Past Mortem (38 page)

‘Da-da! He twigs! Of
course
I’ve been reading your emails, Ed. Jesus. What, did you think I really
was
fucking clairvoyant? Did you think I had a
crystal fucking ball?
I ain’t half the detective that you’ve been giving me credit for, but I gotta tell you that compared to what we have in the States, your computer security is pitiful.’

Newson’s emails were routed through the Scotland Yard machine. His and those of thousands of other policemen like him. Relatively secure from the outside but not from within, not if you had friends who used the same computer. Friends who shared the same basic address.

‘Did your old pals in CID set you up an address on the Scotland Yard mainframe?’

‘Hey, it’s no big deal. Like I say, in America everybody gets to look at everything everybody else does by law.’

‘You realize that I’m going to arrest you for this.’

‘You won’t find any proof, Ed.’

‘I’ll impound your laptop.’

‘Don’t have one, Ed. I work out of internet cafés. It’s more sociable. I just sit there with all the other lonely geeks. I get my cup of coffee, I type in my false name and your access code and I check out what my old pal, the best detective in London, is up to.’

‘What do you want, Roger?’

‘The killing is speeding up, Ed. He’s leaving less gaps. He needs it more and more. I’m fascinated. I’m a part of this. I want to be in at the kill.’

‘Are you sure that you haven’t been in at the kill already?’

‘Ah, still hanging on to that old theory of yours, huh, Ed? Did the Yank do it? I can see some merit in the idea. I was a bully at school, that’s for sure.’

‘You’re a bully now.

‘Yeah. Like I told you, Ed. Nature and nurture. People don’t change. That was a cute little picture Helen Smart sent you of herself, wasn’t it, Ed? Weird tits, though, huh? You like those? Looking at your little sergeant yesterday I had you picked for a boob man. And of course Christine had those nice big new ones, didn’t she? Shame for her. If she’d known she was going to get killed she could a saved the money. Were they good, Ed? Nice to hold? You know those implants will still be lying in the ground long after the rest of her’s rotted away. Crazy thought, huh?’

‘I’m going to make you pay for this, Roger.’

‘I doubt it, Ed. You don’t have it in you. After all, you ain’t a bully like me, are you? Although who knows? Perhaps you’ll surprise me. After all, I gotta tell ya, if anybody would a told me that
Ed Newson
of all people, the ginger minge, would end up a big detective and get to fuck not one but
two
of our old chicks, straight off the internet inside a fortnight,
and
have one of them sending him porno shots of herself! Wow. I gotta tell ya, Ed, I’d have said they were crazy. I mean, according to her email you
fisted
that little girl! Sat right down on your kitchen floor- with a dick like a truncheon and gave her the long arm of the law. Classy! Yeah, you sure are a surprise to me, Ed. So who knows, you may get me yet. First, though, you have to find out who killed the kid in the Brixton garage.’

‘I intend to do just that.’

‘What was it little Helen wrote to you…? I’m looking at it right now on my little McDonald’s screen here. I
t’s so terrible it makes me want to kill…I’m the only person who knows the truth…I have to save this boy
…Maybe she did just that, eh, Ed? You wondered about her before, after Christine got killed. I bet you’ve been wondering since. Now here she is again, right at the centre of it all. Don’t tell me it hasn’t crossed your mind. Ha. That’d be a laugh, wouldn’t it? Top tec screwing serial-killer bitch. That’d be a nice little addition to your currently spotless police record.’

‘I have to go now, Roger.’

‘Don’t you want to know why I’m in your face like this, Ed?’

‘I know why, Roger.’

‘You do?’

‘Because you’re jealous of me.’

Jameson did not reply. For the first since the conversation began Newson felt the balance of power shift slightly. ‘Who knows, maybe you’re a serial killer too but you’re jealous of me. I was the class nerd and you were the biggest, toughest kid in the year. Now you’re a failed cop trying to dodge a murder rap and I’m the youngest inspector on the Met. Why wouldn’t you be jealous?’

Jameson chuckled quietly. ‘Oh, so you don’t get it all, then. I was
always
jealous of you, Ed. That’s the one thing you never understood. You weren’t the class nerd. Sure, you were a little weird and small and you had that red hair and all. But you were actually cool, oh yeah, you’d better believe it. Everybody knew that you respected yourself and in the long run that’s all it takes, right?’

Newson remembered the note he’d left for the boy in Scotland, making exactly the same point.

‘That’s why you got to get a piece of Christine Copperfield when you were fourteen years old and it’s why you got to fuck her after the reunion, when all the guys had been hoping to, ‘cept me and Gary Whitfield, of course. I look good on the outside, but inside I’m fucked and I always have been. You, on the other hand, ain’t no Brad Pitt but inside you’re cool. You’re focused. You got a
centre
. That’s why I hate you, Ed. That’s why I’m on your tail.’

‘You can’t bully me, Roger.’

‘Oh yeah? Try this. That sergeant of yours. Sweet little Natasha Wilkie with the sharp tongue and the big tits. I’ve been reading her emails too.’

Newson made no sound and yet he knew that Jameson was aware that his shot had struck home as surely as if Newson had gasped and swore.

‘See, Ed? Us bullies know the weak points. It’s an instinct for us.’

‘Goodbye, Roger — ’

‘No, no, don’t hang up for a minute. You’re dying to know, so let me tell you. You make her skin crawl, Ed. She thinks you’re a sick, irritating little dog on heat and if you ain’t careful she’s going to report you for harassment, you horny little fuck. But, hey, you can’t be sitting around yakking to old friends like me, Ed. You need to be getting down to Brixton.’ Jameson hung up.

Newson swallowed hard. The pain of the blow that had just been dealt him was excruciating, but for the moment, at least, he must endure it, ignore it. He had to concentrate on the case. He dialled Helen Smart’s number. He heard her outgoing answer phone message. The moment the beep sounded he cut in.

‘Helen? It’s me, Ed. If you’re there, pick up the — ’

‘Ed! What the fuck’s going on with Henry? Why have they taken his computer?’

‘Listen, Helen, I don’t have a lot of time. You sent me an email at about five thirty yesterday evening.’

‘Was that the time? God, that means I must have started drinking at five. Oops. Naughty me. That’s right, I had wine in the bath. My little treat. Then I wrote to you. Sorry about the rude bits.’

‘Your email, the story of the boy getting burned. Do you know the name of the persecutor? The boy who’s been flicking the matches?’

‘I can’t tell you that. It’s all confidential.’

‘This is a police matter.’

‘Well, I’ll need to see a warrant.’

‘Just tell me his fucking name! Was it Trevor?’

There was a pause. ‘My client calls his tormentor Trev.’

‘Thank you, Helen. I can assure you this is very important. What were you doing this afternoon?’

‘What?’

‘Look, Helen, if I have to send a squad car round I will. What were you doing this afternoon?’

‘I’ve been at home. Karl’s sick.’

‘Can anyone confirm that?’

‘Only Karl.’

‘Right. Thank you. We’ll be in touch.’

Newson could hear Helen’s voice protesting as he put down the phone. Feeling worse than he could ever remember feeling in his life, Newson left his house and headed for Brixton. On his way he left a message for Natasha to meet him there if she was available. Whatever she might feel about him, she was still the second most senior officer on the investigation. He would have to come to terms with what he now knew about her feelings towards him later.

THIRTY-FOUR

T
ensions were running high outside the lock-up garage in which Trevor Wilmot had died. The murder had been gruesome even by the tough standards of the streets from which Wilmot came. The various factions and drug dealerships in the neighbourhood were already lining up for a showdown. Everybody, including the police, presumed that the killing had been a deliberately provocative attack designed specifically to spark trouble within the community.

Newson had travelled to the scene by tube, it being an easy trip from West Hampstead and a lot quicker than driving. A group of youths had called him a ginger cunt as he rode the escalator at Brixton High Street, but Newson was so cut up inside about Natasha he scarcely noticed.

The stench of petrol and burned flesh in the lock-up was overpowering. The supervising officer filled Newson in on what scant details had so far been established.

‘The killers played music while the boy died. That’s why no screams were heard. Loud drum and bass is not an unusual sound around here, so nobody took any notice.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘They must have tethered him to that block of concrete. Most of him is burned now, but you can still see where the manacles were attached.’

‘Yes, that’s pretty clear,’ Newson agreed, ‘and the boy was conscious while he burned.’

‘How can you say that?’

‘Look at the scraping marks on the concrete. He was struggling to free himself in his agony and managed to drag that huge anchor a good few inches across the floor in the process. He was a strong lad.’

‘Jesus. The bastards.’

‘I don’t think that you’ll find that this was the work of a gang, Sergeant. One person did this.’

‘With respect, I don’t think so, Inspector. Trevor Wilmot may have been only fifteen, but like you say he was an enormous lad. He got picked up on his way home from school. Just lifted off the street. No one could have done that to him on their own, not without a huge fight.’

‘Unless he knew his killer. Or trusted him for some other reason.’

‘I suppose that’s true, sir, although I don’t know what other reason he could possibly have.

At that point Newson noticed that Natasha had arrived at the crime scene and was hovering on the edge of the forensic group. In the drama of the moment Newson had briefly not thought about the terrible truth he’d learned from Jameson, the devastating revelation that Natasha despised him and was thinking of making a complaint against him. He had long since resigned himself to the idea that he would never be the object of Natasha’s affection, but It was almost unbearable to know that he was in fact the object of her contempt. He felt doubly wounded, because he felt that he did not entirely deserve her derision. After all, he had only recently asked her if he needed to moderate his behaviour, and she had assured him that he didn’t. On the other hand, Newson knew that he was her boss and that she would always feel constrained in what she was able to say to him. It was his job to censor his manner, not hers, and now he had ruined everything.

For the time being, however, that would have to wait. All that mattered now was to catch the killer, and for the first time Newson believed that he was truly on the trail.

‘Thank you for coming down so promptly, Sergeant Wilkie,’ he said.

‘That’s OK,’ Natasha replied, but it didn’t look as if it was OK. She looked tired and not at all well. Newson wanted to ask what was wrong, but he no longer could. His relationship with Natasha was over in all but the most strictly professional sense, and with heavy heart he knew that even that must end soon.

‘Sergeant,’ he said. ‘I want you to arrange for Helen Smart and Henry Chambers from Kidcall to be interviewed. We need to find out their whereabouts at the time of all the murders under review.

‘Shit, Ed,’ she said and Newson wondered why she called him that when she disliked him so much. ‘You think the Kidcall workers are killing bullies?’

‘No…well, maybe…It’s possible. We certainly need to rule them either in or out. All I do know is that our killer has taken to sourcing his victims via the Kidcall computer. And Henry Chambers attended Tiffany Mellors’ funeral.’

‘Wow. Really?’

‘And Helen Smart wrote to me only yesterday about the…Well, I’m pretty certain that the boy who was burned here was in the habit of burning another boy at his school — someone who’d appealed to Kidcall for comfort.’

‘Your girlfriends just won’t keep out of this case, will they?’ Natasha said. Newson did not reply.

They left the crime scene together, and Newson accompanied Natasha to her car. As she stooped to get in he saw her face contort with pain.

‘Natasha, you’re hurt. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ she said and closed the door.

Perhaps before, Newson would have pressed the point and insisted that she explain. But not now. Not ever again.

Newson asked the local police to take him back into town. He felt an enormous sense of urgency now.

Your guy is picking up the pace, huh? Better get him quick before he knocks off half the kids in London
.

That was what Jameson had said. He seemed so sure about it, too. How much did Jameson know? What was he up to? Newson felt strongly that he needed to speak to him, once more to confront the ex-New York detective face to face.

‘Rossiter Hotel, Marble Arch,’ he told the driver.

During the drive Newson tried to concentrate on the murders, attempting to give form to the suspicions swirling around his brain. Thoughts of Natasha haunted him, though, and the private loathing that she had been keeping as her secret while he had been falling deeper and deeper in love.

She thinks you’re a sick, irritating little dog on heat and if you ain’t careful she’s going to report you for harassment, you horny little fuck
.

How could he have got it so wrong? He racked his brains to think of clues that Natasha might have given him and which would have helped him to modify his behaviour, but he could think of none.

Once at the Rossiter, Newson let his squad car go and asked at reception if Jameson was in. It seemed that he was in luck. The night porter, who had just come on duty, reported that Jameson’s key was not in its box and that he must be in his room. However, when the porter phoned up he received no reply.

‘Perhaps he’s asleep,’ the porter suggested.

‘Then wake him up.’—

‘Oh, I couldn’t do that.’

‘This is a police investigation. Let me into his room.’ Newson produced his credentials and soon they were on their way up to Jameson’s room.

‘Just give me the master key and return to your desk,’ Newson said. ‘I’ll bring it down when I’ve finished.’

Reluctantly the porter did as he was told and Newson let himself into Jameson’s room, which was in fact a small suite consisting of sitting room, bathroom and bedroom.

‘Roger’ Newson called out into the darkness of the heavily shaded room. ‘Roger, are you there?’

There was no reply. Newson turned on the lights and stepped further into the room. He checked through the suite. Jameson was not at home.

Returning to the sitting room, Newson approached the desk, which was covered in numerous handwritten notes and annotated photographs. More were stuck to the walls and mirror with Blu-tack and Post-It strips. Newson knew an amateur surveillance exercise when he saw one and his blood ran a little colder as he recognized in Jameson’s research material various elements of his entire investigation.

There were photographs of groups of girls from Tiffany Mellors’ school; a number of faces had been circled, including that of Tanya Waddingham. There were newspaper clippings and computer printouts detailing the Farrah Porter case. Attached to one of these was a telephoto shot of her neighbours Mr and Mrs Lloyd, and their Australian nanny. Photographs of her other neighbours, the Goldsteins, were scattered alongside images of the seed shed at the Goddard farm and the barracks at which Warrant Officer Spencer had served. Files and boxes lay on the floor and underneath the desk. Newson pulled out the first of these, marked ‘Bishop’. Inside he found a comprehensive dossier on the Willesden murder, together with copies of his own emails on the subject. At the bottom of the box he discovered an old-fashioned school compass.

Newson sat down at the desk. The question was, had Jameson assembled this material after the murders as a part of his jealous interest in Newson’s affairs, or
before
the murders as a research and background brief in order to commit them? Then he realized that he was staring at what was probably the most important clue of all.

Sitting on.Jameson’s desk, lid closed, half concealed amongst the clutter of photographs and notes, was an Apple Macintosh PowerBook.

Jameson had lied. He did not need to visit internet cafés to go online; he owned his own computer after all.

Newson opened the lid on the machine. The screen came instantly to life, displaying a fishtank screen-saver. He noted that the remote access icon was flashing. Jameson had broadband in his hotel room. Newson scrolled down the menu bar, chose the search programme and typed, in his own name. Numerous hits appeared, the first of which was a folder marked ‘Ed’.

In the folder was a search icon and further files marked ‘Downloads’. He pressed the search icon and immediately arrived at his own email access page. Newson pressed ‘get mail’, and sure enough his most recent messages appeared immediately before him. There was one from Dr Clarke, another from the office of the chief superintendent and a third from the builder with whom Newson had been discussing a new patio. Jameson had a window on his life. Newson did not read the emails, instead opening the file marked ‘Downloads’, and there he found every message that he had sent and received in the previous two months: messages, documents and jpeg reproductions of forensic research. One of the jpegs was titled ‘This is me’. Newson double-clicked it and sure enough once more Helen Smart stood naked before him.

He closed the file and swallowed hard to contain his anger. Time for that later. There was something else he needed to do.

He pressed the search icon again and typed in the word ‘Wilkie’. At the top of the hits that appeared was a file with contents laid out in a similar fashion to his own, including an internet icon that would no doubt lead him to Natasha’s email folder and a file marked ‘Downloads’.

Newson moved his finger on the track pad, and placed the little arrow over the file icon. For a moment he hesitated. Just because Jameson had been illegally snooping on Natasha’s private correspondence did not give him that right too.

But he did not hesitate for long. He had to see for himself the terrible truth. He needed to discover from the tips of Natasha’s own fingers how little she cared for him. Besides, he still loved her. He’d spent so many months hoarding the tiniest fragments of knowledge about her, and now the whole story was only a click away.

Jameson was an efficient voyeur and his Natasha file differed from his Newson file in as much as he had decided to divide her correspondence into two groups: ‘police’ and ‘Ed’. Newson opened the second file with a shaking hand. It contained one document, again titled ‘Ed’. He clicked on the icon and focused on the page of cut and pasted quotes from different emails that appeared before him. Jameson had clearly been hoarding any information he could find about Newson.

Screwing up his courage, he read the first.

What can I tell you. Pru?

Newson recognized the name. Pru was Natasha’s younger sister.

Ed’s the same as ever. He’s so funny it’s obvious he fancies me. The other girls laugh about it all the time, and I honestly believe he thinks we don’t know…

Newson’s eye flicked down the page.

Ed and I have this weird relationship where we talk about all sorts of private stuff but never the one thing I know he’s really thinking. I ought to be annoyed, but actually I think it’s sweet.

Hope began to surge through Newson’s body.

It certainly makes a change from Lance. At least Ed seems to give a shit how I feel…

Jameson had lied! The bastard had lied and if Newson had not discovered Jameson’s computer he would never have known the truth. He would have moved Natasha on from his team as quickly as possible and believed for the rest of his life that she despised him. Relief flooded over him like a warm bath, combined with rage that Jameson’s intentions could have been so cruel.

He heard a sound behind him. He spun round, trying to remember the attack and defence stances from his brief and unimpressive efforts at aikido training while fumbling in his pocket for his personal alarm. There was no way on earth he could fight Jameson, he knew that.

It was the hotel manager. ‘Inspector,’ he said. ‘The night porter told me that you were looking for Mr Jameson. I wonder if I might trouble you again for your ID.’

Newson offered his credentials, which the manager studied with great care before saying, ‘Mr Jameson was on the squash court. He asked for it to be opened late. I suppose it’s possible he may still be there; we have a steam room and there are refreshments. Would you like me to take you there?’