Past Mortem (5 page)

SEVEN

N
othing. Absolutely nothing,’ Natasha conceded.

‘No shady tinkers lurking at the end of the drive, then?’ Newson asked.

‘No, if anyone was laying dodgy Tarmac it was the man himself, Mr Adam ‘Dead Bastard’ Bishop, and if anyone was likely to be doing any killing and torturing it would have been him as well. The bloke was a complete shit and everybody’s glad he’s dead.’

‘But nobody killed him.’

‘Apparently not.’

All of the neighbours appeared to be off the hook. The killer had been in the house for nearly a day and a night, a long period to be without an alibi, and everybody in the street had one.

‘On top of that,’ Natasha moaned, ‘the forensic search has turned up bugger all.’

The killer had been astonishingly careful. He’d spent nearly twenty hours in a strange house and appeared to have left no trace.

‘Quite an achievement,’ Newson said.

‘He must have used the toilet,’ Natasha said.

‘If he did he was careful to leave it as he found it.’

‘And he never went in the kitchen because Mrs Bishop and Juanita were in there.’

‘The bastard must have brought sandwiches.’ Newson and Wilkie were sitting in Chief Superintendent Ward’s outer office. Ward was the senior officer in charge of investigating unlawful killing. On the door beneath his name he had posted the legend ‘Murder Room’.

‘That’ll have to say ‘Homicide Room’ in a year or two,’ Newson observed.

‘What?’

‘That’s what the Americans call it, homicide, so we’ll call it that pretty soon. Have you noticed how half the force has already started wearing baseball caps? What’s all that about?’

‘They look cool,’ Natasha replied.

‘They, do not look cool. They look cool on Americans. We just look like farts who are trying to look like Americans.’

‘American stuff’s better.’

‘It just looks better.’

‘Well, what’s wrong with that? I hated being in uniform, those stupid little girly hats.’

‘I think they look nice.’

‘You wear one, then.’

‘Did you know that a large proportion of kids think the number to dial in an emergency is nine-one-one?’

‘Then that’s what they should change it to.’

‘Oh, come on, Natasha! What about cultural diversity?’

‘God, Ed, you can be a pain in the butt sometimes.’

‘Bum! Bum! Not butt. Americans have butts; we have bums. I am a pain in the bum.’

‘You said it.’

They fell silent for a moment. The superintendent’s secretary brought them coffee. ‘Won’t be long now,’ she assured them.

‘Yes, he said it was urgent,’ Newson said dryly.

The gory details of the Bishop murder had made it to the front page of the early edition of the
Evening Standard
, and the Chief superintendent had requested that Newson personally brief him on the progress of the investigation. As far as Ward was concerned, murders that made it into the papers had to be solved. It was a pride thing. If the public were interested, Ward was interested.

While they continued to wait for the great man to receive them, Newson told Natasha about visiting Friends Reunited.

‘Bit late, aren’t you? Everybody else did that about two years ago.’

‘Have you done it?’

‘Of course.’

‘Did anybody get in touch?’

‘Mainly horny boys two years below me who I don’t remember. Nobody you would actually like to contact you does. I think everybody plays the waiting game and doesn’t want to look like they’ve got no new mates…or maybe it’s just me…So, were you hoping to find anyone particular?’

‘No, not really, just browsing.’

‘Liar.’

‘Not at all.’

‘Of course you were. Was she there?’

‘No, she wasn’t, sod it. But next time I’m going to leave my profile just in case.’

‘Well, don’t get your hopes up,’ Natasha said. ‘Even if she looks at the site it doesn’t mean she’ll contact you.

‘Of course she will. I’m an old boyfriend.’

‘If she does it could be even worse.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because it’ll mean she’s as desperate as you and that’s not the sort of woman you need.’

‘What do you mean, desperate? Who says anyone’s desperate?’

‘Look, there’re two types of people who go on that site. People who are bored and a bit curious about what happened to old classmates they can hardly remember ‘Yes.’

‘And people like you who haven’t got a girlfriend and have got the hots in your mind for some chick who was a teenager twenty years ago. Actually, I think everyone’s a mix of the two, really, it just depends on the degree. Even I was sort of hoping one particular boy might get in touch. I used to really tease and annoy him, but that was actually because I fancied him big-time. He was a bit weird and took a lot of crap but it turned out he could play the guitar and then he started going out with an older girl from the local tech and we all realized he’d just been too cool for school and didn’t give a shit whether we had a go at him or not. I often think I’d like to meet him just to tell him that I’m not actually an idiot.’

‘But he’s not on the site?’

‘Not when I looked. He was just about the only one who wasn’t as well. Like I said, too cool for school.’

‘He’s probably dead from a heroin overdose.’

‘So, come on, admit it, this is sexual.’

‘It’s not sexual.’

‘I thought you told me everything was sexual.’

‘All right, then, it’s a bit sexual.’

‘There you go, and if she gets in contact with you, from her point of view that would be sexual too.’

‘I’d like to think so.’

‘Rekindling the fire and all that.’

‘It might be nice.’

‘Two lonely, needy people flailing about in cyberspace.’

‘I’m not needy and I certainly don’t flail about.’

‘Ten to one she’s in an unhappy marriage, she shags you and the next thing you know you’ve got an enormous, insanely jealous husband hammering on your door, and don’t forget, you’re only little. You don’t need it. If you want sex on the internet look up some porn.

‘It’s all very well for you to be all smug, Natasha. You’ve got a boyfriend.’

‘No, I haven’t. Lance is history. He’s an arsehole.’

‘You’ve dumped him
again?
’

‘He dumped me. Literally. Last night.’

‘But last night he was reaching out to you to cook his dinner.’

‘Yeah, well, I couldn’t get any steak, so we ate at the pub and they were having a karaoke night and I was brilliant and he was shit. You should never try and do Elvis unless you can really do it. It’s just embarrassing.’

‘You split up because he did a shit Elvis impression?’

‘Basically. I wanted to stay and of course he wanted to go because everybody had booed his ‘All Shook Up’, so we had a huge row outside the pub which was basically about him resenting my success and the fact that I’ve got my life together and he hasn’t and then when we were going home on his bike he just suddenly stopped in the middle of bloody Hackney and told me to get off.’

‘He just dumped you?’

‘Yeah, he said everything wasn’t all about me and that the world didn’t revolve around me and that he was sick of it and then he just drove off.’

‘In that case, forget Friends Reunited. Will you marry me?’

They both laughed and Newson wondered if he would ever in his life be capable of speaking to a girl about anything pertaining to his desire for her without pretending that it was all a ridiculous and hilarious joke.

‘Don’t take him back,’ Newson added.

‘What do you mean? Of course I’m not going to take him back.’

‘I mean it. He’s done you the biggest favour by being the one to do the dumping. He’s the guilty party, you’re the injured one. He’s forfeited his rights over you. You have the moral high ground. Keep it. Don’t let him back.’

‘Look, of course I won’t, and anyway he’s not going to ask.’

‘He will, he will ask. He’ll realize what he’s lost. He’ll come back and say he was sorry, and because you’re easily exploited you’ll let him in. Don’t do it.’

‘Easily exploited? I am not easily exploited. What makes you say that?’

‘Because you are.

‘I’m not.’

‘You are. You’ve got a generous, open nature. Blokes like Lance feed on that.’

‘Don’t try and be nice now.’

‘I’m not trying to be nice.’ But Newson knew that in many ways he was trying to be nice. He was only telling half the truth. Yes, Natasha was generous and open, but she was also weak, at least as far as Lance was concerned. What was it that kept otherwise level-headed girls like Natasha locked in destructive relationships? Fear, Newson presumed. Fear of being alone.

Newson lived alone. It wasn’t so bad. He wanted to tell her that. He wanted to take her hand and persuade her to be strong. He wanted to assure her that living alone was fine, it was more than survivable, it could even be good sometimes. No rows about the top on the toothpaste, first slice of toast out of the toaster every time. And, of course, no Lance.

‘Don’t take him back, that’s all.’

‘Look, he’s dumped me, Ed. He’s not coming back. That’s it. Now shut up about it.’

‘He’ll be back.’

‘I said shut up.’

‘I guarantee it. He needs you. He’ll be back.’

‘He
won’t
. Now shut up.’

At that point the chief superintendent’s secretary invited them into the main office.

Newson had not been expecting a pat on the back, and he had been right not to.

‘So, let’s get this straight,’ the chief said, reviewing the case notes in front of him. ‘A man is tortured for half a day and a night in a quiet street. He’s…stabbed how many times?’

‘Three hundred and forty-seven, sir,’ Newson replied.

‘Three hundred and forty-seven times with a small skewer. The victim screams his head off, there’s a complete bloodbath, the assailant has previously entered the house in broad daylight and physically restrained the ‘maid, the wife turns up, he restrains her, he fancies a bit of music and makes free with the entertainment centre, yet he leaves not a single clue and you two don’t have an idea between you.’

‘I had an idea it might be a serial thing,’ Newson said.

‘What? One murder? How can one murder be a serial thing?’

‘Nothing’s emerged so far to suggest any opportunity or critical motive within the victim’s own circle of influence. That suggests to me that the answer is out there in the broader community.’

‘On the other hand, it could suggest that you simply haven’t
found
anything yet.’

‘That’s clearly also a possibility, sir, although we’ve looked.’

‘You might find it pays to try looking a bit harder before getting carried away with abstract theories. You’re a copper, not a journalist, you have to be able to prove things.’

‘Yes, sir. I understand that.’

‘Yes, well, don’t bloody forget it. I don’t care what they might have taught you at law school. The majority of police work has got nothing to do with sitting around pontificating. It’s about getting out there, getting your hands dirty and bloody well getting on with it.’

Ward, like many of Newson’s colleagues, was uncomfortable with Newson, seeing him as a fast-tracked university arriviste. The chief had come up through the ranks and although he could see that Newson was clever he felt that such a young man could not possibly have gained the experience that his rank required. The fact that Newson had been successful with a number of seemingly unsolvable cases had, if anything, increased the resentment with which some officers regarded him. He was just so
unlike
a proper policeman. He was short, uninterested in sport and smiled too much.

When the meeting was over Natasha offered Newson a stick of her Twix. ‘You shouldn’t let him bully you like that.’

‘I didn’t think he was bullying me.’

‘Of course he was. I wouldn’t let anybody do that to me.

‘Ah, but you do,’ said Newson. ‘You’ve let Lance bully you for years and now you’ve even let him decide when the bullying stops.’ As he said it he could see that he’d gone too far.

‘That was horrible,’ Natasha said, blinking a little.

For a moment Newson thought she was going to cry. ‘I’m sorry. I did feel a bit put down, you know, by the chief and then you…’

‘All the same, you shouldn’t bring Lance into it. That’s not your business.

So many ways to feel bad all at once. Newson had hurt her, which be hated to do. He’d forced her to reveal how much Lance meant to her, which he also hated. He’d provoked her into reminding him that he had no right to make such an intimate observation for the obvious reason that she felt no real intimacy with him. Finally, he’d further undermined the true nature of their relationship, which was, of course, a professional one: two officers in the field, relying on each other in a potentially dangerous game.