The Wire in the Blood (21 page)

PART TWO

Chapter 16

‘Anybody know where Bowman is?’ Paul Bishop asked impatiently, looking at his watch for the fifth time in two minutes. Five blank faces stared back at him.

‘Gotta be dead, hasn’t she?’ Leon grinned. ‘Never late, not Shazza baby.’

‘Ha ha, Jackson,’ Bishop said sarcastically. ‘Be a good boy and call down to the front desk, see if they’ve taken a message from her.’

Leon tipped his chair forward on to all four feet and slouched out of the door, the wide shoulders of his sharply tapering jacket managing to make his six feet of skinniness look challenging. Bishop started drumming his fingers on the edge of the video remote control. If he didn’t get this session kicked off soon, he’d be running late. He had a series of scene-of-crime videos to get through then a meeting with a Home Office minister scheduled for lunch. Bloody Bowman. Why did she have to be late today of all days? He’d give her till Jackson got back and then he was forging ahead with the session. Too bad if she missed something crucial.

Simon spoke softly to Kay. ‘Have you spoken to Shaz since Friday?’

Kay shook her head, her light brown hair falling like a curtain across one cheek to create the image of a fieldmouse peering through winter grasses. ‘I left a message when she didn’t turn up for the curry, but she didn’t get back to me. I was half-expecting to see her at the women’s swim last night, but she wasn’t there either. Mind, it wasn’t a firm arrangement or anything.’

Before Simon could say anything more, Leon returned. ‘Not a dicky bird from her,’ he announced. ‘She’s not rung in sick or anything.’

Bishop tutted. ‘Well, we’ll just have to manage without her.’ He briefed them on the morning’s programme, then pressed ‘play’ on the video.

The aftermath of uncontrolled violence and viciousness that unfolded before them made little impact on Simon. Nor did he have much to contribute to the discussion afterwards. He couldn’t get Shaz’s absence out of his head. He’d gone round to her flat to pick her up on Saturday night for their pre-curry drink, as they’d agreed. But when he’d rung the bell, there had been no reply. He’d been early, admittedly, so, thinking she might have been deafened by the shower or the hair dryer, he’d walked back to the main road and found a phone box. He’d let her number ring out until the call was automatically disconnected, then he’d tried twice more. Unable to believe she’d stood him up without a word, he’d walked back up the hill to the flat and tried the doorbell again.

He knew which ground-floor flat was Shaz’s—he’d given her a lift home after they’d all been out for a drink one evening and, already wistfully hoping he might pluck up the courage to ask her out, he’d lingered long enough to see which set of lights came on. So, just by looking, he could see that the curtains were closed across the deep bay of the master bedroom at the front of the house although it wasn’t long dark. As far as he was concerned, that meant she’d been getting ready to go out. Though not, it appeared, with him. He was about to give up and go to the pub alone to drown his humiliation in Tetley’s when he noticed the narrow passage running down the side of the house. Not giving himself time to wonder whether he was either justified or wise, he slipped down the ginnel, through the wrought-iron gate and into the gloomy darkness of the back garden.

He rounded the corner of the house and almost tripped over a short flight of steps leading up from the garden to a pair of French windows. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he muttered angrily, catching himself before he pitched headlong. He peered through the glass, cupping his hand round his eyes against the stray beams of light from the next-door house. He could see dim shapes of furniture against a faint glow that appeared to be coming from another room opening off the hall. But there was no sign of life. Suddenly a light snapped on from the floor above, casting an irregular rectangle of light right next to Simon.

Instantly aware that he must appear more like burglar than policeman to any casual observer, he’d slid back into the darkness against the wall and returned to the street, hoping he’d managed to avoid anyone’s attention. The last thing he needed were jibes from the local uniforms about the Peeping Toms of the profiling squad. Baffled by Shaz’s apparent rebuff, he’d walked miserably down to the Sheesh Mahal to meet Leon and Kay for the agreed meal. He wasn’t in the mood to join in their speculation that Shaz had had a better offer, concentrating instead on getting as much Kingfisher lager down his throat as he could.

Now, on Monday morning, he was seriously worried. It was one thing standing him up. Let’s face it, she could probably do a lot better than him without trying too hard. But to miss a training session was completely out of character. Oblivious to Paul Bishop’s words of wisdom, Simon sat and fretted, a pair of frown lines dividing his dark brows. As soon as the screech of chairs on floor announced the end of the session, he went in search of Tony Hill.

He found the psychologist in the canteen, sitting at the table the profiling squad had made their own. ‘Can you spare a minute, Tony?’ he asked, his dark intense expression almost a mirror image of his tutor’s.

‘Sure. Pull up a coffee and join me.’

Simon looked uncertainly over his shoulder. ‘It’s just that the others’ll be down any minute, and…well, it’s a bit…you know, sort of private.’

Tony picked up his own coffee and the file he’d been reading. ‘We’ll grab one of the interview rooms for a minute.’

Simon followed him down the corridor to the first witness interview room without a red light showing. The air smelled of sweat, stale cigarettes and, obscurely, burnt sugar. Tony straddled one of the chairs and watched Simon pace for a moment before he leaned into one corner of the room. ‘It’s Shaz,’ Simon said. ‘I’m worried about her. She didn’t turn up this morning and she didn’t phone in or anything.’

Tony knew without being told there was more to it than that. It was his job to find out what. ‘I agree, it’s not like her. She’s very conscientious. But something could have come up unexpectedly. A family problem, perhaps?’

One corner of Simon’s mouth twitched downwards. ‘I suppose so,’ he conceded reluctantly. ‘But she would have phoned somebody if that’s what it was. She’s not just conscientious, she’s obsessive. You know that.’

‘Maybe she’s had an accident.’

Simon pounced. ‘Exactly. My point exactly. We should be worried about her, shouldn’t we?’

Tony shrugged. ‘If she has had an accident, we’ll hear about it soon enough. Either she’ll call us or else someone else will.’

Simon clenched his teeth. He was going to have to explain why it was more urgent than that. ‘If she’s had an accident, I don’t think it was this morning. We had a sort of date on Saturday night. Leon and Kay and me and Shaz, we’ve taken to going out on a Saturday night for a curry and a few bevvies. But I’d arranged to have a drink with Shaz first, just the two of us. I was supposed to meet her at her flat.’ Once he’d started, the words poured out of him. ‘When I turned up, there was no sign of her. I thought she’d had second thoughts. Bottled out, whatever. But now it’s Monday, and she’s not turned up. I think something’s happened to her, and whatever it is, it’s not trivial. She could have had an accident at home. She could have slipped in the shower and hit her head. Or outside. She could be lying in hospital somewhere and nobody knows who she is. Don’t you think we should do something about it? We’re supposed to be a team, are we not?’

A dreadful premonition shimmered at the edge of Tony’s mind. Simon was right. Two days was too long for a woman like Shaz Bowman to drop out of sight when that meant letting down a colleague and missing work. He got to his feet. ‘Have you tried ringing her?’ he asked.

‘Loads of times. Her answering machine’s not on, either. That’s why I thought maybe she’d had an accident in the house. You know? I thought, she might’ve switched the machine off when she came in, and then something happened and…I don’t know,’ he added impatiently. ‘This is really embarrassing, you know? I feel like a teenager. Making a fuss about nothing.’ He shrugged away from the wall and crossed to the door.

Tony put a hand on Simon’s arm. ‘I think you’re right. You’ve got a policeman’s instinct for when something doesn’t smell right. It’s one of the reasons you’re on this squad. Come on, let’s go round to Shaz’s flat and see what we can see.’

In the car, Simon leaned forward in his seat as if willing them forward. Realizing any attempt at conversation would be futile, Tony concentrated on following the young officer’s terse directions. They pulled up outside Shaz’s flat and Simon was on the pavement before Tony could even turn off the engine. ‘The curtains are still drawn,’ Simon said urgently as soon as Tony joined him on the doorstep. ‘That’s her bedroom on the left. The curtains were drawn on Saturday night when I was here.’ He pushed the bell marked ‘Flat 1: Bowman’. They could both hear the irritating buzz from within.

‘At least we know the bell’s working,’ Tony said. He stepped back and looked up at the imposing villa, its York stone blackened by a century of the internal combustion engine.

‘You can get round the back,’ Simon said, finally releasing the bell push. Without waiting for a response, he was off down the ginnel. Tony followed him, but not quickly enough. As he reached the corner, he heard a wail like an agonized cat in the night. He emerged in time to see Simon reel back from a pair of French windows like a man struck in the face. The young policeman sank to his knees and emptied his guts on the grass, groaning incoherently.

Shocked, Tony took a few hesitant steps forward. As he came level with the steps leading up to the windows, the sight that had stripped Simon McNeill of his manhood turned his stomach to ice. Beyond thought, beyond emotion, Tony stared through the glass at something that looked more like a pastiche of a Bacon painting executed by a psychopath than it did a human being. At first, it was more than he could grasp.

When realization came a moment later, he’d have sold his soul for that previous incomprehension.

It was not the first mutilated corpse Tony had ever faced. But it was the first time he’d had any personal connection to a victim. Momentarily, he put a hand over his eyes, massaging his eyebrows with thumb and forefinger. This wasn’t the time to mourn. There were things he could do for Shaz Bowman that no one else was capable of, and crawling round on the grass like a wounded puppy wasn’t one of them.

Taking a deep breath, he turned to Simon and said, ‘Call this in. Then go round the front and secure the scene there.’

Simon looked up at him beseechingly, his baffled pain impossible to ignore. ‘That’s Shaz?’

Tony nodded. ‘That’s Shaz. Simon, do as I say. Call this in. Go round the front. It’s important. We need to get other officers here, now. Do it.’ He waited until Simon stumbled to his feet and reeled towards the ginnel like a drunk. Then he turned back and stared through the glass at the ruination of Shaz Bowman. He longed to be closer, to move round her body and take in the horrific details of what had been done to her. But he knew too much about crime scene contamination even to consider it.

He made do with what he could see. It would have been more than enough for most people, but for Tony it was a tantalizing partial picture. The first thing he had to do was to stop thinking of this shell as Shaz Bowman. He must be detached, analytical and clearheaded if he was to be any use at all to the investigating officers. Looking again at the body in the chair, he found it wasn’t so hard to distance himself from memories of Shaz. The deformed freakish head that faced him bore so little resemblance to anything human.

He could see dark holes where her startling eyes had last looked out at him. Gouged out, he guessed, judging by what looked like threads and strings trailing from the wounds. Blood had flowed and dried round the black orifices, making the hideous mask of her face even more grotesque. Her mouth looked like a mass of plastic in a dozen hues of purple and pink.

There were no ears. Her hair stuck out in spikes above and behind where the ears should have been, held in place by the dried blood that had sprayed and flowed over them.

His eyes moved down to her lap. A sheet of paper was propped up against her chest. Tony was too far away to make out the words, but he could distinguish the line drawing easily. The three wise monkeys. A shiver shook him from head to foot. It was too early to tell, but from what he could see, there was no sign of any sexual assault. Coupled with the deadly calculation of the three wise monkeys, Tony read the scene. This was no sex killing. Shaz hadn’t caught the chance attention of some psychopathic stranger. This was an execution.

‘You didn’t do this for pleasure,’ he said softly to himself. ‘You wanted to teach her a lesson. You wanted to teach all of us a lesson. You’re telling us you’re better than us. You’re showing off, thumbing your nose at us because you’re convinced we’ll never find anything to incriminate you. And you’re telling us to keep our noses out of your business. You’re an arrogant bastard, aren’t you?’

The scene before him told Tony things it would never reveal to a police officer trained to look only for the physical clues. To the psychologist, it revealed a mind that was incisive and decisive. This was a cold-blooded killing, not a frenzied, sexually motivated attack. To Tony, that suggested that the killer had identified Shaz Bowman as a threat. Then he’d acted on it. Brutally, coldly and methodically. Even before the SOCOs arrived, Tony could have told them they would find no significant material clues to the identity of this perpetrator. The solution to this crime lay in the mind, not the forensic lab. ‘You’re good,’ Tony murmured. ‘But I’m going to be better.’

When the sirens tore the silence into shreds and uniformed feet pounded down the ginnel, Tony was still standing at the windows, memorizing the scene, drinking in every detail so it would be there later when he needed it. Then and only then he walked round to the front of the house to offer what consolation he could to Simon.

‘Hardly bloody urgent,’ the police surgeon grumbled, opening his bag and pulling out a pair of latex gloves. ‘State she’s in, an hour’s neither here nor there. Not like doctoring the living, is it? Bloody pager, bane of my bloody life.’