Frozen (14 page)

Megan sat bolt upright.
Elizabeth who?
She couldn't remember Neil ever having mentioned an Elizabeth working in the newsroom. But then again, she reasoned, BTV was known for its short contracts and high turnover of staff. She wouldn't have recognised the chap reading the bulletin if she hadn't seen him at the press conference.

Her mind raced. What should she do when Neil arrived home? Ask him outright if he'd spent the evening in bed with one of his colleagues?

Megan's train of thought was derailed by the sudden sight of her own face filling the television screen. She stared, open mouthed, in total bewilderment until the voice of the continuity announcer kicked in.

It was a trailer for the documentary BTV was screening next week. How cunning of them to show it straight after the news. Someone in the newsroom obviously suspected that she was involved in the Tina Jackson case.

Those sly words of Leverton's suddenly played back in her brain:
‘Long, black hair, olive skin, age between thirty and forty – that's you, Megan. You'd better be careful.'

A horrifying image was forming inside her head: the killer, sitting on a sofa watching television; savouring the news and then catching sight of her face seconds later.

‘Stop it!' she said out loud. ‘Stop being so bloody paranoid!' The memory of the maggot-covered chicken flashed into her mind and she began to panic at the thought of going home. She could stay here, couldn't she? No. She mustn't give in to it. She mustn't let this case get to her.

*   *   *

The man was struggling. His fingers were almost numb with cold. She was big, this one. Taller than the others and heavier, too. He lay her down in the snow. She was stiff as a board. The only thing that was still soft was her hair. It trailed across the ground like dirty cobwebs as he pulled her along.

The boot was open ready for its cargo. Panting with effort he shoved her in. Christ, she was too long! The legs were sticking out at least six inches.

Cursing, he dragged her back to the shed. It didn't take long to find the axe, but he hovered in the doorway, hiding it behind his back, making sure he couldn't be seen. He told himself not to be so stupid. Who on earth could be watching?

By the time he reached the dump site he was much warmer. The chopping had thawed his fingers and the car's heater had eased the stiffness in his legs. He opened the car door. On the other side of the wall he could hear Christmas revellers spilling out of a pub. He thought of the bottle of single malt whisky waiting in the kitchen cupboard at home. Get it over with, he thought. At least there wasn't any blood; not this time.

*   *   *

Megan jumped when she heard the door opening.

‘Hi Meg! Sorry, did I wake you up?' Neil looked flushed and his eyes were brighter than usual.

‘It's okay.' Megan peered at her watch. She'd been sitting with her eyes closed, thinking about Delva. She hadn't meant to doze off.

‘Sorry I'm late – it went on longer than I thought.'

‘Where was it you went?' She tried to make her voice sound casual.

‘Oh, just an office do.' He turned away from her as he spoke, going back into the hall to hang up his jacket. ‘I didn't really want to go but I had to,' he called from the cloakroom. ‘Internal politics and all that – you know.'

When he returned he was carrying Megan's coat and scarf. ‘I was hoping to just show my face and make a quick getaway,' he smiled, ‘but I got collared by the Head of Current Affairs – what a bore! Anyway, at least the food was good.'

Megan took her coat, floored by Neil's easy, open manner. She needed time to think before making the accusations she had been storing up for his return.

‘Did you manage to get Emily to bed all right?'

‘Oh yes, she was fine.'
She told me you were going to Elizabeth's.
The words drummed inside Megan's head but she wouldn't allow herself to say them. ‘By the way, who's looking after her tomorrow? Are you back at work?'

‘No. They've given me another day off – compassionate leave – so I'll be able to look after her.'

Neil stood in the doorway waving as she drove off. The digital clock on the dashboard flicked to midnight. Where had he been? She glided along deserted roads onto the M54, skirting Wolverhampton on her way back home. Even with the snow it would only take three quarters of an hour. If he had made the same journey he could have spent nearly two hours in Birmingham before tearing himself away.

She was annoyed with herself for not confronting him. He'd charmed his way out of it the way he always did. Always so plausible, so persuasive.

She thought of Delva. If Neil was involved with someone at BTV, surely that meant he couldn't be the one sending those letters? She pulled into a lay-by and punched out Leverton's number on her mobile. She had to know what had happened.

‘Martin – any news?'

‘Nothing.' He sounded tired.

‘Where are you?'

‘Outside Miss Lobelo's house. She's gone to bed.'

‘No sign of anyone?'

‘Not a dicky bird. We followed her home and we'll be keeping her under surveillance for the next 24 hours. She's going to work as normal tomorrow and we'll keep an eye on things there.'

Megan sat thinking about what he'd said. If the pervert hadn't shown, what was the point of it? Just a stupid hoax or something more sinister? What was he doing while all those police officers were watching Delva?'

She started the engine. Huge flakes of snow were falling on the windscreen and she flicked on the wipers. As she pulled out of the layby a car's headlights flashed in the mirror. She frowned. It must have been parked behind her. It was hard to make out anything in the snow. She couldn't even tell if there was anyone in the passenger seat.

She turned off the Hagley Road and headed towards Harborne. The car followed. What was it? A BMW? She strained her eyes in the darkness but it was impossible to make it out. Get a grip, she thought, it's probably some couple who pulled over for a quickie.

Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. AB was a stalker. Someone who had been cruising the red light district the night Tina was on the soup run. He had followed her home. He followed women. My God, she thought, what if he's following me?

She swerved left without indicating, turning into the street before her own. Her car skidded slightly. She glanced in the mirror and breathed a sigh of relief as the other car drove on down Harborne High Street.

As soon as she'd let herself in she went round the house checking. The shells, the fridge, the bedroom window. Everything was as she had left it. She made herself a mug of hot chocolate and poured a slug of brandy into it. What she needed was a good night's sleep.

*   *   *

She was in bed when the car came back. She didn't hear the sound of the engine as it pulled up a few yards from her house.

The driver sat for a while, staring up at her bedroom window. Then he got out and walked through the dirty snow to her front door. Taking something from his coat pocket he reached forward. He paused. Changing his mind, he replaced the object and went back to the car.

Chapter 10

Sergeant Donalsen was eating his breakfast when the phone rang. He laid the half-eaten bacon sandwich on his desk and grabbed the receiver.

‘Rob?'

It was Martin Leverton. Donalsen's greasy hand tightened and the phone jumped like a slippery fish, somersaulting to the floor with a crash.

‘Sorry, sir,' he mumbled, grasping the receiver with both hands this time. ‘Phone slipped.'

‘I'm coming down for that list. Is it ready?'

‘Er, yes, sir. I've just got to run it through the photocopier.'

‘Right. I'll be down in two minutes.'

Donalsen swore as he rummaged through his in-tray. He pulled out the list of names, smearing it with greasy thumb prints.

By the time Leverton walked through the door Donalsen was stuffing the remains of his breakfast into his mouth. The photocopied list was lying on the desk but Leverton didn't look at it. Instead he shoved something under Donalsen's nose. Donalsen took one look and almost choked.

Leverton let the photograph drop onto the desk. The image of the naked woman with the butterfly tattoo on her breast swam accusingly before Donalsen's eyes. Leverton was studying his reaction.

‘One of yours, is she?'

Donalsen swallowed hard and looked down at the desk, desperate to avoid Leverton's eyes. It was as if he knew. The way he phrased that question – had it been deliberate?

He began fumbling in his desk to cover his confusion. ‘She might be, sir,' he said, trying to make his voice sound casual. ‘If you can give me half an hour I'll look through the files and check it out. What's she been done for – drugs, is it?'

‘Oh no,' Leverton sneered. ‘It's something much more serious than that – and if we don't get an ID on her by this afternoon I'll have to cancel your Christmas leave!'

He snatched the list of names from under Donalsen's elbow. ‘These the pimps?'

‘Yes, sir,' Donalsen replied through clenched teeth.

‘Convicted or suspected?'

‘The ones above the black line are convicted; the ones below are cases where the tom dropped the charges before it got to court.' Donalsen addressed this information to the fluorescent light on the ceiling, still refusing to meet Leverton's accusing glare.

‘Don't get insolent with me, Rob.' Leverton's voice dropped to a barely audible growl. ‘You may be leaving this office in the New Year but for the next ten days you're still head of Vice. So bugger the bloody files. Get your fat arse out onto the beat and find out who this poor cow is, will you?'

‘Yes sir.' Donalsen stared at the desk, stony-faced. Then he remembered something. ‘PC Costello's back on duty this afternoon, sir. He'll know straight off if she's one of ours.' His eyes darted up at Leverton, hoping to win him over, but the look he met was withering.

‘Don't be lazy, Rob, or I might start getting
really
angry.' Leverton swept out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

*   *   *

David Simon groaned and buried his face in the pillow. It was still dark outside.

‘Mother, it's only seven o'clock,' he said, hearing the clunk as she placed a teacup on his bedside table.

‘I know that.' She snapped on the light. ‘We need to make an early start. The traffic will be awful if we leave any later than seven-thirty.'

‘But I wasn't planning to go into Birmingham today.' He sat up, rubbing his eyes. ‘Most of the staff at BTV finished for Christmas yesterday. The place can run itself. Anyway –' he reached across for his tea – ‘I thought you'd done your Christmas shopping.'

‘I have. Most of it.' She glanced in the mirror, patting her hair. ‘But I want something nice to wear on Christmas Day.' She opened his wardrobe, pulling out clothes and tossing them onto the bed. ‘And I've still got to get something for Franco. We can't have him to dinner and not give him a present.'

‘Don't suppose he'd notice either way,' he grumbled, pulling on the silk shirt, trousers and sweater his mother had selected.

‘Of course he would notice. Anyway, I want you to take me to lunch at that nice place off Corporation Street.'

‘Not the one that charges ten quid for a cucumber sandwich and a glass of fizzy water?'

His mother glared at him. ‘How dare you moan about taking me out for lunch when you're rubbing shoulders with those television people all day long. Don't you think I want a bit of glamour in my life too?'

By the time they reached the centre of Birmingham, it was snowing again. The Mercedes turned off Broad Street down to the canal basin, past the bobbing narrow boats in their blankets of white.

The BTV car park was deserted. His mother frowned as they drove past rows of empty spaces.

‘Where are you going?'

‘Round the back. There's a covered loading bay. Don't want to come back to find the car under a foot of snow, do I?'

She took a lipstick and a compact from her handbag, examining her make-up as they drew to a halt. ‘Can we cut through the building to the shops? I'll ruin my shoes if I have to traipse back through this snow.'

‘Yes, mother. Now can you get out and guide me in? Don't worry, you won't get your feet wet!'

Gingerly she opened the car door, stepping onto the tarmac of the loading bay. A sudden gust of wind sent snowflakes swirling under the canopy into her face. Turning her head away, she caught sight of something that stopped her in her tracks. She screamed.

David Simon leapt from the car as his mother staggered towards it.

She pointed to a skip wedged between the outside edge of the loading bay and the car park wall. The first thing he saw was the legs, or what was left of them. From the butchered stumps of the calves, his eye travelled along the naked body. Lying on her back among broken slabs of concrete, the woman's head hung over the edge of the skip. Long black hair moved limply in the breeze and the snow fell like confetti on her upturned face and breasts.

Unable to stop himself, he moved closer. The crunch of his shoes in the snow seemed deafeningly loud. Now he could see her face.

‘David!'

He spun round. His mother, ashen-faced, was slumped against the boot of the car.

*   *   *

Megan was wedging a large frozen turkey into a shopping trolley when her mobile rang. She steered into a relatively private spot behind a display of Christmas crackers before answering.

‘Hello?' She had to shout above the noise of the hordes of other shoppers crowding the aisles on either side.

‘Megan? It's Martin. Where are you?'

‘Safeway! Sorry, can you hear me?'