Frozen (3 page)

‘What about PC Costello? He seems to have covered quite a lot of ground since Natalie's body was identified. I mean, considering he's so young.'

‘Oh yes – the Boy Wonder!' Leverton laughed. ‘He's not as young as he looks. He's in his mid-twenties and he's got a kid – little boy, I think. Anyway, I admit I'll be sorry to see him off this case – he's very keen and the girls seem to open up to him.'

Megan could understand why. She took the photographs Leverton passed across the desk and studied them while he went through the forensic report on Donna Fieldhouse.

Her body had been discovered within hours of her death, but the body dump site was not the scene of the murder. She must have been killed elsewhere, probably in a house, because of the carpet fibres found on her heels and the backs of her legs. The cause of death was heavy blood loss – Donna had had her throat cut, the deep wound clearly visible in the scene-of-crime photograph Megan held in her hand.

It was a chilling picture. Donna's killer had stuffed her naked body into a black wheelie bin, feet first.

Either he'd been in a terrific hurry or he wasn't concerned about concealing his crime, because he hadn't troubled to push the body down. Her bare, blood-streaked shoulders were exposed, her head lolling back against a wooden fence that ran the length of the car park he had chosen for a graveyard.

The next photograph showed Donna lying face up in the mortuary. The pathologist had yet to make the ‘Y' incision that would further violate her young body. Apart from the appalling crimson slash across her neck, some smaller, shallower cuts were just visible on her lower arms and shoulders.

‘The pathologist thinks there was a struggle,' said Leverton. ‘The smaller cuts were made by a knife, he reckons, so it looks as if Donna tried to fend off her attacker before he finally cut her throat. There were no fibres in the wounds, so she was naked or partially clothed when the attack began. The fibres on the heels and the backs of the legs suggest that she was dragged across a carpet before being transported to the dump site.'

‘What about her fingernails?' Megan asked. ‘If there was a struggle she might have scratched him – was there any blood there?'

‘No, there was nothing under the nails at all – they were as clean as if she'd just stepped out of the bath.'

Megan tried to imagine how it had happened. Maybe Donna
had
been in the bath or shower. She pictured the naked girl, her wet curls clinging to her head as she reached for a towel. Was it someone she knew, then? Someone with whom she'd willingly had sex before he turned on her?

Leverton picked up the post mortem file on Natalie Bailey and handed Megan a second batch of photographs. The first picture simply showed a black bundle lying beside a grass verge.

‘As you know, Natalie was found in a layby off the M6. It was about five miles south of Stafford and roughly fifteen miles north of Wolverhampton. She was wrapped in a couple of black binliners, but again, no real effort to conceal the body. She'd been dead for approximately twelve hours when she was discovered.'

Megan stared at the photograph. What sort of person had done this? Two girls, hardly more than children, dumped like so much rubbish. ‘What about the cause of death?' she asked. ‘It was different to Donna, wasn't it?'

‘Yes. Strangulation this time – manual, not with a ligature. The pattern of the bruises on the throat suggests that she was strangled from behind.'

Megan studied the second photograph. Natalie looked like a naked white angel, her spiky blonde hair a halo around the lifeless head. The photograph had been taken before the bruising had come out. The third photo, taken the following day, showed purple marks like lovebites on her throat.

A fourth photo showed a close-up of Natalie's wrists, both of which bore red weals. ‘What are these marks on her wrists?' Megan looked up at Leverton, who was leaning across the desk, peering at the upside-down image.

‘Handcuffs or wire, the pathologist says. The marks are very recent, so he reckons Natalie was restrained shortly before she died or while she was being killed.'

Megan shuffled through the photographs. ‘Donna didn't have marks like this, did she?'

‘No – just the cuts on the shoulders and arms, which were made by a knife.'

‘You know, if you hadn't told me about the DNA match between those two semen samples I would have sworn these girls were killed by two different men.' She tried to think through the possibilities, resisting jumping to conclusions. She laid the photos down on the desk and stared at Leverton for a few moments before continuing, but he stayed quiet, eager to hear what she had to say.

‘To me, the motivation for Donna's murder is very different from Natalie's.' She pursed her lips. ‘The way Donna died suggests a straightforward fight. Maybe with a pimp. We know she was a crack addict, so the chances are he was too, and we both know how aggressive crack-addicted males can get. Perhaps they had a row that went to far.' Megan frowned. ‘She was pregnant. Maybe he'd just found out and didn't like it.'

Leverton nodded slowly. ‘And Natalie?'

‘Natalie's death is much more sinister. She was penetrated anally and handcuffed or tied up. She was strangled from behind, so perhaps the killer was the man who had anal sex with her? It sounds very much like rape.' Megan swallowed. There was a time when she had been unable to say that word without her stomach churning. ‘After all,' she went on, ‘Natalie was no crackhead. She'd only just started on the game and she was young and pretty enough to be choosy about what she did for punters.'

Leverton frowned. ‘But the DNA evidence?'

‘I know. It just doesn't fit. Unless, of course, the man who had vaginal sex with both Donna and Natalie on the day they died was not involved with their deaths – and that's pushing the limits of credibility a bit far, isn't it?'

Leverton sighed and sat back in his chair. ‘The problem for us is this guy's DNA doesn't match anything on our database. We picked up one good fingerprint from Natalie's body but it doesn't tally with anything we've got on file. We've got literally nothing to go on.'

Megan felt uneasy. She wasn't sure he was being straight with her. She decided to face him. ‘You're asking me to come up with a profile?'

Leverton nodded.

‘Why? I mean dead prostitutes aren't going to get Joe Public howling for retribution.' She watched him. His eyes immediately flicked down to the desk. ‘Martin, I hope you wouldn't think of using me in some private battle with one of your colleagues…'

The sound of him drawing in his breath was almost imperceptible. He looked back at her, eyes unwavering this time.

‘Of course not.' He paused just long enough to make Megan feel uncomfortable. ‘Will you trust me on this one? I can't say exactly why I've asked for your help. All I can say is that I need a completely independent, unbiased view of what sort of man committed these murders. Will you help me?'

Megan's eyes narrowed as he held her gaze. So, she thought, this is all about police corruption. Who's he after? A cop who murders prostitutes? A cop in a pimp's pocket?

She felt a nudge of guilt. Was she completely independent and unbiased? ‘Okay,' she said slowly. She had no desire to do Leverton favours but the case intrigued her. ‘I'll see what I can come up with. I'll give you a call, say, lunchtime tomorrow. Will you be here?'

‘Yes – barring any major incidents.' He grinned and rolled his eyes. ‘If I'm not in the office, you can get me on the mobile.' He scribbled a number on the back of a card and handed it to Megan. ‘Thanks – I really appreciate this,' he said as he led her to the door.

*   *   *

Ceri Richardson was wrapping a Christmas present for her husband.

It was a silk tie. Not very romantic, she thought, as she cut out a rectangle of green and gold paper. It was the sort of present a daughter might give to her father or a mother to her son.

She thought of the gifts she had given Neil when they had first met. That first Christmas together in a rented flat. She had tried to make it so exciting; a chocolate-box couple young and in love. Except that they weren't – at least, she wasn't. She could see that now, although at the time she had managed to fool herself.

She tore pieces of sellotape with her teeth, sealing the gift in its festive shroud. What should she write on the label? ‘All my love'? What a joke! Perhaps ‘Lots of love' would do?

Of course, what she would really like to write was, ‘Hope it throttles you, darling.'

Chapter 3

When she left the police station Megan took a deliberate detour through Birmingham's red light district. She knew Donna's body had been found somewhere in this maze of run-down streets.

Even in daylight it was depressing. She crawled past dough-faced women standing at a bus stop, cheap coats pulled close around their hunched bodies. Despite the bitter wind the younger ones wore no tights or socks, their mottled legs stuffed into ill-fitting shoes.

Megan looked away, scanning side roads for the street name. She pulled up at a set of temporary traffic lights. Suddenly she caught sight of it. A graffiti-covered sign on a factory wall: Inkerman Place. It was a short blind alley with the rusting metal gates of an abandoned printworks at its far end.

The lights changed and Megan swung the car into the alley. Now she could see the high wooden fence of the factory car park where Donna's body had been dumped. She got out of the car, walking past the padlocked gates along the length of the fence. Although many of its spars were missing there was no gap large enough to get a body through. Above the fence was a length of barbed wire, so it was unlikely that the killer had climbed over. If he had thrown Donna's body over the fence the forensic examination would have revealed post-mortem bruises and fractures.

She peered through one of the gaps. The car park was littered with broken bottles and used condoms. Megan wondered how long ago the factory had closed. She suspected that prostitutes had been working the nightshift long before those rusting gates had been locked for the last time. So there could be another way in – a back or side entrance known to the women who worked in the red light area. Whoever killed Donna knew about it too.

The theory that he was a local pimp was certainly plausible. So was the idea that he was a policeman. But other men would know of that second entrance: anyone who had worked at the factory or visited it regularly. And then there were the punters, led there with assurances that no one would be watching …

Megan got into the car and drove back down Inkerman Place, turning right and right again to follow the perimeter of the factory site. There was no other entrance that could be seen from the road.

She parked and got out of the car again, pulling her collar up against the wind. A row of straggling laurel bushes rustled against the fence where it joined the high wall of the building next door. Megan wondered if it was possible to get behind them. She stepped onto the rubbish-strewn patch of earth and peered into the foliage.

Yes! She felt a stab of triumph. The bushes were concealing a big gap in the bottom of the fence. There was just enough space behind them to get through without being scratched to pieces.

She ducked behind the leaves and met a wall of black plastic. The wheelie bins. Something crunched beneath her feet and she looked down to see half a dozen syringes lying on the ground. Megan stepped over them as she edged round the bins. She glanced up at the backs of a row of houses whose first floor windows overlooked the car park on one side. They looked derelict. Filthy windows, uncurtained or with scraps of tatty fabric hanging askew.

She caught a sudden movement out of the corner of her eye and whipped her head round. A face. She was certain she had seen a face pressed against one of the gaps in the fence, looking at her. She scrambled back out and jumped into the car, driving round the block again. But she saw no one.

On the car radio a news bulletin was just coming to an end. She glanced at her watch, tutting under her breath. She was due at a meeting in the city centre in twenty minutes. As she picked up speed, she glimpsed a woman in thigh-length boots, mini skirt and a short fur jacket standing on a corner. God, she thought, it's a bit early. She wondered what sort of man would go looking for a prostitute at ten past two on a Monday afternoon.

*   *   *

The BTV building soared above the newly-developed canal basin in the centre of Birmingham. Megan almost ran to the revolving doors of the main entrance. It was freezing cold and the towering concrete buildings created a wind tunnel that took her breath away.

Despite the bitter cold, the city was heaving with Christmas shoppers. The traffic had made her late and she hated being late. Now the security man on reception was wasting more time checking her in. She sank into one of the low sofas. It was lime green and brand new. So was the decor. How long had it been since she was in this building? Must be getting on for two years, she thought.

Yes, two years exactly; that awful Christmas party with Tony's other woman in the same room …

‘Doctor Rhys!' Perhaps it was his accent, but Megan thought the security man emphasised her title with the hint of a sneer in his voice. ‘Miss Lobelo will see you now. Do you know your way up?'

He must be new too. She didn't think she had seen him before. Did he know that her husband used to work in the building and that she had hung around the corridors of BTV waiting for him more times than she cared to remember? Don't be ridiculous. How could he? she asked herself.

Without acknowledging the man she swept up the open staircase. Thank goodness she was wearing trousers. The architect who had designed this building just had to be male, she thought grimly. That security guard probably spent most of his time looking up the skirts of unsuspecting female visitors.