The Killer Inside (17 page)

There was no way of doing it gently – she had tried that the other night and it hadn’t worked. Coward that she was, she was glad she couldn’t see his face. He took it calmly enough. If he felt hurt his voice certainly didn’t betray it. He was brisk. Businesslike. He thanked her for her company and said he hoped they could still be friends; said they were bound to bump into each other before too long. She came out with some vaguely assenting reply, hoping he would be wrong.

When the conversation ended she sat staring at the gates of the churchyard. So that’s it, she thought: another one bites the dust. Being the one to finish it didn’t make her feel any better. But she knew that the longer she had allowed it to continue, the more miserable and resentful she would have become. ‘Look at you,’ she muttered to herself, ‘Sitting outside a graveyard in some god-awful part of Birmingham because there’s no one at home to care whether you come back from work or not.’ With some difficulty she slid her finger down the inside of her trousers, releasing the button that fastened over her left hip. ‘And you’re fat,’ she said. ‘Getting fatter. You’re going to have to do something. Take yourself in hand. Spend weekends at the gym instead of gluggling Chablis and stuffing down takeaways.’

‘It’s the first sign of madness, you know.’

Megan bumped her nose on the seatbelt anchor as she whipped her head towards the window. Delva was leaning in, a face-splitting grin displaying her gleaming teeth.

‘What are you doing, sitting here talking to yourself? Come and sit in the OB van. You can meet the rest of the team.’

Glad to be pulled from the mire of self-loathing, Megan followed her to the monstrous white vehicle with the BTV logo emblazoned on the sides. The Outside Broadcast van was parked a short distance from the gates of St Mary’s, and the shadow of Balsall Gate’s barbed-wire-topped walls fell across its roof. The back of the van was piled with cables and camera equipment, but, perched on a fold-down bench near the cab, were a couple who didn’t look much older than Megan’s students. They were both striking-looking. He had a strong, tanned face with long brown hair tied back in a pony tail and a silver stud in one earlobe. She was dark and pretty, her hair falling in corkscrew curls over her shoulders. Both were dressed in unisex, outdoor clothes.

‘Tim, Natalie, this is Dr Megan Rhys.’ Delva ushered her into the van, offering her an upturned box with a mudcoloured cushion on it. ‘These two are from the research team,’ Delva said, settling herself onto a similar makeshift seat. ‘Natalie’s the one that’s been visiting Balsall Gate.’

‘Oh, right.’ Megan smiled to mask the stab of jealousy she felt. So this was the blonde girl she had seen laughing and chatting with Dom in the visitors’ room. Obviously she had been wearing a wig: she would never have recognised her.

‘And Tim’s the ex-copper I was telling you about – looks far too young, doesn’t he?’ she chuckled, ‘Makes me feel as old as Methuselah!’

‘You’ve been looking through the court records, haven’t you?’ Megan addressed the question to Tim. ‘You’re quite sure there was no third man?’

Tim and Natalie exchanged glances before shaking their heads.

‘You’re talking about the third member of the gang who murdered Moses Smith?’ Tim flicked the trailing ends of the pony tail off his shoulder as he spoke. ‘There was no third person sentenced at that time. But it was a long time after the murder, wasn’t it? More than a decade. I guess the third guy must have been off the scene by then.’

‘It would help if we had a name, wouldn’t it?’ Delva said. ‘I mean, if these prison murders are about Moses Smith’s death, this third man’s life could be in danger.’  

Megan nodded. It felt like walking through treacle: this whole investigation was going in slow motion. There was so much that needed to be done: so much the police could be doing, but it felt as if she and Delva’s team were the only ones doing any real detective work.  

‘Anyway,’ Delva said, looking at the researchers, ‘It’s going to be a long evening and I could do with a caffeine fix. Would you two nip round the corner and see if you can find a Costas or a Starbucks or something?’  

‘There’s a Starbucks about half a mile that way,’ Megan said, jabbing her thumb towards the left side of the van. ‘It’s just across the road from the university.’  

‘I know it.’ Natalie piped up. ‘I did my degree at Heartland.’

‘Oh?’ Megan attempted another joyless smile. ‘What did you study?’  

‘Biochemistry.’  

‘Really? And you’ve gone into television?’ Megan was genuinely surprised. She had expected the girl to say English or Media Studies. It seemed an odd career path for a science graduate but, as she well knew, the vast majority of students ended up in jobs that bore no relation to the subjects they had studied.  

‘I wish I hadn’t chosen it now,’ Natalie replied, looking up at Megan through long dark lashes. ‘I’ve been telling the
Balsall Gate inmates I’m a Sociology student but actually I wish I’d taken a degree in something like that. I find prisoners absolutely fascinating.’

I bet you do
, Megan thought. It annoyed her to picture this girl lying to Dom; batting her eyelashes at him as she tried to win him over.

‘Right. What shall we get you?’ Tim rose to his feet, bending his head to avoid bumping it on the roof of the van. ‘Cappuccino with an extra shot for you, Delva? And what about Dr Rhys?’

‘A double espresso, please.’ That was something else she was going to have to cut down on. This would be her third one today but she felt she needed it – it was either that or take up smoking again. As Tim and Natalie squeezed past the piles of cable she noticed his hand brush her waist. ‘Are they an item?’ she asked Delva when the van door slammed shut.

‘That didn’t take you long,’ Delva chuckled. ‘I think it’s quite recent. They’re at the stage where they find it hard to keep their hands off each other. I caught them having a snog in the newsroom kitchen the other day. Quite sweet, isn’t it?’

Megan nodded. A wave of relief washed over her. Natalie no longer seemed quite such a threat. Some higher part of her brain told her how ridiculous this was; getting jealous over a twenty-something who may or may not have been flirting with the object of her misguided fantasies. She shuddered to think what her academic colleagues would make of it if they knew.

‘They worked their socks off on the Birmingham Six theory,’ Delva said, jerking her head in the direction Tim and Natalie had taken. ‘Shame my hunch didn’t stand up. It would have been an amazing story.’

Megan opened her mouth to agree but was caught short
by her mobile ringing again. She bit her lip as she plunged her hand into her bag. If it was Jonathan she wasn’t going to answer. She couldn’t face any more heavy stuff. But it was a number she didn’t recognise.

‘Dr Rhys? It’s David Dunn. Sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier but I wanted to speak to all the staff.’

‘Oh, that’s okay.’ The sudden announcement of the exhumation and its aftermath had made her forget that he was meant to be calling her. ‘What did they say?’

‘Not a lot, I’m afraid. No one reported seeing anyone suspicious loitering about in the reception area. So I can only conclude that the culprit is one of our own students, which I find rather alarming.’ Or one of your staff, she thought. She began to voice this but he spoke over her. ‘I was wondering, are you involved in this exhumation I’ve heard about on the news? I gather there’s a link with a drugs death in Balsall Gate jail?’

She wondered how he’d worked that out on the limited information she’d given him. ‘I’m afraid I can’t comment on that,’ she said tersely. ‘It’s a police matter.’

‘Oh, I was just interested, that’s all.’ He sounded slightly chastened. ‘I do hope that you’ll keep me informed of what’s happening with your inquiries, though. I’m very concerned about the safety of my students and I need to know the full picture.’

‘I understand your concern. Obviously if anything relevant arises I’ll be in touch.’

‘Okay, Dr Rhys. Good luck with it, and please, if you need any help at all, don’t hesitate to contact me, will you?’

‘Who was it?’ Delva asked as Megan slid the phone back into her bag.

‘The warden from Linden House – the one you thought was a bit of a smoothie.’  

‘Oh, him.’ Delva pursed her lips. ‘Sounded as if he was
getting a bit nosey.’

‘That’s what I thought. Seems he’s got hold of more of the story than I gave him the other night. I wonder where from?’

Delva shrugged. ‘Could be one of his staff. I mean, the university’s so near to the prison: it wouldn’t be much of a surprise if someone at Linden House was related to someone who works at Balsall Gate, would it?’

‘I suppose not.’ Megan’s eyes narrowed. ‘I wonder if that’s the key to this? Some screw using contacts at the university as a cover? Anyway, it’s reminded me of something: I must give that letter to DS Willis – the one Dom Wilde gave me. If it’s got prints on it we can get everyone at Linden House checked out – see if there’s a match.’

‘That’ll be a long job, won’t it?’ Delva said doubtfully.

‘I know, but it’s the only solid lead we’ve got at the moment.’

The rattle of a handle signalled the return of the researchers. When the coffees had been distributed, they all sat with faces glued to the windows, watching for anyone suspicious approaching the gates of the graveyard. There was far less interest than Megan had expected. Apart from an old man walking his dog and the girl with the pushchair she had seen earlier coming back the other way with a bag of shopping slung from the handle, there was no one.

By seven-thirty the light was beginning to fade. ‘I think I’ll make myself scarce,’ Megan said, as a police car rolled into view. ‘Willis has banned me from talking to you lot. He’s prickly enough as it is, so I’d better not wind him up.’

By sneaking round the side of the OB van she managed to get back to her car without being seen by the five uniformed men who emerged from the patrol car. Watching in her rear view mirror she saw a large black vehicle pull up behind the police car. It had the shape of a hearse but without the large
side windows. This must be the transport for the coffin, she thought.

She gave it a few minutes, then got out of the car and made her way to the cordon, where one of the five policemen had stationed himself. She flashed her ID and he let her through without a word. As she picked her way past the headstones there was a sudden flash. The arc-lights had come on. Glancing around the periphery of the churchyard she could now see knots of people wandering up to the cordon, drawn like moths to a flame. It was impossible to make out faces: she hoped Tim and Natalie would do the rounds once the cameras were rolling. It would be easy enough for them to blend in once people were distracted by the media circus.

There were only six people behind the screens. Willis was chatting to the driver of the mini-digger and the four other uniformed officers she’d spotted in the patrol car had put on yellow overalls and were erecting a metal structure that looked like some sort of pulley. There was no acknowledgement from the detective sergeant other than a curt nod in her direction during a momentary lull in his conversation with the digger man.

Darkness had fallen by the time the pulley was in place. The men stood back as Willis signed to the driver to start up the digger. Megan strained her eyes as turf and soil peeled away. The arc lights cast a cold white glare over the scene. Within minutes a wide trench had been carved out. There was a juddering sound as the scoop made contact with the coffin. Willis and the others moved forward, shouting instructions as the digger manouevred at snail’s pace along the edge of the trench. Megan could see that the impact of the scoop had splintered the lid. No doubt the coffin was the cheapest type: after seventeen years in the ground it would have been no surprise to have found it had collapsed. She wondered if it would survive being hauled out. It vibrated
alarmingly as the digger excavated the earth at each end. Harnesses were lowered and looped under it. Megan held her breath as it swayed into the air. If it burst now Moses Smith’s remains would be scattered everywhere. Amazingly the coffin landed, intact, on the collapsible metal trolley laid beside the trench.

They went in procession to the gates. It was like a funeral in reverse, the coffin borne from its resting place by the policemen, with Willis walking sombrely in front of it. The mumbled conversations of the onlookers came to an abrupt halt. Shrouded in a black sheet, there was nothing visible as the bones made their way back to the land of the living. But there was no doubt Moses Smith was getting far more attention at this moment than he had ever received in life.

He was not the only one arriving at the mortuary that evening. As Megan drew up beside the black van she saw an ambulance parked outside the entrance. Paramedics were bringing in the body of a young man killed in a road accident. Megan had to pass by the corpse on her way to the
post-mortem
room. He looked barely old enough to drive. There wasn’t a mark on him apart from a trickle of dried blood beneath his nose His blue eyes were open, their unblinking gaze demanding an explanation.

‘Don’t s’pose old Moses’ll smell as sweet as that one.’ It was one of the uniformed officers who spoke, chuckling as he jerked his head at the crash victim. Megan shuddered. She had seen death many times but she could never be blasé about it; could not bring herself to participate in the black humour the police and medical staff used to get them through. The link with life was so fragile; snatched away in an instant.

Alistair Hodge was waiting for them. Megan thought he
looked tired. He had probably been here all day and was anxious to get this over with and get home. There wouldn’t be a lot for him to do. It was just a matter of removing the remains, bagging them up and selecting suitable material for a DNA test.

The smell became more pronounced when they entered the post-mortem room. It was a musty, earthy smell. It reminded Megan of an old trunk in the damp-ridden box room of her uncle’s house. She’d climbed into it once during a game of hide and seek, almost gagging as she buried her face in a forgotten jumble of mildewed fabric.