Death Call (14 page)

‘It appears to be the same type of weapon, at any rate. Shall we get started?’

A succession of nods persuaded Dr. Henry Young that they should.

Reaching up above him, Henry switched on the microphone that dangled above Isabella Visi’s lifeless body. For the benefit of the tape, he read out the case number, the date and time, followed by the victim’s name.

‘Right, gentlemen. From initial examination it appears that the subject was murdered with a long knife, partially serrated. That would account for the ripping and tearing marks in the upper abdomen. Once the knife had pierced and ripped the skin, then it must’ve been easier to cut her open. The victim appears to have ligature marks on her neck, which also appears to be bruised. From the state that the body was found in, I would say that the victim was alive when the first incision was made, but died shortly afterwards from loss of blood. The aorta has been severed, and that would account for her death.’

Henry reached up and flicked off the microphone. ‘Well, anything you’d like to know or add to that?’

‘Was she, I mean, had she had sex before she was killed?’ Carroll asked.

‘Just a moment,’ Henry said, flicking through the report that had come with the corpse from the forensics lab. ‘It appears that she did have sex with at least three men that day. I take it that Isabella here was a prostitute, or a least a very popular woman....’

‘Right first time, Henry – an escort,’ Carroll said, turning to his partner. ‘Did you sort out the raid on The Bulldog with Jones?’

‘Yeah, he said we could have four uniforms and that was it,’ Grant said.

‘We’ll need a damned sight more than four fuckin’ uniforms if we’re gonna be arresting Mr. Popular tonight....’ Carroll replied.

‘Do you need any more information from me, boys? Because if you don’t, I’d like to get properly started on this examination. It’s quarter past four and I’ve got to be out of here by half five at the latest – and I’ve got to get two reports written up....’ Henry said.

‘What’s the rush? I’ve seen you working here until ten at night, Henry – you got yourself a hot date or something?’ Carroll inquired.

‘I’m going to the Opera if you must know,’ Henry said.

‘I’d never have thought you were into that shit, Henry!’ Carroll smiled.

‘Leave the guy alone, Dan, he’s got taste in music – that’s all – none of your fuckin’ diddley-idle rubbish,’ Grant said.

‘But the fuckin’ Opera! Well, there’s no accounting for taste, Henry....’

‘Actually I’m going with a lady-friend who just happens to like going to the Opera – I hate that sort of music, if you must know – but hey – a man’s gotta do....’

‘So, it’s for a good cause then?’ Carroll interrupted.

‘What greater cause is there,’ Henry said, patting himself on the crotch.

Grant thought that it seemed sorely out of place, patting yourself on the crotch and talking about sex whilst a murdered prostitute lay naked and opened like a set of barbecued ribs behind them. Besides, he wanted to get going. He’d had enough of the conversation and was beginning to feel uneasy.

‘Come on, Dan, let’s get out of here and let Henry get back to his work – he’s got a lot to do. Right, Henry?’ Grant said, looking over at the young pathologist, who held a scalpel in his hands.

‘Yeah, I’ve got a lot to do. I suppose you two are finished for the day?’

‘We’ll be working while you’re watching that fat lady tickle her tonsils, pal. Some of us have to work – you know....’ Carroll said, thinking ahead to the raid that they were due to carry out on The Bulldog in search of Mike Taylor.

Grant led the way out past the storage facility, where Carroll had recently threatened to dislodge his breakfast on seeing the trolley-bound corpses through the wire-glassed windows in the swing doors. There’s no dignity in death, Carroll thought, as he bravely glanced through the self-same window, only to see a similar sight. Rubbery cadavers, devoid of colour, devoid of life. Specimens waiting to be opened up by Henry and his boys. Coronary cases, stabbings, shootings, hangings, poisonings and any manner of unusual death was apt to be hauled up in front of Henry’s expert eye, that the State may determine whether there should be an investigation into the circumstances of the death. It wasn’t always completely obvious that someone was murdered.

Carroll remembered a case Henry had worked on that was very odd indeed. A pensioner had fallen over in the shower and had knocked himself unconscious – or at least that’s what it looked like – only this guy had died – and there was no heart attack – nothing that would point to natural causes or misadventure. Carroll and his old partner, Lewis, who had just recently retired, had been called in to investigate the death. It had only taken a couple of days before the forensics guys found that the old man had a piece of glass in his brain. It turned out that the man’s wife had found him unconscious in the shower and had pushed a piece of glass into one of his veins. He never regained consciousness, and died less than a day later, whilst the doctors were trying to find out what was wrong with him. It had only been a minute shard of glass – but one that was big enough to kill him. Whether she had killed him for the insurance or because he had a history of beating her, was never established. It just turned into one of those cases that had to be eventually dropped. The old woman who had slipped the shard of glass into her husband’s vein claimed, in her defence, that she had broken a bottle in the shower the day before. Her brief was nothing short of a genius, and she had been released without further charge. The insurance company was not satisfied though, and she never got a penny. Still, she had managed to get rid of her husband. The press had a field day with her – making her something of a celebrity. Carroll wondered whether the same thing would happen to their present quarry. He thought not.

The journey back to the station house was interrupted by five or six press photographers and several reporters who were hanging around outside. The barrage of questions came like machine-gun fire from a trench. It was almost impossible to make any progress from their parked car.

‘Detective Carroll, you are working the Escort Killer’s case, aren’t you?’ one eager young reporter asked, having nudged his way through the pack of news-hounds.

Carroll smiled and kept on walking.

‘The two murders are related, Detective Carroll, aren’t they? Do you have any suspects yet? Have you brought anyone in for questioning? Do you think the killer will strike again?’ The questions seemed never-ending.

‘We think it’s the same guy who killed the two women, yes,’ Carroll said, almost sorry he’d opened his mouth. DCI Jones would surely have his head on a platter for that one.

‘Have you any advice for women who work in the sex industry, detective – what would you advise them to do?’ the young reporter continued.

‘I’d say keep records of where you’re going – and if possible stay off the game until this is all sorted out.’

‘Are you going to give out a description of the killer, detective?’ a young female reporter demanded, shoving her radio mike through the crowd of reporters.

‘Not as yet. We’ll keep you all posted on any developments as they occur....’ Carroll and Grant had reached the door to the station house and they were glad to get inside.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing talking to those reporters? Jones will have your ass for this, man! What were you thinking of?’ Grant demanded.

‘I was thinking of all those poor hookers out there who haven’t got a fuckin’ snowflake’s chance in hell of stopping this guy once he gets started on them. That’s what I was thinking of – okay?’

Carroll didn’t have to wait too long before Jones was on his case. He had been watching from his office window as Carroll and Grant pulled into the station car park.

‘You two – in my office – now,’ Jones said, scratching his jaw with obvious irritation. He had a mean look in his eye, and Grant wasn’t looking forward to an ear-bashing because Dan couldn’t keep his trap shut.

Once the two detectives were seated in front of Jones, he began.

‘Now, I distinctly remember telling you two to keep quiet on this case until you’d made some progress, and to refer any press queries on the case to me....’ Jones said.

‘It’s my fault, sir,’ Carroll interrupted. ‘We’ve just been down to the morgue and I was still feeling a little angry. I just thought that the escorts out there should know that this guy is a nutter – to take extra precautions and all that, you know?’ Carroll concluded, looking suitably remorseful for his actions.

‘Well, I can understand,’ Jones said, ‘but don’t let this happen again. The Chief Super is gonna give me all sorts of shit over this – so keep your mouths shut for the immediate future, okay?’

Grant couldn’t believe the way that Carroll had just played the DCI. Just as though he were a puppet on a string, responding to every little change of emotion that Dan had thrown at him. He’s a slippery bastard and no mistake, Grant thought, secretly admiring Carroll’s little piece of acting.

Chapter 15

The Bulldog was full to overflowing when Carroll and Grant arrived. They were backed up by Wheeler and Thompson along with five uniformed officers.

They were about as welcome as a fart in an elevator. The uniforms remained outside, in case any of the clientele tried to make a run for it. They had waited for their only suspect, Mike Taylor, to arrive before they made their move.

Taylor stood talking to one of the many regulars, pint in hand, when Carroll and Grant entered the bar. Carroll tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around. Taylor looked a little stoned, if the truth were to be known, and he wasn’t in the mood for a chat with Mr. Plod – especially in front of his mates. Talking to the pigs could be bad for business, he thought, shrugging away from Carroll as he tried to move him away from the bar. Carroll got a firm grip and led Taylor to the end of the bar.

‘Come on, Taylor, I’m gonna ask you a few questions, that’s all....’ Carroll said, hoping that the crowd would return to their drinks while the four detectives surrounded one of their mates.

‘What’cha fuckin’ playing at, eh? Get your fuckin’ hands off me, right?’ Taylor was in a filthy mood. And the last thing he needed right now was hassle from the coppers.

‘What do you want, man – why can’t you just leave me in peace – I haven’t done anything, all right?’ Taylor continued.

‘You’ve been up to your old tricks again, haven’t you, Mike?’ Carroll said.

‘I don’t know what’cha talking ‘bout – I’m straight as an arrow these days....’

‘And the Pope’s a Prod, right?’

‘A man’s religion...’

‘Shut it, Taylor, and listen – we have evidence that puts you at the scene of a murder committed at 12 Baalbec Street the other day. We want to know what you were doing there, and what your relationship was with the dead woman. Take your time answering the questions, Mike – it’s important you tell us what you know. It’s important for you....’ Carroll said, moving his gaze from Taylor, and fixing it on detectives Wheeler and Thompson, who stood behind Grant.

Taylor wasn’t impressed and began to push away from the detectives, shouting loudly.

‘Keep your filthy fucking trotters off me – all right – I don’t know nothing ‘bout what your saying. Lemme have my pint in peace – why don’t you fuck off and do us all a favour, then, eh?’ The assembled clientele were beginning to take notice of what was happening at the end of the bar, and a circle soon developed around the four officers.

Grant grabbed Taylor and turned him towards the front door.

‘You’re gonna come peacefully, aren’t you? You don’t want to go upsetting my colleagues, do you, Mike?’ Grant said with a persuasive edge to his voice.