Shallow Ground (Detective Ford) Page 16

  ‘Hi, Henry.’

  ‘This is new.’

  ‘Yes. It’s very exciting.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s changed his MO. That means a lack of discipline, and I’m fairly sure that means he’s losing control.’

  ‘How sure?’

  ‘Eight-seven point nine per cent.’

  ‘Not eighty-eight?’

  ‘Ha! Got you!’ Her eyes flashed in the gap between her hood and facemask. ‘I can’t really calculate my certainty levels to that degree of accuracy.’

  He nodded. ‘Good one,’ he deadpanned. ‘And at a crime scene, too. We’ll make a detective out of you one day.’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll stick with the dead.’

  He looked around, but the number he’d been expecting was absent. Then he saw why. None of the walls had enough free space. The shower attachment blocked one. Another held a mirrored medicine cupboard. The third, toothpaste-whitened glass shelves crammed with cosmetics, shampoos, hairbrushes, boxes of tampons, hair slides, scrunchies, toothbrushes and, tucked behind a plastic unicorn with a rainbow mane, a packet of condoms.

  ‘It’s in the bedroom next door,’ Hannah said.

  Ford entered the pink-curtained room and looked at the bed. Above the headboard, each digit scrawled in four bloody streaks, was a number. Did you do a finger painting, like Kai’s?

  333

  Ford closed his eyes. Allowed the nausea to rise, focused on the enveloping sense that he was growing to know the killer.

  I enjoyed this one. I enjoyed her a lot. She was a fleshy thing. And I was alone in here. That’s why I spent time displaying her like a butcher’s shop turkey. I’m going to make a mistake soon. You just have to be smart enough to find me.

  Ford opened his eyes and left the bedroom. He felt the nausea fade away. Is that because I’m close?

  Outside again, he went over to the ambulance. Legs dangling from the tailgate, a skinny young woman – late teens, he guessed – was smoking a roll-up. A paramedic had wrapped her in a blanket and she was clutching it to her chest.

  She looked up, eyes red-rimmed, and blew out a lungful of smoke in Ford’s direction. ‘Don’t tell me it’ll kill me. I don’t care.’

  ‘I won’t. Not my place. I’m Ford. What’s your name?’

  ‘What sort of a name is that?’

  ‘You can call me Henry, if you’d prefer.’

  She shrugged and looked away. ‘Don’t care, do I?’

  He’d met girls like her before. Hard-nosed as a Raymond Chandler gangster’s moll on the outside. But scratch the surface and, nine times out of ten, you found a lost little girl. Battling to play the shittiest cards life could deal her, short of dropping her in front of a train.

  ‘So, what do they call you?’

  ‘Nina. Nina Gow.’

  ‘Nina, I’m so sorry you had to be the one to discover your friend like that. Can you tell me her name?’

  She took a trembling drag on her roll-up and exhaled. ‘Aimee. Cragg.’ She burst into tears. ‘Who does something like that? It’s that serial killer, isn’t it? He did it!’

  ‘Can you tell me what time you found Aimee, Nina? It’s important.’

  She sniffed. ‘Quarter to eight. I know ’cause I checked my phone on the way in.’

  ‘Where had you been?’

  ‘The shops. I got some cider.’

  ‘Which shop?’

  ‘Tommy’s Store on Brown Street.’

  ‘I know it. Were you with Aimee before you went to the shops?’

  She nodded. ‘We were watching YouTube.’

  ‘What time did you go out?’

  She shuddered and scrunched herself tighter into the blanket, even though it was a hot evening. ‘Must have been about seven.’

  ‘Forty-five minutes to buy cider?’

  ‘I met a couple of mates, OK? We had a chat and a smoke. Look, can I go now?’

  Ford made a quick note. It was a very tight window. The killer must have waited for Nina to leave. She was lucky to be alive.

  ‘One more question. Did Aimee ever use the food bank?’

  ‘Sometimes. We both did. Aimee went up there earlier today. Money’s tight, you know? It’s not our fault. We’re not scroungers.’

  ‘I know.’ He beckoned a uniformed male PC over, thinking, Why Aimee, and not Nina? ‘Nina, this is Mark.’

  ‘Yeah, I know ’im, don’t I?’ Nina said, scowling. ‘Bloody nicked me a couple of times, didn’t he?’

  ‘Hi, Nina,’ Mark said. ‘All right?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I have to go,’ Ford said. ‘Mark’s going to look after you, OK? Make sure you’ve got somewhere to stay tonight.’

  Ford left them to it, signalling an apology to Mark with his eyes. Mark grinned back. Used to it. From cop to babysitter in five seconds flat.

  DAY ELEVEN, 9.00 P.M.

  A few miles away, he lies back against the cushions. He’s naked, like the last time. He’s shivering. It’s a common side effect of transfusions, and he’s not bothered. Why should he be, when he’s washing that poison out of his system? He can feel himself growing stronger after each kill. More his own man, and less his.

  He’s told her he’s getting the blood from work. And she believes him. Soon he won’t need her any more. Then the world had better watch out.

  DAY ELEVEN, 9.55 P.M.

  At the crime scene, Georgina Eustace stood with her arms folded, staring at the pale corpse hanging from the window. The killer had used a length of plastic clothes line. The ligature had bitten deep into the wrists.

  No wound on the inner thigh this time, either. He must have gone for the posterior tibial artery in the ankle.

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ a young DC said, coming in from the hallway to stand beside her. ‘How do you want to get rid of the blood? Shall I let the plug out? Or is that contravening health and safety rules?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, it’s fine. The sewerage system receives far worse than a few pints of blood, believe me.’

  He nodded. ‘OK, then. Wish me luck.’

  He pushed the sleeve of his Noddy suit up past his elbow and leaned over the bath. He hesitated, then moved his hand downwards, swatting away the flies that rose towards his face.

  ‘Wait!’ Georgina shouted.

  He jerked his arm back, as if bitten by something beneath the surface. ‘What?’

  ‘I saw a plastic swing-bin in the kitchen. Can you fetch it for me, please? Take the bag out first. And a measuring jug. Failing that, a bottle, or something we can use to get the blood out of the bath.’

  Thirty minutes later, the bath was empty. The plastic swing-bin was a third full of blood.

  Georgina sprayed the body’s feet with the shower head. Once they were as white as the rest of the body, she leaned closer, examining first the left, then the right, ankle.

  ‘There you are, my little beauty,’ she said.

  In the indentation behind the outside of the right ankle bone she discerned a two-millimetre-diameter hole. A hole such as might be made by a trocar.

  DAY TWELVE, 9.30 A.M.

  Ford stood beside a large whiteboard he’d wheeled in from the incident room. A4 photos of the five victims were stuck along the top edge, Kai Halpern’s cheeky smile beside his mum’s.

  ‘Thanks for getting here so quickly, everyone,’ he said. ‘Especially on a Saturday. Let’s get started. Yesterday, at 7.45 p.m., a fifth murder victim, a female, was discovered. Not counting Kai Halpern, Aimee Cragg is the fourth in what is a series of linked killings.’

  He turned to the whiteboard and scribbled four numbers in red. A bit of showmanship to make them stick in people’s minds.

  666 – 500 – 167 – 333

  ‘At each of the kill sites, the murderer wrote a number on the wall in the victim’s blood.’

  ‘That’s the order of discovery, yes?’ Sandy asked.

  ‘Yes. But if we redo them in the order he killed them, we get this.’ He rubbed
them out and rewrote them.

  167 – 666 – 500 – 333

  ‘We’re working on trying to figure out whether it’s a code or some other sort of clue. But it may all be psycho bullshit, to use a technical term. The concrete facts are these.’

  He summarised what was known about the victims and their movements, laying emphasis on them being food-bank customers. As he concluded he noticed Hannah was frowning, her lips moving silently.

  ‘What’s on your mind, Hannah?’

  She came to the front and held her hand out. ‘Can I have the marker, please, Henry?’

  He handed it to her and stood aside. She scrubbed at the numbers with the eraser, leaving a pinkish smeared oval in their place. Then she wrote the numbers out a third time.

  167 – 333 – 500 – 666

  She turned to face the room, and Ford noticed the beginnings of a blush stealing across her neck. This is hard for you, and yet you’re pushing yourself to do it.

  Hannah cleared her throat. ‘This is a more logical sequence. Low to high. I don’t think they’re Bible verses or satanic symbols or record speeds or road races. I think they’re an arithmetic progression: a sequence of numbers where the difference between successive term members is a constant.’

  ‘Glad we cleared that up,’ Mick said.

  ‘Good,’ Hannah said. ‘As you can see, DS Tanner, the constant in this sequence is 167.’ She frowned. ‘Well, 166 or 167, anyway.’

  She started scribbling, then turned back and tapped the column of simple equations she’d written.

  1 x 167 = 167

  2 x 167 = 334

  3 x 167 = 501

  4 x 167 = 668

  ‘That’s not the sequence, though, is it?’ Mick complained. ‘The second, third and fourth numbers are out, by one, one and two.’

  Ford saw the solution. ‘They’re rounded,’ he said. ‘Hannah, can I have the pen, please?’

  She handed it over wordlessly and resumed her seat.

  Ford scrawled numbers on the board.

  167 = 166.66666

  ‘Look at all those sixes,’ Jan said. ‘We’re back to the number of the beast. He is a religious nutter. That’s a fiver you owe me, Mick.’

  Ford shook his head. ‘No. Hannah’s right. It’s all about the numbers as numbers. Come on, people. What does it mean? Think!’

  A heavy silence descended on the assorted investigators. The wall clock ticked the seconds over.

  ‘It’s a sixth!’ Hannah shouted, making Jools, who was sitting next to her, jump.

  ‘Jesus, Hannah! We’re only here!’

  ‘Sorry. But I’m right, aren’t I? One divided by six equals one point six, recurring.’

  ‘She is, guv,’ Olly said. ‘I just checked it on my phone.’

  ‘I didn’t need it checking,’ Hannah said. ‘That’s the answer.’

  Ford cleared some space on the board and wrote up a new set of numbers.

  1/6 = .167

  2/6 = .333

  3/6 = .500

  4/6 = .666

  ‘Guv?’ Olly said, sounding anxious.

  ‘What?’

  Olly pointed at the lowest number. ‘I think it means there are two more to go before the sequence is complete.’

  An indistinct male face shimmered before Ford. Clean-shaven. Respectable. Grinning. Evil. Catch me if you can. He fought down a shudder.

  After the briefing, Sandy hung back. When the room was empty but for her and Ford, she closed the door.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, sensing from her tight expression that she didn’t relish what she had to say.

  ‘I trust you, Henry, you know that.’

  ‘Thanks. And yes, I do.’

  She heaved a sigh. ‘I am getting significant pressure from the chief con, among others,’ she added, ‘to close this case.’

  ‘We’re doing our best,’ he said, feeling his heart bumping in his chest. ‘The whole team is literally spending every waking hour on it.’

  ‘I know. And I’m grateful. But I hear you’ve been to see Abbott again and more or less accused him of the murders.’

  ‘What? Abbott jerks the chief con’s chain, he jerks yours and you—’

  ‘Do not finish that sentence, Henry,’ she snapped. ‘Because – and I’m sorry if you didn’t realise this – I did get my chain yanked by the chief con. And I can tell you, I didn’t enjoy it at all. I’m ordering you to lay off Abbott. I hear Jools likes this Kyte character for it. Go with that. Support her. Manage this case by the book and stop acting like some maverick gunslinger.’

  Ford returned her stare, then dropped his eyes. He knew he was being unfair on her. But how could he ignore the one, sure, unique talent he knew he possessed: the ability to sense the presence of a killer?

  ‘Sorry, boss.’

  She frowned at him. Great. More to come.

  ‘Look, there’s no easy to say this,’ she said. ‘They’re pushing me to appoint a more experienced DI, someone qualified as an SIO, to take over from you.’

  ‘What? You’re joking?’ he said, raising his voice, unable to stop himself.

  She shook her head. ‘I wish I were. Look, it’s not certain. I fought them off. But they want me to come back to them with a recommendation in a week if we’re no further forward. I’m sorry.’ She held up a hand to forestall his outburst. ‘It’s the best I could do.’

  Thirty yards away, in a quiet corner of Major Crimes, Hannah was talking to Jools.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Hannah said. ‘Something to do with Henry?’

  Jools nodded. ‘Ask away. What? Is he giving you grief over those fingerprints?’

  Hannah shook her head. Wishing she didn’t need to have this coaching in what everybody else did by instinct. Hoping she’d read Jools right. ‘It’s not that. He’s very patient, despite the immense pressure he’s under.’

  ‘Then what?’ Jools said. ‘You can ask me anything, Hannah.’ She laid a gentle hand on Hannah’s forearm.

  Hannah looked down and was pleased to realise she didn’t feel any need to pull away.

  ‘It’s quite . . .’ She hesitated. Should she stop? No, Hannah. Now or never. ‘. . . personal.’

  Jools put her finger to her lips and winked. ‘In that case, let’s head for the ladies.’

  Leaning back on the wall between the hand dryer and the mirrors, Jools smiled at Hannah. ‘Well?’

  ‘Do you know if Henry is seeing anyone?’ Hannah blurted out, feeling her cheeks heating.

  Jools frowned. ‘Romantically, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jools shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think he’s been on a single date since Lou died. Why?’

  ‘I want to ask him out, but I’m worried he’ll reject me.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘You know, because of my, I mean, that I’m . . .’

  ‘On the spectrum?’ Jools asked softly.

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘It is to anyone who’s interested in other people,’ Jools said. ‘But, to answer your question, no. I don’t think he’d reject you because of that. You’re attractive, you’re obviously super-bright, which I know he likes. But just—’

  ‘What?’ Hannah asked, her pulse quickening.

  ‘Just take it in baby steps. He’s still mourning her. I know it’s been a long time, but he just seems, I don’t know, stuck.’

  Hannah nodded, smiling. Happier than she’d been since arriving at Bourne Hill. ‘Baby steps.’

  DAY FOURTEEN, 8.15 A.M.

  Striding into the mortuary, Georgina called out a cheery ‘Good weekend?’ to Pete, who was carrying the swing-bin out from the walk-in fridge. He’d added a small but sufficient amount of anticoagulant to keep it liquid.

  ‘I want to know how much blood she had in her,’ she said. ‘It’s the first time we’ve been able to measure it. Would you?’

  He set to work with a stainless-steel ladle and a transparent measuring jug. Although eager to begin work, she fo
und something irresistible about the simple dip-and-pour process her assistant was engaged in, and sat watching, finger to her chin. He filled the jug to a marker line, made a note, tipped it away into the sink, then repeated the sequence.

  He turned to Georgina. ‘Minus the anticoagulant I added, that’s two point five litres.’

  ‘I reckon I left about 100ml in the bath, so let’s call it two point six in total, which is odd,’ she said, furrowing her brow and turning to the sheeted corpse behind her. She lifted a corner and assessed the size of the dead young woman. ‘I’d have expected more than that. Let’s get Aimee weighed, shall we?’

  First, Pete wheeled an identical gurney on to the weighing platform set flush into the mortuary floor. He pressed a button to zero the scale, then removed the gurney. Together, they wheeled the body into position.

  Georgina made a note of the weight. ‘Fifty kilos, or seven stone twelve.’

  She took a seat at a desk and launched a spreadsheet, tapping keys and humming as she went.

  Pete stood by her left shoulder, watching her work.

  ‘And?’ he said, when she leaned back.

  ‘Odd. Exsanguinated, she weighs fifty kilos. Pop quiz: how much of the human body comprises blood?’

  ‘Seven per cent.’

  ‘Yes. So if fifty kilos equals ninety-three per cent of her original body weight, the body and the blood together should weigh roughly fifty-four kilos.’

  ‘Which means there should have been closer to four litres in the bath.’

  She pulled a calculator towards her and tapped a few buttons. ‘Factor in the higher density of blood compared to water and you get three point six litres.’

  ‘We’re missing a litre,’ they said together.

  ‘Could it have seeped away?’

  Georgina shook her head. ‘The plug was in tight.’

  ‘Left in the body?’

  She took him over to the gurney and indicated the needle puncture with a gloved finger.

  ‘He suspended her from a window. That’s right at the lowest point of her body. He drained her.’

  ‘So he took it.’

  ‘Or drank it. I need to call Ford.’

  Ford tried to ignore the squirming anxiety he felt twisting his insides into knots. In his initial euphoria after Sandy had confirmed his promotion, he’d prayed he wouldn’t have to wait long for his first major crime investigation.