Eye Contact (7 page)

‘What about the tides?’ Firth asked. ‘Wouldn’t they have moved the body?’

Harland got to his feet and pointed at the reeds.

‘These clumps may have done enough to keep her in one place,’ he mused, ‘and we’re far enough up the beach to avoid the worst of the waves.’

‘But not far enough to have preserved much evidence.’

‘True,’ Harland admitted. He took one last look, then turned to find Firth watching him, her expression unreadable before she quickly looked away. He stared at her for a moment, then dismissed the thought and began stepping awkwardly across the mud. ‘Let’s see what the SOCOs find when they lift her.’

He walked back onto the shingle and tried to scuff his shoes clean.

‘Now, tell me about this dog walker . . .’

There was an air of hushed expectancy in the station briefing room at Portishead, and everyone looked up as Harland walked in, his phone ringing as he tried to fish it out of his pocket. PC Firth warmed her hands on a large mug of tea and smiled to herself, her eyes following Harland as he studied the name on the screen then turned away from them slightly, speaking quietly into his phone.

‘Can I call you back?’ he frowned. ‘Great, thanks.’

Ending the call, he turned back towards them, careful fingers pushing the hair from his forehead as his eyes flickered up to sweep the room.

‘Phones on silent everyone,’ he sighed, sinking into his chair.

DS Mendel was sitting across from him, studying a report. His broad frame loomed over the pages spread before him, the fingers of his free hand drumming softly on the table. He’d been busy this week, with DS Pope away on holiday, and things looked like they were about to get busier still.

‘Right then.’ Harland muted his phone and slipped it back into his pocket before addressing the room. ‘James, perhaps you can get us started.’

Mendel looked up from his papers and cleared his throat.

‘Thanks, sir. The body was discovered by a Derek Wells – local dog walker – who found her sometime after six. He phoned it in at six twenty-seven a.m. and the area car was on the scene about twenty minutes later, right Sue?’

‘Yes,’ Firth confirmed. ‘We were there about quarter to seven.’

‘PC Gregg took an initial statement from Mr Wells, and I’ve since interviewed him. He’s a bit spooked but everything he says seems to stack up . . .’ Mendel glanced across at Harland, who nodded in silent agreement. Derek Wells had been on the verge of going into shock when they’d spoken to him, but there was nothing in his demeanour to suggest he was involved.

‘So, we’ll want to take a look at him, but I really wouldn’t peg him as a likely candidate,’ Mendel concluded. He rubbed his square jaw with a large hand. ‘Moving on to the victim, we still need to arrange a formal ID but we’ve unofficially identified her as Vicky Sutherland. Single, twenty-eight years old, office administrator for some interior design firm in Bristol. She lived in one of those cul-de-sacs just back from the beach . . .’ He consulted his notes for the street name. ‘Riverside Park, isn’t it?’

He glanced at Gregg, who nodded.

‘We’re pretty sure she lived alone,’ Mendel continued. ‘Certainly nobody’s reported her missing and she’s been dead for a couple of days.’

PC Gregg stood up and carefully refilled his glass from a large bottle of water on a side table.

‘How
did
we identify her in the end?’ he asked.

‘Supermarket loyalty card on her key chain,’ Harland explained. ‘One of those little key-fob ones. She didn’t have any other ID on her – that’s to be expected if she was out for a run when it happened – but she would have needed door keys, particularly if there was nobody at home to let her in.’

‘Her going for a run certainly fits with what she was wearing: white T-shirt, blue shorts, decent trainers . . .’ Mendel turned a page and read on. ‘Preliminary medical report shows no water in her lungs, so she didn’t drown. Cause of death looks like strangulation and the marks on her throat are consistent with it. No evidence of a rope or anything else being used, so chances are our killer did it with his hands. Some other bruising to her abdomen and arms – no evidence of sexual assault.’

‘Any hope of getting prints?’ Gregg asked.

‘Maybe, but I doubt we’ll be that lucky.’ Mendel sighed. ‘And the tide partially submerged the body at least twice, which won’t have helped. No footprints, either.’

There was a pause as the room took this in. Harland leaned back against his chair, a distant expression on his face.

‘Sir?’ Firth asked. ‘Any signs of a boyfriend at her house? Strangulation often has a personal or sexual connection.’

‘Good point,’ Harland agreed. ‘We’ve got people going over the place now, but I’ve not heard anything yet. I’ll chase them.’

Firth smiled. Mendel turned another page and looked up.

‘Very little in the way of personal effects,’ he noted. ‘She had her keys, as we’ve mentioned, but nothing else on her person. The SOCOs found bits of broken watch when they lifted her. It’s a sports one – assuming it’s hers, she may have been using it to time herself running.’

‘One more thing on that.’ Harland looked up at them. ‘When they lifted the body, they found fragments
underneath
her. There were other bits in the mud around the scene – all unweathered – so it’s possible they were left there at the same time as she was.’

He rubbed his eyes, suddenly weary, before continuing.

‘The pieces that we’ve recovered so far have all been very small, and there’s been a few of them. If this
was
her watch, then it didn’t just fall and get broken – it appears to have been deliberately smashed.’

‘That’s all I’ve got here.’ Mendel shrugged. He stacked his papers together and reached for his coffee, scowling when he found it had gone cold.

‘What about CCTV?’ Harland asked Firth.

‘We’ve retrieved everything we can for now,’ she explained. ‘Coverage round there is far from comprehensive but we’ll work through it and see if anything jumps out.’

‘All right.’ Harland got to his feet again and walked slowly over to the window. ‘Let’s start pulling together a picture of who our victim was. Friends, family, co-workers. We particularly want to know about any relationships she might have been having, or anything else of a personal nature that could fit with strangulation as a cause of death.’

He turned to face them and offered a thin smile. ‘That’s all for now. Thanks.’

There was a general scraping of chairs as everyone stood up and made their way out of the room. Harland remained, staring out into the street with unseeing eyes.

A violent murder – without the usual tiresome hallmarks of drugs, gangs or deprivation – and it had fallen to him. Deep inside, he felt a quiet euphoria that he didn’t like.

The call, when it came, was as unwelcome as it was predictable. The momentum and energy of a developing case was like the warming glow that came from physical exercise – an endorphin rush that masked all former pains while it lasted. Interrupting this state made the summons even more frustrating, but Harland faced it with a resigned stillness. Dealing with superiors was like holding your breath underwater – struggling only made it worse. Wearily, he stood up and made his way out into the corridor.

Superintendent Alasdair Blake was a small, fastidious man, with prematurely white hair and rimless glasses. His usual expression was one of mild disapproval, etched deep into his face over the years, and he sat stiffly as he studied the report.

‘Yes,’ he called in answer to the knock on the door, and looked up to greet Harland with a doubtful smile. ‘Come in, Graham. Take a chair.’

Blake had never felt quite at ease with Harland. Even now, watching him enter the room and sit down, something just didn’t seem
right
about the man. Nothing wrong with his work, certainly. He was diligent and clever, a good combination in any career officer. Well presented and well spoken. But why had he, of all people, stopped chasing promotion? Maybe the death of his wife had somehow robbed him of ambition, but that
was
a year ago now . . . Whatever it was, Blake didn’t want it getting in the way of this case.

‘I’ve read your report,’ he began, indicating the pages in front of him. ‘Sounds like we were fortunate to find the body when we did.’

‘That’s right,’ Harland nodded. ‘The consensus is that she was either killed there or dumped there. We’re almost certain that she wasn’t washed-up or moved by the tides – the condition of the body looks too good for that. And if we’re lucky, it means we might even have a small area of the crime scene that wasn’t disturbed by the water.’

‘Really?’ Blake looked up. ‘I thought the whole area was submerged.’

‘It was, but not underneath the body,’ Harland explained. ‘She was lying face down, and the tide seems to have washed right over her. The ground directly below her might be very significant.’

‘Where you found the fragments from a watch?’

‘Exactly. And Forensics think they might get something off the front of her clothing where it was protected by the mud.’

Blake sat back in his chair, nodding thoughtfully as he reread the report. The wall behind him, like the rest of his office, was bare and impersonal, save for three large certificates in matching cheap plastic frames.

‘Strangulation,’ he noted after a moment. ‘I assume you’re checking for boyfriends?’

‘Yes, and we’re going through the database to see if there are any locals with a profile that fits.’

Blake studied him for a moment.

‘I’m glad you’re on this, Graham,’ he said. ‘It’s a nasty business, and practically on our doorstep. We really need to get a result on this one.’

Harland recognised the tone of voice and sat quietly, knowing what was coming. His face remained impassive as he withdrew into himself, away from the meaningless pep talk.

‘I mean,’ Blake was saying, ‘a brutal murder, just a couple of miles down the road from headquarters . . .’

He placed the report on his desk and tapped it meaningfully.

‘This will attract a lot of interest from upstairs, so we have to resolve it quickly and cleanly.’

For a moment, Harland’s distaste flickered across his face, but he got hold of it.
Too close to headquarters.
Pity the tide hadn’t dragged her corpse a bit further along the damned coast.

‘Of course,’ he said, then added, ‘sir.’

Blake caught his eye, misreading the expression. Had this woman’s death stirred up painful memories? Hopefully not. He didn’t want someone who wouldn’t be able to see the job through . . .

‘Everything all right?’ he asked, reluctantly adding, ‘Personally, that is?’

An empty smile creased Harland’s mouth.

‘Everything’s fine, sir.’

‘Good,’ Blake said quickly, relieved not to have to explore any awkward territory. ‘Well, I’ll be expecting regular updates on this. And do let me know if there’s anything I can do to help move things along.’

Harland got to his feet.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I will.’

He opened the door to leave. Behind him, Blake tapped the report again.

‘Quickly and cleanly, Graham.’

Mendel was waiting for him outside the interview room. Harland looked up at the flickering fluorescent light that disturbed the stillness of the empty corridor.

‘So who is she?’ he asked, nodding towards the door.

‘Claire Downing, victim’s best friend,’ Mendel replied. ‘I’ve been over the basics with her but when I heard you were here I thought you might want to sit in for a few minutes.’

‘Thanks,’ said Harland. ‘How’s she doing?’

Mendel shrugged. ‘A bit emotional, but nothing serious.’

‘Did you ask about boyfriends?’

‘I thought
you
might want to do that.’

‘Fine.’

Harland opened the door and walked into the cramped little room. Claire was sitting at the small table – late twenties, red hair in a bob, a blue jacket that looked a size too tight for her build. He made himself smile as she stared up at him, and extended his hand.

‘Good afternoon, Claire. I’m Detective Inspector Harland.’

‘Hi.’ She took his hand uncertainly and shook it.

‘We appreciate you taking the time to come over.’ He noticed the cup of tea, untouched, on the table in front of her. ‘Did you want another drink?’

‘No, I’m fine thanks.’

Harland sat down next to Mendel.

‘So, my sergeant tells me that you and Vicky knew each other well?’

Claire’s expression softened and she looked down.

‘Yeah, that’s right.’ She was gently twisting the strap of her handbag around her fingers. ‘We used to share a house together in Montpelier.’

‘Really?’ There was no hurry. Allow her to settle into the conversation with something comfortable. The past was an easier place to begin.

‘It was in Purton Road. One of the old houses with massive high ceilings . . .’ A faint smile as she recalled it. ‘We were only there eighteen months but we’ve been mates for ages.’

‘When did you meet?’

‘Six or seven years ago. I’d signed up for this dance class and she started the same night as me. We got on really well right from the beginning.’

‘But it was a while before you actually shared a place together?’

‘Yeah. We talked about it loads of times before we actually did it.’

‘When did she move out of Purton Road?’

‘Oh, that was about . . .’ Claire considered for a moment, then shook her head in mild surprise. ‘It must be almost two years ago now. Doesn’t seem that long . . .’

Harland gave an understanding nod.

‘And then did she move in with a boyfriend or . . .?’ He left it hanging.

‘No, it was her mum.’ Claire raised her head. ‘The place in Severn Beach belonged to Vicky’s mum and she left it to her when she died. It was really sad. Cancer.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘Yeah, her mum wasn’t even that old. Vicky was ever so good with her, looking after her and all that . . .
and
she was doing the marathon this year, raising money for breast cancer . . .’