Trisha plonks herself down next to him; her vast backside hangs over the edge of the low harbour wall. She’s so close to him her thigh brushes his and it takes all his will not to flinch in disgust. The woman has no concept of personal space. Without making it too obvious, he shuffles along the low quay wall.
They’ve been there since seven. He doesn’t mind. He’s used to it. Besides, it could be worse. The sun is shining. The seagulls are swooping overhead. The boats are bobbing in the harbour. It’s going to be a beautiful day, the best in a long time, and, anyway, you can’t hurry these things. A few more hours won’t make any difference.
Trisha wanted them to go get breakfast and come back later, typical of her to be so unprofessional, but he told her they should stay close as they could be called any minute. They won’t be, but he doesn’t want to miss the show.
He’s never seen so many police officers, marching up and down the quay, with their clipboards, looking very serious, knocking on doors, questioning people like they know what they’re doing, when they haven’t got a clue. It’s very amusing.
Trisha hands him a coffee he hasn’t asked for.
‘Reckon we’re going to be here for hours. Did you hear about my date with Bill from HR?’
‘No.’
But he knows he’s about to. He’s had a ringside seat to Trisha’s love life – or rather, loveless life – ever since they partnered up three years ago and if he’s learned one thing it’s that she goes through men even faster than a box of chocolate eclairs.
‘We went to that new pub in Westlands Point, overlooking the sea. Dead romantic. I had the prawn cocktail and it came in a bowl as big as a fish bowl. Could barely finish it.’
‘But you did.’
He looks at her. Everything about her screams round. Round body, round eyes, right down to the round dyed-red curls framing her round face, like a kid’s drawing. And loud. She’s so loud she hurts his ears. There’s a name for people like her. Larger than life, that’s it, but what it actually means is that the person is a fat, unbearable attention-seeker.
As if to prove his point, she glugs her coffee and projects a gasp across the road in front of them, attracting a frown from a woman pushing a pram on the other side. She really is repulsive.
‘Yeah, but barely, Si. Then I had the steak which came with mushrooms, tomatoes and those giant onion rings. Bill chose exactly the same. His favourite, too, how weird is that? Reckon it means we must be compatible. Perhaps I’ve found my prince. God knows I’ve kissed enough frogs to fill a pond. Actually, a lake.’ Her throaty laugh is louder than her joke deserves, but then she becomes unusually thoughtful. ‘Never thought someone like Bill would go for someone like me. I know you think I’m a bit of a party animal, life and soul, always up for a laugh, but a lot of it is front, Si. I just want to meet someone I can grow old with. I think Bill could be the one. He said I was really pretty. No one’s ever said that to me before.’
Well, he can certainly believe that. He blows the froth on his coffee and watches it migrate to the other side of the cup.
‘Trisha, I think there’s something you should know.’
‘What?’
Shaking his head, he pretends to change his mind.
‘Forget it. It doesn’t matter.’
‘You can’t do that to me, Si. What is it?’ Her smile deserts her, but he’s in no hurry to reply.
A second crime scene investigator van pulls up opposite them on the quay. He watches the driver’s door fly open and a leg already enclosed in a white forensic suit plant itself on the road.
Its owner gets out. The petite frame, the coal-black hair that skims her shoulders, the pointed chin and generous lips – it’s her. It’s Danielle. No, it can’t be. That’s impossible and he knows it, but he can’t help but scrutinize the woman for further proof. He finds reassurance in her olive skin which speaks of the Mediterranean whereas Danielle’s was pale and she wore her hair stair-rod straight, not frizzy and uncontrolled like this woman. But the resemblance is uncanny, and much as he’d like to, he can’t take his eyes off her.
The CSI opens the back of the van and retrieves a large silver case before slamming it shut again. He watches her march towards the end of the quay where a small crowd is huddled around the police tape.
‘Si, please tell me.’
‘What?’ Trisha’s nasal whining pierces his thoughts, dragging him back to their conversation. He turns to her, pressing his features into what he hopes passes for concern. ‘Look, I wasn’t sure if I should say anything. We’re friends, though, and, if it were me, I’d want to know.’
‘Know what?’
‘OK, but don’t shoot the messenger. I was in the lunch queue yesterday, behind Bill, and he was with a friend. They were talking about a bet they’d made.’
‘A bet?’
‘Yes. Bill’s friend had bet him twenty pounds he wouldn’t take you out.’
Trisha’s shoulders drop.
‘A bet. He asked me out for a bet?’
Her lower lip quivers and her big round eyes shine with tears.
‘Look at how upset you are. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry.’
She runs the back of her hand under her nose.
‘No, you were right to tell me. You’re a good friend. What a total shit that Bill is.’
Turning away to hide his smile, his attention is caught by raised voices coming from the police cordon.
* * *
It’s early, but already there’s an eager crowd drawn by the half dozen police cars and the ambulance like it’s some kind of fairground attraction. Even the seagulls are excited, wheeling and whining overhead.
But just as I’m about to lift the crime scene tape over my head, PCSO Christian Cobb steps in front of me.
‘I’ll need to see some ID.’
Of all people posted to guard the scene, it has to be him. I’ve pulled Cobb up several times for touching stuff at crime scenes and I know he’s mates with DC Will Lockhart or just plain Will Lockhart, as he is now since he was sacked. I don’t want to make a scene, but a burned-out car and a wrecked condom machine have already used up my admittedly low reserves of patience and it’s not even 9 a.m.
‘You know who I am, Cobb, now get out of my way.’
‘Not till I’ve seen some ID.’
‘I mean it, Cobb. Get out of my fucking way or I’ll have you on school gate duty for the rest of your days.’
The audience, a mix of tourists and locals, falls silent with anticipation. A dead body and a fight between the CSI and the PSCO on the quay all in one day, this’ll be talked about for years to come.
‘Let her through, Cobb.’ A weary voice cuts through our standoff. It belongs to a man in a badly fitting grey suit, his lower half obscured by a white forensic suit rolled down to his hips. He strides towards us, his jacket flapping at his sides like it’s trying to keep up while the constant breeze tries to make off with the thin strips of hair covering a bald pate. People who want great hair don’t live near the sea.
‘What’s going on here?’
The senior investigating officer, I assume.
Cobb’s face flushes red.
‘Just doing my job, sir.’
The SIO smooths his sandy-coloured hair back into place.
‘What, by stopping other people doing theirs?’
‘I thought she was off Major Investigations.’
‘Well, she’s not, otherwise she wouldn’t be here, would she? I’m DI Bob Holt. Come through, Ally.’
I don’t know Holt but guess he’s Stride’s replacement. After I was ‘redeployed’ I haven’t paid much attention to what’s been happening at the MI unit. I wonder how he knows me. Then again, the force’s ranks aren’t heaving with CSIs who’ve blown the whistle on police corruption halfway through a murder trial.
Ducking under the tape, I surface on the other side to see Holt marching back towards the end of the quay and Cherish, a twenty-metre bronze statue of a serpent coiled around a woman’s naked torso, balanced on a tall plinth. Loaned by a local artist, it’s loved and loathed in equal measure. I’m in the loathe camp. There’s nothing positive about a dismembered body. I catch Holt up.
‘Thanks,’ I say, resisting the temptation to add that I can fight my own battles.
‘Look, I’m not going to beat around the bush. If I had my way, I wouldn’t have you anywhere near my investigation, but I’ve got one on long-term sick and the new lad, Jake Harris, would be out of his depth in a puddle and I need this wrapping up quickly so let’s just get on with it.’
I’m guessing he’s also a mate of Stride’s, but this isn’t the time or the place to launch into a rant about police corruption and, besides, I’m not looking for a new best friend.
‘So, what have we got?’
‘Young girl. Druggie. Probably strangled. Woman out walking her dog this morning found her.’ He machine-guns his words like a man for whom time is a luxury only others can afford.
‘Who else has entered the scene besides the dog walker?’
‘A special got here first. Did a good job of securing it, by all accounts. That just leaves me, Alex, the pathologist, and Jake, of course.’
‘No one else?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’
The forensic tent is perched awkwardly on the steps beneath the statue. Any more than this light breeze and it’ll be in the sea. Jake’s clearly no architect.
PC Bryant, the police officer posted at the entrance, nods at Holt before eyeing me with what? Contempt? Loathing? Disgust? Hell. It’s probably all three. I snatch his clipboard, scribble my name and thrust it back at him. I’m not the one who tried to fix a murder trial.
Holt zips himself back up into his forensic suit and we both slip on a fresh pair of blue shoe covers. I tuck my hair into the hood of mine, ensuring it fits snugly around my face and there are no loose strands.
Inside the crime scene tent a lanky young man also in a white forensic suit is leaning against the railings. Jake, I assume. God knows what Holt has said to him but his cheeks blaze with enough embarrassment to have raised the temperature in the tent by several degrees. Holt clearly gave him the hairdryer treatment. He introduces us and Jakes snaps to attention.
‘This is Ally Dymond. She’ll be managing the scene. Do as she says.’
‘The DI told me to wait for you.’
‘That’s fine. You’ve laid the plates.’ I nod at the metal rectangular plates placed at regular intervals round the plinth, protecting the scene from curious coppers and their size tens. ‘Good job. Right, let’s get on, shall we?’
The girl’s body isn’t immediately obvious which still surprises me, even after all these years. Violent death: such an abrupt, unprepared-for ending that I always expect the corpse to retain a residual aura, drawing me towards it. It doesn’t.
Then, there she is, a scrap of a thing lying on her side across the steps, her white-blonde hair swept over her face, her mayonnaise arms flopped at her side and freckled with needle pricks – just another casualty of the town’s buoyant drug business. Like I said, the real Bidecombe is never more than a few streets away from the tourist areas. She looks young, not much older than Megan, although I quickly archive that thought. It never takes me to a good place.
I kneel beside the girl’s body for a closer look. Holt’s right. There’s only one obvious injury: a thick red mark rings her ballerina neck. It’s the most likely cause of death and it wouldn’t have taken much. It never does. I’ve met many horrified at how easy it is to snuff out a life. One hard squeeze would have tipped her into oblivion in less time than it takes to make a cup of tea.
‘You said Alex has already seen her?’
Alex Blandford is the Home Office pathologist, but my question draws no response, forcing me to glance up at Holt who’s engrossed in his phone. Sensing my eyes are on him, he slips it into his pocket and makes a show of hitching his trousers to squat beside me.
‘Yeah, been and gone. Most likely asphyxiation caused by manual strangulation. Obviously, we’ll know more after the PM.’
‘What about time of death?’
‘Only a rough approximation at the moment, but somewhere between midnight and three.’
‘Do we know who she is?’
‘Janie Warren, nineteen, local girl.’
The name triggers a memory. Her face obscured by her hair, I hadn’t recognized her at first, but, of course, the white-blonde bob, the diminutive figure – we’ve met before.
‘I photographed a Janie Warren five months back. A domestic. Her boyfriend, Chris somebody, high on crack, beat the hell out of her.’
‘Yeah, that’s her. The local CID filled us in. It was a nasty assault.’
I remember Janie, hellbent on taking her ‘bastard boyfriend’ to court. He was a total deadbeat; the kind of guy Megan will bring home in a few years just to wind me up. Then, out of nowhere, she drops the charges. He’s been under a lot of stress, she’s been nagging him, it isn’t his fault he snapped, etc., etc. She told me they were even trying for a baby. Everything’s going to be fine. One big happy family. Things will be different, but they never are. I should know.
‘So, what are you thinking? The boyfriend finished what he’d already started?’
Holt checks his watch.
‘I don’t think it. I know it.’ He stands up, straightening his back then wincing with regret. He must be close to having his thirty years in, probably already booked tickets on a luxury liner somewhere in the Med. That seems to be what cops do when they retire – go on cruises. ‘Doubt we’ll even need to rely on forensics for this one so don’t overdo it.’
I stand up too.
‘How come?’
Holt’s phone buzzes in his jacket. He fishes it out and carries on talking as he punches his reply. His multi tasking would be impressive if it wasn’t so damned disrespectful.
‘We’ve got CCTV showing the two of them on the corner of Argyll Street at around eleven. They turn left onto Quayside and head towards the end of the quay where they drop out of sight. Then at twelve-thirty, you see him, Chris Banstead, legging it back from the quay. There were only two of them on the quay and there’s only one way in and one way out.’
‘What about the live cam footage?’
‘We checked. They don’t record it because it costs extra, but we won’t need it. The guy’s as guilty as they come. We’ve already brought him in.’
‘Has he admitted it?’
‘No, but he will. At the moment, he won’t even believe she’s dead. Says they came here, smoked weed, had sex and he left her to clean herself up while he went off to a mate’s to play Call of Duty.’
‘Classy guy.’ I run an eye over the steps. ‘OK, we’ll get the visuals done first. Then we’ll bag up the spliffs and the cans. Do you have her phone?’
‘No. We’ve searched. We’re thinking he might have thrown it in the harbour.’
That isn’t good. Phones are evidential gold, revealing every detail of our lives including the ones that help convict murderers, although it’ll take more than a strangled drug addict to get the police divers out.
But something else is troubling me.
‘That’s odd.’
‘What?’
‘There’s a lot of sand around.’
‘Well, we are by the sea.’
I meet Holt’s smirk with stone. Lame gags and murdered girls aren’t a great combo for me. I glance at the harbour, now full and bobbing with boats.
‘You’re right, the tide was out last night.’ I know full well that isn’t what he means. ‘But you said the CCTV picked them up on the corner of Argyll Street and Quayside, which means they walked around the harbour rather than crossing the sands to reach the quay.’
‘Maybe they went for a romantic stroll earlier.’
Holt glances at his watch, tipping my irritation into annoyance and just a couple of phone beeps away from full blown anger. What little attention he’s given this girl is rapidly waning. He’s already ticked the boxes on this one and filed it under ‘D’ for domestic, but I haven’t finished.
‘You might also want to check the boyfriend’s footwear.’
‘Why?’
I point to a shoeprint on the top step, its delicate grooves perfectly sculpted in sand. There’s even some lettering, a ‘V’, maybe. Probably part of the manufacturer’s mark.
‘It’s too big to belong to a female so that rules out your dog walker. It’s not a police boot either. I’d say it’s most likely a brogue of some kind, though I reckon the boyfriend’s more of a trainer kind of a guy, don’t you?’
Holt fixes on the mark like he’s trying to magic it away.
‘Could have been left earlier by a tourist,’ he says finally.
‘Unlikely. It rained until around eleven-thirty last night. It would have been washed away. This was made after it stopped raining.’
It isn’t the first time I’ve screwed with a detective’s cosy theory and, in Holt’s case, I can’t deny a blast of pleasure because, as much as he wants to, he can’t ignore this.
‘OK, we’ll check his shoes, but even if the shoeprint isn’t his, I’m confident there was no one else involved in Janie’s murder.’ His phone stirs again. He leaves it where it is. ‘Look, I’ve got to get back to the nick. We’re massively short-staffed at the moment.’ He looks at me like it’s my fault, which it is. No one wants to join a unit that has the stench of corruption about it. ‘I’m briefing on a child abuse inquiry going on in the south of the county.’
‘What about the PM?’
‘It’s at two-thirty. I’ll try to make it, but if I don’t, carry on without me.’ He turns to leave. ‘And Ally?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s no need to sweat this one. We’ve got the guy. It’s just a case of going through the motions. When you’re done, send me a copy of your report.’ In other words: don’t think for one minute you’re back on Major Investigations. ‘One more thing…’ He hesitates long enough for me to know I’m not going to like this. ‘I want Jake’s name on all the exhibits in case he’s called to court.’
‘What? Why?’
‘You know why.’
Jake’s frowning. He’s no idea what Holt’s talking about, but Holt’s not getting away with this.
‘I’m perfectly capable of giving evidence in court. I can’t help it if your bent colleagues think it’s a good idea to fix a trial. Besides, I’m leading the scene and Jake is too inexperienced for the dock.’
Jake’s expression agrees with me.
‘And I’m the SIO.’
Holt says this like it trumps everything and although I’m a civilian CSI and he can’t technically order me to do anything, not like he can a lower-ranking police officer, he’s right. It’s his show, so much so he doesn’t wait for my response, and then it’s just me and Jake.
This time it’s my phone that rings in my pocket. It’s Megan again.
‘Do you mind, Jake? It’s my daughter.’
‘Sure.’
Megan hurls a list of ailments down the line, evidence as to why I must collect her from school immediately. My temples begin to throb. I don’t need this. Not now.
‘I can’t come. I’m at work. Go to the nurse and get some Nurofen.’
‘They won’t give me any. You never signed the consent form. Please come and get me, Mum.’
‘I can’t, Megan. I’ll text the school nurse.’
‘I could be dying for all you care.’
She hangs up on me for the second time today, leaving me staring at my home screen, my favourite photo of a pre-teen Megan flashing a smile I’d forgotten she had. Something’s up. I’m not sure what, but it’s not like her to phone me from school. I try to get hold of Penny, but she’s not picking up and I can’t bring myself to call Bernadette.
‘Do you need to get your daughter? I can crack on here.’
Jake’s words aren’t dripping with confidence. I look down at Janie’s pale, thin corpse that looks like it’s been tossed aside like chip paper. I can’t leave her. This needs to be done right if we’re to nail her killer and Jake isn’t up to it. Not yet.
‘No. She’ll be fine. Thanks, though. Let’s get on with it. Remember, if in doubt, bag it. The first and most important rule of crime scene investigation, Jake, is assume nothing.’
But as we place the numbered markers next to the items we plan to remove, I can’t help thinking about Megan. She didn’t sound ill. She sounded upset.