Past Mortem (12 page)

FIFTEEN

N
ewson needed all of his resources of fortitude the following morning as he approached the front entrance to New Scotland Yard. Ahead of him he could see Sergeant Wilkie being dropped off to work by the dreaded Lance. There she was, climbing girlishly from the pillion of his great big motorbike like a lovestruck teenager. Why, Newson wondered angrily, on top of everything else, did Lance have to ride a motorbike? Who did he think he was with his leather jacket and steel-capped boots? And his brawny forearm forever reminding the world that punk was not dead? Newson knew that he could never have a tattoo; tattoos would look terrible on his thin white arms. And were he to mount that big Kawasaki his feet would not even touch the ground. Not like Lance, sitting effortlessly astride the stationary machine; those long denim-clad, big-booted legs were all he needed to keep the gleaming black 1000cc of pure grunt upright while Natasha reached up to lift his visor and kiss him.

Newson watched in agony as Lance grasped her slim waist, enfolding her body with a single, casual, proprietary arm and pulling her on to her tiptoes so that the short summer dress she was wearing rode up her body. Newson’s heart leapt as he devoured the sight of Natasha’s legs thus exposed, hoping that the rising hem would not stop its upward trajectory, until…Then his heart sank at the recognition of just how pathetic he had become.

‘Morning, Natasha. Morning, Lance,’ he said brightly.

‘How’s it going, geeza? Yeah, nice one. Whatever,’ Lance replied, fulfilling his entire conversational obligations in a single non-negotiable sentence. He gave Natasha a final squeeze, firmly staking his claim over her before adding, ‘Later, ‘Tash. Don’t be all night, eh? Else I’ll only end up going down the pub and eating no dinner, which is so not a good thing.’

‘I’ll be back by seven at the latest, gorgeous,’ Natasha replied.

‘Yeah well, watch out for them sickos. Don’t go coming back with no different-coloured pubes, eh? I’m serious, girl. I worry about you. It’s fuckin’ sick, all that.’ Lance glanced at Newson almost as if to suggest that somehow it was Newson who was responsible for the sick sights that Natasha was forced to witness in the course of her duty as a policewoman. He sparked his machine into life and roared off.

Newson felt he had to say something. ‘Natasha. it’s completely out of order to discuss our cases when you’re off duty.’

‘Oh, come on, Ed, everybody does. How could you not?’

‘Very easily. The last thing we need is copycats.’

‘Lance isn’t going to tell anyone, is he? It’s all right for you — you go home alone, nobody asks you what you’ve been up to or whatever. Lance wants to know. What boyfriend wouldn’t? It’s too weird to say ‘Sorry, I’m not at liberty to discuss it.’ You can’t say that to your boyfriend, can you?’

‘Yes, you absolutely can.’

‘Yeah well, wait till you get a girlfriend and see how long you manage it.’

‘I have
had
girlfriends, you know. I was a copper when I was with Shirley.’

‘Whatever.’

‘And I did
not
share classified scene-of-crime details with her.’

‘Only because you never talked to each other. You told me that yourself.’

Newson bit his lip. She was right, of course, it was easy for him. He didn’t have a girlfriend and when he had had one the relationship had been so tired that he might as well not have had it. The only thing missing from Natasha’s comprehensive understanding of his pitiable personal and social inadequacies was that she did not know that he was in. Love with her. He found it extremely difficult to thank heaven for small mercies.

The entrance to New’ Scotland Yard was more crowded than usual. Farrah Porter’s murder was of course huge news. The press were desperate for information and had turned out in force. Newson hoped that he and Natasha might push their way through the throng unnoticed, but in the rarefied world of crime reporting Newson was already gaining a certain reputation. A number of the crime writers outside the famous glass doors had encountered him before, and always on tough, often high-profile cases. The physical characteristics that made Newson anonymous to most people made him distinctive to them. A youthful, mild ginger shorty heading up a Scotland Yard murder squad was always going to be remembered, and they already knew from his presence at the murder scene the previous day that once more Newson was in charge.

‘Inspector Newson,’ they shouted. ‘How did Farrah die?’

‘Was it political?’

‘We hear sex was involved! Was it a sex crime?’

‘We’ll no doubt have something to tell you in due course,’ Newson replied as he ushered Natasha into the building.

‘Wow,’ Natasha said once they were inside. ‘You’re really getting quite famous, aren’t you? How cool is that!’

‘I don’t know. How cool is it? Do you think it’s cool?’

‘Of course I think it’s cool.’

‘Oh, right.., good.’

And it did feel good. Newson definitely liked Natasha to think he was cool.

‘Of course, if we don’t crack the case they’ll know it was you who screwed up and they’ll say you’re crap.’

‘Well, that’s the press for you. They build you up and they knock you down.’

Newson’s first appointment of the morning was with Chief Superintendent Ward. Because of Farrah Porter’s profile, Ward had decided to speak to the press himself and wanted to be well briefed on the progress of the investigation.

‘Tell me exactly how far you’ve got,’ Ward demanded. ‘I’m not interested in theories or suppositions at this stage. We should keep that sort of thing to ourselves. The only thing you can safely give to a journalist is facts, and that’s what I want. What exactly do we know about the person who killed Farrah Porter?’

‘In terms of undisputable fact, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘Nothing.’

Newson was not surprised to find himself facing the press alone.

‘All that I can say at this stage,’ he announced, standing at the entrance to the building, ‘is that Ms Porter was murdered by a person or persons unknown and that we are pursuing a number of lines of enquiry. Thank you and good morning.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Natasha as he re-entered the building.

‘Thank you.’

‘But I really think you should have done up your flies.’

He looked. ‘I knew you were lying.’

‘Then why did you look?’

‘Because…I have a reason, but I’ve decided to withhold it.’

They spent the rest of the morning together fruitlessly cross-referring the names and associates of Farrah Porter with those on the file of Adam Bishop the builder. Nothing matched.

‘Not really surprising,’ Natasha observed, ‘her being a posh-tot Tory superstar and him being a well-dodgy Tarmac cowboy. No connection. Sorry, but there it is.’

‘They both let the killer into their home and shared a drink with him. In my opinion, we now know how Adam Bishop ended up helplessly taped to his bed.’

‘You think Rohypnol?’

‘I’m sure of it, and I’ll bet the same goes for Warrant Officer Spencer and Bradshaw and probably Angie Tatum too.’

‘Well, it sounds more plausible than your last theory — that Bishop took his killer to his bedroom because he got his rocks off being repeatedly punctured with short spikes.’

‘It wasn’t a theory, it was a supposition.’

‘If Bishop’s killer did slip him a Mickey, then he’s a strong bloke. It wouldn’t have been easy to drag that man upstairs.’

‘Hmm, unless he or she had an accomplice, we’re looking for a fit man.’

Around midday the first batch of transcripts of beat interviews pertaining to the Porter murder was delivered. Ever since the body had been discovered a large squad of constables had been roaming the surrounding area endeavouring to discover if anyone had seen anything suspicious. Of course, this being such a celebrated case, the press had already spoken to everyone but had found nothing of interest to print, so Natasha began leafing through the intimidating pile of paper with little enthusiasm. As expected, nothing had been turned up. What Natasha did notice, however, was the similarity between the way the dead woman’s neighbours described her and the accounts Adam Bishop’s neighbours had given of him.

‘She may have been the darling of the Tory Party,’ Natasha noted, ‘but she was not a popular bunny in her building.’

Even a cursory glance at the transcripts revealed that Farrah Porter was in dispute with just about everybody who lived near her. The old couple. below her, who had lived in their flat for nearly fifty years. The young marrieds above with their twin babies. The lady at the top who had the difficult job of chairing the residents’ association. They had all in their various ways made it clear to the interviewing constables that they were glad Farrah Porter was dead. Even the newspaper vendor on the corner of the street remembered her with nothing but ill will.

‘Everyone says she made their lives a misery…A right bully, in fact.’

‘Just like Adam Bishop.’

‘Yeah. Different class. Different sex. Same shit.’

‘Perhaps we should pop down to South Kensington and speak to these people ourselves.’

They decided not to travel from New Scotland Yard by car because West London had recently become a designated traffic nightmare due to changes in the application of the congestion charge. They took the tube, and Newson noted that the station was plastered with posters for a pop concert due to take place in Hyde Park. It was to be a big eighties revival gig entitled ‘How Cool Were We?’ The
whole
of Duran Duran were top of the bill, supported by half of Spandau Ballet, two out of three Thompson Twins, one New Kid on the Block, all three Bananaramas (the second line-up rather than the original), four Specials, one Man At Work, a Flock of Seagulls and Dannii Minogue.

‘God, was Dannii Minogue going in the
eighties?
’ Natasha asked, looking at the poster as they descended on the escalator at St James’s Park.

‘Just. Not
my
eighties, the early eighties, the glory days of New Wave and New Romantics. She sneaked in at the tail end of the decade, riding in her sister’s slipstream. Quite a perky debut single, as I recall, called ‘Love And Kisses’. It might even have been 1990 — they cheat sometimes with these shows. It must depend on who they can get.’

‘Your detailed acquaintance with the minutiae of girly pop is quite scary.’

Newson and Natasha sat next to each other in the baking hot tube. Natasha was not wearing tights, and her bare legs were so close that Newson could watch them in relative security as he pretended to read case notes. Such sweet legs, stretched out straight, scarcely reaching halfway across the aisle.

‘How do you get your legs so smooth?’ He’d asked it before he even knew that he was going to.

‘Just soap and a Bic,’ she said. Her voice was perfectly friendly but she
must
have thought it a strange question to ask She drew her legs in, tucking the feet beneath the knees. Now she knew he had been looking at them. But it had been worth it. Closing his eyes for a moment, he imagined Detective Sergeant Wilkie in her bath, shaving her legs with soap and a Bic.

Stop it.
Stop it
.

Newson distracted himself by focusing his thoughts on the other women in the carriage. None was a patch on Natasha. He thought about Helen Smart with her skinny body and funny little breasts. Fat puffy nipples, they were cute, she had been cute…but damaged. Not like Natasha.

Detective Inspector Newson threw back his head and stared at the ceiling.
He had to stop this
.

Christine! That was who he needed. Christine — strong, confident and happy Christine. Not mad like Helen, not
damaged
by the years. No, Christine had been
enhanced
by time, in the case of her boobs, it seemed, quite literally. Christine, in her cocktail dress with her glass of champagne, queen of all she surveyed. Perhaps, Newson thought, if he could only win her once again, punch above his weight in the battle of love for a second time in his life, then maybe, just maybe, he could shake off the chains with which he had bound himself to his detective sergeant. Could Christine do it? Could she save him from the agony of love and lust into which his life had collapsed?

Natasha’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘I’ll have to jump ship at six;’ she said. ‘I suppose you’ll work on all night, unpaid as usual.’

‘Ours is not a nine-to-five job, Sergeant.’

‘Yeah I know, but Lance says I’m being exploited.’

‘You are being exploited. By him.’

‘No I’m not, he’s my boyfriend. I owe him my time. I don’t owe it to the Home Office.’

‘What about the victims of crime?’

‘Look, Lance and I have made an agreement. We’re going to be there for each other in a much more meaningful way.’

‘I see.’

‘We think that the reason our relationship reached a crisis point was because of a shortage of ‘us’ time.’