Bone Machine (6 page)

DS Paul Turnbull had his victim. And because of that, his righteous anger.

He pulled the Vectra to the kerb, turned off the ignition. Looked up at the old Victorian bay-fronted semi before him. From
the passenger seat, Nattrass moved to open the door. Turnbull remained still. Nattrass looked at him. Not returning her enquiring
gaze, he took out the photo, its edges rounded now, thumbprinted and creased from overlooking. He held it in his hands. The
image poignantly familiar, the news media having splashed it all over TV and computer screens, newspapers. He had the original.
Ashley Malcolm. Alive. Smiling and laughing at a student party, toasting the camera with a can of lager. A strappy, silky
top and skirt, long hair. Pretty. She would never grow old, go grey, put on weight, have a satisfying or unsatisfying career,
have children, get married or get divorced. She would be for ever locked into joyous, youthful immortality. Freeze-framed
by the click of the shutter.

His victim.

From Westgate Road cemetery he, along with Nattrass and DS Deborah Howe, the SOCO Senior Manager, had gone with the Home Office
pathologist and body to the mortuary at the General Hospital, staying to witness the post-mortem.

The pathologist, Dr Nicholas Kemp, was clearly in his element in the sterile room surrounding the stainless-steel table with
the ceiling-mounted mic.

Turnbull had watched, as he had done before, while Kemp went about his business, reducing Ashley Malcolm until she was just
a collection of weighed and catalogued inner organs, tissue samples. A carcass of clues. He had watched, struggled even more
than usual to find the professional detachment he knew he should have had by now.

Then on to the incident room at Market Street police station in the centre of Newcastle, sitting through DCI Fenton’s morning
briefing along with everyone else on the case. The mood had been dark and concentrated, tense and expectant, as if a raincloud
had come in through the air-conditioning and was threatening to engulf them all in freezing-cold, needle-sharp rain.

Fortified by heavily sugared coffee, aware of what he must have looked like. Pulling an all-nighter, too tired and wired to
wear it like a badge of honour. He and Nattrass had looked at each other.

‘D’you want to go home?’ she had said. ‘I don’t mind. You’ve got a family. I understand if you do.’

Turnbull had thought of home, of what was there for him. Or what wasn’t. He thought of Ashley. Felt something burn hard and
bright within.

‘I’ll stay.’

Nattrass had made any contributions on his behalf. His eyes had followed the board’s tortuous trail. It looked to him, as
always, not like a chart but more a game whose ending was rigged. A snakes and ladders of horror. Roll the dice and up the
ladder. Ashley alive, smiling. Roll the dice and move along. Ashley gone. In her place photos of her friends, her boyfriend.
Maps of her last known whereabouts, descriptions of her clothes. Conjecture. Supposition. Roll the dice and down a snake.
Ashley dead. The wilfully destroyed and mangled bodily components bearing no resemblance to the earlier photo. No life or
joy left there.
Roll the dice and down further. Ashley reduced to gory red, butcher’s backshop close-up. Ashley anatomized. Down again. And
still down.

Turnbull had his righteous anger. Controlled. Fuelling his day.

Preliminary results showed a positive match, Fenton had informed them. The body was that of Ashley Malcolm. Toxicology and
DNA within twenty-four hours.

They had known what that implied. Ashley’s murder had been allocated a high grade. Which meant money and manpower. Twenty-four
hours. The more they paid, the quicker the results.

Fenton had gone on, the politician from the press conference of an hour ago now in the descendent, the hard-nosed DCI in the
ascendant. He read from reports, talked from memory. Always with authority. Ashley’s parents in Runcorn had been informed
and were on their way to Newcastle along with her sister, all broken-hearted.

The body had been mutilated both pre- and postmortem. Eyes and mouth sewn shut. Stab wounds; no final figure yet, probably
between ten and fifteen. Signs of sexual activity. And a couple of strange bruises on the back of her neck that they were
still looking into. It was, he said unnecessarily, a bad one.

He had asked about leads. The door to door hadn’t shown up anything positive yet. Shadowy figures tended to come and go in
the cemetery. They were paid as little attention as possible. No sign of a vehicle as yet.

The same as her abduction, Turnbull had thought. Like she vanished into thin air and reappeared again.

A comment about a Tardis.

Someone put forward the name Lisa Hill, asked if there might be a connection.

Lisa Hill. A part-time prostitute and crack aficionado
with convictions for dealing and aggravated assault, whose body had been discovered the week before Christmas. She had been
badly beaten, sexually assaulted, murdered. Stabbed repeatedly, frenziedly. Her body dumped at Barras Bridge by the Haymarket.

Conscious of any accusations of bias or lack of sensitivity to what might be perceived in certain sections of the media as
an unsympathetic victim, they had investigated her death thoroughly. And come up with nothing. The consensus was a mad punter
who, unless he was caught doing something similar in the future to another prostitute, would go unpunished.

With no progress after a month and other cases eating up budget and manpower, Lisa Hill was gradually forgotten. Marked ‘open’,
left unsolved.

Fenton gave the name some thought, said he didn’t think so, but at this stage they couldn’t rule anything out.

A question about bringing in a profiler. Fenton making a face in reply, mentioning budget, saying they would see how they
went.

Then on to possible suspects.

Nattrass had talked about Michael Nell, Ashley’s boyfriend. Photography student. Not a nice person. Handy with his fists,
especially where the ladies were concerned. Miserable and moody. Liked things rough. Previous for drunk and disorderly. Rich
dad to protect him, bail him out. Untouchable, or so he thought.

Questioned twice and both times seemingly unconcerned about Ashley. Not worried. With no alibi for Ashley’s disappearance.
Nattrass said she had felt he was hiding something. Covering. Turnbull had nodded, corroborating.

Light had caught Fenton’s eyes. Made them shine. He asked Turnbull and Nattrass to pay Nell a visit.

Then a closing speech from Fenton warning the team to guard against complacency, not to assume that Nell was the
murderer and to keep working as many avenues as possible. No one had been convinced. The eyes had given him away.

In the car, Nattrass had asked him if he wanted to go home, get some sleep.

Turnbull had turned to her. Saw her tired and drawn face, imagined he was her mirror image. ‘Do you?’

Nattrass hadn’t answered. Turnbull had started the car. Not saying another word.

Just drove, aware of the photo of Ashley in his jacket pocket, over his heart.

‘You ready?’ said Nattrass, hand on the door lever.

Turnbull looked up, put the photo away, nodded.

Nattrass stayed where she was. ‘Emotions are running high and neither of us has had any sleep.’

He turned to her, challenge in his eyes. ‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning I don’t want you going maverick on me. You’re a professional. You’re a policeman. We do this properly. Understood?’

Turnbull, reluctantly, nodded.

Nattrass opened the door. ‘Then let’s go. I’ll lead.’

Up the garden path. The house looked like any old building given over to multiple rental occupation. Especially by students,
thought Turnbull. The first time they had been away from the embrace of their overprotective middle-class families. The first
time they had had to cook, clean and look after themselves. The paintwork needed updating, the front garden relieving of its
weed collection. A battered Peugeot 206 sat in front of the house.

‘Takes you back,’ said Nattrass.

‘Not me.’ Turnbull almost spat the words out.

Nattrass ignored him, tried the bell. No sound.

‘They probably haven’t worked out how to buy a battery,’ said Turnbull. ‘Or rewire it.’

Nattrass turned to him. ‘Wait in the car.’

‘I’m fine.’

She shook her head. Knocked on the door. Waited. No reply. She knocked again.

Eventually they heard movement from within the house. Someone making their slow, unhurried way to the door. It opened.

‘Hello Michael,’ said Nattrass. She reintroduced herself and Turnbull to remind him who they were, showed their warrant cards,
then asked to be let in. Nell moved aside, let them into the hall.

Music, loud and indie, came from one of the downstairs rooms. It sounded to Turnbull like the stuff his older brother used
to listen to in the sixth form in the early 1980s but guessed it was probably modern.

Turnbull looked at the young man. Tall and thin, his sleeveless T-shirt exposing wiry, muscled arms etched with dark, swirling
tattoos, his hair shaggy and tousled, his lips falling into a pouting sneer so mannered and practised it had become natural.
Turnbull looked into the boy’s eyes. They stared back with mocking cruelty. Turnbull wanted to slap him on principle.

‘I suppose you’ve heard the news?’ Nattrass, her voice impassive, spoke.

Michael Nell shrugged. ‘What news?’

Nattrass looked around the cramped hallway. Posters for bands covered the woodchipped walls. Arctic Monkeys. Maximo Park.
‘Could we come in, please?’ she said above the noise. ‘Perhaps sit down.’ She began moving up the stairs, towards where she
remembered his room was.

‘Not up there,’ Michael Nell said. ‘It’s not convenient.’

Nattrass looked around, her eyes hard and flat. ‘I think it would be best.’ Her tone brooked no argument.

She went up the stairs, Michael Nell reluctantly following. Turnbull brought up the rear. They reached Nell’s
room. Nattrass placed her hand on the handle. Nell seemed agitated.

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Just a minute.’

He slipped inside the room, closed the door behind him. They heard the sound of voices, hushed yet urgent. Then frantic movement.
Nattrass and Turnbull said nothing, exchanged a glance. The door opened again. A girl came out; small and dark, her hair sticking
out at angles she had never intended, her clothes creased and clutched around her. She kept her eyes downcast as she made
her way rapidly down the stairs and out of the front door.

‘Hope we weren’t disturbing you,’ said Turnbull.

Nell reddened.

‘Perhaps you’re not interested in what we have to say.’ Nattrass walked into the room, sat down on the unmade bed. Turnbull
stayed standing, looked at the CD case lying beside the player. The Arctic Monkeys: ‘Whatever You Say I Am That’s What I’m
Not’. I’ll be the judge of that, mate, he thought. He scoped the room. Turnbull’s idea of a typical student house. Posters
and cards Blu-Tacked to the walls, cheap furniture, textbooks and discarded clothes. Shelved books. Piles of magazines. He
checked the titles:
Skin Two
.
Bizarre. Tattoo
. Some less commercially minded but sporting similar themes.

‘May I?’ He picked one up, gestured to Nell, who shrugged.

‘Whatever,’ he said.

Turnbull began leafing through one.

Nell sat down next to Nattrass. ‘This is all over the newspapers and TV by now; we thought you would have heard. We discovered
a body last night. And I’m afraid it’s Ashley.’

Nattrass watched, unblinking, as Nell took in the news. He looked down, nodded. Sighed. ‘You sure?’

‘We are.’ Nattrass kept up her scrutiny.

‘Aw, Jesus.’

The two of them turned, looked up at Turnbull. He was staring at a magazine, his face violently twisted with distaste. ‘What
the fuck’s this?’ he said. ‘Extreme body modification? What’s wrong with these people?’

Turnbull scanned, through narrowed eyes, pictures of split tongues, artfully amputated toes and fingers, tattooed and sliced
penises, castrated bodies, heads with horns implanted. He had never seen anything like it. Nattrass looked again at Nell.
The student had his eyes cast down but couldn’t disguise the smile on his face.

‘You have some interesting tastes, Mr Nell,’ said Nattrass.

‘I like transgression,’ said Nell proudly. ‘I don’t belong in the boring straight world. I want a more interesting life for
myself. On the extremes.’

He looked at Turnbull, enjoying seeing the distaste on his face.

‘There are some photos over there.’ Nell pointed to the bookshelves. ‘Some of mine. Have a look. You might enjoy them.’

Turnbull’s face showed what he would have enjoyed doing to Nell more than that. He turned to the shelves.

‘Right,’ said Nattrass, ‘to continue. I’m afraid the body we found was Ashley. Do you have anything to say?’

‘Like what?’

Nattrass shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Like, you’re sorry, how did she die …? Anything like that.’

‘OK. How did she die?’

‘She was murdered, Mr Nell. And I have to ask you: what were your whereabouts last night?’

Nell gave a noise that could have been a snort or a laugh. ‘You’re kiddin’.’

‘I’m not,’ said Nattrass. ‘Where were you last night between the hours of eight o’clock and midnight?’

‘Here.’

‘And can anyone verify that?’

‘Yeah. You saw her on the way out.’

‘You don’t believe in letting the grass grow, do you?’ said Nattrass, unable to keep the distaste from her voice.

‘Like I said, I’m different from other people.’ Nell tried to sound nonchalant but just came over petulant and fearful.

‘Boss.’ Turnbull spoke. There was urgency in his voice that he was trying to disguise. ‘Can you come and look at this a minute?’

Nattrass stood up and crossed the room. Turnbull was holding out a sheaf of ten by eights, struggling to keep his face blank.
Nattrass looked at what he was pointing at. And audibly gasped.

The photo was grainy, blurry, and showed a girl, early twenties, dressed in black with what appeared to be an audience in
the background, with her eyes and mouth sewn together. Blood running down her face.