No Place to Die (10 page)

‘Indeed, no,’ he said, sniffing. ‘I would imagine you were both delighted and perturbed when it was assigned to you. Quite a step up from your usual cases, I would have thought, but then your boss isn’t exactly up to it, is he?’ His smile wasn’t difficult to read. ‘I mean, spousal murders, yes. Territorial killings, sometimes. Involuntary manslaughter, certainly. Far more your speed. Within your comfort zone, if you don’t mind me saying.’ Before she could defend herself he continued, ‘I mean, between you and me, it isn’t exactly fair, is it? Because of Lockyer’s error in judgement – for lack of a better word – you are left carrying the can, on probably the most unusual murder case Lewisham has seen, the Stevens case notwithstanding.’ She wanted to say something, respond, retaliate, but his assassination of her career and of Lockyer’s actions had left her stunned into silence. ‘I can see I have offended you, Jane. I did not mean to impugn your abilities whatsoever. On the contrary. I simply felt it appropriate to let you know that I am on your side, and I will do whatever I can to assist you when conducting your investigation.’ He reached his hand across the table, as if expecting her to return the gesture, to seal their bond of understanding.

She took a deep breath, glanced out of the window on the pretence that something had caught her eye. ‘Phil,’ she said, returning her gaze to his, loosening her jaw in order to feign indifference to his tirade of insinuation and outright insult. ‘I’m sure you are aware that I am not at liberty to discuss the Stevens case or anything pertaining to it. As for my role in this particular case, notwithstanding my previous experience . . . ’ She decided speaking Phil’s language might assist in delivering her point. ‘Roger assigned the case to me because I had the availability in my caseload and the experience to deal with this type of crime. I will certainly pass on your concerns. I am sure he would be keen to speak to you and would welcome any feedback you have. I, personally, welcome your offer of cooperation and assistance. Cases like this one need to be reviewed endlessly. To know I can call on you to revise your findings at any time is an absolute comfort.’ She smiled. ‘Having someone of your authority and experience “on my side” is an honour and I fully intend to utilise your expertise at every opportunity. Thank you, Phil.’ Despite the sweat collecting at the back of her neck she could see that her words had had the desired effect. She watched as Phil shifted in his seat, clearing his throat several times as if readying himself to speak, but then changing his mind at the last second. She pulled up her sleeve and looked at her watch. ‘I can see that I’ve already eaten into your valuable time, Phil. My apologies for that. Shall we move on to your findings? I’m sure you’re as keen as I am to get things moving.’

‘I . . . ’ he coughed. ‘Yes. Perhaps it would be best to get on with it.’ He stared at the tabletop, fiddling with the edge of the folder in front of him.

The warm rush of satisfaction swept over her entire body, drying the sweat on the back of her neck. ‘Great,’ she said, unable to keep the smile off her face. ‘So, what have you got for me?’ She sat back and crossed her legs, laying her hands in her lap, unclasped, relaxed.

‘I will email over my full report,’ he said, still not looking at her, ‘but I think I have enough to assist you as of now, in as much as geographical profiling goes.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Go on.’

He straightened in his chair. ‘The tomb itself, its design and location are my primary points of interests. I have spoken to Dr Crown.’ It took Jane a few seconds to realize he was talking about Jeanie. ‘Your office passed on her findings, but I felt – as I am sure you did – that further discussion was in order. I talked to Dr Crown at length yesterday and she agreed with me that the “tomb” was not so much constructed as altered from its original state.’

‘Meaning?’ she asked.

‘As I’m sure you are aware, Chislehurst Caves are less than a mile away.’ She nodded, despite not knowing anything of the sort. She had heard of the caves. She had watched some documentary about them being used as a music venue back in the Sixties.

‘Bowie performed there once,’ she said, hoping she was right.

‘Indeed, him and many others,’ Phil said, seemingly unimpressed. ‘I think, more importantly, they were used as air-raid shelters during the Second World War. At one point nearly fifteen thousand people inhabited the caves during the worst of the Blitz. Of course it is an inaccuracy to call them caves, as they are man-made. They were originally chalk- and flint-mines, used up until the late 1930s—’

‘Right,’ she said, noting down the date, as if it had any bearing on the case. ‘And you and Jeanie – I mean, Dr Crown – think the murder-site is an extension of these caves?’ she asked, interrupting his monologue.

He sat back in his chair, opening and closing his mouth like a stranded fish. ‘I . . . well, yes. Dr Crown believes it to be an aborted access tunnel, and that the individual who altered the site did so by excavating more earth from the base and then using it to cover the walls and ceiling. The entranceway and hatch are also new additions. She is confident further examination of the soil will confirm this.’

‘I’ll need to see detailed plans of the cave system. There must be a public record.’ It left Jane wondering what came first: Maggie’s death or the tomb itself. ‘It must have taken months,’ she said, more to herself than to Phil.

‘No doubt, but I must tell you, I believe the location to be far more important than the tomb construction.’

‘Why?’ she asked, her pen poised.

‘Elmstead Woods is a well-frequented green space, a thoroughfare; it would be difficult to go unobserved if one were engaging in unusual activities, such as excavation or body disposal,’ he said, smiling. ‘Therefore, in my opinion, the location must have been chosen for specific reasons. For the individual, or individuals, to choose a site where discovery was almost guaranteed is a message.’

‘Right,’ she said. On her pad she wrote the words ‘location’, ‘message’ and a question mark.

‘You need to establish whether the victim has any connection with the Elmstead area. I suspect you will find she doesn’t. In which case Elmstead Woods was chosen by her attacker for a specific reason. The individual you are looking for will have good local knowledge and will live within a five- to ten-mile radius of the site.’ Jane was making shorthand notes: key words, phrases she needed to remember. ‘The planning it would take to locate and alter the burial space; the patience and restraint of the attack – there is nothing frenzied or impulsive, the blow to the head notwithstanding. Each element demonstrates someone motivated and highly intelligent.’ Phil’s fascination with Maggie’s killer was obvious, but it was his admiration that Jane was finding hard to ignore. ‘The anticipation would have been incredible,’ he continued, ‘preparing to take the girl, executing his plan, interring the victim without discovery, watching her panic and then waiting for her to die, once her air supply had been stopped. All these factors in themselves would have been exhilarating. But imagine, if you will, the greater anticipation of waiting for the body to be found.’

‘So you think Maggie was meant to be found?’ she asked, frowning.

‘Absolutely, yes. It had to be witnessed, like the proverbial tree falling in the forest. The murder would have been incomplete without discovery.’

‘Incomplete,’ she repeated the word, testing the idea that was taking hold. ‘If that’s true, then Maggie’s death wasn’t the endpoint.’ Phil was nodding as she spoke. ‘And if her murder wasn’t the endpoint, then it was the starting point . . . ’ She looked at Phil. ‘But the starting point to what?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘That’s what you need to find out.’

I feel better. I knew I would. All I needed was sleep. Sleep deprivation can drive you mad, but I have a positive outlook today. Even the space seems bigger – roomy even. I know that it can’t be. If anything it should be smaller, sucked inward by my presence. I am mapping out my surroundings, despite knowing them already. It feels good to be moving again. It feels good to be awake.

‘Four to the right,’ I say to myself, crawling on my hands and knees. The soil in my throat has made my voice croak. I can see Kermit the Frog sitting on a wall singing a song to Miss Piggy:

The song fades as my head hits the wall. That’s right. The same as before. I turn back to face the centre. ‘Four to the middle and four to the left.’ I hold my breath, waiting for the wall. My head bumps against it. There is the smallest amount of give this time. Is that the wall softening or my head? ‘Four back to the middle, then six to the top.’ My legs are getting tired, but I must finish my route. I lift my head a little, so that my forehead takes the impact of the far wall. I can smell clay. I shuffle backwards. ‘Six to the middle and six to the back.’ Kermit sings over the top of my voice. My feet hit the back wall. ‘Good,’ I say. ‘That’s good.’

Everything is as it should be. I can rest now. I have executed my cross-section. Once I have slept some more, I will repeat the process, but diagonally. In my head the space has become a Union Jack that I rediscover every time I wake up. The faint outline of the flag must be imprinted on the floor by now, where my knees have rubbed at the dirt over and over again. I reach the centre of the space just in time. My legs will carry me no further. I don’t worry about my feet any more.

I can’t feel them.

26th April
–
Saturday

Jane pushed her fringe off her forehead, static crackling over her fingers. She looked at the picture of Peter on her desk and started tearing up. She had missed bedtime again last night and she would be working most of the weekend. He had been pissy with her this morning and had refused to eat his breakfast. She blinked back her tears, sighed and turned back to her computer. The results were back on the blood found in Sue and Mark’s utility room. It was Mark’s. She had known it would be, just as she had known that the blood found outside the house in Greenwich would belong to Maggie. But knowing didn’t help her, in either case. So the blood was Mark’s. What did that mean? She couldn’t make the suicide theory stack up, whichever way she looked at it. There was only one alternative. If Mark hadn’t injured himself, then someone had entered the Leech home, attacked Mark and either taken him from the property injured or, more likely, had removed him in order to dispose of the body. She shook her head. The Missing Persons team would still liaise, but the investigation had now been officially assigned to her. It was a murder investigation. Not that she would be telling Sue that. Not yet.

‘Is the blood-work on Leech back yet?’

She looked up. Lockyer was leaning on the partition, staring down at her. She hadn’t heard him approach. He looked terrible: unshaven beyond the point of designer stubble. His suit jacket looked as if he had slept in it. There were stains on the left lapel, toothpaste and something darker, unknown. ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there,’ she said, rearranging the files on her desk.

‘The blood-work on Leech,’ he repeated. ‘Is it back yet?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. I just had the email come through this morning, sir. It’s Mark’s.’

‘Any third-party hits?’ he asked, pulling at the corner of his left eye with his finger. He looked bored.

‘No, sir. The only DNA found was Mark’s. Forensics are going over the rest of the trace evidence to see if they can find anything else. I should hear back next week – Wednesday, hopefully.’

Lockyer frowned, his eyes drifting around the office. ‘I’ll go and speak to Sue. I was planning on heading home soon anyway,’ he said.

Jane felt her mouth drop open. ‘Er, I was actually heading over there now,’ she said. The lie was out before she could stop herself.

‘I think she’d prefer to hear it from me,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Have you spoken to her?’ she asked.

He didn’t seem to notice her tone. ‘Yes. I’ve spoken to her . . . every day since Mark’s disappearance. It still is a disappearance, Jane. Blood doesn’t equal dead. It may have been assigned to my team, but that doesn’t mean anything. Until Mark is found we are assuming he’s alive. Aren’t we?’ His eyes searched her face. He seemed to be daring her to disagree with him. ‘Well?’ he said, folding his arms.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I mean, yes, sir.’

‘Good.’ He turned and walked out of the office without a backward glance.

Lockyer stood staring at himself in the mirror, his hands on either side of the basin, squeezing the porcelain as if it were to blame for his actions. He turned and walked into a cubicle, locking the door just as another officer came into the Gents. He closed the lid, sat down and put his head in his hands. The last thing he needed to do was alienate Jane, but he couldn’t seem to control his resentment. While his life was disintegrating, hers was coming together. Roger had made her lead detective on the Hungerford murder. It should be his case. It would have been his case, if it wasn’t for the Stevens debacle. Everyone was treating him differently. Even Dave had started turning up at his flat unannounced, on the pretext of going for a beer, a run, a trip to the supermarket – anything to gain access, to give them time to ‘talk’. Jane was the only one who was even attempting to act normally around him. So why was he determined to treat her like shit? He thought about the cold-cases sitting on his desk. It was dead-work. It was a punishment.

He put his hands on his knees and stood up. He unlocked the door to the cubicle and walked out – out of the Gents and over to the lifts. Maybe some fresh air would do him some good. He looked at his watch and stopped. There wasn’t time. He had told Jane he was heading home, but he couldn’t, not yet. He had an appointment. He had rescheduled it twice this week, in a lame attempt to avoid it, but that hadn’t worked. It was in five minutes, up on the fifth floor. It wasn’t a meeting he wanted to keep. As he stepped into the lift he nodded to the other officers, but then bowed his head. The last thing he needed right now was banal conversation about shift-work, the weather and the five-car pile-up on Shooter’s Hill that was causing chaos. It was hot. The traffic was backed-up. It was the weekend. Everyone was pissed off. What else was there to say?