The Calling (19 page)

‘Where are we going, Gary?’

‘I’ll fill you in in a minute, Sue. Let’s just get in the car and I’ll explain on the way.’

Gully gathered up the folder and a pile of loose notes from her in-tray and slipped her digital camera into her bag. Goodhew had already put all he needed in the car, and Gully hurried to catch him up.

Only as they reached the M11 did Goodhew finally begin to explain. ‘The article in the
Gazette
may have paid off. I had a call this morning from a PC in Essex who’d read it, and he was waiting alongside a newly discovered body even as I spoke to him. It sounds like a matching MO, but we won’t know until we get there.’

‘So who is she this time?’ Sue asked.

‘There’s no ID as yet, and the PC that rang me didn’t think he’d be thanked for tipping us off, so we’ll just have to wade in once we get there.’

Gully smiled as the implications of this tip-off hit her. ‘Oh, I see, now you want me to ring Marks, explaining that we’re well on the way there, and can he smooth the politics for us so we get a bit of cooperation at the scene once we arrive?’

‘Spot on, Sue.’

She pulled her mobile phone from her pocket and threw it into Goodhew’s lap. ‘I think you should do it. I just can’t ask.’

‘Oh yes, you can. Say I insisted, and you can’t get hold of me now, and I’m sure he’ll rise to the challenge.’

‘He’ll guess I’m in the car with you.’

‘Hang on then.’ Goodhew pulled off the motorway, on to a slip road, and switched off the engine, then passed the phone back to her. ‘Just think about it – he can’t demand that I come back if I’m not here, can he? Tell him you’re passing Stansted, and I’m ahead of you somewhere in a separate car. Say it’s the last thing I said to you before my phone battery went flat.’

‘You’re a devious git sometimes.’ She tapped out the number, and turned her usual shade of embarrassed pink as she made her call to Marks. ‘He said he knows you’re sitting next to me, and he doesn’t want you wasting your time in Essex.’

Goodhew grinned. ‘We won’t waste any time. If there’s no obvious connection, we’ll head back straight away.’

‘He said that, too – and that he’ll ring ahead and square it with their murder squad.’

The area around the body site was sealed off, and the concrete courtyard in front of the Andersons’ farm was milling with official murder business. Goodhew parked behind a police patrol car and straight away they found themselves approached by a uniformed officer with his arms spread wide, like he was rounding up geese.

Goodhew showed his badge, and was directed towards the entrance to the first field, now cordoned off with phosphorescent tape. Beyond the tape, a series of figures in sterile overalls and matching gloves, hoods and shoes could be seen moving with meticulous care through the field itself, and the next one, and probably also the one beyond. One of these detectives now approached the gateway.

‘You must be the two from Cambridge. I’m DC Janice McNamara. Get yourselves suited up and I’ll take you on through.’ McNamara carried on talking to them while they dressed. ‘The police surgeon’s been down there for some time, and I haven’t yet heard when he reckons she died. You know how it is: we don’t know anything definite yet.’

‘Have you actually seen the body?’ Goodhew enquired.

‘No, she’s in the third field, and I’ve been posted in this one the whole time.’

Gully felt the simultaneous lurch of trepidation and adrenalin. Her head buzzed from the atmosphere of intense concentration that enveloped the entire farm and even permeated her lungs. McNamara was now addressing her, but she’d missed the question and stared back blankly.

‘For the preservation of evidence, I was saying that it would be better if only one of you approached the site of the body.’

Gully’s face flushed with disappointment. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘There’s plenty else you can do here to keep yourself busy,’ McNamara told Gully. She turned and smiled at Goodhew. ‘Ready?’

‘Actually,’ he lied, ‘it’s Gully here who’s the crime-scene expert.’

‘Oh,’ McNamara looked uncertain, ‘I just assumed …’

‘Bad habit for a detective,’ he commented and turned to Gully with a wink. ‘Do you think you should handle this one?’

‘No, Gary, I think you’ll do OK. I have a lot of background stuff to be getting on with.’ As Goodhew set off after McNamara, she added, ‘Just ask me if there’s anything you’re not sure about.’ She then followed them as far as the nearest field, where she’d start doing a bit of investigating of her own.

By this stage, only one item of significance had been found on the body. Constable Pearse passed the evidence bag containing some form of security badge to Goodhew, who held it up to study more closely through the clear plastic.

‘Stephanie Palmer, Network Rail Staff,’ he read out. ‘Has it been confirmed yet that she’s missing?’

Pearse shook his head. ‘Last I heard was about fifteen minutes ago, when McNamara had a call from Network Rail’s HQ, saying that she’s not been in today. But apparently that’s not unusual, as she’s erratic with her attendance. They’re going to ring back once they’ve found out more. I think it looks like her, though, don’t you?’

Goodhew held the ID card between himself and the corpse, and compared the two faces. ‘Looks very likely,’ he agreed. He passed the evidence bag back to Pearse.

‘It was found inside a little money pocket tucked into her waistband. Obviously the killer missed it.’ Pearse waited until Goodhew turned back to him, before continuing. ‘Can I ask you something?’

Goodhew nodded. ‘What’s that?’

‘Is this likely linked to the others?’

Again Goodhew nodded, but more reservedly. ‘It appears that way.’

Goodhew caught sight of Gully now standing just beyond the police tape. She had soon changed back out of her overalls, and appeared detached from the main thrust of the search as she scribbled notes on whatever she had observed.

‘It’s a really good place to hide a body,’ she muttered as Goodhew later joined her, doubtless hoping to provoke him into comment.

But he didn’t speak or even move, and for several minutes they stood side by side on a grassy knoll, surveying the same patch of ground in the neighbouring yellow field.

Eventually he muttered an irritable, ‘Why?’

And Gully, whose thoughts had moved on, replied, ‘Why what?’

He scowled. ‘Why is it such a good place to hide a body?’

‘Well, it already stinks, for a start. Smells as bad as a men’s toilet. It’s rape-seed, you know.’

‘Yeah, so?’

‘Well, even the name’s hardly romantic, is it? No couples likely to go strolling around here hand in hand, are they?’ She turned towards him. ‘And stop being so ratty.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You bloody well are, Gary, and you know it. How could you have found her? How could anyone, when no one even knew she was missing? We don’t even know it’s the same killer, so don’t start getting pissed off because we wasted valuable time keeping Andy Burrows locked up.’

Goodhew reached out and gently turned Gully back to face the rape field. ‘It is the same killer. The rope’s the same, tied the same, and she was gagged the same way, too. And you’re right, it’s a brilliant place to hide a body. That sign down there says “KEEP OUT – Pesticides in use”, and the place is muddy and crawling with bugs. No fun for kids playing or dog walks or secluded sex. And if you were abandoned out there, trussed up like that,’ his hand swept an arc in front of them, ‘just in the fields we can see, how long do you think it would take me to find you?’

She wasn’t sure how big the field actually was, but guessed that the yellow swathe of rape-seed crop, which descended from the distant hills into the level ground at her feet, must run into hundreds of acres. And, besides, the crop stood at least three feet high. ‘I doubt if you could even find me there unless you waded through it row by row.’

‘Exactly – and this is just one location. There are places like this all over the country. Even the smell of a decomposing body would be masked by the stench of this yellow stuff.’

‘So how was she discovered?’ she wondered.

‘Some guy called Marlon Rodgers had been taking aerial shots of farmland from a microlight aircraft. When he had the pictures developed, there she appeared as a bright blue blob. But over twenty-four hours intervened between yesterday morning, when he took the photos, and when he came back to have a look today.’

‘She wasn’t still alive in the photos, was she?’ Gully asked in horror.

‘Can’t tell for sure till we get the pathology report. I suppose it’s possible since, after all, she probably only disappeared on Saturday.’

‘Three and a half days ago, hmm.’ She thought of Kaye Whiting and Helen Neill and she shuddered. ‘Kaye lasted a lot longer than that.’

Goodhew nodded. ‘Yeah, and in much colder weather, too. This Marlon guy’s beside himself, of course. He’s desperate to know whether he could have saved her. I told him I thought she must have been already dead by then.’

‘You got a close look at the body?’

‘Yeah.’ Goodhew grimaced. ‘It’s really rotten already, so I reckon she must have died on Sunday or maybe Monday. There’s discoloration around the face, spreading down on to her chest, and she’s started to balloon.’

‘Beetles eating the skin yet?’ she asked.

‘Yup,’ he replied.

‘More like Sunday, then.’

Andrew Hansen arrived at Colchester police station at exactly 7.15 p.m. He wore a blue suit and carried an iPad as well as his mobile phone. He was escorted straight through to DC Pugh and DC Goodhew, who were both waiting for him in the identification lounge.

A group of armless, mustard-coloured chairs were positioned in a semicircle around a low table. A water-dispenser stood in a far corner, and to one side of the group of chairs a large television set was bolted on to a chest of drawers.

That was all there was in the room, apart from three boxes of Kleenex tissues, one at each end of the table and one on top of the water-cooler.

DC Pugh introduced both himself and Goodhew. ‘Thank you for volunteering, Mr Hansen.’

‘That’s OK. I guess it gets difficult when a victim hasn’t got any relatives in the country.’ He put his laptop on the nearest seat, and rested the phone on top of it. ‘She’s from Australia, you realize?’

‘Uh-huh,’ nodded Pugh. ‘First I need to take some of your details. Like your full name and date of birth.’

‘Andrew John Hansen, eighth of April 1969.’

‘And your relationship to Miss Palmer?’

‘She’s one of my staff, an administrator.’

‘And your job?’

‘I’m a senior projects manager based at the Network Rail office in Euston Station.’

‘And how long has Miss Palmer worked for you?’

‘Last week was only her seventh.’

‘Would you say you knew her relatively well?’

‘Fairly well. As well as anyone else in this country, I suppose.’

‘OK, that’s great. I’ll be requesting some more details if the identification is positive. A close-up of the victim’s face will now appear on the screen, so take as long as you like. It is vital you only give us a positive identification if you are one hundred per cent sure. Do you understand?’

‘Yes. I’m ready when you are.’

DC Pugh paused while pointing the remote control at the TV set. ‘I must warn you first that, whilst we’ve done what we can to make the face presentable, it isn’t a pleasant sight.’ He pressed
play
.

Andrew Hansen’s naturally jovial face was fixed on the screen as a mottled image took shape. The man waited for the true horror to hit home. ‘Yes, that’s her,’ he mumbled. He kept staring, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. The blisters and fissures of decomposition, the bloating of a once pretty face. No, it didn’t seem real. ‘Yes, that’s her,’ he repeated again, but louder.

A pile of dirty clothing slouched in a hungover heap in the corner, as if infused with too much alcohol and tobacco smoke to be able to party any more.

‘Halfway between a whorehouse and a squat,’ announced DC Pugh cheerfully, as he introduced Goodhew to Stephanie Palmer’s eight-foot-square bedroom. ‘Fingerprints haven’t been collected yet, so don’t touch anything. But I don’t need to tell you that, do I?’

Goodhew shook his head silently and stepped into the room.

Pugh meanwhile chatted on. ‘The forensic guys will be up to their ears in these dirty knickers for weeks.’

The bin brimmed with grease-spotted takeaway cartons and swigged-out cans of Tennant’s Extra, all of them decorated with several brands of cigarette ash and dog-ends.

‘Sex wasn’t the only thing she had an appetite for, by the look of things.’

Goodhew glanced up. ‘Did she?’

‘Did she what?’

‘Did she have an appetite for sex, or is that just based on observation of this lot?’

‘The flatmates said it was one after another, two at once on at least one occasion. She was no nun, that’s for sure. And if she was killed by your guy, would she have been raped too?’

A duvet and pillow hunched together on the sagging single bed, providing the only two items in the room that belonged together.

‘No, not unless he’s changed his pattern. Might not even be a he, as it happens, but I expect it is.’

Three unopened letters lay on the bedside table, two of them the inevitable junk mail and one from Barclays. A statement, Gary guessed. He’d know for sure later, once the forensics were done.

Pugh still waited by the door. ‘Do you think the killer was here?’

‘Unlikely.’ Goodhew pivoted slowly, absorbing the room into his consciousness, trying to forge a link between its recent past and the present. He lodged its smell and silence in its own little memory compartment, and watched as glittering dust particles floated in a shaft of bright sunlight above the bed.

That’s when he saw it, hidden under the mattress – like a schoolgirl might do.

Stephanie’s diary.

Her self-portrait, and Goodhew’s introduction to another girl too late to be saved.