52

‘Jesus Christ… what a fucking mess… Bloody savages…’

Sperring looked round the remains of Keith Burkiss’s living room. Khan stood at the door, decoding messages from his stomach, deciding whether it was safe to enter.

‘It looks…’ the DC swallowed hard, ‘like an abattoir…’

The forensic scene investigators were just finishing up. Trying to glean all they could from what was left of the room. Which wasn’t much. There was a body half in, half out of a wheelchair. A man, or what was left of him. Another body lay by the door. Or most of it did. A woman.

‘If you’re going to spew your ring, do it outside. I need you here working,’ Sperring said, not looking round. Khan turned, left the room quickly.

Sperring stared at the carnage before him. Being squeamish wasn’t something he had any time for. Khan had the makings of a good detective, but if dead bodies upset you, go work Traffic. He didn’t want bleeding-heart liberals on the job feeling sorry for whoever was dead. Not like fucking Brennan. Wouldn’t be surprised if the DI got little crystals out and started trying to commune with the dead. Fucking hippy. Sperring realised he was letting his anger at his boss cloud his judgement. He took a few seconds, got Brennan’s face out of his head.

No, as far as Sperring was concerned, he wasn’t looking at people. Not any more. He was looking at a crime scene. And it was his job to catch whoever had done it. Plain and simple. That was what he told himself; that was how he dealt with it. He didn’t like post-mortems, it was true. But that, he rationalised, was different. That was the aftermath. This was a crime scene.

But Jesus, what a crime scene. Jo Howe and her FSIs had tagged, bagged and numbered as much as they could. Little yellow markers dotted the floor of the room. Sperring, in his paper suit, was careful not to disturb any of them, walking in and out only on the common approach path laid out for him.

He looked down at the first body, the woman, and felt himself gag. No, he told himself. I won’t do it. I’m harder than that. He swallowed, ignored the sudden lightheadedness he felt and glanced again at the body. She looked like she was dressed up for a night out. A short, tight party dress was still on her torso. Torn and bloodstained, it was revealing more than she had anticipated, he thought. Her high-heeled shoes were partially on her feet, one heel snapped off, the straps still round her ankles. But it was her face, or what was left of it, that drew his eye and repelled him at the same time.

‘Worked out what’s happened?’ said Jo Howe, crossing over to him. ‘I can see the cause of death.’

Sperring nodded, didn’t look up. ‘Stevie bloody Wonder could see the cause of death.’

The living room wall looked like a gigantic meat painting. From the remains of the woman’s face, it was clear that someone had taken her by the back of the head, probably holding on tight to her hair, thought Sperring, and smashed it repeatedly into the wall. Until she was dead. He looked again. No, he thought, long after that.

There were other marks on her body too. Cuts. Burns. She didn’t go easy.

He turned away from her, studied the dead man. He looked shrunken. That was the first thing Sperring noticed. Not the lack of legs; the fact that it seemed as if he’d recently lost a lot of weight and his body hadn’t caught up with the fact. His skin was used to being stretched and the abrupt contraction meant it had no elasticity. It hung in folds around his arms, his neck.

His death had been different to the woman’s. Sperring could see that much. No blood at all. A pillow lay nearby. He knelt to examine it. Careful not to touch, he scrutinised the surface, looked at it from different angles, let the light catch it. He found what he was looking for. Dried saliva.

‘Smothered,’ a voice said from behind him.

He turned, stood. Esme Russell was there, similarly suited.

‘You looked already, have you?’ he said.

‘A cursory once-over. Smothered. Most probably with that pillow.’

Sperring nodded. Jerked his thumb to the doorway. ‘And her over there?’

‘A much more unpleasant ending. It looks like it was the repeated bashing that finally killed her, but her body is covered in marks. I won’t know if those were made before or after her death until I’ve properly examined her, but my instinct says before.’

‘He played with her, then killed her,’ said Sperring. ‘Took his time.’

Khan re-entered. Sperring turned to him. ‘Nice of you to join us. What you brung to the party?’

Khan took out his notebook, opened it. He knew how Sperring would react if he came in empty-handed, especially after his embarrassing retreat. So he had dug up some information.

‘House belongs to Keith Burkiss. He has an ex-wife, Kelly, but they had a bit of an on–off relationship, apparently. Divorced, but she was back living with him.’

‘Well it’s permanently off now,’ said Sperring. ‘Who told you this?’

‘Next-door neighbour. Apparently the wife divorced him when he got cancer. And diabetes. Said he had to have his…’ Khan trailed off, looked at the body. ‘Oh yeah.’

‘His legs amputated, you mean. Keep going.’

Khan managed to drag his eyes away from the scene and back to his notebook. ‘She came back, the wife, Kelly. Well, ex-wife now. Don’t know when. And…’ he shrugged, ‘that’s it.’

Sperring thought for a moment. Scrutinised the room. Took in the carnage. The place had been destroyed. Not just the bodies, but the furniture, the TV, ornaments. He turned to Khan.

‘You’re probably too young, but can you remember the Manson Family?’

Khan frowned. ‘Was that a TV series? Did they play instruments?’

Sperring shook his head. Maybe Khan wasn’t such a good copper after all. ‘No. They were a cult in California in the late sixties. Manson would tell them what to do and they’d break into some rich Hollywood type’s house, cause as much damage as possible and rape and murder whoever was there. Looking at this, all this, that’s what I think it must have been like.’

‘Right,’ said Khan. ‘So you think this is a cult, yeah? Some ritualistic murderer?’ His eyes were glittering with excitement.

‘Is it bollocks,’ said Sperring. ‘It’s just some mental-case druggie who broke in, found him at home, thought he was an easy target, then was disturbed by her. Then lost his shit. That’s what I reckon. That’s what it looks like.’

Khan looked disappointed. Then a sudden thought struck him. ‘Hey, d’you think it might be connected to that transvestite murder?’

Sperring stared at him. ‘Why? What can you see here that could possibly link the two?’

Khan looked round, then back to Sperring. Defeat in his face. ‘Nothing.’

‘Right. Nothing. Mental druggie. We’ll ask around. He’ll turn up sooner or later. Bragging about what he’s done. Trying to flog off what he’s nicked. Going mental somewhere else. We’ll catch him.’

Khan nodded. ‘Right. But shouldn’t we, you know, check other stuff as well?’

‘Like what?’ Sperring was irritated now.

‘Well,’ said Khan. ‘Burkiss was suffering from cancer. We should find out if it was terminal, and if it was if anyone had anything to gain from his death. Financially, I mean. Did he have a will, you know. Like that. All that kind of stuff.’

Sperring sighed. Saw work piled up ahead for him. ‘Yeah, all right. Do that. Let’s examine all the avenues.’

‘Isn’t that what DI Brennan would say?’ said Khan.

Sperring turned to him. ‘Fuck DI Brennan.’

Khan laughed. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Fuck DI Brennan.’

Sperring smiled. ‘Good lad. Glad we agree on something.’ He turned to Jo Howe and Esme Russell. ‘Thank you, ladies. All yours.’

He turned and left the room. Khan scurrying after him.