A Passion To Kill (DI Matt Barnes Book 5) Page 4

  “And why is that relevant to us?”

  “Three weeks previously her co-presenter, the now late Jeff Goodwin, supposedly took a header from the roof of the riverside apartment block he lived in.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “What have you and I always said about coincidences, Matt?”

  “That they probably do exist, but that being cops we choose to work on the assumption that they’re thinner on the ground than honest politicians. How did the lovely Danielle depart this life?”

  “In the bathtub with both her wrists slashed, and she’s still in situ. Adams got a call from SC and O. One of their divisional commanders decided it could be linked, which would make it a possible serial case. We’re the little brother to them that specialises in repeaters, so it ends up on my desk.”

  “We’ll be stretched with the one we’ve just got started in on. Specialist Crime and Operations have the manpower to handle it.”

  “We don’t get to pick and choose. We’ve been passed the parcel. I’ll give you the address and you can get over there now and see what you think.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THERE was a uniform manning the entrance to the small residents’ car park at the rear of the large Georgian house in Highgate, which had been remodelled into six separate apartments.

  Matt automatically flipped his wallet open to show the constable his ID. Over the years it had become almost as natural an act as blinking. His wallets wore out quickly.

  Detective Chief Inspector Barry Henson was in the third floor apartment, chatting with a DC, and CSIs were still processing the scene.

  “We’ve done the prelim’ work,” Barry said to Matt after they’d got past the introductions. “I don’t think it’s a suicide, and that makes me wonder if her work colleague jumped or was pushed.”

  “So you decided that it could be a repeater started up, not just two isolated incidents?”

  “Precisely. I thought it was a case for your squad to run with.”

  “We could make it a joint investigation and share the load,” Matt said.

  “No thanks,” Barry came back with a broad smile on his narrow, stubble-covered face. “I’ve never believed that a problem shared is a problem halved. You’ll have the initial reports on your desk first thing in the morning, and you can liaise with the pathologist when he arrives. He must’ve got snarled up in traffic. As you can see the crime scene team are still doing their thing.”

  “Thanks a bunch.”

  “You’re welcome Barnes,” and on that note he headed for the door with his DC plodding one step behind him like a pet dog.

  “Just one thing,” Matt said, thinking that he probably sounded like the TV cop, Columbo. “What makes you think that this was murder?”

  Barry stopped and turned, almost colliding with the DC. “The dress on the bed and the woman’s arms,” he said before hurrying out of the apartment.

  A techie handed Matt and Marci latex gloves, and Tyvek boot covers to slip on over their shoes. “The knife used is bagged-up on the coffee table,” he said. “It was in the bath with her. The bathroom is en suite off the main bedroom, second on the right down the hallway, and we’ve finished in there, so feel free to touch what you need to.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said and walked over to the table to look through the clear plastic of a sealed and labelled zip lock bag at the wood handled steak knife, that he was sure would be found to be part of a set in a kitchen drawer.

  They entered the bedroom and both of them could smell the almost sweet, coppery odour of blood.

  Matt looked around the room. Nothing seemed out of place. The bed was made, and a black, sheath dress was laid out neatly on top of the cream duvet.

  Alarm bells were already ringing loud and clear. The garment had not been slipped off and just tossed; it was still on a wooden hanger, ready to wear.

  He stood at the open door of the large bathroom and looked across to the old-fashioned white-enamelled roll top bath with claw feet. In it was the body of a woman that he knew to be Danielle Cooper. Her left arm was hanging over the rim of the bath, and her fingers were only a few inches from a mat that was soaked with blood. The bath was only half full of water, which was now bright red. He could not help but look at her large breasts, which appeared firm but natural, and were lined with blood; reminiscent of rivulets of rain, or a mix of water and crimson poster paint running down a windowpane. Her face was not set in a peaceful expression. The blue eyes were wide open, as was her gaping mouth.

  “I watched the programme she fronted whenever I was off duty on the night it was on,” Marci said from where she was standing next to Matt in the doorway. “She seemed very sincere and committed to exposing all sorts of lowlife.”

  Matt said nothing, just looked at the patterns of blood that had spouted from Danielle’s brachial, radial and ulnar arteries to coat the white-tiled wall and the interior of the tub. He could see that, presumably, the knife found had been employed to cut the arms. It appeared that the point of the blade had been pushed deeply into the inside of the elbow joint, to then be firmly drawn down to the wrist in a zigzag manner which ensured that the arteries were sliced in several places.

  “First impressions,” Matt said to Marci.

  “Water has been splashed on the mat, and the hinged glass screen is folded back,” Marci said as she walked over to stoop and pick up a bath towel that was on the floor next to the toilet. It was sopping wet with water, not blood. “My initial feeling is that she was taking a bath, most likely with the screen pulled partly across. It’s heavily frosted, and so an intruder could have taken the towel off the rail, folded the screen back and taken her by surprise.”

  “And done what?” Matt asked.

  “Put the towel over her face and pushed her head under the water. Half drowned her, and cut her wrists while she was unconscious or unable to even try to defend herself. If she had been dead, then the knife wounds would have been unnecessary, and her heart would have stopped pumping, so there wouldn’t have been much blood.”

  “So whoever did it thought we would assume that she cut her wrists and then drowned as she bled out,” Matt said. “And that doesn’t make sense because she’s sitting up.”

  “So he didn’t think it through: just got away from the scene as quickly as possible. Most killers make mistakes, unless they’re professional hitmen.”

  “Why he?”

  “Because Danielle was a young, fit woman. She would’ve fought. A female killer would have been more inclined to pull the screen back and batter her to death with something, rather than risk overcoming her physically.”

  Matt liked Marci’s line of thought. “With any luck she got to scratch him while he was pushing her under,” he said. “And he should have been sprayed with blood and even stepped in some, but there are no signs of prints on the floor in here, or out in the hall.”

  “He could have done what we’re doing now, worn overshoes. Probably gloves as well, and maybe something like a boiler suit. Once she was dead he may have taken the time to put them in a bag and just walk out.”

  “There should be security camera coverage of everyone that entered and left the building. My take is that she was targeted, and so the killer would have known that the camera was there.”

  “So it’s definitely one for us, boss?” Marci said.

  “Looks that way,” Matt said as they went back to the lounge. “We’d better interview whoever found her, and then visit what could be the first crime scene. Make arrangements for everything on what was supposed to be her colleague’s suicide to be sent to the squad room.”

  The Home Office duty pathologist arrived. It was Nat Farley.

  “Hi, Barnes,” Nat said. “And hello Marci, you’re looking as beautiful as ever. What brings SCU officers to a suicide?”

  “If this is a suicide I’ll strip off and run round Nelson’s Column,” Matt said.

  Nat chuckled. “What about you, Marci? Are you planning on doing the same?”
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br />   Marci grinned and said, “In your dreams, Nat.”

  Nat laughed, showing his trademark set of what seemed overlarge dentures, which were the brown colour of tea.

  The old pathologist’s face was a patchwork of lines that seemed to have spread and grown deeper since the last time Matt had met him at a murder scene, which was not that long ago. It was as if his face had suffered an earthquake that had left cavernous fissures in its aftermath; a checkerboard of pale skin, apart from the purple-coloured bags under his eyes.

  “So lead the way to the cadaver,” Nat said. He was already wearing a green nylon coat, a pair of latex gloves, and plastic booties. “I haven’t got all day to stand around making small talk.”

  Nat looked at the body in the bath from all available angles after he had placed his large aluminium case down on an area of the floor in the bathroom that was blood-free, and then went to work, first using a probe to get a temperature reading from the liver of the corpse, before rotating the neck and arms to check for signs of rigor.

  Matt and Marci waited for him in the lounge, to give him the space he required. Nat didn’t like to be crowded at a scene.

  “What do you two think happened in there?” Nat said after he had removed his gloves and booties and placed them in a plastic bag for disposal back at the mortuary.

  “We believe that she was half drowned before having her arms cut, and that she bled out,” Matt said. “The wet towel was probably used to cover her face when the killer held her under.”

  Nat nodded. “If I find that her lungs are full of water, you could be right,” he said. “All I can tell you for now is that I would initially put the TOD at being a minimum of four hours ago.”

  “Thanks, Nat,” Matt said. “We’ll be on our way.”

  “Getting squeamish?” Nat said.

  “No. But I don’t think I’d get off by seeing the bare-arsed, blood-covered corpse of a woman being slopped out of a bath and into a body bag.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  HE left the ground floor bedsit, checked his mailbox in the hall, and then walked the half mile into the town centre, not pausing or even turning his head as he passed the palisade of iron railings that fronted the yard of the primary school. But the blur of movement in his peripheral vision and the laughter of the children was enough to arouse him both mentally and physically. Prepubescent boys were magnets to him. He knew that his predilection for them was a psychiatric disorder; an illness of the mind, and so chose to deem his actions as being excusable, due to his total inability to stop himself from indulging his needs. That he had been jailed several times for molesting minors had not diminished the unremitting drive to do it. He was a predator, both on the street and on the Net. His every waking moment was occupied with dark fantasies of grooming, then fondling and enjoying every sexual act imaginable with very young, naïve boys.

  Craig Danby had been on the receiving end of paedophilia. As a seven year old his uncle had introduced him to sex by taking him swimming, to play and hold him close, and then fondle his genitals in the changing cubicle. His uncle had made him feel good, and told him that the fun they had together was a big secret, and that he must cross his heart and swear that he would never tell anyone, including his parents, about what they did.

  He had been twelve when his uncle died in an industrial accident at work. It was soon after that when he realised that he acutely missed what they had done together for so long. And yet he was not particularly attracted to men, only boys of his own age or younger. The die was cast. One of his school mates, Pete Sewell, had been gay; or homosexual as it was more commonly labelled thirty years ago. And so they had indulged in regular sexual activity for the next three years, and had found other like-minded boys to widen and deepen their experiences.

  With the passage of time, he had realised that his fascination for boys over the age of twelve was diminishing. He and Pete both shared the yearning to have sex with much younger lads, so set about grooming them. Pete had also gotten heavily into drugs, and had accidentally taken an overdose and died while celebrating his twenty-fourth birthday, almost twenty years ago.

  With time spent in prison for molesting minors, Craig was now extremely careful; especially after being arrested, suspected of raping a ten year old lad, who had been a little traumatised and not told his parents what had happened until three days later. Thank God that there had been no trace evidence to link him to it. He had worn a condom, and the youngster had obviously showered or had a bath, so the filth had no proof. Once the kid had failed to positively identify him in a line-up he was home free.

  Problem was, his record was cramping his style big-time. Being on the sex offenders’ register was a bind. He didn’t have the anonymity to stay below the radar. And it was a requirement that he notify the authorities of any change of address. If he failed to comply with any of their petty rules he would be at risk of going back to prison.

  The bad experiences with the law had in a sense been a learning curve. He was ultra careful these days. He had a laptop in his bedsit, but it was not registered in his name. He had picked it up cheap in a pawnshop, found that it still had a few files on it that had not been password protected, and discovered a name in one that he now used. Connecting with other like-minded men on the Net had been easy. There was a wealth of child pornography to be had, though he did not download it. And he had the details of sites on which he could pose as a minor and groom young boys, with the intention of eventually meeting them and transforming the virtual relationships to reality.

  Craig walked passed a bench and glanced at the middle-aged man sitting on it. He was wearing drab clothes and a sweat-stained baseball cap, and was resting both hands, one atop the other, on the curved horn handle of a walking cane. For just an instant Craig noticed the intense look in the man’s eyes. He was staring straight at him, and for some reason it was slightly unnerving. Craig carried on walking, but knew that he was still being watched: could almost feel the man’s stare drilling into his back like lasers. Why? He was positive that he had never seen him before.

  By the time he reached the town centre, Craig had forgotten the incident. He was distracted by the sight of little boys with their mothers. He wandered along the high street, knowing that he could look but not touch. In this age of technology there were security cameras everywhere; supposedly six million in the UK. Big Brother was watching you wherever you went. You had to be ever vigilant in this police state that they called a democracy.

  He didn’t follow Danby. No need to. He knew that the depraved little pervert would just wander around town looking at kids. But not for much longer. He stood up and leaned on the walking cane that he didn’t need. Went back to his car and drove home. He came to the decision that the best place to deal with his quarry was at the bedsit he lived in. He would leave it another week, and then pay Danby a night visit.

  It had been four days since the body had been found on the shore at Barking Creek. The autopsy confirmed that Neil Connolly had been dead for at least seventy-two hours before being discovered by the two boys. A blow to the back of his head had most likely stunned him, before he was taken to wherever the killer had carved the letters on his back, prior to cutting his throat.

  Kenny Ruskin had used the most advanced software available to enhance the footage of the face of the Astra’s driver and the car’s registration plate, but there was a maximum to what could be done. Only a limited amount of light can be recorded on film. There is always an upper limit to the detail of any captured image. No camera, however sophisticated, has an infinite capacity for resolution, whatever Hollywood movies erroneously claim.

  The letters and numbers on the front plate, though dirty, could be recognised, which proved to be of little help, due to the DVLA at Swansea confirming that the registration belonged to a six year old white Toyota, and had obviously been stolen to affix on the dark Astra.

  The face was a far bigger problem. Kenny managed to lighten the image, but it had little definition. Blu
rry pixels remained fuzzy. And the bill of the baseball cap that the man was wearing shielded his eyes completely. There were no truly discernible features, other than a moustache. He was disappointed that what he had to work with was not enough.

  A day after the discovery of the body, the Astra was found burnt out on waste ground a mile from the dump site. The killer was obviously a man who’d put a great deal of planning into not only the murder, but the vehicle used and its disposal.

  Matt had split the members of the squad into two teams and was overseeing both. Pete, Tam and Marci were investigating the first case, and Marci had tagged the killer ‘The Clown’, due to his use of the mask on Neil Connolly.

  Phil and Errol were digging into the suspicious deaths of Danielle Cooper and Jeff Goodwin. In both cases it was a process of elimination, to interview all possible people known to the victims and hope to narrow it down.

  Initially, Matt and Marci had interviewed Ms Rhonda Gould, who had been Danielle Cooper’s agent.

  They had made an appointment and subsequently conducted the interview in the second floor office she rented, which was off the Strand on Adam Street, quite close to Victoria Embankment Gardens.

  They had been led through a small reception room, along a narrow corridor to her office. The door was open, and a tall shapely woman was already rounding her desk to greet them.

  “You must be Detective Inspector Barnes,” Rhonda said, giving his hand a firm shake.

  “Yes, I must be,” Matt said. “And my colleague is Detective Constable Clark.”

  “Well I can’t say that I’m pleased to meet you, given the circumstances,” Rhonda said. “What happened is absolutely terrible and heartbreaking. Danielle was not just a client; she was a very good friend. I’m totally distraught. Please take a seat. I have no idea how I can possibly be of any help. I understand Danielle took her own life.”