Acid Lullaby (30 page)

‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’

Underwood returned to his chair. He wondered whether to tell the group about his notion of change: that the killer was altering the perception of his victims. He decided that to do so would muddy the waters. This meeting was about detail. He would work through the logic of the idea himself.

‘Marty,’ Dexter continued, ‘what can you tell us about the tyre tracks on the heath?’

Farrell leaned forward in his chair, ‘Better news there, I think. We’ve been able to narrow the type of vehicle down significantly. If you remember DS Harrison had suggested the killer might drive a large, expensive vehicle. Once we’d taken the dimensions and tyre impressions from the heath we calculated the size and weight of the vehicle in question. Now, once we had the details I compared them with the specifications of some of the most popular off-road vehicles and jeeps. We got a match.’

‘Let’s have it, then.’ Dexter felt like they were making progress.

‘Most likely it was a Toyota Land Cruiser.’

‘Nice one,’ Dexter was relieved. She had suddenly remembered that Mark Willis drove a large Land Rover Freelander.

‘How can you be sure?’ Underwood asked.

Farrell checked his notes. ‘We derived three estimated numbers based on the tracks on the heath: wheelbase, tread and vehicle weight. We estimated wheelbase at two-six-eight-zero millimetres. The Land Cruiser two-point-eight litre long wheelbase jeep has a specification of two-six-seven-five millimetres. Tread we calculated at one-four-seven-seven millimetres. That was pretty much spot on. The same Land Cruiser has a front tread of one-four-seven-five millimetres and rear tread of one-four-eight-zero millimetres. We worked out gross vehicle weight based on the depth of the track impressions on the soil. We calculated a range of between two-seven-fifty and twenty-nine-hundred kilos. Again, that is consistent with a two-point-eight litre Land Cruiser with a long wheelbase. We also made rough projections of vehicle length and width. These are consistent.’

‘Good work Marty, it gives us something specific to work on at last,’ Dexter said.

‘The forensic team from Huntingdon came up with most of this. I can’t claim much credit,’ he replied.

‘We should tell the traffic plods and the house to house investigation teams to look out for that version of the Land Cruiser. Can we get a picture from somewhere?’ Dexter asked.

‘Already done,’ Farrell replied, sliding a colour sheet across the table.

‘We’ll circulate this.’ Dexter paused and thought for a moment. ‘Knowing our luck, every farmer in East Anglia is driving one of these things. We need to try and narrow down the search. Can we get lists of Toyota garages and dealerships in the area? Maybe if they have ownership records we could cross check them against known violent offender lists.’ It was a useful idea but Dexter realized it would be a vast undertaking and her resources were already stretched.

‘There may be another way,’ Underwood observed. ‘Check with dealerships and garages for service and MOT bookings. As our boy seems to have gone off the rails over the last three months, it’s a fair bet that if he had previously scheduled an MOT or service for that period, he missed the appointment.’

‘Especially if he was driving around with a body in the boot,’ Farrell observed.

‘Absolutely.’

‘It only works if he had the jeep booked in during that three-month time period,’ Dexter commented. ‘There’s nine other months in the year.’

‘It’s something,’ Underwood said simply.

Dexter nodded and decided to bring things to a close. ‘This is what’s going to happen from here. Roger is going to complete the post-mortem examination of the bodies and provide detailed blood test results and toxicology profiles. In the meantime, I’ll assign a couple of uniforms to check the physical profiles of the three unidentified victims against missing persons lists.’

Leach nodded. ‘Agreed. Give us twenty-four hours.’

‘Marty,’ Dexter continued, ‘give PC Sauerwine the details on the jeep and on local Toyota dealerships. He can trawl through sales and service records in the way that John suggested. I’m meeting Adam Miller from the university and driving up to Thetford Forest. He’s going to take me round some sites where these magic mushroom things supposedly grow.’

‘I’d like to speak to him when you get back,’ said Underwood.

‘No problem,’ Dexter replied. The meeting broke up. Farrell and Leach left the office. Underwood stayed behind.

‘It’s a lot to take in,’ Dexter said.

Underwood nodded. ‘We’re making progress, though. The problem is our procedures take time. It’s like trying to catch a cheetah by lining up a bunch of people in a field and walking very slowly towards it.’

‘We’d catch it eventually, though.’

‘Once everything was already dead.’ Underwood watched as Dexter yawned. Her eyes watered slightly. She wiped them dry with the cuff of her shirt. ‘I spoke to your old gaffer the other day,’ he said softly.

Dexter’s ferocious green eyes zeroed in on Underwood for a head shot. ‘Mclnally? What for?’

‘Calm down. He called me. He was concerned about you and some bloke called Willis.’

‘What else did he tell you?’ Dexter snapped, anxiety and fury crawling up her throat.

‘Nothing,’ Underwood lied. ‘He asked me to keep an eye on you. Said you might be paddling in a bit deep,’

‘He had no right. I can look after myself.’

‘I thought that once about myself. Look where it got me.’

Dexter saw the concern in Underwood’s eyes and felt her anger recede slightly. She had been thinking intensely about the Mark Willis situation. She had enjoyed seeing his name appear on her mobile three times in the previous hour. She sensed he was nearby, waiting for an opportunity to confront her, to vent his fury. He was wriggling on a hook of her creation. Alison Dexter had decided to purge her past, quickly and brutally. The scars that had suddenly become visible on her newly exposed wrist reminded her why. Willis had already made her destroy one life. One was enough.

‘There’s nothing to worry about, John,’ she said, adjusting her cuff, ‘it’s under control.’

Her office intercom suddenly squawked to life. ‘Inspector Dexter, this is front desk.’

‘Go ahead,’ she replied.

‘There’s a Dr Miller in reception.’

‘Thank you.’ Dexter looked up. ‘Time to go.’

Mark Willis managed to climb into Dexter’s flat through her bathroom window. He guessed that she had left the smaller, top window open to air the bathroom after her morning shower. There were still small patches of water on the white-tiled floor when he clambered in. Leaving the small window open had enabled Willis to reach down into the bathroom and lift the main window catch. It had all been remarkably easy.
He had laughed at Dexter’s idiocy. Ground floor garden flats were soft targets for burglars. A copper should have known better. His initial amusement and pleasure at gaining access so easily was marred by the sudden realization that if Dexter had concealed his drugs in the flat, she would have locked the place down as tight as a snake’s arse.

He decided to check the place out anyway. He was sick of Dexter chucking obstacles in his way, he had resolved to take the initiative. At best, he would retrieve his drugs and retire, at worst he would take immense satisfaction in trashing her apartment.

He looked around at the little white bathroom. It came as no surprise to him that Alison had adopted a minimalist approach: white curtains, white bath, blue and white tiles. Willis remembered from her flat in Leyton that she despised frills and ornamentation. He unscrewed the top from a bottle of shower gel and smelled it: lemon and lime.

Willis left the bathroom and walked out into the hallway. There was a picture of Dexter in uniform with her class at Hendon Police College hanging on the wall. Their names were printed underneath the photograph. He read along the second row:
‘left
to
right,
Davis
A.
L,
Dering
J.F,
Dexter
A.
G,
Dolton
S.’
She looked pleased: she’d even managed a smile for the cameras.

‘Happy days,’ Willis muttered to himself.

He unhooked the picture from the wall and smashed it on the floor. Moving on, Willis rooted through the cupboards in the hallway and found little of interest: suitcases, boots, water proof clothing. The kitchen told a similarly blank story. He found a packet of rice in a cupboard and emptied it over the work surface. He immediately cursed his haste: it would have been much better to drop it all over the living room carpet. Dexter’s fridge was bare apart from six small bottles of Stella Artois beer, a pint of milk and a strawberry-flavoured yoghurt. Willis took a bottle opener from a drawer. He fancied a cold beer.

Dexter’s living room had crème walls and was tidily furnished. Willis slumped onto her sofa. There were two
shelves of books and a rack of CDs next to him. He scanned the CDs, half-amused at her taste in music.

‘Always the rocker, Sparrer,’ he muttered. Some of the names were familiar to him, from the time he had spent at Alison’s previous flat: The Jam, The Clash, Guns ’n’ Roses, The Rolling Stones. Willis remembered Alison for a second dancing around her bleak little Leyton kitchenette, cooking a risotto to ‘Town called Malice.’ He banished the thought.

The beer disappeared rapidly and Willis returned to his work. He checked under and behind the sofa and knocked over Dexter’s computer table. Her papers spilled onto the carpet. Irritated by now, Willis walked through to her bedroom. He half expected to see her old West Ham pillowcase on the bed but was disappointed: white pillows and duvet cover.

‘Christ, it’s like being in hospital,’ Willis observed.

There was a pile of clean clothes, neatly folded on a wicker chair. He kicked them over. Willis was pleased to find her underwear drawer first of all, spending some time trying to find knickers that he recognized: he was unsuccessful but was reassured to find her taste in undies hadn’t changed. He stuffed a thong in his pocket for old time’s sake. Her clothes cupboard proved more interesting. Lying beneath a row of immaculately pressed shirts and sombre suits, Willis found a pile of black diaries and pulled them out to investigate further. The first was marked 1984, the last 2002. He opened 1984 randomly and read out loud:
‘22nd
September.
Sick
of
school.
Tired
of
being
treated
like
a
five-year-old.
Can’t
wait
for
college.’

Willis closed the book. He was surprised. Despite the time he had spent with Alison Dexter, he had never realized that she had kept a journal. He didn’t think she was the type. And yet here was a record of her entire adult life. Presumably, there was also a complete record of their relationship and their unfortunate break-up too. That would make interesting reading. He selected 1994 and flicked through until he found August.

‘23rd
August.
Just
back
from
Paris.
Fantastic
weekend.
Great
hotel. Mark spent a fortune. Went up the Eiffel Tower.
Saturday
night
we
had
dinner
on
a
river
boat:
amazing
views.
It’s
so
beautiful.
Sunday,
we
had
a
great
picnic
and
sex
in
the
park!
I’ve
always
wanted
to
do
it
outside.
Got
back
to
London
late.
Mark
had
to
go
into
town
on
work.
Pity
it
ended
like
that.
He
must
be
knackered.
X’

Willis smiled to himself. He had indeed been knackered: and by the time he’d finished with Staff Nurse Siobhan at five in the morning he’d been completely exhausted. He thumbed forward a month or two, trying to remember when Dexter had found out about his daily trips to the boiler room with WPC Otham.

‘15th
October.
Working
GBH
case.
Busy
as
hell.
Got
in
late
again.
Mark
ignoring
me.
Can’t
think
what
I’ve
done
wrong
this
time.
Bad
feeling.
Trying
to
ignore
it.
I’m
late.’

Willis frowned at the last comment, his brain scrambling for an explanation until the penny clanked into place. He flicked forward, looking for a similar reference.

‘31st
October.
Bought
home
pregnancy
kit.
Result
positive.
Doctor’s
appointment
Saturday
morning.
Haven’t
told
anyone.
Panicking.

‘2nd
November.
Pregnant.
It’s
official.
What
the
fuck
am
I
going
to
do?’

There were no entries for the following week. Willis felt a cold sweat breaking out on his neck. Dexter had never told him she was pregnant. He asked himself if he would have done anything differently if he’d known: an answer eluded him.

‘17th
November.
Cut
myself.
First
time
in
years.
Totally
alone.
Petrified.
Doctor
told
me
baby
due
on
May
20th.
It’s
real.
It’s
going
to
happen.
Despair.