Tastes Like Fear (D.I. Marnie Rome 3) (36 page)

Noah’s phone buzzed and he took the call. ‘DS Jake.’

‘It’s Riff. Dan’s mate? You got a minute? Only I think I might know how your killer got that girl’s body into Battersea.’

‘How?’ Noah reached for a pen and paper.

‘Tunnels. Really big fucking tunnels right under the river. Used for siphoning off steam to heat the council estates over in Pimlico, right up until the early eighties. Didn’t mention them before because we all thought they’d been sealed off at ground level, but I checked with a couple of contacts, who seem to think there’s access to the boiler room. You said the penthouse was above the boiler room? I thought you’d want to know.’

‘Access to the boiler room, from underground? From these tunnels?’

‘Yeah, who knew?’ Riff sounded nostalgic for his old life. ‘This’s what I meant when I talked about vanishing points – fucking miles of tunnels, and who knew?’

‘Who
did
know? Can you give me the names of your friends?’

‘Contacts,’ Riff corrected. ‘Sorry, no. I could give you their online aliases, but I’m not sure how much use those’d be. You should check on site, though. Not much point in them lying about this, and like I said, the tunnels are a matter of public record. Public record says they’re sealed off, but since they say that about every place in London that’s been rinsed …’

‘I’ll look into it, thanks.’

‘Sure.’ Riff rang off.

‘Something?’ Ron asked.

‘A way into Battersea Power Station we didn’t know about, assuming the source is reliable. I’ll call the site manager, Aaron Buxton, but this may need a visit back out there.’

‘We don’t have time, unless it’s going to help us find Loz and these loonies.’

‘Maybe it is.’ Noah pointed at the map on the board. ‘We’re talking tunnels. If the killer used them to get into the power station, he or she could be using them right now. It could be why Christie and Loz didn’t show up on any of the CCTV footage from Stockwell.’

‘Underground …
Shit
. You’ve just doubled our hunting ground.’

Noah nodded. ‘We need to check it out.’

55

Christie

‘Harm is home.’ Christie ignored the thing on the bed. ‘He wants to meet you.’

Loz was shaking all over, her face a mess, smeared with tears. Whiter than the bed.
Laura
, she’d said her name was. She’d lied.

‘Don’t be scared.’ Christie could smell her. ‘He doesn’t like you to be scared.’

To Eric, she said, ‘You’d better stay there.’

Disgust on her tongue like a pellet of gum with all the flavour chewed out of it. She wanted to strip the bed. Set fire to it. Bleach out the stains, the lies. Drag that
thing
by its fringe and throw it at the floor, at the walls. But she couldn’t. Harm would want to do it. Harm would have to see what he’d shut up in here, what he’d been looking after. He wouldn’t believe it from Christie, or anyone else. He’d have to see it with his own eyes, and then … he’d want to deal with it.

She waited at the door for Loz. ‘He’s in the kitchen.’

She pointed for the girl to go ahead of her, down the stairs.

Eric didn’t move, half hidden under the covers of the bed.

A patch of sun sat on the carpet at the side of the bed where Christie was supposed to kneel, worrying and praying, where she would never now kneel. Her tongue tasted grey.

‘He’s waiting,’ she told Loz. ‘In the kitchen.’

Harm was heating rice, his neck bent over the stove, nursing the thin flame with the curl of his palm. Candlelight licked at his back from the table laid with cutlery, plates. A spicy smell from the stove, red and green. For a second it was the same, just for a second.

‘This is Loz.’ Christie stood out of the light, letting Harm see the new girl. Using her real name, not the lie she’d told Christie.

Harm was busy with the flame under the food, but he smiled across his shoulder. ‘Hello, Loz. Welcome to the family.’

Christie leaned into the smile, jealous of the girl standing at her side, shaking so hard she might fall down, stinking of fear.

The shadow of Harm’s hand fell across the table, among the forks and knives. ‘I hope you like curry.’ The stove puttered, purring when he coaxed it, stirring at the rice in the billy can.

Loz said, ‘Yes.’ Her voice was dried up, rattling in her throat like a coin in a tin. She was keeping her eyes away from the weapons on the table.

Try it, go on.

Christie thought of the boy upstairs that Harm had protected. Shelter, warmth, food, love – all for that.
Aimee
. The locks, the lights. Barrels of water, batteries. The thirsty ache in her gut making her feet dance at night, tremors in her thighs and fingers until she wanted to crawl under Harm just to keep still, just to be kept quiet and still by the weight of him.

She’d helped him, after May. When he came home from the power station, bent and weeping under the weight of what he’d done, she’d made a promise that he’d never be alone like that again. She’d taken care of Ashleigh. Got rid of his leavings, the way she’d once cleared the corpse of a mouse from the kitchen floor before her mother could curse the cat for doing what it was normal for a cat to do. It was normal for Harm, too. Christie understood. Death wasn’t the worst thing, wasn’t even close to the worst thing. He’d said nothing after Ashleigh, not
thank you
, not anything. He’d gone looking for Grace, as if he wanted her back. Christie didn’t look for thanks. She’d do it again, whatever he asked, whatever he needed. She owed him and she understood; he could keep his hands off them until he couldn’t. She was here to help when he couldn’t, but it made her sick to think how much of it was done for Aimee, who didn’t even exist.

‘Bring us water, would you?’ Harm nodded at her.

Christie went to the barrel, working the tap to fill each cup in turn, remembering rain slicking off plastic sheeting, the man with the copper coins, the one Harm had saved her from just like he’d saved her from going back to Emma Tarvin, who sold girls more cheaply than she sold smack, who’d sneered when Christie bled all over her bathroom floor before telling her to get out.

Harm had saved her twice over.

The barrel boomed as the water reached its new level.

Candlelight wavered in the cups as she brought them to the table.

‘Here.’ Harm pulled out a chair for Loz, and she sat.

He looked her over, his expression serious. Her hair was a scrawl around her face, like Grace’s but black not red. No make-up, no jewellery, no polish on her nails. No tits, either. There wasn’t much to be done to her, not much that needed changing.

Harm’s eyes met Christie’s over the girl’s head. Not seeing, not yet, what she’d done. Just seeing his new girl. The one he’d told her to bring back here.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘It’s good to meet you, Loz.’

56

‘Yes, there were tunnels under Battersea,’ Aaron Buxton said, ‘but there’s no way into them from the site. Not here and not on the other side of the river. They sealed everything off years ago.’

‘The tunnels ran from the power station under the river into Pimlico. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’ Buxton was working; Noah could hear the site traffic in the background of the call. ‘It kept the boiler house from overheating, sent the steam where it could save money. Smart thinking, you might say. But the tunnels have been shut off since the early eighties.’

‘I’ve seen photos online. Recent photos. People are getting into the tunnels.’

‘You mean trespassers, hackers, whatever they call themselves. They might be finding a way in, but they’re not coming out over here. Not unless they’ve found a way through ten feet of concrete.’

‘You’re absolutely certain? We’re in the middle of a murder investigation …’

‘Save yourself some time and take my word for it. I’ll take a photo of the concrete if you need convincing. That’s not how he got her on site. I wish it was. Then I wouldn’t need to be double-checking everyone on the security detail in case one of them’s not doing his job properly.’

‘Or more than one of them.’

‘Thanks,’ Buxton said gloomily. ‘That’s made my morning.’

Noah ended the call, knowing how the man felt. But, ‘Good news,’ he told Ron. ‘The hunting ground just got halved again. We’re back where we started.’

‘We’re owed a break.’ Ron rubbed his eyes. ‘In the case, I mean. It’s an all-nighter for sure.’

Noah worked the crick out of his neck, walking over to the whiteboard.

The killer wasn’t underground. He worked in the open. They’d thought that as soon as they saw May’s body. This wasn’t someone who was hiding, not in any usual sense. He was happy to be found by the right people. By lost girls like Ashleigh, and Loz. Maybe even by the police. He’d made a mistake with Eric Mackay, which meant he was fallible. It also meant he wasn’t abusing these girls, not physically. So what was he doing, and why had it ended – twice – in murder?

‘Grace calls it home,’ Marnie said at his shoulder. ‘This place where he’s keeping them. She wants to go back there, even now. She’s scared of the alternative, but it’s more than that. Even knowing what Harm’s done, she wants to go back.’

‘But she didn’t on the night of the crash. Only May went back.’

‘For Aimee’s sake. That’s what Grace said. May couldn’t leave Aimee there.’ Marnie was looking at the faces on the board. ‘She knew, didn’t she?’

‘That Aimee was Eric? I think so. It’s in her sketch … I’m wondering if Eric was the father.’

‘I’d say there’s a good chance of that.’ Marnie’s blue eyes darkened. ‘What’s wrong with our killer that he can’t see a teenage boy when he’s right in front of him? And if May and Eric were having sex, he missed that too.’

‘Maybe he’s not looking too closely. The uniforms, the rules … Maybe they’re all the same to him, like dolls. Ultimate objectification.’ In which case, he was in for a shock with Loz, who was the least doll-like girl Noah had met. ‘That would explain what he did to May after she was dead, the neat way he laid her out, tidied her away.’

‘But not Ashleigh.’ Marnie’s stare worked the board for clues. ‘Grace says Ashleigh was a flirt, and we know Harm doesn’t like that. He likes good little girls, sexless, no make-up, no jewellery. If he found out May was pregnant, and if Ashleigh was flirting with him … They both broke the same rule. By being women instead of girls, instead of children.’

‘And Christie? Where does she fit in? She’s a woman, by any standards.’

‘One woman’s allowed, if she’s playing mother. From what Grace said, that’s the role Christie self-assigned.’

‘Some mother. She’s hardly keeping these girls safe … Do you think Loz is still alive?’ He asked the question quietly, then wished he hadn’t. Afraid it was stupid, optimistic.

Marnie said, ‘I hope so. We have to hope so.’

‘I thought we’d found a lead. Tunnels under Battersea. But it’s a dead end.’

‘So we keep going forward.’ Marnie touched a hand to his elbow. ‘Take a break if you need to. Call Dan, or Sol. Remind yourself of what’s important. I need you on this.’ Her phone rang in her office and she went to answer it.

Noah speed-dialled Dan’s number, but got voicemail. ‘I’ll be late, sorry. Love you.’

He tried Sol’s number, because Marnie was right, and because the whiteboard was starting to look like a brick wall. ‘Hey,’ he said when his brother picked up. ‘You okay?’

‘I’m cool.’ A beat. The sound of Sol scuffing a foot at the floor. ‘I messed up, but it’s sorted.’

‘Is it?’ Noah walked to the window, needing a change of view. ‘I’m not on your case, just worried and wanting to help if I can. If you need my help.’

‘Thanks, but it’s cool. I was getting free, you know? Just … trying to get free.’

‘A gang?’

‘Yeah.’ Sol gave a long sigh. ‘But I’m cool. I think … it’s gonna be okay.’

‘Good. Look, I’ll be late home. Dan knows. Don’t wait up for me. And take care.’

‘Yeah. Noah? Thanks.’

‘Sure.’ He rang off. He was going to have to talk with Sol properly. Bite the bullet and have the conversation neither one of them wanted, about how much trouble he was in and how hard he was trying to get out of it. Sol would never ask for his help, Noah knew that. But if he
needed
it, then Noah was going to have to make the first move.

Loz’s face looked at him from the whiteboard, next to her sister’s. A missing girl, and a dead one. Why hadn’t Loz asked for their help? Why had she given up so quickly? Going to that subway was an act of despair, or worse, of suicide. She hadn’t trusted the police to find May’s killer. Noah’s laptop was open at her Tumblr, photos she’d taken of road signs. Arrows mostly, as if she was making a point, subconsciously perhaps, about her life lacking direction. Or just searching for a way through her grief and loss.

In the days since May’s death, she’d researched police procedure and the CPS, statistics on sentencing, the Forgiveness Project, prison overcrowding. She’d found the names of the girls who were missing in London, seen photographs of Ashleigh and the others. Researched the traffic accident, followed the news of Logan’s injuries and his death, remembering the questions Marnie and Noah had asked her parents about a red-haired girl who might live on the Garrett estate. Loz had investigated everything she could, and then she’d gone offline, to search for real.

Colin had been through her browser history. No clues there. Just a record of how hard she’d worked to arm herself with knowledge, everything from the evidence needed to secure a murder conviction to the tributes paid on Logan’s Facebook page. Noah’s eyes snagged on the messages of condolence. Kenickie was right, Logan had been a local hero, running marathons to raise money for charity, building schools overseas, volunteering at homeless shelters and drop-in centres—

He stopped, scrolled back. Double-checked what he was seeing.

Shit.

‘DC Tanner, you took a message from Gina Marsh, Logan’s mum.’ He was on his feet. ‘Do you have her number?’

‘Somewhere.’ Debbie searched her desk. ‘Why?’ She handed up a sheet of paper.