged arm.

‘What happened?’

‘Chloe came round the corner. She ran straight at them – kicking, punching. I’ve never seen anything like it. I didn’t know she could do that.’

‘Do what?’

‘Kung fu. Whatever it was. Martial arts. She was amazing – and then one of them hit her with the baseball bat.’

‘And they took Hannah away in the van?’

‘Chloe must have spooked them. The one who had hold of me pushed me away, cutting my arm. Then they threw Hannah in the van and drove off.’ Her face paled even more as the reality of it all hit home again. ‘It could have been me.’

‘What was the van like?’

Laura shrugged apologetically. ‘Just a black van. No windows. It looked quite new. A Ford, I guess.’

‘You didn’t get its number?’

Laura shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think there was a number plate.’ She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘I can’t remember.’