Fevered and ghoulish, like Satan’s little imps, we sit and wait in darkened rooms, aching for death to bring us to life.
Welcome to a slow nightshift with Murder Investigation Team 4. Where the only crime under investigation is “Who ate the last of DS Parnell’s mince pies?” and the only questions come courtesy of Chris Tarrant on three a.m. reruns of Who Wants to be a Millionaire?
You see, when you work for the dead, you’re stuck with a notoriously unreliable employer. Sometimes they’re all over you, screaming their need for justice at every cursed turn. Conscripted by tortured ghosts, your need to serve them never goes away, not even when you sleep. It ferments in your stomach like a late-night curry, waking you at godless hours and leaving you queasy and exhausted for days.
But other times there’s nothing. Nothing new, anyway. Just an avalanche of paperwork and quiz show repeats.
They can never prepare you for the downtime, for the sedentary stage that follows the kill. When you’re holed up at Hendon—the Met’s training center for new recruits—and you’re being dazzled by mock courtrooms and flashing blue lights, you can never quite believe that admin will soon become your god. Data, your religion. I certainly couldn’t anyway, although in fairness I might have been warned. There’s every chance I just didn’t hear it over the sound of my pounding heart every time a murder detective, especially the fabled DCI Kate Steele, took to the hallowed stage.
The slack-jawed child swooning over the prima ballerina.
“OK, for thirty-two thousand pounds, who is the patron saint of chefs?”
DS Luigi Parnell—nightshift’s lead imp, and incidentally about as Italian as a bacon sandwich—jabs his Arsenal mug in my direction and winks at me like we’re old allies from the trenches, even though it’s less than six months since he alighted the Good Ship Gang Crime and took up with Murder. “Come on then,” he says, “you and Seth are supposed to be the brains around here. Lowest rank, highest IQ, that’s what the boss reckons. Enlighten me and Renée?”
DC Seth Wakeman looks up from a textbook, surreptitiously brushing pie crumbs off his sweater. “No idea, Sarge.”
“Nor me,” I tell him. “I’ll Google it.”
Parnell looks pseudo-disgusted and swivels back to the TV, muttering something about private-school educations and Google being the death of independent thinking. DC Renée Akwa laughs and offers me a crisp. I mindlessly grab a fistful even though I’m not keen on the flavor and it’s only been an hour since we stank out the squad room with a garlicky pizza.
Awesome Renée Akwa. Twenty-five years a DC and as constant as the sun. I’d have sneered at that once, back when I had notions of progression but it’s amazing what a flip-out in a prostitute’s bedsit can do to pour concrete on your glass ceiling.
I squint at my screen, too lethargic to reach for my glasses. “So St. Lawrence is the patron saint of chefs. St. Michael’s the patron saint of coppers, if you’re interested. He’s the patron saint of the sick and the suffering too.”
Parnell doesn’t rise to it, choosing to nag Seth instead. “Here, Einstein, are you ready for another test? Fat lot of use Google will be when you’re trying to remember ‘Revisions to PACE Code G’ for your boards next month.”
Seth groans, pretends to hang himself with a strip of tinsel, and the laugh that breaks out goes some way to dissolving the twisted ball of angst I’ve been ferrying around since I left Dr. Allen’s introspection chamber earlier this evening. Later, as Parnell argues with Chris Tarrant that the Nile is definitely longer than the Amazon, and Seth gives us his rugby club’s slightly un-PC rendition of the “Twelve Days of Christmas,” the urge to do a Miss Havisham, to bolt the doors and stop the clocks and cocoon the four of us in our cozy-as-fleece squad room forever, overwhelms me.
And then a desk clerk clutching a bottle of cough syrup spoils everything.
“Luigi, you’re wanted,” he croaks from the doorway. I struggle to hear the details as they huddle together—Parnell’s shot-putter bulk blocks out all soundwaves—but I get the gist.
A body. A woman. Leamington Square, by the entrance to the gardens. Just at the back of Exmouth Market.
It looks suspicious. Islington police have secured the scene. DCI Steele has been notified.
Exmouth Market.
Not strictly our patch, but when the other two on-call Murder teams are up to their eyeballs in bodies and you’re just sitting around eating crap and procrastinating about paperwork, you don’t start quoting boundaries and grid references. I don’t anyway. Parnell gives it a try.
And with a creeping sense of unease that strips away all the notions of sanctuary I held just two minutes ago, I think to myself that it is my patch really. In the umbilical sense, at least.
I spent the first eight years of my life there.
Last I heard, my dad was back there, running our old pub.
Mixing with his old crew again.
Living the Bad Life.
At ten p.m. every evening, as punctual as a Swiss clock, Dad would excuse himself from whatever barroom brawl he’d been refereeing and walk the few hundred yards up to Leamington Square Gardens to smoke his solitary cigarette of the day. Whether he was dodging Mum—an evangelical ex-smoker—or whether he did it for reasons of solitude and sanity, I never really knew, but I’d watch him most nights from my window, quickly throwing down whatever book I’d been reading by the light of my Glo Worm as soon as I heard his steps crunching across the gravel. Eventually he’d become just a dot in the distance, a flash of a phone or the flare of a lighter, but I felt comforted by it somehow. Happy that he had five minutes’ peace.
He took me with him once. I was only six. Mum was at Auntie Carmel’s so Dad warned me it was “a special treat” which generally meant “secret,” along with everything else that happened when Dad was left in charge (crisps for dinner, a very loose diktat on brushing teeth, and illegal poker nights in the back room with the men Mum didn’t like). It was the first time I’d been to the gardens at night—I’d been there often during the day, playing shops in the bandstand, hopscotch on the path—and after we’d been there awhile and we’d chatted about Toy Story and my new puffer jacket, Dad asked me if I was frightened being out so late. He said most kids my age would crap themselves and start bawling to go home.
I told him I wasn’t scared of anything when he was with me and he’d ruffled my curls and said that was right.
Tonight I feel scared though, and even with Parnell at my side, as solid as the plane trees that line the perimeter of Leamington Square, I can’t seem to shake the feeling that no good will come of being back here.
Not quite a sense of doom, but one of nagging disquiet.
As soon as we’re parked up by the outer cordon, I walk over to Parnell’s side and let his genial grumpiness soothe me.
“Forty lousy minutes and it’d have been changeover. Some other sod’s problem, and a hot shower and a cuddle with the wife for me. Jinxed we are, Kinsella, bloody jinxed.”
“Doesn’t bother me,” I lie. “No one to cuddle up to or switch the hot water on. Might as well be freezing my arse off with you.”
If I say this enough times, I might convince myself. Then I might also be able to convince myself to tell Parnell and Steele that I grew up less than a football pitch away from here. That my dad runs a pub so close you can hear the jukebox on a warm summer’s day when the main doors are open. That I lived above that pub until I was eight years old.
Before everything changed.
But I can’t give Steele any more reasons to ship me out of Murder, not after Bedsit-gate. Not that this is the same, mind. There isn’t anything procedurally wrong with having once grazed your knee on the same spot as a dead body. But then you don’t get to DCI level, with no fewer than four commendations under your belt, without knowing how to exploit an opportunity, and therefore any admission that I’ve got the slightest personal connection to this case and Steele will have me counting beans with the Financial Intelligence crew before I can say “Excel spreadsheet.”
As Parnell continues his mournful dirge, I weigh this up one final time, staring at my reflection in the car window. All I see is someone who needs her job in MIT4 as desperately as she needs a haircut and a big dose of vitamin C.
It’s simple. I’ll say nothing.
Steele’s here already, forensic-suited and booted, chatting to two SOCOs, Scenes of Crime Officers, as they bob up and down placing evidence markers on the floor.
“Jesus, she got here quick,” I say. “Doesn’t she live over Ealing way?”
Parnell rummages in the boot, his voice is muffled but the square is convent quiet. “I keep telling you, she’s not human. She doesn’t take a shower and get dressed like you and me. She regenerates, like the Terminator.” He straightens up and waves over to Steele, tossing me a pair of shoe covers and a protective suit with the other hand. Steele signals for us to hurry up, pointing at a hunched figure standing by the entrance to the forensic tent. “Oh brilliant. Is that the back of Vickery’s head?”
“Not in the mood for being patronized in sub-zero temperatures, no?”
Joking aside, I don’t have an issue with Mo Vickery. Hats off to anyone who can stand in a ditch for eight hours collecting maggots and call it a vocation. And when you’re twenty-six, rosy-cheeked and you’ve hitched your wagon to one of the most hierarchical organizations in British society, being patronized is kind of par for the course, really. A rite of passage you can either embrace or ignore.
We suit up in silence. Parnell struggles with his zipper while I scrape every last strand of my hair into a bun before Mo Vickery tells me again that she’d sooner I “piss on her porch” than come anywhere near her crime scene with my thick Celtic thatch.
“So what do you reckon?” I say, nodding toward Steele. “Must be bad to get her out of her jim-jams.”
Parnell grabs his e-cig out of the car door and takes a fast, deep draw, his face etched with longing for a big-boy cigarette. “Chief Super gets twitchy around Christmas,” he says. “Joe Public doesn’t like the idea of someone’s presents going begging under a tree while they’re being carved up in the morgue so he always brings the big guns in.” He blows out a plume of something sickly, apricots maybe. “Although it could be a tramp for all we know. Some old dosser who’s shuffled off to the great cardboard box in the sky, right at the end of my bloody shift.”
“All life is sacred, Sarge.” I grin the grin of the lapsed Catholic.
“Yeah well, so are my testicles, and Mags will be using them as baubles if I end up working another Christmas.”
He slams the car door and the noise has a finality to it, like the hammer at an auction. We walk across the square and duck down under the inner cordon. Parnell’s knees click loudly and he groans even louder.
I suppress a laugh, almost.
“Yeah, all right, never get old, kiddo.” I nod toward the tent, a reminder that not everyone gets the chance. “OK, never get fat then,” he adds, sheepish. “And take your cod liver oil every day—the liquid, though, not the tablets. There’s more vitamin D in the liquid, it’s better for your joints.” He looks satisfied, his good deed done for the day. “Don’t say your uncle Lu doesn’t teach you anything . . .”
“Masks,” booms Vickery, not bothering to turn around. “He’s already handled her. We can do without any more contamination, thank you.”
I aim a sympathetic look toward “he,” the young PC manning the cordon, but he doesn’t look fazed.
“Preservation of life was my priority,” he says, in a way that must make his mum really proud. “I had to check for a pulse, I’m afraid. The witness was a bit . . .” He makes a drinking gesture with his right hand. “Well, she wasn’t sure she was actually dead.”
Vickery shoots a deadpan glance toward a young girl perched on the back of an ambulance wearing stripper heels and an emergency foil blanket, and then looks back at our unmistakably dead body. I want to point out that there’s a whole world of difference between being politely informed of a body over the telephone and literally stumbling over one when you’re brain-fried from Jagerbombs and panicking about train times, but I keep my own counsel.
Steele flicks her head toward the ambulance. “Have a word afterward, Kinsella. You’re more her age. You might get more out of her.”
I nod and we step into the forensic tent. Vickery leads the way.
Outside it’s about as pitch-black as London ever gets but inside, with the all the LED lights and flashing cameras, the full Technicolor horror of this woman’s last hours takes centerstage. I hesitate to look down for a few seconds, silently counting one, two, three, in small sharp breaths before I clock Steele looking at me. Irritated or concerned, I’m not sure. It’s usually a blend of both. On the count of four I give in to the inevitable and lower my gaze to see something you couldn’t really call a face anymore, more a tawdry Halloween mask—blood blanketing the head, hair completely matted, apart from a few blond tufts that seem to have survived the flood, throat scored with long thin slashes as if someone was sharpening a knife. I crouch down and closer to the body I smell something. A fruity, floral perfume that must have been sprayed in the not-too-distant past, and a whiff of something like fabric softener on a well-cared-for coat.
Scents of a recent life.
More depressing to me than the acrid stench of death.
My stomach revolts and I stand up quickly. Too quickly. I try to cover myself by pretending to offer Parnell my slightly better vantage point but Steele sees through me. I’m not usually that deferent.
She slips her mask down. “You OK?”
Define OK. I haven’t cried, vomited or momentarily passed out, which is more than can be said for what happened at Bedsit-gate but OK? Far from it.
A stint with the Bean Counters flashes before me.
“I’m fine, Boss.” I even manage a small smile, hope that it reaches my eyes.
“Do we have an ID?” asks Parnell, cocking his head this way and that, trying to make sense of her face.
“No, but there’s a receipt in a pocket so we’ve got that photographed and sent over. Renée’s onto MISPER already but frankly they’re going to need a bit more than ‘female’ and ‘blond’ to go on.” Steele wafts a hand in front of her face. “And with all the blood, it’s hard to give them anything approaching a precise age at the mo. Hands look youngish but then so do mine I’m told, and I’m no spring chicken.”
“She might not be a missing person as far as anyone’s concerned,” says Vickery, peering closely at the woman’s neck. “She hasn’t been dead that long.”
I swallow hard, will my voice to come out normal. “So how long do you reckon, Mo?”
We’re not exactly on “Mo” terms but it’s got the right air of casual.
Vickery cranes around, addressing Steele, ignoring me. “What I reckon is that she certainly wasn’t killed here. There isn’t enough blood to suggest an attack took place here and the faint lividity is patchy which confirms she’s definitely been moved. Unfortunately, what this also means is that without knowing the conditions of the primary crime scene, it’s very hard for me to estimate exact time of death.”
“Educated guess?” says Parnell.
Vickery lets out a well-practiced sigh then gently prods the woman’s jaw as we all peer closer. “As you can see, rigor is in its very early stages. There’s a little stiffening around the facial muscles that would suggest two to three hours perhaps, but it all depends on whether she’s been outside from the get-go or whether she was kept indoors for a while and then dumped. Rectal temperature is thirty-four degrees, but again this doesn’t tell me anything definitive unless I know where she’s been. Stomach contents should narrow it down a bit. And lividity is still quite faint which suggests we’re looking at less than four to five hours.”
“Cause of death?” says Steele, sarcastically hopeful.
Vickery gives a wry smile. I’m not sure she’s capable of any other type. Every facial expression seems to be undercut with either contempt or bemusement.
“Take your pick. We have a nasty wound to the front of the head. Possible petechial hemorrhaging which might explain the circular contusion around the neck, but I won’t be able to get a proper look until we clean up the slashes to her throat—which incidentally, I don’t believe will be the cause of death. They’re nasty but a bit too shallow. No way they’ve gone through to the larynx.”
“Hesitation marks?” I suggest. “Someone trying to pluck up the courage?”
A begrudging nod. “Possibly. Or could be old-fashioned torture.”
“Possibly” and “could.” The watchwords of every crime scene.
Steele sighs. “I’ll take a guess on cause of death for now, Mo. Educated or wild-as-you-like.”
“As you wish, but I won’t be held to anything.”
As if we’d dare. Even Steele treads carefully around Mo Vickery, which is pretty telling given that, rumor has it, Steele once told a Deputy Assistant Commissioner to “take a chill pill.”
Vickery steps outside the tent and Parnell and Steele swiftly follow, instantly gulping in the Arctic air. Something keeps me rooted though and for what seems like a moment but can only be a few heartbeats, it’s just me and her—this blood-drenched everywoman in her sensible winter coat and low-heeled Chelsea boots.
I move when the tone of Steele’s cough reminds me Vickery’s patience isn’t so much thin as emaciated.
“My guess would be she was strangled,” Vickery’s saying as I join them. “Struck on the head with a blunt instrument, then strangled while subdued. I say subdued because people fight like hell when they’re being strangled and there doesn’t appear to be any obvious defensive wounds. Also”—she hinges forward at the hips, a yoga pose I recognize for stretching out the spine—“this girl has long nails so I’d expect to see marks on her palms if she was conscious at the point of death. Clenching is very common during strangulation.”
“She could have been tied up, drugged?” offers Parnell.
Vickery hinges up, loses her balance slightly. We pretend not to notice. “Drugged, possibly. Tied up, unlikely. There’s no obvious marks to the wrists but I’ll know more once I get her on the table.”
The thought of taking her to the morgue seems to deflate Parnell, as if keeping her here under the pre-dawn stars and the promise of a new day makes her somehow less dead. Similarly deflated, and conscious we’ll soon have an audience—a few bathroom lights are already flickering along the west of the square—I go to speak to the witness.
Close up, she’s even younger and twice as drunk.
A paramedic with a slight overbite intercepts me. “Tamsin Black, nineteen. We’re not getting much sense, I’m afraid. Think she might have imbibed a bit more than just booze, if you catch my drift.”
I like the way he says “imbibed,” like a Jacobean aristocrat, so I give him a warm smile that just about stays within the boundaries of “crime scene appropriate.” “When will I be able to talk to her?”
“You can try now, love, but I wouldn’t bother. She’s puking more than talking.”
On cue she retches, a futile little jerk that produces little but amber-colored bile.
I glance at the paramedic’s name badge. “Well, I don’t know about you, Phil, but I’m impressed she had the wherewithal to phone it in, in that state.”
Phil looks nervous, rubs his overbite. “Looks like she had the wherewithal to post it on Facebook too. I saw it flash up on her phone. Sorry.”
I groan inwardly. “Not your fault. Thanks for letting me know. I’d better try to get that deleted before her mates log on for the day.”
I start to walk over, but then someone says something about a panic attack so I back off and watch while the experts try to explain the basics of diaphragmatic breathing to someone struggling with the basics of bladder control. Tamsin Black looks so listless and pale through the layers of fake tan—and so painfully young—that I have to fight the urge to stride over and take her hand. To tell her I understand and that she can talk to me. To tell her the brutal images will fade.
Essentially to lie that it gets easier.
Then I realize I’m being “over-empathetic” so I walk back over to Steele and grass her up immediately. Steele does the requisite amount of eye-rolling but honestly, it’s a battle we conceded long ago. Facebook helps more cases than it ever harms so we live with it.
Parnell yawns. “So what’s the plan then, Boss?”
“I need to wait for them to finish, give them permission to remove the body,” says Steele, nodding toward the SOCOs. “Then I’m heading straight over to HQ to get things set up. You pair stay here for a while. House-to-House should be here soon so can you brief them, Lu? Hopefully we’ll get something from CCTV but for now we’re working on the assumption that she must have been driven here, so someone might have heard a car?”
“Funny place to dump a body, don’t you think?” I say. “There’s got to be easier places than the middle of central London.”
“Panic maybe? Listen, Kinsella, have another crack at the witness before they whisk her off to hospital, OK? I know we can’t rely on the detail too much but at least it’ll be fresh and I want to get some sort of statement out of her before Mummy Dearest gets here and starts saying her little angel’s been through enough already.”
Exactly what my mum would have said. Once she’d ripped me a new hole for staggering around London half-comatose and half-naked at half-four in the morning.
God, I miss my mum. To the rest of the world you’re just a living, growing mass of cells. Your brain fully forms and your bones start to lengthen and before you know it, you’re a card-carrying grown-up who’s expected to drive cars, pay bills and remember to buy tinfoil. But to your mum, you’ll always be a bit gormless. The girl who sneezed in her porridge and ate it anyway.
And I miss that. I miss being a half-wit and being loved for it.
Lately I’ve been obsessing about what Mum would think of twenty-six-year-old me. What she’d say if she could see me now, out of bed and being productive before lunchtime.
In all honesty, she probably wouldn’t recognize me. It’s fair to say I wasn’t the easiest of adolescents. Dad often said that it took an iron fist and a will of steel to discipline me—not that he ever tried, of course, preferring always to claim that there was no point in him disciplining me when he just couldn’t work me out. Couldn’t “get on my level.”
I’d worked him out though. I knew exactly what he was.
I saw the way he’d looked at Maryanne Doyle, and I saw a lot more too.
Heard a few things as well.
Not that I ever told him, or anyone else for that matter. The silence of childhood fear gradually morphed into teenage rebellion—a far more fun way to vent my hate than raking up history and throwing accusations—and lately, in recent years, we’ve slipped into a kind of venomous stalemate. A white-hot apathy.
You stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours.
Mum knew I loved her, though, I’m sure of it. I certainly told her enough times. Every morning and every evening and several texts in between.
“Luv U,” “Ur the best, Mum! xxx”
And apparently she can see me now. According to the same clairvoyant who mumbled clichéd statements about my heart line, Mum’s always with me and she’s proud of me. She enjoys watching me dance apparently. It assures her I’ve moved on from her loss. I didn’t have the heart to tell the lousy charlatan who was charging me sixty pounds an hour for this heartwarming slice of hoodoo, that the only time you’ll ever find me dancing is when I’m paralytic-drunk and Mum definitely wouldn’t enjoy watching that. Who would enjoy watching their last-born child twerking in front of a rabble of baying IT consultants while trying not to vomit peach schnapps?
Mother’s Day 2013.
They haven’t got any easier or any less shambolic.
“You look bloody shattered, girl.” As if reading my mind, Steele comes over all quasi-maternal, laying a hand on my arm. “Initial briefing at one p.m., OK, but in the meantime, go home and get a few hours shut-eye. That’s an order, both of you.” She says “both” but she’s looking at me. “I mean it. Stay here for an hour, tops . . .”
We stay three hours.
Three hours where we learn very little.
I speak to the witness again but you couldn’t exactly call it a statement, just a few random proclamations of “So much blood” like a bizarrely reimagined Lady Macbeth, and repeated requests for her mum. As instructed, Parnell briefs the House-to-House crew—a team of six men and women dedicated to fighting crime with questionnaires and clipboards—and we even do a bit ourselves, flashing our IDs at confused-looking people with morning breath and bed hair. It yields zilch though. A whole load of “nothings” and one dubious “maybe” which doesn’t really fit with our timeline anyway.
After three hours of spreading hysteria, Parnell announces that he’s going home to have sex, bacon and a steaming hot bath. He doesn’t mind in what order.
I don’t announce where I’m going.