The Body in the Boot: The first 'Mac' Maguire mystery (3 page)

‘Yes, that much I know, but I haven’t seen her since she started her last year at university.’

‘Do you know if she’s been taking part in any medical trials?’ Mac asked, remembering what the professor had said.

Mrs. Lewinton shook her head again.

‘Sorry, no idea but I wouldn’t put anything past her.’

Tommy gave her his card.

‘Please call me if you remember anything. I take it you’ll be staying here for a while?’

‘I’m going to be by her side for every second of the day that I can,’ she said with determination. ‘When she wakes up she’s going to need her mother.’

‘Please let us know if there’s any change. An offence has obviously been committed but until we get some evidence we can’t be sure exactly what that offence might be.’

‘I understand. I’ll be in touch if anything changes,’ she said as she jumped up and made for the door.

She turned just before she went out and said excitedly, ’She’s alive Mr. Maguire, she’s alive’, as though she still couldn’t quite believe it herself.

Mac followed Tommy out of the room. The ‘matron’ gave them a stern look. Mac went over and spoke to her. He motioned Tommy to follow him.

‘She’s not as bad as she looks. She said we could have a minute, I just want to see what she looks like.’

Hetty Lewinton lay motionless. Her long blonde hair had a wide streak of brown down the centre as her hair hadn’t been coloured for some time. She looked beautiful, almost transparent, fragile and ethereal. Mac had a real problem picturing this girl selling herself on street corners.

‘Okay let’s go. Now where’s that taxi driver?’ Mac asked as he seated himself comfortably in the wheelchair.

As Tommy drove them back to the police station he asked, ‘Any idea what we should do next?’

‘There’s only the car isn’t there? Have forensics checked it out yet? Do we know who owns it?’

‘I’ll find out as soon as we get back.’

At the police station they learned that the car had been stolen sometime on Sunday night from outside a house in St. Neots. The owner hadn’t noticed that the car had gone until Monday morning when he reported it stolen.

‘St. Neots, that’s in Cambridgeshire isn’t it?’ Mac asked.

‘Well, technically in Huntingdonshire, but yes. We found who the owner was from the VIN number. The car had fake plates fitted.’

‘Were the fake plates for a car of the same make and colour?’

‘Yes and it’s been confirmed that the car with the real number plates never left Yorkshire. The owner was selling it and had put an ad in one of the auto trader magazines which is presumably where our driver got the car registration.’

‘So our man is careful, he spots the car he wants then makes up a set of fake plates before he steals it. I was wondering if this might have been some act of the moment. That perhaps our man had given her something, thought he’d killed her, and he was just trying to get rid of the body. The planning beforehand makes that scenario unlikely though. Anything from forensics yet?’

‘There’s an initial report on the car. They found loads of prints but haven’t matched any as yet. They also found dog hairs, crisps, sweets and empty soft drinks bottles amongst other things.’

‘I take it that the people who own the car have kids and a dog?’

Tommy nodded.

‘What about the blanket?’

‘Also from the car. Lots and lots of dog hairs, apparently they used it to cover the seat when the dog was in the car.’

‘So nothing there then unless we get lucky with the prints. I take it there was no CCTV?’ Mac asked hopefully.

‘No, the collision took place in a suburban area.  Only one of the shops on the road the driver ran down had CCTV but unfortunately only inside the shop.’

‘What about the clothes Henrietta Lewinton was wearing? Anything there?’

Tommy shook his head.

‘They found nothing unusual, the dress was from a chain store and they’re probably doing the DNA tests now. Also the initial look at the body, sorry she’s not a body is she? Anyway the initial look noted that she seemed abnormally clean and had probably been carefully washed. Forensics are going to take DNA samples and prints from the owners and from Miss Lewinton and see if they can narrow it down a bit.’

Tommy seeing Mac’s glum expression said, ‘We’ve got nothing really, have we?’

Mac shook his head.

‘I’ll bet a penny to a pound forensics turn up nothing more. Our man’s careful, he steals a car the night before, fits fake plates and I’ll bet he also wore gloves all the time he was in the car. You’re absolutely right, at this moment we’ve got nothing.’

Seeing Tommy’s dejected expression he added with a smile, ‘Come on chin up, we’ve only just started, something will turn up.’

Tommy smiled as Mac said this but Mac found himself feeling a lot less sure than he sounded.

Mac spent a little time more looking over everything Tommy could give him on the case but he made no progress. He said a little prayer that the full forensic report on the car would give them a lead but he really wasn’t all that hopeful. It was now past five o’clock so, deciding that he’d better pace himself, Mac told Tommy he was calling it a day and would return early tomorrow.

He called in at the hospital on his way home and they said he could go in and see Henrietta. He stopped and looked through the glass panel in the door before entering the ward. He saw Janet Lewinton sitting by her daughter’s bed. She was stroking Hetty’s hand and talking to her. It seemed such an intimate scene that Mac didn’t feel it would be right to interrupt them so he went to the nurse’s station and asked if there had been any change. There hadn’t. Mac asked if this was good news or bad news but they couldn’t say. They still hadn’t been able to identify what it was that was causing her condition.

Before he got into his car he called his friend Tim and was grateful that he was able to meet him for a pint and something to eat. All the way back to Letchworth Mac kept turning over the day’s events in his mind. He was hoping for some new idea or take on the situation but nothing came to mind. He decided to talk it through with Tim and turned the radio on for the rest of the journey.

Tim was already in the Magnets when Mac arrived. He’d managed to get their usual table in the corner next to the window overlooking the street. Of course Tim had something less of a journey, around a hundred yards from his antique furniture shop just down the hill. It struck Mac as he waved to Tim through the window that he was a little like an older version of Tommy. He was tall and thin, his jet black hair now greying in places but, unlike Mac, he still had a full shock of hair on his head. Mac’s barber had once made a joke and said that his hair was waving, waving goodbye that is. For some reason Mac hadn’t found it that funny.

Tim jumped up and headed to the bar while Mac seated himself. He returned smiling and carrying two pints of lager. A picture of a grey bearded George Bernard Shaw hung in the corner and, fully aware of the irony of having a teetotaller’s picture in a pub, Mac raised his glass to the great man before taking a gulp.

‘So how did the first day go? Any femme fatales, did you have to smack anyone in the mouth with a forty-five?’ he asked, trying to sound like Humphrey Bogart and doing it quite well.

Tim was a great fan of American film noir, especially gangster films. Mac’s new office was next door to Tim’s shop and was owned by Tim. Mac had insisted on paying rent but his friend had just pointed to the mental health charity shop across the road and said he could give it to them as they’d both probably be requiring their services before long.

He’d laughed heartily at the time but afterwards he wondered if Tim hadn’t come quite close to the truth. Since his Nora had gone he’d been living in a black hole of depression and, if it hadn’t been for his daughter and his best friend, he didn’t know where he might have ended up. He silently thanked God for having them both.

‘I should be so lucky but I do have a client’.

Tim was surprised and insisted on Mac telling the whole story not once but twice.

‘So what do you think?’

Tim looked stumped.

‘I don’t know what to make of it at all. Obviously the driver was up to something, that’s why he ran when he saw the boot lid open, but what? I hope your professor isn’t right though, someone out there using people as lab rats. That’s really creepy that is. How could they get away with it?’

‘Quite easily. These girls are looked down on by everyone, to their pimps they’re property, just money machines, and I’m afraid to a lot of the police they’re basically seen as a lower form of life, not deserving the protection everyone else gets. The rest of us just pretend they’re not there, unless you’re one of the many men who keep the oldest profession going that is. They’re easy targets.’

‘So how do you think they might have done it and why?’

Mac gave it a little thought.

‘The how is probably the easy part. All you need to do is pull up in your car, stolen of course, and say you want a blow job. The girl gets in the car and you go somewhere dark, somewhere not overseen. When you’re alone and she’s in the act you inject her with something to knock her out then cover her in a blanket and pop her in the boot. If you want to get rid of the evidence after you’ve finished with her, knock her out again, pop her in the boot of another stolen car and take her back to the same area, again somewhere dark and secluded. Then position her sitting up in a corner and then inject her with a lethal dose of say, heroin. Leave the syringe close by, making sure her prints are all over it, and leave her to die. When its light someone finds her but as far as the police and forensics are concerned it’s obvious, just another prossie who’s overdosed. If there is any investigation at all it will probably just be a cursory one.’

‘Sounds all too plausible and more than a little depressing,’ Tim said.

‘It is, unfortunately I’ve seen too many women end up that way myself, it’s just a fact of life for a copper.’

‘But what about the why? Why would someone want to go to all that trouble?’

‘That’s the question we need to answer but we’ve got exactly nothing to go on. We’ve got no description of the driver, our only witness is in some weird sort of hibernation and there’s nothing from forensics so far.’

‘So what have you got?’ Tim asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you have this weird hibernation, as the professor said it must be caused by something, perhaps that’s a place to start. Pity you don’t know any doctors,’ Tim said with a sardonic smile.

‘Just the one,’ Mac said.

Then he thought again.

‘No, two actually.’

He’d been seeing a doctor for the last two years, ever since the pain had started getting worse. Mac had been surprised at being referred to a neurologist for back pain but Bridget had explained that the brain and spine were part of the same system, the central nervous system. She said that Dr. Wilkins, who worked at the same hospital that she did, was a very highly thought of neurologist.

As it turned out Mac never got to see his brilliance at work. After all the tests and scans all he could do was give Mac a mournful look and explain at length why nothing could be done for him. To give him his due though it was Dr. Wilkins who first prescribed the pain patches and he knew he should be grateful for that at least. For some reason he thought a neurologist might be just the person to ask about the hibernation drug.

‘Yes, I’ll give Bridget a ring tomorrow,’ Mac said, grateful that there was something he could do that might push the case forward a bit.

‘Bridget’s a paediatrician, would she know about weird drugs and hibernation?’

‘Probably not but she works at the Royal Free in London and they do a lot of medical research there. In fact a while back she used to go out with one of their researchers, perhaps he’ll know something. Oh, what was his name?’

As always, when he couldn’t quite remember things, he wondered if this was the first tendrils of dementia showing itself. He said a little prayer that if his brain was going to degenerate that the bits responsible for pain went first.

‘It was Sammy something or other I think and don’t forget that she also knows my neurologist who’s based at the hospital too. He might well be worth having a word with.’

‘Sounds like it might be worth a shot.’

As Tim spoke Mac’s phone went off.

‘That’s probably Bridget now, wondering how I got on,’ Mac said.

Tim could only watch as Mac answered the call. Mac’s surprised expression made it clear that it wasn’t Bridget on the other end of the call.

All Mac said was ‘Really?’ and ‘Yes’ twice.

When he finished the call Mac was thoughtful for a moment before he said, ‘Now that was a real surprise.’

Tim’s curiosity was getting the better of him.

‘What’s a surprise?’

‘I’ll tell you in the taxi.’

‘Taxi? Where are we going?’

‘To Hitchin. I’m going to meet an old acquaintance.’

‘Anyone I know?’ Tim asked as they downed their drinks.

‘I hope not, he’s not exactly someone you’d want to make friends with in my opinion.’

In the taxi Mac explained.

‘That call was from one of Mr. C’s minders.’

‘Mr. C? He has a letter for a name?’

‘It’s just what people call him. His proper name is Pranav Contractor. His family originally came from Gujarat, in the west of India, via Uganda. Apparently, amongst other things, they use professions as surnames so you could have a Mr. Doctor or Mr. Engineer. Anyway Mr. C came here when he was a boy and he’s done quite well for himself. He owns a string of brothels in North London, several casinos, a hotel chain and God knows what else. He’s into prostitution, drugs, gambling, anything that will make money and he doesn’t much care what he has to do to get it.’

‘So what’s he doing here in leafy Hertfordshire and what’s he want with you?’

‘God knows but I must admit I’m intrigued enough to want to find out.’

‘I take it you ran into him professionally?’

Mac nodded.

‘Yes, twice, both murders and both done by him. I don’t mean personally, he’d never dirty his own hands, but he definitely gave the order.’

‘I take it from your expression that he was never brought to justice?’

‘We could never get anything on him, he was just too clever. You know he never uses a computer for anything important, never writes much down, almost everything is done by word of mouth.’

‘So, with all those businesses, how does he keep track of things?’

‘He’s got a phenomenal memory and, so I’ve heard, have his sons. Both are trained accountants and keep all the figures in their heads. No physical evidence.’

‘When was the last time you saw him then?’

‘God, must be five or six years ago now. We got a call when one of his competitors, a thug called Bobby Bosio, was found hanging upside down from a lamp post outside his own house. His tongue had been ripped out and his penis cut off. They’d put his penis inside his mouth and stitched up his lips, all done while Bobby was alive apparently.’

‘God, you’re right, he doesn’t sound like someone you’d want to say the wrong thing to. Why did he do that?’

‘This Bobby was too full of himself and he probably mistook Mr. C’s laid back attitude for him being scared. So Bobby thought he’d try and put the frighteners on him. He said he’d see Mr. C dead and that he’d personally see to his wife and daughter. Now Mr. C really loves his daughter and, someone even saying they didn’t like the colour of her dress might end up with a couple of broken arms and legs, so you can imagine who we went looking for when Bobby turned up dead.’

‘And?’ Tim prompted, after Mac had gone silent for some seconds.

‘Sorry, I just remembered something. The pathologist today said there’d been a lot of overdoses lately. I wonder…sorry, anyway back to Mr. C. We went through the motions, we investigated and investigated but we found exactly nothing. There was no evidence linking Mr. C to the killing or anyone else for that matter.’

‘What’s he like? I’ve never met a real gangster before.’

‘You won’t today either. He’s made it quite clear I’m to come alone. We’re meeting in the Gate of Asia, so wait for me in the Vic and I’ll come over after I’ve seen him. What’s he like? He must be worth many millions but he certainly doesn’t flaunt his wealth. He always dresses in a dark suit, nice but not one of those designer suits, white shirt and black tie. He lives in a four bedroom house in North London and owns one car, an old Bentley. He’s average height, slim and wears rimless spectacles. If someone told you he was a bank manager or doctor you’d believe it. He has this stare though, I can’t remember ever seeing him blink although I’m sure he must. When he looks at you it’s like he’s looking through you. I mean I’ve been a policeman for decades and seen a lot of stuff but even I find that stare a bit unsettling at times.’

The taxi dropped them outside the restaurant.

‘Sure you’ll be okay?’ Tim asked, concerned for his friend’s safety.

‘Sure, he wouldn’t have asked to meet me anywhere so public if he had any problem with me. Don’t worry, save me a seat and I’ll meet you in a few minutes.’

Tim made off in the direction of the pub which was only a couple of hundred yards down the road. It was a proper January evening and Mac felt the cold through his jacket as he stood hesitantly on the pavement. He was hoping that what he’d told Tim would prove to be right because you could never tell with Mr. C.

The ‘closed’ sign was displayed in the window but Mac knew that one of the most feared gangsters in London was sitting inside. For a split second we wondered what the hell he was doing then he girded his loins and opened the door.