The Blood Detective (15 page)

‘Well, he’s no tramp, that’s for sure. Or if he was, not for very long.’ He looked at the screen once more. ‘And if he’s the same guy as the one here, then two months ago he was working at a firm of solicitors in Altrincham.’ He continued to look at the screen.

‘What I don’t understand is why he was hanging in the first place. Postmortem says he was dead fifteen hours before we found him, so he was killed a fair few hours before he was strung up. In which case, why do it?’

‘To make it look like it was suicide, not murder?’

‘But where does that fit in with everything else we know about the killer? He carves references into his victims for us to see. Why be shy about actually killing someone?’

‘It was his first. Perhaps he wanted to put us off the scent for a few days. It worked.’

It was a pertinent point, delivered with no sense of self-justification, though he would not have blamed her if she had. But he did not agree.

‘No, he wasn’t trying to cover anything up. The opposite, I reckon: the hanging tells us something.’

‘What was the cause of death?’

‘Heart failure. Cause unknown. Tox might tell

us more.’

He made a mental note to chase up the toxicology report on Darbyshire. They had had long enough; it was time to start shouting at them to get their arses in gear.

‘Do we have any ID yet on last night’s victim?’

Heather asked.

Foster shook his head slowly. ‘Carlisle’s doing her as we speak. There’s a whole pile of missing person reports out there. Start with the most recent. Call Khan back in to give you a hand.’

Soon after Heather left, his phone rang. It

was Drinkwater calling in from Acton. The garage owner was proving of little use. He had an alibi that stood up.

‘Get a list of everyone who’s ever rented the place,’

Foster said.

They were still looking for the way in. Something had to give somewhere, he thought, if they kept pressing.

He looked once more at the details of the missing solicitor on screen: ‘There is great concern for Graham Ellis, who has been missing since 25 th January. He was last seen drinking in a pub near his home in Altrincham, Cheshire.’

His firm was Nicklin Ellis & Co; he was a partner.

Foster rang directory enquiries and was put through to their offices. It was Sunday, but he thought it was worth a try.

The message kicked in. The office was closed, as Foster expected. However, as he hoped, there was a number to ring in case of emergency. He dialled it.

‘Tony Penberthy.’

The voice was eager, young.

‘Hello, sorry to trouble you on a Sunday.’

‘No worries,’ Penberthy replied, with a hint of an Australian accent. ‘How can I help?’

‘I was hoping to have a word with my usual

solicitor, Graham Ellis.’

‘He’s not on duty at the moment, sir. But I’m sure I can be of service. What’s the problem, Mr … ?’

‘Foster,’ he answered, seeing no reason to lie. ‘It’s a bit delicate. Without sounding rude, I’d rather chat to Graham about it. Should I call back tomorrow?’

There was a pause at the other end.

‘Look, Mr Foster, there’s a problem here. You see, Graham Ellis has gone missing.’

‘God. When?’ Foster winced at his poor acting

skills.

‘A little over two months ago. Came as a real

shock.’

‘I bet it did. He just vanished?’

‘He was drinking in the pub across the road after work with a few of us. Seemed fine. Left to go home.

Never seen since.’

‘We were friends in the past. Lost touch. No one’s heard anything?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I hope he’s OK,’ Foster added, remembering he

was posing as a concerned member of the public, not a detective.

‘Yeah,’ the Australian said.

‘You don’t sound too convinced.’

There was a pause. Foster wondered how far to

push it. The Australian seemed garrulous and he knew that, as a breed, solicitors weren’t allergic to the sound of their own voices.

‘Well, the word here is that he’s taken his own life.’

‘He didn’t strike me as the suicidal type,’ Foster added, wondering what the ‘suicidal type’ actually was. It didn’t matter. It kept the conversation going.

Better this than being passed around the local nick in search of whichever copper took the report and filed it in the bottom drawer.

‘Yeah.’

He sensed the solicitor’s unease; he changed tack.

‘I’d like to send his wife a card, share her concern.

Do you have an address?’

‘He was divorced.’

‘Really?’

‘Last year. Very messy.’

Foster scribbled a note. ‘Poor bloke,’ he muttered.

‘He had a tough time of it,’ the Aussie replied.

‘He was always a big drinker.’

‘He was still putting it away. Especially during the last year or so. We reckon after leaving us he went back to his local and sank a few more, then decided he’d had enough and got a train somewhere.’

Foster knew that if the man downstairs was

Graham Ellis, then whatever problems he’d found in the bottom of his glass that evening, he’d been going home to bed when he left that pub. But he never made it. Foster badly needed an ID of the body.

He ended the call and set about contacting West Midlands Police. But just as he was about to dial, the phone burst into life. It was the desk sergeant at Notting Hill police station. They’d had a walk-in, a man claiming to know about a possible murder. He was insisting on speaking to someone senior.

‘The man has a package with him, sir,’ the sergeant said, quietly yet forcefully.

When Foster arrived with DS Jenkins at Notting Hill, the man was sitting in an interview room nursing a cup of tea. He was dressed casually, yet still appeared smart: brown cords, navy-blue jumper over an open-necked shirt, a mane of dark hair that flopped occasionally over his brow. His face, shapeless yet with skin so clear it was hard to determine his age, eyes watery-blue, seemed familiar to Foster.

On the table was a shoebox.

‘Sorry to keep you,’ Foster said, introducing

Heather.

The man nodded, smiled briefly. His eyes were

vacant, the face white. He seemed in a daze.

‘Simon Perry,’ he said slowly, mechanically in a clear voice that indicated a wealthy upbringing.

The name was vaguely familiar, too, but Foster’s eyes were drawn to the container on the table.

‘What’s in the box, sir?’ Foster asked.

Each word he said took time to penetrate the field of shock and bewilderment that seemed to envelop Simon Perry. Eventually he spoke without emotion or expression.

‘My sister’s eyes.’

‘Are you the only person who’s handled this?’

‘That I’m aware of, yes.’

‘We’ll need to take your prints,’ Foster said. ‘Rule out which are yours.’

‘Of course.’

Foster pulled on a pair of latex gloves, and lifted the lid.

The bottom of the box had been padded with

a bed of cotton wool. Resting on it were a pair of eyes. Foster could not believe the size: the whites were the size of golf balls, part of the optic nerve trailing behind them pathetically. He realized just how much of the eye was out of sight. They seemed intact, which indicated great care had been taken during their removal. There was little colour to them, a blue tint to the iris perhaps: presumably whatever pigment had been there had vanished in the hours since their removal.

He replaced the lid. ‘What makes you think they’re your sister’s?’

‘The colour.’

‘I couldn’t make out much colour, to be honest…’

‘She suffers from albinism.’

‘She’s an albino?’

Perry’s vacant eyes just continued to stare as if he had failed to hear.

Heather spoke. ‘What does her albinism involve?’

The change of voice appeared to reawaken him

from his stupor.

‘Fair skin, fair hair, but mainly her eyes; they are the lightest blue. She’s the first one in generations.

It’s a recessive gene. Dammy is a throwback.’

‘Dammy?’

‘As in Damson.’

‘That’s her name?’

‘No. Her name is Nella. Damson is her nickname

because our elder sister is known as Plum, though her real name is Victoria. Family joke.’

The joyous wit of the English upper classes,

thought Foster. Nella was one of the names Barnes had suggested might tally.

‘Does your sister have any tattoos that you are aware of?’ he asked.

Again the pause while the words penetrated. ‘Not that I recall. Can’t say I’ve ever studied her that closely. But it wouldn’t surprise me if she had.’

‘Sorry to be as bold as this, Mr Perry, but does your sister have breast implants?’

Perry looked at him; Foster could see he was only just managing to hold it together.

‘Yes, she does. Her unusual looks get her a lot of attention. She doesn’t exactly run away from that attention. Makes the most of it, in fact. Hence the implants. She has a newspaper column, dates men in the public eye.’

Great, thought Foster. If the body in the morgue was hers, every reptile in London would be crawling all over the case within hours of this getting out.

Serial killer, socialite and journalist, police missing the chance to catch her murderer: he could see the fall-out already.

‘Are you a journalist, too?’ he asked.

‘No. An MP.’

As if the story was not sensational enough. He

wondered whether the Perrys had risen to the top of the social and professional tree through hard work or a network of old school pals and family friends.

Smart money was on the latter.

‘Can I ask when was the last time you heard from Nella?’

He couldn’t bring himself to use her nickname.

‘Friday afternoon. She and her latest boyfriend, a painter, were due to come to dinner last night. She rang to say it would be only her; they’d had a tiff. She never arrived. I thought perhaps they’d made up, that sort of thing. I called her mobile, but it was off.

Assumed she’d get in touch with one of her apologies at some point. She’s very good at them; she’ll make you forgive her anything.’

Foster was making notes. It was only when he

looked up that he saw tears streaming down the

man’s face.

‘Sorry,’ Perry said, pulling a handkerchief from his trouser pocket.

‘No need to be. Don’t bottle it up on our behalf.’

Heather left the room and returned with a glass of water. She put it on the table and Perry gave her a thankful grimace.

‘Do you have her boyfriend’s details?’

Perry passed on what he knew. ‘You think he

might be responsible?’

Foster shrugged. ‘We can’t say.’

‘I’ve never thought much of him,’ Perry added,

face reddening. ‘Bit of a poseur, but never thought he was violent.’

‘When did you notice the package?’ Foster asked.

‘Not until this lunchtime. It was on our back doorstep.

I took the rubbish out and there it was.’

‘We need to take this box and the eyes for further examination. We’ll also need to go and have a look around your garden, speak to some of your neighbours, see if they saw anyone or anything last night or this morning.’ There was only one more question Foster needed to raise. ‘If you feel up to it, we’ll need you to identify the body of a young woman we found murdered last night.’

Perry nodded slowly, as if in a trance, pulling absent-mindedly at the loose skin under his chin.

‘Of course,’ he said faintly. ‘Look, I need to make a phone call. Could you leave me alone for a few minutes?’

Foster and Heather left the room.

‘The killer’s getting more elaborate,’ Foster hissed.

‘More and more confident. Maybe too confident;

they always make a mistake when they start to play too many games.’

Heather nodded. ‘I know Dammy Perry,’ she

whispered. ‘Well, not personally, but I’ve seen her column. It’s in the Telegraph’

‘Really?’ Foster said. He got whatever news he

needed online. He despised newspapers, their spin, lies and wilful deceit. ‘I never had you down as the broadsheet type.’

She flashed back a sardonic smile. ‘It’s one of those diary columns. Except, rather than pop stars and footballers, it gossips about wealthy families, particularly the misbehaviour of their scions.’

‘Serious stuff, then.’

Inside they could hear Perry murmuring on the

phone.

‘Don’t suppose he’s a member of the Socialist

Workers’ Party either,’ Foster said.

Heather ignored him. ‘It sounds like it’s her. Bit of a new departure, if it is; sending the body parts to another member of the family.’

Foster sighed. ‘The pattern is all over the place.

First victim looks like he was kidnapped two months before he was killed; the second barely two hours before he was killed. The second and third have had body parts removed, the first didn’t. The second’s hands are still missing, the third’s eyes turn up the same morning as the body. The only thing that’s constant is the reference and the fact that the place and time accord with the murders of 1879.’

The door handle turned. Perry emerged from the

room. ‘Let’s get on with this,’ he said.

Nigel had done all he could do to occupy himself that day, but no matter what he did — opened a book, retreated into the past as his usual method of escape — he was unable to expunge the image of the dead woman, her sightless eye sockets, her alabaster skin punctured with holes like black moons.

Towards the end of the afternoon, as he lay wide awake in bed seeking sleep he would never get, he heard the sound of his telephone. Thinking, hoping, it might be Foster and Jenkins, he scrambled out from the tangle of sheets and found it. The voice on the other end was familiar but unwelcome.

‘Hello, Nigel.’

Gary Kent.

‘What do you want?’ he snapped. Knowing exactly what.

‘Dammy Perry.’

‘What?’

‘The young woman whose body you stumbled

across, if that’s the right phrase, this morning. Was wondering if there’s anything more you can tell me?’