‘Do we have any idea who it is?’ asked Henley, as she looked for somewhere to park.
‘I only know that the victim is possibly female. I thought that the copycat had stopped.’ Ramouter’s voice was loud over the car speakers. ‘Ran out of steam.’
‘They never stop. They may go quiet for a while—’
‘A while? It wasn’t even a week.’
‘The press conference must have prompted him. Suddenly, he’s getting attention. He’s on the front of papers and the first thing being spoken about on the news. Do we know who discovered the body?’
‘Douglas Gill,’ Ramouter repeated from memory. ‘Forty-eight years old. He’s a builder. Kitchen, bathrooms that sort of thing. He left his tools in the van overnight, went to get them this morning and that’s when he found her.’
‘I’m parking up. I’ll see you in a sec,’ said Henley.
A crowd had formed behind the blue-and-white police tape that fluttered in the breeze. Callander Drive on the Isle of Dogs was a new addition to the London A-Z. The road was bordered by identical new-build terraced houses, each the colour of rice pudding. A makeshift forensic tent covered the driveway of number 39.
‘Oi, stop,’ shouted an officer as Henley placed her hand on the tape.
‘DI Anjelica Henley from the SCU.’ She reached inside her pocket for her warrant card and then swore. ‘I’ve left my—’
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise. TDC Ramouter said that you were coming,’ the officer replied sheepishly, lifting the police tape. Henley thanked him as she ducked under and made her way towards Ramouter. Along the way she caught a glimpse of the stocky white man sitting on the doorstep of the house next door. Through the open door behind him, Henley could see a petite woman dressed in shorts and a vest, talking to a female officer. The man looked up at Henley almost apologetically.
‘From the sound of things, it’s not looking good,’ Ramouter said to Henley.
‘I take it that’s Douglas Gill.’ Henley indicated at the man who had stood up and gone back into the house.
‘Yep, that’s him. He thought that someone must have broken into the van, but it doesn’t look like entry’s been forced.’
The van had been parked haphazardly and was covered with the decaying grime of the city. Someone had helpfully written on the driver’s side of the van, I WISH THAT MY GIRL WAS THIS DIRTY. A streak of exposed metal glinted under the mobile number, and a large dent pocked the door.
Henley examined the lock. Except for the usual grime and a smudge of dried paint, Ramouter was right. The lock was almost pristine.
‘The van has never been reported stolen?’
Ramouter shook his head.
‘It’s either that he forgot to lock up or whoever it was had a key,’ said Henley.
‘Or he could have programmed a key fob. It’s easy enough to do.’ Ramouter handed Henley a pair of gloves. ‘That’s a lot of planning but it would explain why the van’s alarm didn’t go off.’
‘It takes a lot of effort, though. To target this particular van, to copy the keys, only to make sure that there weren’t any prints. Why not just take the van and dump it somewhere?’
Ramouter shrugged as they both stood looking at the van doors.
‘What time did Gill arrive home last night?’ asked Henley.
‘He said that he was finishing a job in Leytonstone and arrived home at 9 p.m. He went out again at 10 but didn’t take the van. Says that he met his girlfriend at the Fox and Crown pub and they stayed until eleven. The pub is around the corner and he got home around five past. He didn’t come out again until 4.30 this morning.’
‘That gives us only a four-and-a-half-hour window,’ Henley said as she pulled at the door. ‘Our victim may be local.’
The stench of dead flesh choked their nostrils.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Henley covered her nose and mouth with her palm. Next to a large dented toolbox was an arm that had been neatly cut off at the shoulder. The fake diamonds on a rose gold watch, still on the wrist, sparkled in the stream of sunlight. The second arm rested on a pair of dirty overalls. Two blood-stained legs were pointing in the direction of the door, while the torso, wearing a blood-spattered yellow camisole, was propped up at the end of the van, next to a large bucket of plaster. A woman’s head was hanging on the van wall. Her long brown hair had been tied around a hook. Her mouth was open, her tongue hanging out. Two dead eyes stared back at Henley.
‘What. The. Fuck?’ Ramouter stepped back and placed his hands on his thighs. There was a rustle of plastic as Anthony stepped into the tent and Ramouter walked quickly out.
‘Sorry, I should have warned you,’ Anthony said.
Henley was unable to take her eyes off the dead girl’s head. ‘This is different to the others. It smells… Fresh.’
‘Looks fresh too,’ said Anthony, clasping his hand behind his back. ‘It’s a horrible way to go.’
Henley focused her attention on the bloodied limbs. ‘They’re all there.’
‘What are?’
‘The body parts. Our copycat has been keeping parts. Trophies. Everything is here. I can see her ears.’
Henley looked again at the hanging head. The woman’s dead brown eyes stared back at her. Her lips were covered with bright red lipstick and dried blood and it was at that moment that Henley knew. This one was different. All of the copycat’s victims had been dumped within a two-mile radius. South of the river. The freshness of the body made Henley suspect that this woman had been killed nearby. The opposite side of the river to where Daniel Kennedy’s torso had been found.
‘This is Olivier,’ Henley said. ‘He’s sending us a message.’