CHAPTER 2
‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Traffic,’ said Peter, giving her a brisk smile. He picked up a pile of paperwork from the passenger seat and put it behind his seat. He was a good-looking man in his late thirties, broad-shouldered with thick dark wavy hair, high cheekbones and soft brown eyes. He wore an expensive tailored black suit.
‘Of course,’ she said, feeling relief as she stashed her handbag and groceries in the footwell and dropped into the seat. As soon as she closed the door, Peter accelerated and flicked on the sirens.
The sunshade was down on the passenger side, and she caught her reflection in the mirror as she folded it back up. She wasn’t wearing any make-up, or dressed provocatively, and Kate always thought herself a little plain. She wasn’t delicate. She had strong features. Her shoulder-length hair was tied back off her face, tucked away under the neck of her long winter coat, almost as an afterthought. The only distinguishing features were her unusual eyes, which were a startling cornflower blue with a burst of burnt orange flooding out from the pupils. It was caused by sectoral heterochromia, a rare condition where the eyes have two colours. The other, less permanent mark on her face was a split lip, just starting to scab over, which had been caused by an irate drunk resisting arrest a few days before. She’d felt no fear when dealing with the drunk, and didn’t feel ashamed that he’d hit her. It was part of the job. Why did she feel shame after being hit on by the sleazy businessman? He was the one with the sad, saggy grey underwear and the stubby little manhood.
‘What was that? With the car behind?’ asked Peter.
‘Oh, one of his brake lights was out,’ she said. It was easier to lie. She felt embarrassed. She pushed the man and his blue Ford to the back of her mind. ‘Have you called the whole team to the crime scene?’
‘Of course,’ said Peter, glancing over. ‘After we spoke, I got a call from the assistant commissioner, Anthony Asher. He says if this murder is linked to Operation Hemlock, I only have to ask and I’ll have all the resources I need at my disposal.’
He sped around a roundabout in fourth gear, and took the exit to Crystal Palace Park. Peter Conway was a career police officer, and Kate had no doubt that solving this case would result in a promotion to superintendent or even chief superintendent. Peter had been the youngest officer in the history of the Met Police to be promoted to detective chief inspector.
The windows were starting to fog up, and he turned up the heater. The arc of condensation on the windscreen rippled and receded. Between a group of terraced houses Kate caught a glimpse of the London skyline lit up. There were millions of lights, pinpricks in the black fabric of the sky, symbolising the homes and offices of millions. Kate wondered which light belonged to the Nine Elms Cannibal. What if we never find him? she thought. The police never found Jack the Ripper, and back then London was tiny in comparison.
‘Have you had any more leads from the white van database?’ she asked.
‘We brought in another six men for questioning, but their DNA didn’t match our man.’
‘The fact he leaves his DNA on the victims, it’s not just carelessness or lack of control. It’s as if he’s marking his territory. Like a dog.’
‘You think he wants us to catch him?’
‘Yes . . . No . . . Possibly.’
‘He’s behaving like he’s invincible.’
‘He thinks he’s invincible. But he’ll slip up. They always do,’ said Kate.
They turned off into the north entrance to Crystal Palace Park. A police car was waiting, and the officer waved them through. They drove down a long straight avenue of gravel, usually reserved for people on foot. It was lined with large oak trees shedding leaves, and they hit the windscreen with a wet flapping sound, clogging up the wipers. In the far distance the huge Crystal Palace radio transmitter poked up above the trees like a slender Eiffel Tower. The road banked down and ended in a small car park beside a long flat field of grass, which backed onto a wooded area. A police tape cordon ringed the entire expanse of grass. In the centre was a second, smaller cordon around a white forensics tent, glowing in the darkness. Next to the second cordon sat the pathologist’s van, four squad cars and a large white police support vehicle.
Where the tarmac met the grass, the tape of the first police cordon flapped in the breeze. Kate and Peter were met by two uniformed police officers – a middle-aged man whose belly hung over his belt and a tall, thin young man who still looked like a teenager. Kate and Peter showed their identification to the older officer. His eyes were hooded with loose skin, and as he glanced between their warrant cards, he reminded Kate of a chameleon. He handed them back and went to lift the police tape, but hesitated, looking over at the glowing tent.
‘In all my years, I ain’t never seen nothing like it,’ he said.
‘You were the first on the scene?’ asked Peter, impatient for him to lift the tape, but not willing to do it himself.
‘Yes. PC Stanley Gresham, sir. This is PC Will Stokes,’ he said, gesturing to the young officer, who suddenly grimaced, turned away from them and threw up over the police tape. ‘It’s his first day on the job,’ he added, shaking his head. Kate gave the young officer a look of pity as he heaved and threw up again, thin strings of spittle dangling from his mouth. Peter took a clean white handkerchief from his inside pocket, and Kate thought he was going to offer it up to the young officer, but he pressed it to his nose and mouth.
‘I want this crime scene locked down. Not a word to anyone,’ said Peter.
‘Of course, sir.’
Peter fluttered his fingers at the police tape. Stanley lifted it and they ducked under. The grass sloped down to the second police cordon where Detective Cameron Rose and Detective Inspector Marsha Lewis were waiting. Cameron, like Kate, was in his mid-twenties, and Marsha was older than all of them, a thickset woman in her fifties, wearing a smart black trouser suit and long black coat. Her silver hair was cropped short and she had a gravelly smoker’s voice.
‘Sir,’ they said in unison.
‘What’s going on, Marsha?’ asked Peter.
‘All exits in and out of the park are sealed, and I’ve got local plod being bussed in for a fingertip search and house to house. Forensic pathologist is in there already, and she’s ready to talk to us.’
Cameron was tall and gangly, towering above them all. He hadn’t had time to change, and looked more like a louche teenager than a detective in his jeans, trainers and a green winter jacket. Kate wondered fleetingly what he had been doing when he got the call to come to the crime scene. She presumed he’d arrived with Marsha.
‘Who’s our forensic pathologist?’ asked Peter.
‘Leodora Graves,’ said Marsha.
It was hot inside the glowing tent, where the lights were almost painfully bright. Forensic pathologist Leodora Graves, a small dark-skinned woman with penetrating green eyes, worked with two assistants. A naked young girl lay face down in a muddy depression in the grass. Her head was covered by a clear plastic bag, tied tightly around her neck. Her pale skin was streaked with dirt and blood and numerous cuts and scratches. The backs of her thighs and buttocks had several deep bite marks.
Kate stood beside the body, already sweating underneath the hood and face mask of her thick white forensics suit. The rain hammered down on the tight skin of the tent, forcing Leodora to raise her voice.