Past Mortem (10 page)

‘It always sounds reasonable enough when you explain it, but all this is still just conjecture.’

‘Of course it is. That’s all this killer leaves us with. Conjecture.’

They Went into the bedroom. The large, expensive bed with its crisp, pink cotton sheets appeared to be untouched. The pillows were plumped and the covers had been smoothed by an expert at the job. Newson inserted a pencil into the drawer handle of the bedside cabinet and pulled it open. Inside were a packet of condoms and a vibrator.

‘Very superior rabbit,’ Sergeant Wilkie observed. ‘You wouldn’t find that in an Ann Summers shop.’

Once more Newson was unable to prevent himself from grabbing at this observation and storing it away in his mind for later. Another personal nugget to be savoured. She was familiar with vibrators. Did that mean she
had
one? He couldn’t help finding that thought thrilling.

‘These condoms are French,’ Natasha added. ‘Very exotic. Ribbed, assorted colours. She was one in-control lady.’

‘Not in her last hours, she wasn’t. Somehow this highly intelligent, super-tough politician was persuaded to give up all control.’

‘The bastard drugged her.’

‘But her guard was down, she let him in. Why? Who was he? Why do they always let him in?’

It felt strange to Newson, as it always did, to be party to the most private parts of a total stranger’s life. Just a day before, Farrah Porter alone had known the contents of the drawer in her bedside cabinet. If she shared that knowledge with anyone it was at her discretion. Now two people she’d never even heard of were peering into it as if it was their own. Newson always felt uncomfortable with this. It left the victim with nothing. The murderer had taken the life, and the police then laid immediate claim to anything that was left.

He found himself thinking of Dr Haynes, the Manchester pathologist who attended victims’ funerals. Then he thought of Warrant Officer Spencer with scarcely a soul to mourn him save his parents, his pathologist and some irreverent squaddie playing the Last Post on a kazoo.

They returned to the bathroom, where the initial onsite investigation had been completed and Dr Clarke was preparing to remove the body. Newson glanced around the spacious room. Farrah Porter had lived in luxury. The large double-basin unit had gold taps and the surrounding console was loaded with carefully arranged lines of expensive-looking bottles.

‘Apart from around the bath very little has been disturbed,’ Newson observed. ‘She didn’t struggle at all.’

‘She may have been bound,’ Dr Clarke replied, ‘but the skin has been so damaged by the acid I won’t be able to tell for sure without a microscope. You saw the bottle on the coffee table. Rohypnol, I should think. My guess is that she woke up in the bath and then the torture began.

‘She was conscious for that?’

‘I think probably so. She seems to have thrashed her head about quite a bit.’

The floor at the head of the bath was surrounded by towels, all of which had been damaged by the acid.

‘Why didn’t she thrash about more?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps he held her down with a broom or something.’

Newson glanced around the bathroom. He inspected the toilet with its thick polished-wood seat. Next to it was the bidet, which had more gold taps. Thick white towels hung from shiny heated chrome rails, and spotless mirrors gleamed within Italian mosaics.

‘Whoever did this had tremendous nerves and the steadiest of hands. He’s scarcely disturbed anything at all.’

‘Perhaps he put it all back afterwards.’

‘Either way, pretty cool.’

Newson opened the glass door of the shower cubicle, a luxury installation with both overhead and side-mounted faucets. All gold, all polished since the last time they were used, not a single dried watermark to be seen. A shelf held bottles of shampoos and conditioners and a soap dish, containing a brand-new bar of soap, a shell-shaped cake of perfect, pristine, untouched soap — except not quite perfect, because on it Newson discovered a pubic hair. Taking a small eyepiece from his pocket and looking more closely, he could see that someone had deliberately stuck this hair to the brand-new bar of soap.

The hair was orange.

Had the killer plucked it from his victim and planted it on the soap in the shower? It seemed the only explanation. If so, was this just another bizarre aspect of the murderer’s ritualistic needs, or had the killer left it as some sort of message to the police? Was he trying to tell them something? Newson was a ginger. Was the killer trying to tell
Newson
something?

Behind him Dr Clarke had been supervising the police team’s lifting of the body from the bath. When she spoke Newson noted emotion in her usually professional tones.

‘Inspector Newson,’ she said. ‘I think I may be able to tell you why the woman did not thrash about in her bath, why only her head created a disturbance.’

Newson guessed what was coming. He knew about bodies on which only the head could move.

‘I can’t say for sure, but by the way this cadaver lifts I think the spine is broken.’

‘Fuck.’ Sergeant Wilkie had joined them in the bathroom.

Dr Clarke ignored the interruption. ‘He wanted her conscious,’ she continued, ‘but he didn’t want a struggle.’

‘You’re speculating, Doctor,’ Newson reminded her. He had not seen Dr Clarke so visibly upset at a crime scene before, and it made him uncomfortable.

‘It’s not speculation, Inspector,’ she continued. ‘It’s common bloody sense. I know a broken back when I see one. This…this animal…wanted a nice still body to soak up the acid. So he drugged her with Rohypnol and while she was unconscious he paralysed her.’

The room was silent for a few moments. Eventually Sergeant Wilkie spoke. ‘I’ve found her appointments diary.’

She led Newson back into the sitting room, past the sofas to an antique dresser, which Porter had used as a bar. It was piled with bottles of single malt whiskies, ancient Cognacs and exotic liqueurs. In front of these lay an appointments diary, a beautiful one, of course, like everything else in Farrah Porter’s life, with the exception of its end. The book was leather-bound, padded and richly embossed with the initials FP. Each page covered a single day, with all the very important appointments of a very important political life listed in Porter’s confident scrawl: hair…make-up…television.., radio…photo shoot…more hair…more make-up…more TV.

Except that the day of the murder was missing.

‘He tore it out,’ said Wilkie. ‘Well, very carefully cut it out, in fact.’

Using the covered end of a pen Newson turned the pages and sure enough on close inspection he could just see the severed edge of a page nestling deep in the binding of the book.

‘I never saw a man so neat,’ Newson murmured.

‘His name must have been on that page,’ Wilkie observed.

‘Or perhaps a number, an observation, something that might have identified him,’ Newson replied. ‘So he made an appointment with her. She noted it in her diary and let him into her home. She either knew him or else he was able to produce a convincing reason for her to see him. Just like the others.’

Sergeant Wilkie stared at the diary. ‘She made a date in her diary for her own death.’

THIRTEEN

S
he was there! Christine Copperfield was there! In the twenty-four hours since Newson had last looked, the Shalford Grammar School class of ‘88 virtual reunion had been increased by one. The most golden one of. all. Christine had added her name to the list. Newson had not really expected this. He’d scarcely dared hope that someone as wonderful as Christine Copperfield, someone as cool, confident and popular as the class Girl Most Likely had not got better things to do with her fabulous, exciting, fulfilling life than log on to Friends Reunited. But she had. And what was more (Newson’s hand trembled on his mouse), there was a little ‘I’ icon beside her name. She had left information. Newson had only to click on it to hear the authentic voice of the best-looking girl in school, the girl
he
had once got off with. Not wanting the moment to end, he waited a whole minute before clicking on the icon.

Yay gang! I’m here! Yeah! I’ve been watching you guys for weeks, thinking about making myself known and when I saw that you’d joined up Ed well I had to get involved. How ARE you guys! Yes ifs Christine here. Christine Copperfield, yeah that’s right DAVE! I’m STILL laughing at that one twenty years on. So what’s been HAPPENING to you all??? I’m fine, I love my life. YAY! You remember I wanted to be in the media? Of course you do, I never SHUT UP about it Well guess what? I nearly made it, and I will yet! Yeah, I’m in PR which is the next best thing and TERRIBLY glamorous DAAAARLING! Who would have thought when I headed up the Christmas Disco Committees three years straight I’d end up coordinating VIP guests for way cool events like THE MOTOR SHOW at EARLS COURT! How cool is that! I love it and I get to travel loads, mainly in Britain but sometimes abroad. We recently did a corporate function on the Observation Deck of the QM2 which was soooo fabulous, it was only docked at Southampton but it sure as hell beat SHALFORD SCHOOL HALL! Ha! Yay! So. What else? Well I’m NOT married and I DON’T have kids (YET!!!!). There’s been some significant others of course but sadly not the ONE. Hey, I can’t help it I’m choosy. Well I guess some of you boys remember THAT. Any old way, better go, lots to do. I’ll keep looking at the site. Who knows, maybe I’ll organize a reunion! Just don’t expect the QM2!!! Byeeeeee!

Newson pondered this missive for some time. Part of him felt disappointed. Christine had lived in his memory for twenty years as the personification of cool; beautiful, confident and effortlessly superior. A girl who stood casually at the apex of the prestige pyramid without appearing to try at all. Yet there was no denying that this long-awaited update on the progress of her golden life was not very cool at all.

Viewed dispassionately, it was not the letter of a confident, effortlessly superior person. Newson knew that were Sergeant Wilkie to read it she would instantly dismiss his old flame as a prat. But then Sergeant Wilkie was going out with Lance, so what did she know?

After all, why shouldn’t Christine want her old classmates to know how happy she was, how well she was doing? And she
had
mentioned him specifically. His had been the only name she’d picked out from that long-dispersed group of classmates. In fact, she’d only left her profile at all because
he’d
done so before her. Newson felt once again the ancient stirring. Christine Copperfield had picked him out just as she had done at the Christmas disco in 1984. Was this the cyber version of that moment when she had asked him to dance? Was he to get lucky again? It seemed too much to hope for, and yet she
had
picked him out.

As he stared at Christine’s name on the screen with its ‘I’ for information, a second icon popped up beside it. She had added a photograph to her profile! She was doing it at that very moment! Eagerly he double-clicked on the icon and moments later Christine was smiling back at him. She was
gorgeous
. The same big, wide smile that had broken so many juvenile hearts. The clear blue eyes, long blond hair and tan were there too, but now they decorated a sophisticated woman instead of a girl. She was pictured at some kind of promotional party, standing in front of a board that said ‘Gotex Aviation Fuel’. She held a champagne flute and wore a short black cocktail dress, and her legs were the same as ever! Slim and athletic, although if Newson had been honest he might have conceded that they had perhaps become a little bony over the years. Her cleavage was magnificent. The dress was clearly designed with big tits in mind, and it flattered Christine’s beautifully. Newson did wonder about the tits, which appeared to have undergone some kind of late growing spurt. On the other hand, he didn’t wish to jump to conclusions. Natasha had once told him that a good push-up bra could turn lemons to melons without the aid of the knife. All in all, Christine looked lovelier than ever. Cool, confident, stunning. A major player in the glamorous world of PR The guys at the Police Club would certainly be surprised to hear that a girl like her had left a message in cyberspace for a man like Newson. Not that he would ever tell them, of course.

He looked at his watch; he’d have to hurry. He was due to meet Helen Smart at the Pitcher and Piano on Dean Street. He changed hurriedly and set off for the tube station. He’d been looking forward to the meeting with some pleasure, but he couldn’t deny that now Christine Copperfield had re-entered the scene an evening with a thirty-five-year-old Helen Smart did not seem quite so exciting.

The Pitcher and Piano was a classic example of the new style of city pub, and Newson’s heart sank the moment he entered. The guts had been torn out of whatever the building had been in its previous life and been replaced with a vast, soulless steel-and-plastic torture chamber in which hundreds and hundreds of people in their early twenties drank and shouted. They had to shout because they couldn’t hear themselves speak, let alone anyone else, there not being a single soft or absorbent surface in the place, only steel, glass and more steel. It was like trying to hold a conversation inside an enormous bucket. Music blared on top of this. No one was listening to it, no one could hear it and yet on it played.

Newson was ten minutes late and he immediately despaired of ever finding Helen amongst the hundreds of braying, shrieking drinkers. He had no Idea of what she looked like now. In the end he stood by the bar until she found him.

‘Hello, Ed. It’s me, Helen.’

He turned and focused on a small woman with cropped hair and a stud in her nose. He would not have recognized her in the street and even looking at her closely he had to struggle to discover traces of the plump girl with whom he’d briefly plotted to change the world. Her eyes had changed the least; they were still piercing, set wide in her petite face. As a girl Helen had had something of an overweight pixie about her and there was still that cute, impish quality to her face, but there were dark shadows beneath her eyes and she was thin. Too thin.

‘Perhaps we should go somewhere else,’ Newson shouted into an ear that was decorated with three studs and two rings. ‘I think there’s a slightly louder and even more unpleasant place just up the road.’

Helen smiled. She still had dimples. Newson had forgotten that.

‘I couldn’t think of anywhere else at the time,’ she shouted. ‘Do you want to leave?’

‘Nothing would make me happier.’

‘Finish your drink first.’

‘No, I’ll ditch it.’ Newson wrestled an arm through the throng at the bar to put his full pint down on the puddled steel counter.

‘They must pay you a lot to be a policeman,’ Helen said as they left the pub. ‘I’d never leave a drink like that.’

‘Well, they give you a bonus if you’re a racist and of course I take a lot of bribes.’

It was still early and they were able to get a table at the Red Fort Indian restaurant just up the road from the pub. The big room was hot and crowded and Newson removed his jacket. He noted that despite the tiny beads of sweat on her brow, Helen kept her cardigan on.

They ordered their food.

‘Still a vegetarian, then?’ Newson said.

‘Yes, it’s cheaper. But I do do dairy these days.’

‘Sell-out. I can remember when you wouldn’t even wear leather shoes.’

‘I still don’t. That’s cheaper too.’

‘I got an email from Gary Whitfield, you know.’

‘Who?’

‘He was in my class, not yours.’

‘I left before the end of the fourth year. I don’t remember everybody.’

‘Did you see that Christine Copperfield left a profile? You remember Christine.’

‘Yes, Ed, I remember Christine.’

‘Did you read what she said? She sounds like she’s enjoying life.’

‘She sounds like a complete idiot. So, no surprise there, then.’

The food arrived and Helen probed Newson on the course of his life. He told her about his degree in sociology and his second degree in law and about his relationship with Shirley, except for the bit about her faking her orgasms.

‘I suppose I ended up in the police because I didn’t want to be a lawyer. Believe it or not, I don’t find it a contradiction with all the stuff we used to talk about. I mean, I know we used to see all cops as Maggie’s boot boys, but to me it’s about doing the right thing. On the whole I think we do more good than harm.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

Newson didn’t want to talk about himself. Two and a half bottles of Kingfisher lager were having their usual effect, and he wanted to ask Helen if she’d had anything else pierced besides her ears and nose.

‘So come on,’ he said. ‘What about you?’

‘I did English lit at Warwick, but I didn’t finish it. And then I went to work for Oxfam. I spent a lot of the nineties in Africa working on aid programmes.’

‘Africa?’ Newson said. ‘I’ve never been out of Europe. That must have been amazing.’

‘Amazingly horrible. I was only ever in famine areas.’

‘Ah.’

‘I came back ages ago. You can only do so much and then you burn out, and I’ve got Karl. of course.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘Son. He’s six now.’

‘That sounds so incredible. You with a six-year-old son. It’s amazing, I mean, you know, we were kids ourselves last time we met.’

‘It’s been twenty years, Ed. I had to do something in the intervening period, didn’t I? I’m with Kidcall now. You know, the anti-bully helpline that all those celebrities support. Maybe you’ve bought one of our little tear-shaped lapel buttons. They weren’t my idea, I hasten to add! I think they’re revolting and pander to the idea of helpless victimhood. Kids don’t need adults making them into victims, there’re enough other kids doing that to them already.’

Newson was aware of the campaign she was referring to. It had a high-celebrity profile and there had been a huge poster campaign. ‘They do amazingly, don’t they? Almost as many famous faces as Comic Relief.’

‘Well, it’s for kids, for a start, which is always a good pull, and we’re really lucky with Dick Crosby. He has the most incredible energy. He’s transformed Kidcall. The trick with celebrity endorsement is to get a celeb to actually actively campaign on your behalf. You know, phone Mends, write letters. Of course with someone like Dick they come running. People just love being close to money even when it isn’t theirs.’

Of course Newson knew about Dick Crosby. Everybody did. He was the new Richard Branson. A handsome, swashbuckling entrepreneur who owned hotels, television companies, a cruise line, the world’s largest commercial helicopter fleet. Anything that was fun, he was into. He’d been an early convert to the glories of the net and had bought thousands of computers for schools, leading to his being co-opted by Tony Blair himself as the government’s ‘computer tsar’.

Apart from joining Kidcall, his latest venture had been to acquire the National Telecom network, and in order to encourage people away from texting and back to conversation he had made a pledge to give one million pounds to whoever it was that made the billionth telephone call.

‘Yes, he does seem like quite a good bloke,’ said Newson.

‘He’s been great for us, but I don’t know about his being a good bloke.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because literally everything he does he does for publicity,’ Helen replied. ‘And I don’t think it’s any different for Kidcall. If he’s this billionaire capitalist and he wants to show he -cares, why doesn’t he just give all his money away? I mean, all that bullshit about giving someone a million for making a call. Shit, he could give that money to us. He could give us a million every day for a year.’

‘All wealth is relative, isn’t it? I mean, we could deny ourselves this meal, couldn’t we? The money would probably provide some African village with water for a week.’

‘I don’t eat out often,’ Helen replied primly.

‘Blimey, Helen, it must be hard work being you. Anyway, Crosby does loads of different stuff and it isn’t all for PR. He’s worked a bit with us. in fact, and that wasn’t publicized at all. He came and addressed a fringe meeting of the Police Officers’ Federation about the issue of problem families on housing estates. You know, when one gang rules the roost and terrorizes everyone else. You don’t only get thugs at school, you know.’

‘Yes, I do know, Ed, but I still think he’s a bit of a fraud.’