The Optician, page 3
“When we spoke to the owner of The French Connection,” he said. “He told us he’d seen Gemma there last night, but he neglected to mention that she worked for him at his gym.”
“We didn’t twig,” DC King said. “His name is James Norton – he introduced himself as Jimmy, and to look at him, you wouldn’t think he would own a gym in a million years.”
“Jim’s Gym,” Bridge said. “What a terrible name for a gym.”
“What does it all mean though?” DI Smyth asked.
“Something strange is going on, boss,” Smith said. “Why would James Norton not tell us that Gemma works for him?”
“Is it possible that he isn’t aware that she works at the gym?” Whitton put forward. “If he owns a load of businesses in the city, he might not know all the people who work for him.”
“No,” Smith said. “The receptionist at the gym reckoned that Mr Norton thought the sun shone out of Gemma’s arse. That’s why she’s got away with bunking off work so much.”
“What does he have to say about it?” DC Moore said. “Have you questioned him again?”
“He wasn’t at the pub when we went back there,” DC King said.
“We’ll speak to him again soon,” Smith said. “I want to know why he kept this information from us.”
“Where is this actually leading?” DI Smyth said. “We’ve got a woman who was reported missing by her housemate. She was last seen at a pub on Hull Road, and we now know she works for the owner of the pub, but what are we planning on doing with this information?”
“There’s more, boss,” Smith said.
“I thought you might say that.”
“The housemate gave her name as Hillary Twain. She claimed to have lived with Gemma for two years in a house in Heslington. When I called her on the number she gave me, I was informed that the number didn’t exist. She sent me a photo of Gemma from that number, but it’s no longer in service. And this is the interesting part. There is nobody by that name at the address she gave us.”
“I’m not following you, Sarge,” DC Moore said. “Are you saying that Gemma doesn’t live with Hillary Twain?”
“I’m saying that neither Gemma nor Hillary are residents at the address Miss Twain left when she filed the report this morning.”
“Who the hell is she then?” Bridge said. “Hillary, I mean – if that’s even her real name.”
“And why did she make up such an elaborate story?” DC King said.
“We’re not in the habit of corroborating the stories of people who file missing persons reports,” Smith said. “Why would we doubt them?”
“But what would someone stand to gain from lying like that?” Whitton said. “It makes no sense whatsoever.”
“Are we still treating Gemma as missing?” DC Moore said.
“I don’t know what we’re treating her as, Harry,” Smith said. “But something weird is going on, and I want to know what that is.”
“Let’s go through the timeline,” DI Smyth said. “I’m inclined to agree that something strange is happening here, but the info we have is somewhat garbled. None of it is very clear.”
“According to the mystery housemate,” Smith said. “Gemma left for the pub at seven-thirty last night. This may or may not be true, but we do know that she was seen at The French Connection shortly afterwards. Unfortunately, the pub doesn’t have operational CCTV yet, so we won’t be able to see if we can find her that way. The clientele of the pub will be difficult to track down too. It was opening night, and therefore we don’t have any regulars to look into.”
“Gemma hasn’t been seen since,” DC King said. “She’s not answering her phone, and she hasn’t been seen on social media since last night.”
“Do we even know if we’ve got the right number for her?” DC Moore said.
“It’s the number on her business card from the gym,” Smith said. “So, it’s safe to assume it’s Gemma’s.”
“She seems to have disappeared into thin air,” DC King said.
“Leaving behind a web of confusion in her wake,” Smith added.
“Let’s not get too dramatic now,” DI Smyth said. “What can you remember about this fake housemate?”
“Not much,” Smith admitted. “She was pretty average looking. A bit of a plain Jane. And she had a Scottish accent. Hold on.”
“Here we go,” Bridge said. “The Smith brain is about to astound us all again.”
“The camera over the front entrance is working again,” Smith said. “I know it is – I give it the middle finger every time I go out for a sly cigarette. It will have caught the phony housemate going in and out. We need to take a look at the footage.”
“You really must stop giving the CCTV the finger,” Whitton said.
“I can’t resist it. Who monitors the cameras?”
“I don’t think the footage is monitored round the clock,” DI Smyth said. “We know what time she was here, so it shouldn’t be difficult to find her, but what then? What is she even suspected of?”
“Wasting police time?” DC Moore suggested.
“I don’t give a hoot about that, Harry,” Smith said. “She’s involved in this – I know she is.”
“What exactly is this?” Whitton said.
“I have no fucking idea,” Smith said. “But it’s something.”
DI Smyth’s phone started to ring. The sound of it made Smith smile. He’d changed his ringtone, and it was a somewhat inappropriate one for a detective inspector. The Police classic, Don’t stand so close to me was cut short by a blushing DI Smyth.
The conversation didn’t last long, and DI Smyth’s parting words told everyone inside the small conference room that there was work to do.
On our way.
“It looks like you were right, Smith,” DI Smyth said. “Something has happened. The body of a woman has been found on the patch of open ground between the A64 and the sports village. The description matches that of Gemma London.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The first thing that occurred to Smith when he got out of his car on the east side of the car park at the sports village was this was a risky place to dump a body. It was midweek in the middle of winter, so the area wouldn’t be as busy as it got in the summer, but there were always people around here. Clients used the sports village all year round, and the cycle circuit to the south was a popular spot too. The cars on the A64 to the east could be seen from the car park, and Smith wondered why Gemma had been left here. He could think of better places to dump a dead body in the city.
The sight of Grant Webber’s Suzuki told him that the Head of Forensics was here already, and Smith expected nothing less. He could see the white-cladded technicians getting to work about fifty metres away. A tent had already been erected, and Smith knew that the body of Gemma London was concealed within. There was no ambulance, and Smith wondered why. Only one police car was parked there too. Surely a dead body warranted a bigger presence at the crime scene than this. A cordon had been set up at the edge of the car park but there was nobody manning it. Smith spotted the PCs Griffin and Bowler on the far side of the car park. He walked over to them. Someone needed to make sure that nobody went anywhere near the body.
As he got closer, he saw that they were talking to a man and a woman.
“Can I have a word?” Smith said to PC Griffin.
“This is John and Gaynor Flood, Sarge,” the piggy-eyed PC said. “They’re the ones who called it in.”
“I need you by the outer cordon,” Smith said. “There are people here, and that police tape is like a red rag to a bull to a rubbernecker.”
“But Sarge…”
“Do it now please,” Smith said.
PC Griffin opened his mouth, but no words came out. He turned around and headed for the edge of the car park.
“Do you need me there too, Sarge?” PC Bowler said.
“Walk with me,” Smith said.
He put a few metres between them and the couple who’d found the body.
“You stay here and make sure nobody else enters the car park. It’s Angie, isn’t it?”
PC Bowler looked like her favourite film star knew her name. The smile on her face widened and Smith was worried she was going to hug him.
“Could you get onto it please,” he said, before she actually did embrace him.
“Am I to stop everyone from driving in, Sarge?” she said.
“Everyone,” Smith said. “It’s likely the body was transported here by car, and there might be something for the forensics team to look at in the car park itself.”
“You don’t think she was killed here, Sarge?” PC Bowler said.
“I don’t think anything right now,” Smith said. “I’m going to have a chat to the couple who found her.”
“I’ll make sure nobody comes anywhere near the car park, Sarge.”
“Great,” Smith said. “And could you do me a favour?”
“Anything, Sarge.”
“You don’t have to end every sentence with a Sarge,” Smith said. “It’s not necessary.”
He walked back towards the man and woman.
“You must be someone important,” John Flood said.
Smith guessed his age to be around the same as his.
“Of course he is,” Gaynor said. “He’s the one that’s been on the tele. Smith, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Smith said. “Are you alright? Do you require medical attention?”
“The fella with the face like a slapped arse already asked us that,” Gaynor said. “I would have thought there’d be rules about employing coppers who looked like that.”
“They’re not allowed to discriminate these days, love,” John said. “They’ve got fat, spotty, short-arsed, repulsive police officers all over. Equal opportunity, I think it’s called. Some of them don’t even know how to read.”
Smith wondered which century this couple had crawled out of.
“Someone will be along shortly to take a statement,” he said. “But I’d like to ask you a few questions now.”
“It’s not the first time our John has found a stiff,” Gaynor said.
“Is that so?” Smith said.
“That was different,” John said. “It was a bloke in the flat below us and he was ninety if he was a day. It’s not the same.”
“Dead is dead,” Gaynor said.
“What were you doing here?” Smith asked.
John pointed to the A64. “Car ran out of petrol just over there. We came to see if we could borrow some from someone here.”
“We don’t have a jerry can,” Gaynor said. “We were hoping to borrow one of those too.”
Smith didn’t think people still ran out of petrol.
“What time was this?” he asked.
“Two minutes before we found her,” John said.
“I phoned you lot straight after,” Gaynor added.
“Did you see anyone hanging around?” Smith said.
“There were some people in the car park,” John said. “That’s why I came up with the idea of trying our luck here. There’s a petrol station about half a mile up the road, just past the Grimston Bar roundabout, but this was closer. Is there a problem with that?”
“No problem,” Smith said. “Like I said, someone will be along to take a statement. Are you sure you don’t need medical assistance?”
“It was no big deal,” Gaynor said. “The crows had already had a good go at her eyes, but apart from that, it was no big deal.”
CHAPTER NINE
“Are you here alone?” Billie Jones asked.
Webber’s assistant had intercepted Smith before he’d even made it halfway towards the tent that had been erected.
“Whitton and Kerry are speaking to the people at the sports village,” Smith said. “And Harry and the love of your life are seeing if the cyclists down on the circuit saw anything.”
“Love of my life is going a bit far,” Billie said. “I’m still open to offers. I seem to recall that you and I shared a moment not so long ago.”
“Stop fucking around, Billie,” Smith said. “You can’t do things like this.”
“Relax. I’m messing with your head.”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t. Is it Gemma London?”
“The driving license in her purse says it is.”
“The couple who found her mentioned something about her eyes,” Smith said.
“You have to see it to believe it.”
“That’s what I was planning on doing. Do you have a spare suit?”
Billie looked him up and down. “Not bad. Have you lost some weight?”
“Billie,” Smith warned.
“Alright,” she said. “You used to have a sense of humour, once upon a time. I’ll grab you that suit.”
Once he was suitably attired, he walked over to the inner cordon. Webber spotted him before he got there. The Head of Forensics shook his head, and Smith didn’t know what it meant. Webber eased himself under the tape and carefully stepped to the side. He continued walking in a wide arc and Smith knew he was expected to do the same. They met up about ten metres from the tent.
“How long has she been here?” Smith asked.
“Good afternoon to you too,” Webber said. “I don’t think she’s been here long. Although it’s difficult to tell with this weather. She’s definitely not been dead long.”
“She was last seen at a pub not far from here. Any indications of how she died?”
“Nothing obvious,” Webber said. “Nothing external anyway. But whoever killed her didn’t like her eyes.”
“The couple who found her mentioned something about them. They reckoned the crows had a go at her.”
“Do you see any crows around here?”
“You probably scared them away,” Smith said.
“The injuries to her eyes were definitely not caused by birds.”
“Can I take a look?”
“Follow me,” Webber said. “Walk in my footsteps. We’ve tracked the possible path that whoever brought her here took, and we haven’t finished examining it.”
Smith walked closely behind. Webber walked slowly and carefully, and Smith had to concentrate so he didn’t collide with him. They stopped next to the tent and Webber did the honours with the flap at the side.
Smith prepared himself for a whiff of something unpleasant, but nothing came. The only smell inside the tent was a subtle hint of deodorant mixed with BO and Smith assumed that Pete Richards was the cause of that. Webber’s technician was sweating even though it was only a few degrees above freezing.
“This is exactly how she was left,” Webber said.
Smith observed the woman on the ground and two things occurred to him immediately. The black skirt, black stockings and red shirt were exactly what the woman claiming to be Gemma’s housemate had said she was wearing. And even though she’d lied about the housemate thing, it was clear that she’d come into contact with Gemma last night. The second thing he registered was Gemma’s hair. The housemate had made a point of informing him that she now had blond hair, but Smith could see that she’d lied about that too.
Even in death, Gemma London was strikingly attractive. Her black hair was fanned out on either side of her face and Smith wondered if she’d been displayed like this. Her fine nose and high cheekbones lent her an elfin aspect, but the eyes didn’t complement it. They were too big and when Smith’s own deficient eyes focused harder he realised why that was. They were nothing like the eyes he recalled from the photograph of Gemma. These white orbs were all wrong. If Smith had to compare them to anything he would say they resembled the cue balls used in snooker. But these cue balls had strings attached. Smith asked Webber about it.
“Those aren’t strings,” the Head of Forensics told him. “Dr Bean will be able to confirm it, but I think what we can see are the retinal vessels and the optic nerve.”
“I don’t get it,” Smith said.
“It looks like her eyeballs were removed and pushed back in.”
“Why? Why would someone choose to do that? I know that’s not your department. I’m just thinking out loud. Surely that wouldn’t be enough to kill her.”
“I doubt it,” Webber said. “It will probably have been extremely painful, but I doubt it would have been fatal. Have you seen enough?”
“No,” Smith said. “Why do that to her?”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. We still have a lot of work to do.”
Smith took the hint. He turned to leave and turned around again.
His eyes focused on the hideous picture that was Gemma London’s eyes.
“That is fucked up. I don’t know much about the anatomy of the eyes, but surely that’s not easy to do.”
“We really have a lot of work to get through,” Webber said. “And I would prefer to do it while we still have daylight. It’ll be dark in a couple of hours.”
“I appreciate that,” Smith said. “But I need to look at her for a moment longer.”
“Do I need to be concerned?”
“No more than usual,” Smith said. “What kind of a sick fuck would do this to a beautiful young woman? They’ve left the rest of her face alone. What is it they didn’t like about her eyes?”
Webber placed a hand on his shoulder.
“That’s enough now. This is not doing you any favours.”
“I’m going to find out who did this to her,” Smith said.
“Take a few deep breaths,” Webber said.
Smith looked at him. “What?”
“You’ve stopped breathing.”
Webber was right. Smith had held his breath without realising it. He inhaled a lungful of air and breathed out. His eyes found the part of Gemma London’s face where her eyes had been violated, then he turned around and left the tent.
CHAPTER TEN
Smith walked back to the car park at the sports village and took out his cigarettes. He lit one and inhaled deeply. He could still see Gemma London’s face in his mind, and he knew he would see it for quite some time. Whitton and DC King walked over to him.
“You look like shit,” Whitton said.
“Thanks,” Smith said. “We’ve got a seriously deranged individual on our hands.”
