Death Bed (9 page)

‘I
’m shattered.’

Sam slumped into a chair beside Geraldine in the Major Incident Room, arms flopping over the edge of the seat, legs splayed, head flung back.

‘That’s me done for the day.’

Even when exhausted, she radiated energy.

Geraldine logged off her computer and they left the building together.

‘Fancy a drink?’

‘Only if you agree not to talk about the case, gov.’

‘That sounds like a good idea. And it’s Geraldine.’

‘OK Geraldine. What do you fancy? How about a karaoke night to take our minds off work?’

Seeing the expression on Geraldine’s face, Sam laughed. ‘Salsa?’

‘I was thinking more like a quiet drink, or maybe something to eat if you’re free?’

‘I’ve got no plans for this evening, and I’m starving,’ Sam replied promptly. ‘How about a curry? Or there’s an all-you-can-eat Chinese not far from here that’s not bad.’

‘Not bad?’ Geraldine echoed. ‘Is that the best London can offer?’

They ended up going to a small Indian restaurant close to the office. It was almost empty, but it was cheap and the food was surprisingly good.

‘How does the Met compare with Kent then?’ Sam asked. Something in her tone suggested she was confident Geraldine would be favourably impressed with London.

‘It’s different in some ways.’

Sam waited and Geraldine suppressed a smile at her sergeant’s childlike enthusiasm.

‘It’s less formal, which I like, but at the same time I get the impression a lot of officers don’t really know each other. In Kent I knew most of my colleagues, one way or another.’

‘It’s a much smaller force in Kent. The Met has about a fifth of the entire UK police force.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘But don’t you find it more exciting?’ Sam insisted.

‘London is, certainly,’ Geraldine agreed. ‘But as far as the investigation goes, murder is murder wherever you are.’

‘No talking about the case.’

Sam raised a reproachful eyebrow and Geraldine laughed.

‘Have you worked with the DCI before?’ Geraldine wanted to know.

‘No.’

‘What do you think of him?’

They agreed that Reg Milton seemed like a decent detective chief inspector, and gossiped briefly about the fellow officers they had both met. Geraldine held back from being frank about her colleagues, and suspected Sam was being similarly cautious. They didn’t yet know one another well enough to speak freely, and she approved of the sergeant’s discretion.

‘That was great,’ Geraldine said as they finished. ‘I didn’t realise how hungry I was.’

‘I’m always hungry. We could go for a drink?’ Sam suggested, but Geraldine excused herself. She wanted to do some more unpacking before she went to bed.

It was past ten when she reached home and put the kettle on before settling down to open a few more boxes. She wished she could be like her sergeant, who seemed happy to put the case out of her mind when she left work. It wasn’t necessarily helpful that Geraldine couldn’t stop thinking about Jessica Palmer’s battered face and disfigured right hand. At least now they knew the identity of the dead girl they should begin to make rapid progress. Tomorrow they would look into Jessica Palmer’s life before she started working at the Paradise Parlour, and track down the man Angie knew as Robert Stafford. Geraldine hoped that was his real name.

Her priority was to find Jessica Palmer’s killer. Until the case was resolved, she wouldn’t be free to pursue her investigation into her own past. She had already made up her mind she was going to return to the adoption agency and press them for more information about her birth mother. If they still refused to disclose her whereabouts, Geraldine was prepared to take matters into her own hands. She finished putting away her towels and bed linen and set to work on her books. She had decided to defer sorting them out until after the move, something she regretted now that the time had come. First she spread them out on the carpet so she could see the covers. Once they were out of their boxes she began putting them into alphabetical order before placing them on the bookshelf. It took a while but she kept going, determined to finish the task before going to bed.

Methodically she placed her books on the shelves, distracted by an image of the dead woman’s beaten and bruised face. If only it were possible to pigeonhole people as easily as books, rearranging them into a logical pattern that would help her find what she was looking for: a brutal killer concealed somewhere among the millions of people in London. Geraldine hoped Jessica’s death had been quick even though it had clearly been violent. She couldn’t help speculating about what Jessica Palmer had looked like before she had been beaten to death. The mug shot on the police files wasn’t particularly flattering and was several years out-of-date, but she must have been pretty despite her sullen expression.

The most unusual aspect of the case was that the killer had removed one of his victim’s fingers and two of her teeth, all probably after she was dead. The sensible explanation was that he had been trying to conceal her identity but, if that was the case, why hadn’t he just cut off both her hands? If he had been intending to remove all of her fingers, why had he left the task incomplete? He hadn’t even removed her clothes, which might easily yield forensic details. Had he been interrupted? Whichever way Geraldine considered it, the facts made no sense. She looked along her rows of books and sighed. Life was never simple but at least she had a competent and energetic sergeant. She still missed working with her previous sergeant, Ian Peterson. They had become friends, and she hoped Sam and she would develop a similar close relationship.

T
he next morning Geraldine received a call from the pathologist.

‘Inspector, it’s Dr Mann here, from the morgue. I hear you have an identity for the dead woman brought in on Sunday?’

‘Yes. She’s called Jessica Palmer, also known as Jessica Jones. She was last seen a few weeks ago, although no one seems sure exactly when she disappeared. We’ve contacted her mother who’s coming in tomorrow to make a formal identification, but we’ve got a positive match from her prints.’

‘Good. It’s always best to know who you’re dealing with.’

‘Exactly. Was there anything else?’

‘Yes, there is something you should know.’

He paused.

‘I told you we found some fibres in the dead woman’s hair and underneath her nails.’

‘Yes.’

‘We’ve got the results of the analysis. They were white cotton, most probably from a bed sheet. There were traces of blood on the fibres, but it isn’t the same blood group as the dead girl, Jessica Palmer.’

‘There was someone else’s blood on the fibres you took from her?’

‘Yes. It looks as though there was someone else’s blood on the sheets or pillows where Jessica was lying before she died.’

‘Can you tell how long it had been there?’

‘No. It was only a trace. It’s being tested for DNA but that will take a few more days.’

‘We need those results as soon as possible please.’

‘Yes, of course. It’s being treated as a priority. All I can tell you for certain is that it wasn’t Jessica’s blood.’

‘You’re absolutely sure of that?’

‘There’s no doubt about it. The blood group confirms it.’

Geraldine went to find Reg Milton and pass on the information she had received from the morgue.

‘The blood traces have been sent away for DNA analysis.’

‘Let’s not go jumping to conclusions, but there’s a good chance this will give us the identity of the killer,’ Reg Milton said, but he looked grave.

Neither of them voiced the equally likely possibility, that the blood could have come from a previous victim, indicating they might be looking for a serial killer.

Geraldine abandoned writing up her decision log and went to see how Sam was getting on tracking down people named Robert Stafford.

‘There are three possibilities living in the area. One near King’s Cross, one in Highbury, one at Arsenal.’

‘Right, we’ll start with those three then. Come on, let’s go and pay these Robert Staffords a visit,’ Geraldine said.

‘Here’s hoping we find the one we’re looking for.’

The first Robert Stafford they visited lived in an expensive new apartment block near King’s Cross station. The man who opened the door was young, slim and in his twenties, with untidy curly brown hair.

‘Robert Stafford?’

Geraldine held out her ID card.

‘That’s me. How can I help you, officer?’

He sounded friendly but his eyes were guarded.

‘Is there anyone else living here called Robert Stafford? Your father, perhaps?’

The young man looked amused.

‘You think I live here with my father? In a one bed flat? No.’ He laughed.

‘It’s just me, I’m afraid. My parents are in Northampton and my father’s name isn’t Robert. It’s Dennis.’

The second address was a small terraced house in Highbury. A tired looking woman opened the door.

‘Yes?’

Geraldine introduced herself and asked if Robert Stafford was in.

‘Robert? Yes. He’s here. Why? What’s he supposed to have done?’

‘We’d just like to ask him a few questions.’

‘Hang on. Robert! Robert!’

As soon as Robert Stafford appeared in the hallway Geraldine knew they were wasting their time. Short, wiry and black, he couldn’t have been less like the description of Jessica Palmer’s client.

The third Robert Stafford lived in a side street of terraced Victorian properties near the Emirates Football stadium, a short walk from Arsenal underground station. Geraldine rang the bell to number 2b, labelled Stafford. No one answered. She tried again then knocked loudly.

Finally a woman came to the door and peered out at them.

‘Bugger off or I’ll call the police.’

‘We are the police.’

Geraldine held out her warrant card.

‘What do you want?’

‘We’re looking for Robert Stafford.’

The woman’s worried expression relaxed slightly.

‘Upstairs. First floor.’

She started to close the door.

‘We tried his bell but he’s not answering. Do you know if he’s in?’

The neighbour shook her head.

‘I don’t know him, not really. I see him in the hall sometimes, that’s all. Why? What’s he done?’

‘We just want to ask him a few questions, that’s all. One more thing. Can you tell me what he looks like?’

The woman put her head on one side, thinking.

‘He’s a big bloke, you know, tall. And he always looks as if he’s sweating.’

Geraldine felt the skin on the back of her neck tingle.

‘He’s very pale, doesn’t look healthy, if you ask me.’

‘What about his hair?’

‘Dark brown, I think.’

Geraldine handed the woman a card.

‘Please call me straight away on this number if you see him come back. And don’t tell him we’ve been here looking for him. That’s very important.’

‘I knew it. He’s been up to something, hasn’t he?’

The woman snatched the card and started to close the door.

‘One more thing,’ Geraldine stopped her. ‘Have you ever seen Robert Stafford with a black woman?’

‘What?’

‘Have you seen a black woman with Robert Stafford?’

‘No. I’ve never seen him with anyone.’

‘Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’

The door slammed.

‘Why would Jessica Palmer have visited him here?’ Sam asked as they walked back to the road.

‘I wasn’t thinking of Jessica Palmer necessarily. What about the missing girl, Donna Henry?’

‘Do you think Jessica Palmer’s death and the other woman’s disappearance are connected then?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘Why? Because they’re both black?’

‘Because they’re both attractive young women in their twenties, who disappeared within a couple of miles of each other. Don’t you think they could be linked?’

‘I don’t see why. This is London. There are millions of people living here of all different ethnicities, all crammed together, and people are constantly moving on, leaving home, changing jobs, searching for a better life, or running away from something – it doesn’t mean anything’s happened to them.’

‘But two women vanishing so close together and at almost the same time, you don’t really think that can be coincidence, do you?’

‘I can’t see the connection. Donna’s a wealthy woman, Jessica’s a prostitute.’

‘The connection is that one of them is dead and the other one is missing.’

‘You’re in London now, Geraldine. People go missing all the time. There no reason to suspect Donna Henry’s been murdered.’

Geraldine wished she shared her sergeant’s optimism.

T
he busy main thoroughfare of Holloway Road was jammed with traffic in the middle of the day. Geraldine and Sam crawled from one set of red lights to the next while drivers revved and beeped their horns, motorbikes weaved between the cars, a siren screamed out from an invisible emergency vehicle, and pedestrians streamed along the dirty pavements. People scurrying in and out of Holloway Road station swerved to avoid one another like partners in an ungainly dance routine. They turned into a shabby side street and the tumult of traffic switched to a background hum. Not for the first time since her transfer to London, Geraldine was struck by the abrupt shifts of atmosphere in this city of contrasts.

The landlady occupied the ground floor of her grubby white house and let out the upstairs rooms. She opened the door and introduced herself as Mrs Benton.

‘This is my property,’ she told them firmly as though Geraldine had come to challenge her right to live there.

‘I’m afraid one of your tenants is dead.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

An expression of irritation crossed the landlady’s face; she was obviously thinking of her rent.

‘She was murdered,’ Geraldine added.

The landlady had the decency to look shocked.

Geraldine held out a photo.

‘Yes, that’s Jessica,’ Mrs Benton said. ‘She’s a quiet girl. Or she was, I suppose I should say. You’d hardly know she was there. I thought I hadn’t seen her lately but I never ask questions. As long as they don’t make a racket and the rent’s paid on time, it’s not my business what they get up to, is it? Sometimes they come home at night, sometimes they don’t. To be honest I prefer it when I don’t see them.’

‘Did Jessica ever have any visitors?’

‘No. Never.’

‘Does anyone else live here?’

‘Yes, I’ve got one other tenant lives upstairs, Ellie Oliver. Now she’s a respectable girl. Works at the post office.’

‘How long has she been living here?’

‘About a year.’

‘And Jessica?’

‘Almost six months.’

‘Is Ellie in?’

‘I think so.’

‘My sergeant will speak to you and Ellie Oliver while I take a look at Jessica’s room.’

‘It’s this way. I’ve got the key. I suppose it’s alright to go in?’

‘It’s quite alright, Mrs Benton. In fact it’s a necessary part of our investigation.’

‘Yes, yes. Of course.’

The landlady led Geraldine upstairs to a small bedroom which smelt of cheap perfume. The worn carpet was littered with pages torn from glossy fashion magazines showing models in glamorous evening gowns that contrasted starkly with the cheap, creased clothes hanging in a small wardrobe. The bed was a mess and a small chest of drawers was covered with a clutter of make-up, shampoo and bottles of nail polish.

‘I’m sorry it’s in such a state,’ the landlady burst out, flustered. ‘If I’d known she left the place looking like a tip I’d have tidied before you came up here.’

‘Please don’t touch anything,’ Geraldine replied sharply. ‘Leave everything exactly as it is. Thank you, Mrs Benton.’

The landlady dithered on the threshold as Geraldine pulled on her gloves.

‘Thank you,’ she repeated firmly.

‘Right. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.’

Mrs Benton turned away and Geraldine shut the door.

There was nothing in the room to link Jessica Palmer with anyone else, as though her life had passed in total isolation; no diary, no address book, no computer, not even a phone. In the top drawer of the chest Geraldine found a handful of small photographs of the victim. In one of them Jessica was wearing a pastel green off-the-shoulder evening gown that looked too large for her thin frame, the pale colour stunning against her dark skin. Around her neck she wore a star shaped pendant with one blunt point where a tip had snapped off. The other pictures showed her in different outfits, dresses, jeans and t-shirts. Her hair was short and frizzy or long and sleek, different in each picture. The only common feature was her thin face and the chain with the broken star which she wore around her neck.

Geraldine slipped the photograph with the pale green dress into her pocket and continued searching. The dress itself was hanging in the wardrobe along with a grubby pink gown and a short black frock. The drawers were stuffed with underwear, clean and unwashed seemingly thrown in together. In one drawer Geraldine discovered a small red velvet jewellery case containing a collection of cheap silver rings, a necklace of fake pearls and strings of tiny colourful glass beads, but no chain with a broken star pendant. A small block of cannabis had been stashed at the back of the drawer beneath a pile of knickers, and there was a half empty bottle of cheap vodka under the bed.

The other tenant had not been able to give Sam any useful information.

‘We passed each other on the landing,’ she’d said, ‘but I didn’t know her. We didn’t really speak to each other. It’s best not to get too friendly with neighbours, I think. Once you start, you never get rid of them.’

Geraldine had an uneasy feeling she had overlooked something important as they left but then her phone rang and she forgot about Jessica Palmer’s room. The surveillance team watching Robert Stafford’s flat was on the line.

‘He’s here, ma’am.’

‘Are you sure it’s him?’

‘Looks like it. A tall dark-haired bloke just entered the premises using a key. He’s inside now.’

‘I’m on my way. Don’t do anything unless he tries to leave in which case detain him.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Geraldine and Sam drove straight to Arsenal. On the way Geraldine made a quick call to the station to check with a constable who had been looking into Robert Stafford’s background and learned that as a teenager he had been a member of the National Front. She told Sam who agreed that the information might have a bearing on the case.

‘He was only a member for six months,’ Geraldine said. ‘And he did go to Jessica Palmer regularly for massage, but even so … It’s certainly interesting.’

When they arrived the surveillance officer confirmed what he had told her on the phone. The suspect was still there.

‘Watch the front. Is there a constable at the back?’

‘A car, yes ma’am. I called for back-up while you were on your way, just in case.’

‘Good.’

Geraldine hurried up the path with Sam at her heels and a moment later Robert Stafford opened the door in response to her knocking. He studied Geraldine’s ID card with apparent interest.

‘You know, I thought about joining you people once.’

He smiled at her, his face greasy with sweat.

‘I could have been drawing a nice pension by now.’

He let out an exaggerated sigh.

‘But what can I do for you two lovely ladies?’

Beside her, Geraldine heard Sam sniff disapprovingly.

‘You are Robert Stafford?’

‘Yes. What’s this about, Inspector?’

Geraldine held out the photograph of Jessica Palmer she had taken from the dead woman’s room.

‘You know this woman?’

‘Er, yes, I do,’ he replied, evasive now. ‘She works at a massage parlour I sometimes visit. But I wouldn’t say I know her, exactly.’

‘Her name’s Jessica.’

He nodded.

‘You saw her regularly at the Paradise Parlour near Archway.’

‘I did, yes, for a while.’

‘And you stopped going there a few weeks ago.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Why did you stop going there?’

‘That’s not a crime, is it?’

He smiled half-heartedly.

‘Just answer the question, Mr Stafford.’

He shrugged.

‘No reason. I went there because my back was playing up. It’s an old rugby injury that bothers me from time to time. I’m not getting any younger.’

He pulled a face.

‘I stopped going because my back was feeling better. No point in paying for treatment when you don’t need it any more, is there? Look, inspector, what’s this all about? Has she been complaining about me? Because I can tell you right now I never so much as touched the girl. And I paid in full, every time.’

He paused, and looked at Geraldine.

‘Has something happened?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Well, let’s see. The two of you take the time to come here and show me a picture of this girl. It’s not rocket science, is it? What’s happened then? What’s she been saying about me? Because I assure you, whatever it is, she’s lying. I never laid a finger on her.’

‘We’d like you to accompany us to the station, Mr Stafford. We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

Robert Stafford’s face had changed. He looked paler than before and was sweating profusely. He went to close the door but Geraldine was too fast for him. As she slammed the door open and leaned the flat of her hand against it, he barged past her and leapt down the front steps. Sam moved to block the path and squared up to Stafford, who hesitated long enough for Geraldine to seize his wrists and cuff him. Geraldine was surprised that, although quite short, Sam held herself with a physical confidence capable of halting a man like Stafford in his tracks. The sergeant didn’t appear in the least fazed by the encounter while Stafford groaned and complained loudly about police brutality as Sam grabbed his elbow and propelled him towards the car.

‘No need to break my bloody arm,’ he grumbled.

On the point of arresting him, Geraldine heard herself say instead, ‘We need you to come with us to the station to answer some questions.’

She couldn’t have said why, but she wasn’t convinced he was the man they wanted after all.

‘Even though he so obviously resisted arrest?’ Reg Milton asked her, when she voiced her reservations later on.

‘We need to search his flat, sir.’

‘Looking for what exactly? A journal where he confesses to murdering Jessica Palmer?’

‘No, sir. We need to find a star shaped pendant with one piece missing.’

She showed the detective chief inspector a photograph of Jessica Palmer and explained that the victim had been wearing the same chain in every picture found in her flat.

‘But it wasn’t on the body and it wasn’t in her room. So I wonder if her killer kept it.’

‘As a trophy you mean?’

‘It’s possible, sir.’

The detective chief inspector looked sceptical.

‘What about her missing teeth? Wasn’t it your assertion that the killer had taken them as trophies? Just because something’s missing doesn’t make it significant. People lose things all the time.’

Nevertheless he agreed to arrange the search Geraldine had requested.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘My name’s Reg,’ he reminded her, smiling.

‘Yes, sir – Reg.’

It felt strange addressing her senior officer by his first name, but she didn’t want to be regarded as a county mounty.

‘I don’t think I could’ve have stood up to Stafford the way you did. He’s a big bloke,’ Geraldine said to Sam when she saw her later on.

Sam laughed.

‘That’s nothing. You should see my ninjutsu instructor.’

‘Ninjutsu? Like jujitsu?’

‘Yes. It’s a form of Japanese martial art.’

‘I see. So you were about to toss Robert Stafford over your shoulder when I stepped in and cramped your style by cuffing him?’ Geraldine grinned and Sam chuckled.

‘Something like that, only I didn’t want to hurt the poor man! I’m not joking, Geraldine. I’ve been training for ten years.’

Geraldine wasn’t convinced the sergeant would have got the better of a man like Stafford if she hadn’t caught him off guard. She hoped Sam wasn’t going to court danger by overestimating her own physical prowess. But there was something about the way he had caved in to the sergeant that seemed to confirm Geraldine’s suspicion that Stafford wasn’t a brutal killer.