Dying Words, page 14
He recognised the number that was flashing on the screen.
‘Yes, guv,’ he said.
‘What I said I had to check on,’ Birch said. ‘I’ve done it.’
‘And now can you tell me what it is?’
‘You know you told me that John Paxton was a frequent visitor to the Soho Hotel? I got a receptionist to run through their computer records of guests. Paxton stayed here twice in the last three weeks. The first time was when Frank Denton was killed. The second was the same night Donald Corben was murdered.’
‘Jesus,’ murmured the DS.
‘That’s not the only thing. I spoke to the doorman and the concierge who were on duty on those two nights. They both remember seeing Paxton leave the hotel each evening, but neither of them remembers seeing him come back in.’
‘But, guv, they must see dozens of people in any one evening. They could have forgotten.’
‘All the staff here know Paxton, you told me that yourself. The two guys I spoke to tonight both said he always stopped and chatted to them, signed fucking books for them.’
‘Then they could have just missed him when he came back in on those nights.’
‘It’s possible, but it’s a hell of a coincidence, isn’t it? The doorman and the concierge both happen to be otherwise engaged when Paxton comes back to the hotel. How convenient.’
‘Could he have come in another entrance?’
‘There is no other entrance. To get back to his room he’d have to enter the hotel through the main doors and he’d have to pass the concierge’s desk. Now, if you discount that both guys happened to be looking the other way when he got back each night, that means that when our first two victims were killed, Paxton was not in the Soho Hotel. And, as far as we know, he didn’t return there on either night. So where the fuck was he?’
42
The slow dripping of a tap into a metal sink was the only sound within the morgue.
Howard Richardson barely noticed it as he scribbled down the salient points of his report. Every now and then the pathologist would glance over his shoulder in the direction of the two sheet-covered corpses behind him as if seeking inspiration from the motionless bodies. For the most part he was content to peer over the top of his half-moon glasses, stopping once to chew on the end of his expensive pen.
When the double doors that formed the entrance to the morgue opened, Richardson turned to see who had entered. Was it another body for him to work on? Some poor unfortunate who’d met an untimely end? Perhaps one to temporarily join the other four already stored in the refrigerated lockers that formed almost the whole of one wall of the main room.
The pathologist smiled when he saw that it was Birch and Johnson.
‘Before you ask,’ he said. ‘My report isn’t finished.’
‘I couldn’t give a toss about the paperwork, Howard,’ Birch told him. ‘Just tell me what you found.’
The pathologist crossed to the slab nearest his desk and pulled back the sheet covering the body beneath.
The two detectives looked down at the mutilated corpse of Sarah Rushworth.
‘What a waste,’ muttered Johnson.
‘Every murder’s a waste,’ Birch said, also fixing his attention on the young woman’s body.
‘I gave you most of the details on this one at the actual scene,’ the pathologist said. ‘Examination hasn’t revealed much more than you already know. All I will say is that the attacks seem to be getting more savage. For instance, the cuts on Sarah Rushworth are deeper than those on Denton and Corben. Also, the fact that he seemed to have removed Denton’s eye with his fingers and with no evidence of frenzy and yet Corben’s eyes and Sarah Rushworth’s were hacked out. That would seem to indicate a growing loss of control with each successive murder. That could be why he left prints last night but not in the previous two attacks. As you suggested, he might be getting careless.’
‘Was there sexual interference with the girl?’ Birch enquired. ‘You weren’t sure of that last night.’
‘No. Vaginal and anal swabs showed no traces of semen, saliva or any other secretion. She wasn’t raped before, during or after death.’
‘Well, let’s be thankful for small mercies, shall we?’ said Birch sardonically. ‘What about Corben? Did you find any prints on him?’
‘No,’ Richardson said, almost apologetically.
He stepped across to the next slab and removed the sheet from the body that lay there. All three men gazed down at the corpse of Donald Corben.
‘You checked his tongue?’ Birch pressed.
‘I checked everywhere, David. There were no prints.’
‘What about the possibility of two killers? Anything to support that in Corben’s case?’ Johnson asked.
‘Not as far as I could ascertain.’
‘The physical evidence at the scene – fibres, footprints and stuff like that – didn’t point to more than one murderer,’ Birch reminded them.
‘It didn’t at Sarah Rushworth’s either,’ Richardson offered. ‘Or at Frank Denton’s house. It was only the different types of fingerprints on the woman’s body that made me suspect there could be more than one murderer.’
The three men stood in silence for a moment, their attention still held by the bodies before them.
‘Perhaps only one acted in the first two killings but he had an accomplice last night,’ Birch murmured.
‘It’s possible,’ the pathologist admitted. ‘By the way, did you have any luck getting that exhumation order for Denton?’
‘The Home Office granted a licence,’ Birch told his colleague. ‘No problems. The gravedigger and the undertaker are being notified. The gravedigger has to identify the grave before it can be dug up and the undertaker has to ID the coffin itself before it’s opened. But we’re on for tomorrow night. All exhumations have to take place under cover of darkness, as you probably know. So it’ll be about midnight when we bring him up.
‘As Denton was buried in Wandsworth cemetery, I’ll arrange for re-examination to take place in the mortuary of the Springfield Hospital,’ Richardson said. ‘It’s the closest and best equipped.’
Birch nodded. ‘Yeah, I know it.’
‘David, I’m sorry this has had to happen,’ the pathologist confessed. ‘As I said to you last night, there was no negligence on my part during the initial examination of Denton’s body. There was nothing to indicate there might be fingerprints in the mouth. But I apologise – it was an oversight.’
‘I know that,’ Birch said. ‘I think we were all on short fuses last night. Mine just burns a bit quicker than most.’ He smiled. ‘Listen, Howard, if I thought you were going to find something worthwhile tomorrow night when you re-examine Denton, I’d dig the poor fucker up myself.’
‘What do you want to do about Paxton?’ Detective Sergeant Johnson asked.
‘We’ll question him again,’ Birch announced. ‘Him and Megan Hunter. After all, not only was her book found at last night’s murder scene, she was actually in the hotel when Sarah Rushworth was murdered.’
‘When do you want to question them?’
‘According to his agent, Paxton’s due in London tomorrow for some kind of promotional work. We’ll have a word then. His agent told him we want to interview him again.’
‘What about Megan Hunter?’
‘I’ll speak to her tonight.’ Birch looked again at the two dead bodies lying before him, thoughts racing uncontrollably through his mind.
43
As she listened to the voice at the other end of the phone, Megan Hunter glanced across at the small carriage clock on her desk. She realised she’d already been on the line for close to twenty minutes. The voice at the other end had fluctuated between calm and furious but Megan had listened impassively when she had to and returned the verbal barrage with equal ferocity when she’d felt it had been necessary.
‘All right,’ she said, trying to stem the tide from the other end of the line. ‘Calm down. It’s not a problem. I know how to handle myself.’ She tapped one well-manicured nail on a pile of paper on the desk beside her keyboard.
The caller said they were more than aware of that.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked.
The word trust was mentioned.
‘When it comes to a matter of trust I don’t think you’re quite so well qualified to lecture, are you? And no, I’m not being sarcastic. I’ve told you, I know what to do. Stop treating me like a child.’
When, the caller wanted to know, could they meet up again?
‘You, of all people, should know how difficult that’s going to be in the next couple of weeks,’ Megan said wearily. ‘I think it’s best if we just stay clear of each other for the time being.’ She shifted position on her chair, drawing one slender leg up beneath her.
There was silence at the other end and, for a moment, Megan thought the caller had hung up.
‘Are you listening to me?’ she persisted. ‘I said I can handle it and I will.’
Another pause, then the caller’s tone softened slightly. The question took Megan by surprise.
‘I haven’t even thought about my book winning the prize,’ she confessed. ‘Maria asked me that when I spoke to her this morning but, frankly, that’s the last thing on my mind at the moment. But thanks for asking, anyway.’ She felt her own temper cooling a little. ‘This is a difficult time for both of us. I realise that and I want to see you again but I think it’s dangerous at the moment.’
The caller insisted that there had to be a way.
‘Then you tell me how,’ she demanded. ‘You’ve got far more to lose than I have if the truth is discovered. You understand what I mean? Soon this won’t mean anything to me. Nothing will.’ She brushed some dust from one leg of her jeans, pulling at a thread on the turn-up.
The caller said they could meet at a hotel.
‘That’s impossible,’ Megan said flatly.
Perhaps, the caller suggested, the meeting could take place at her flat.
‘No. Not yet. It’s too soon,’ she said. ‘Don’t push it.’ Her tone hardened. ‘You know why.’ She sucked in a deep breath. ‘I don’t care about that.’ There was something approaching anger in her words now. ‘Listen, don’t ring me here again. If you have to contact me then call me on my mobile but not unless it’s important. An emergency.’
She glanced at the carriage clock once more, then down at her bare feet.
‘Listen,’ she told the caller. ‘I’m going to have to go. I’m expecting another call in five minutes.’
The voice asked if the other call was important.
‘It is to me,’ Megan growled. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow if I get the chance. I promise. You’re not the only one that’s busy, you know.’ She drew in a weary breath. ‘Yes, I’ll call if I can. OK.’ She held the phone tightly for a moment. There was a hiss of static on the line, the only sound between Megan and the caller. It was she who finally broke the silence. ‘I’m not sorry for what’s happened,’ she said, her voice cracking slightly. ‘Don’t expect me to be.’
She hung up.
As she lifted her hand away from the receiver, she noticed that it was shaking slightly.
Nurture
The woman insisted that she could be left alone with the child. With her child.
The nurse did not agree. She stood like a sentinel at the bottom of the bed while the woman hovered over the portable incubator, looking down at her son. She wanted to lift him out and hold him. Eventually she asked the nurse if that would be all right.
The nurse hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
With infinite care, the woman reached for the tiny form inside the incubator.
The child made a gurgling sound. A liquid mewling that made it sound as if it was making the noise through a throat clogged with mucus. There was clear fluid dribbling thickly from its wide nostrils but the woman seemed unconcerned. She lifted the boy to her chest and held him there, feeling his hands pulling at her left breast.
She looked at the nurse and asked if he could be fed.
The nurse informed her that he already had been earlier that morning. He was currently having difficulty retaining fluid
(it was one of the symptoms the doctor had warned her about), as was obvious by the stench coming from his nappy.
But the woman seemed untroubled by the smell and unimpressed by the nurse’s words.
The boy again clawed at her breast and she pulled down her nightdress, exposing the milk-swollen mammary.
The nurse took a step towards her, urging her not to breastfeed the child. In the woman, clutching her son, the words provoked a feeling of defiance and she moved the child’s head nearer to her left nipple.
The baby bucked more powerfully in her arms now, smelling her milk. Wanting to suckle.
It began to salivate. The mucus mingled with the thick, gelatinous fluid already seeping from its nose and the woman felt the sticky wetness against her breast. She could feel the boy’s warm and eager breath rasping over her prominent nipple. And, all the time, she held the nurse’s challenging gaze as she lifted the child closer to her.
Again the nurse asked her not to feed the boy, told her that his digestive problems would only be exacerbated by ingesting his mother’s milk, but the woman seemed oblivious of the words. She looked down at her son, untroubled by the stench that seemed to be growing more intense by the second. Unworried by the sight of the thick mucus dribbling down his face from his flaring nostrils. Caring nothing for the liquid rasping that came from deep in his throat.
She pressed him to her left nipple and felt his warm, fluid-filled mouth close over the throbbing teat.
The small mouth slid over the nipple at first and the boy used his hands to reach for her breast, trying to attach himself to the appendage, seeking the milk he craved.
The nurse was shaking her head, advancing on the woman now, telling her to stop what she was doing for her own sake but also for the sake of her son.
Her son.
The woman looked down at the tiny form in her arms and she pushed his head forward to meet her nipple. There was a moment of discomfort as he fastened his lips round the teat and then she felt the suction as he started to feed.
The nurse shook her head and backed away slightly.
The woman held the child tightly to her, her eyes closed almost in ecstasy, as if it were a lover paying attention to her nipple rather than her own offspring.
Milk dribbled down the boy’s chin, mingling with the other fluids already smeared there.
He made a sound deep in his throat. A noise that seemed beyond the vocal range of a child so young. A low, rumbling gargle of satisfaction.
There was a vile hissing sound that the woman knew was more noxious voiding into the nappy. The smell that arose became almost intolerable but she kept the baby at her breast. Some of the puerile faecal matter was beginning to seep out of one side of the nappy.
The nurse was now imploring her to put the baby back in the incubator and, finally, the woman relented and pulled the child gently away from herself.
Milk was running from her nipple, some of it dripping on to the child.
Her child.
The boy flapped his arms in her direction, wanting to continue feeding. The nurse was already preparing to wheel the incubator away but the woman stopped her, looking down at her son, his face smeared with milk, sputum and mucus.
She smiled at him.
44
As Birch rode the lift to the twenty-eighth floor of the Hilton Hotel on Park Lane he inspected his reflection in the mirrored wall. He straightened his tie, brushed away some imaginary flecks of dust from the sleeve of his charcoal grey suit and ran a hand through his hair again. Then he bared his teeth at the image staring back at him.
You’ll do.
When the lift bumped to a halt he stepped out and turned to his left towards the cocktail bar called Windows. A uniformed member of staff nodded curtly towards him as he wandered into the bar, the sound of an acoustic guitar drifting on the warm air.
He drew one or two glances from a group of noisy guests seated in the large leather armchairs close to the bar’s entrance but the person he sought was waiting further inside, looking out of the huge picture windows that offered a magnificent panoramic view of London.
As the detective moved closer, the figure turned towards him and smiled.
Megan Hunter was wearing a red halter-neck dress, the hem of which stopped just above her knee. She had a lightweight black jacket draped round her shoulders and the high-heeled sandals she wore accentuated the very pleasing shape of her legs and showed off a perfect pedicure. Her blonde hair was slightly tousled.
Birch could think of any number of clichés to describe her appearance but the one that seemed most apt was breathtaking.
He nodded and smiled as he sat down opposite her.
‘You didn’t mind meeting here, did you?’ she asked, sipping her cocktail.
‘Not at all,’ he assured her. ‘It’s very nice. Thanks for asking me.’
‘I wasn’t sure if this was even … what’s the word, acceptable.’
‘What? Going out for dinner with someone? I don’t think I’m going to find myself pounding a beat tomorrow because of that.’
‘Even if I am a suspect?’
‘No one said you were a suspect, Miss Hunter—’
‘Please, Detective Inspector,’ she cut across him. ‘If we’re going to sit in one of the most famous restaurants in London and eat dinner then I’d appreciate it if you called me by my first name.’
‘Sorry. Force of habit.’
‘And, if it’s not breaking any rules, I’d like to call you by yours. It’s David, isn’t it?’
‘Or Dave, if you feel more comfortable with that. I’m not overly struck on Davey boy, but if you must …’
Megan laughed. ‘I think I can manage with David,’ she told him, grinning.
‘Thanks. Megan,’ he replied, motioning to the waiter. ‘Mineral water, please.’ The man scuttled off to get his order.
