Killing the Beasts (3 page)

'Cheeky bastard,' she laughed, and went to jab him in the ribs.

Jon caught her fist just as the ambulance men reappeared with the body, the pathologist following along behind. Clicking instantly back into professional mode, Nikki pulled her hand free and walked back round the ambulance. Once the body was safely inside, she got the ambulance men to sign their names in the log book for people who had entered the crime scene. Meanwhile Jon had stepped over to the pathologist. 'Any ideas?' He pulled off his face mask and started removing the white shoe covers. 'Well, I'd say death occurred due to suffocation. All the signs are there: bluish lips, ears and nails, petechiae – burst capillaries around the eyes and on the eyeballs themselves.'

'And the white stuff blocking her airway?'

'It's not any sort of secretion I've seen. I'd say she's had the stuff pumped down her throat somehow, but until I've seen in her lungs and stomach, I can't say for sure.'

'Can you start the autopsy?'

'Yes, that's fine. Of course, I'll hand over to the home office pathologist as soon as I can confirm it wasn't natural causes.'

'OK – can one of you call me as soon as you know?' said Jon, handing him a card.

He turned to Nikki. 'I need to get away and interview the mum. Can we completely seal the house until the autopsy result is confirmed? If it's suspicious you can arrange for forensics to come over.'

In a voice kept low so none of the onlookers could hear, she said, 'Tighter than a camel's arse in a sandstorm.'

Jon winked in reply and walked over to his car.

After a bit of persuasion Mrs Mather had accepted the fact that her fingerprints, a swab from the inside of her cheek for DNA testing and combings from her clothes for fibre analysis were needed. After that, she answered Jon's questions about her daughter, Polly.

Twenty-two years old, single, keen on music and clubbing, worked in the Virgin Megastore on Market Street. As was often the case with people hovering at the edge of an industry, she had ambitions for a more central role. In Polly's case she was lead vocalist of a band, The Soup.

The beer cans and full ashtrays in Polly's front room were the result of the band having been round at her house the night before. Because he had recently been her daughter's boyfriend, Mrs Mather had a phone number for the band's bass player, Phil Wainwright. She asserted that the split had been amicable – the result of Polly wanting to travel round the world while he wanted to concentrate on gigging and trying to find a record deal.

Shortly after Jon had arranged for a patrol car to take her home, his mobile went. It was the home office pathologist. The autopsy had been handed over to him because there were only small amounts of the white substance in the oesophagus and trachea, and none in the lungs or stomach. This meant it had definitely been introduced from the outside, probably while she was still alive. What was confusing the pathologist was how it could have got there. He explained to Jon that, for the cough reflex not to function, a person would have to be in a coma or under very heavy sedation. In his opinion this was the case – the substance had formed a neat plug at the back of the girl's throat with almost no evidence of her choking and spluttering. Therefore, with the victim unconscious at the time of the substance being introduced, a third party had to be involved.

'So we'll need a toxicology report then?'

'Yes. If she was subdued with a hospital anaesthetic – propofol or maybe sodium thiopentone – it should be present in her blood in the form of metabolites, but I haven't found any marks so far to suggest she's been injected. Of course, in order to find evidence of narcotics, a full toxicology analysis will be needed. We haven't got the necessary facilities here.'

'Right – can you prepare a blood sample for me? I'll get it sent down to the forensic science lab at Chepstow.'

Next he called DCI McCloughlin. 'Boss? It looks like murder.'

'OK, open an incident room. Ring round and see which stations have any rooms available and I'll start getting a team together for you.'

'Will do.'

After finding a room at the divisional headquarters in Ashton, Jon decided to give Phil Wainwright a ring. As soon as the phone was answered Jon could hear loud talking and music in the background. A second later a gruff voice said, 'Hello?' It was spoken loudly, as if the person was anticipating not being able to hear very well.

'Is that Phil Wainwright?'

'Yeah! Who's this?'

'Detective Inspector Jon Spicer, Greater Manchester Police.'

'Oh, hang on.' The voice disappeared and Jon could hear only background noise until a door shutting caused it to suddenly grow fainter. 'Sorry, you caught me behind the bar. This is about Polly?'

Emotion made the last syllable wobble and Jon thought, he knows already. 'Yes.' 'I thought it would be. Her mum rang me an hour or so ago. You're going to question me, aren't you?'

'Not formally, no. But I need to talk with everyone who was at her house last night. Where are you now, Phil?'

'Peveril of the Peak. I'm a barman here.'

'Nice boozer. Any chance of chatting to you?'

'Well, the evening rush hasn't started yet, if you can get over here.'

'I'll see you in a bit.'

It was dusk as he crossed over the junction for the M60 ring road, a steady stream of cars gliding by beneath him. Following the signs for Aldwinian's Rugby Club, he entered Droylsden. The perfectly straight road stretched far off into the distance, regularly interspersed by traffic lights shining red, amber or green. Flanking each side of the road was an endless terrace of the chunky redbricked houses with grey lintels that made up so much of Manchester's Victorian estates.

Abruptly the built-up area came to an end and he emerged into the open space of Sportscity, Manchester City Football Club's new stadium dominating the facilities around it. Then he was past and the road dipped, only to start rising upwards to dark mills that loomed forlorn and empty, brickwork crumbling and broken windows gaping in silent howls. Reaching the crest of the slope he could see beyond them to where the lights of the city centre twinkled, Portland Tower and the CIS building clearly visible. Jon felt an itch of adrenaline as he looked at the city and contemplated all that was happening in its depths.

Dating from the mid 1800s and one of Manchester city centre's proper pubs, Peveril of the Peak was a strangely shaped wedge of a building. Clad in green glazed bricks and tucked away on a little triangular concrete island, it was closed in on all sides by towering office buildings and apartment blocks. Jon parked by some recently completed flats and slipped through the side door of the pub. The bar was in the centre, various rooms leading off to the sides. He looked round the smoke-filled interior, surprised by the lack of people: his mobile phone had made it sound like the place was packed. Instead just a few students and real-ale types were dotted about. Jon glanced over the three bar staff, eyes settling on a youngish man with about four days' stubble. He was dragging nervously on a cigarette and wearing a T-shirt from a Radiohead concert.

'Phil Wainwright?'

'Yeah,' he replied, grinding the cigarette out with a bit too much urgency. 'Fancy a drink? The Summer Lightning is a great pint.' His finger pointed to the tap marked 'Guest Beer'.

'Tempting, but no thanks,' said Jon. 'Is there a quiet room we could ...?'

Phil lifted up a section of the wooden counter and stepped into the customers' side of the pub. 'This room's empty.'

They sat down on some ancient and battered chairs, the upholstery rubbed smooth through years of use. He pulled another cigarette out of a packet of Silk Cut and offered one to Jon.

Another show of hospitality. Another attempt to break down the occasion's formality. Slightly irritated, Jon waved it away and took out his notebook.

'So, how are you feeling?'

Flicking a lighter, Phil dragged hard on the cigarette. 'Pretty numb, actually.' Smoke crept from his lips by the second word.

Jon's eyes strayed to the tip of the lit cigarette and he reached into his pocket for a fresh stick of gum. 'Giving up,' he explained, unwrapping it and regretting the fact he had allowed Phil an angle into him as a person, not a police officer. Before the insight could be seized upon Jon continued, 'Now, you were round at Polly's last night? What time did everyone leave?'

'Just before midnight.'

Noting this down, Jon continued, 'And was anyone else there apart from the members of your band?'

'No, just us.'

'Did anyone stay the night?'

'No, we all left together. Ade walked back with Deggs – they share a flat. I went about halfway and turned off to go to my own place.'

'How did Polly seem to you last night?'

'Fine.' He paused and frowned. 'Although she's been up to something lately. She's had the odd call on her mobile that she's been really shifty about.'

Jon kept quiet to tease another comment out of him.

'Walking off to have conversations – it was really annoying. I assumed she had started seeing someone else.'

The silence began to stretch out as Phil examined the tip of his cigarette, so Jon said, 'She was due to be going out today with her mum to do a bit of shopping.'

'Yeah, she was looking forward to it. In fact, she hoofed us all out before midnight so she wouldn't be too rough this morning.'

'Did she mention that she was expecting any visitors before her mum?'

'No.'

'OK, what are Ade's and Deggs' full names?'

'Adrian Reeves and Simon Deggerton.'

'Telephone numbers and address?'

Phil pulled out a mobile and started pressing buttons. As he did so Jon suddenly dropped in, 'Why did you and Polly split up?' watching closely for the reaction.

Phil's finger hovered for a moment over a button as he lost his train of thought. 'Erm, we'd just drifted apart. God, that sounds a cliché, but we had. She was saving up to go backpacking round the world. I wasn't into it.'

'That's bad news I presume – to lose your lead vocalist?'

He looked up, a slightly wounded expression on his face. 'Yeah, but what could we do? It was her decision. You want those numbers?'

Jon noted them down and then drove back to Ashton police station. He removed his box from the car boot and headed up to the incident room on the top floor of the building – the usual soulless set-up of empty desks, blank monitors and silent phones. Putting the box on a corner desk, he got out his paper management system, desk tidy, stapler, hole punch and calculator then sat back in his chair and blew out a long breath.

The place would be a hive of activity first thing the next morning: office manager, receiver, allocator, indexer, typist, all arranging their stuff on the desks; plants and other personal effects appearing, the outside enquiry team milling around, waiting to be briefed. And him, in charge of it all.

He booted up the computer, entered his name and password, then went on to HOLMES – the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. The computer package was based on strictly designated roles and procedures in order that every large enquiry progressed in an ordered manner. It was established directly in the wake of the chaotic hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper, when it was discovered that he had been questioned on various occasions, but the paper reports had never been cross-matched.

Jon studied the search indexes, deciding whether to concentrate on any to steer the investigation in a particular direction. With the information he had at this stage, he decided the usual ones would suffice – family, friends, house by house enquiries and victim profile. He then created an additional one marked 'Narcotics/ sedatives'.

On impulse he went on to the Police National Computer's database and typed in all three band members' names.

Nothing showed up for Adrian Reeves or Simon Deggerton, but after he typed in Phil Wainwright the computer pinged up a result: two cautions for possession of cannabis, the second one accompanied by an order to attend a drugs rehabilitation course.

It was almost nine thirty by the time he got home. The front door clicked shut behind him, provoking the usual Pavlovian reaction from the kitchen. Paws scrabbled excitedly on the lino floor and an instant later the crumpled face of his boxer dog appeared round the corner, eyebrows hopefully raised.

Jon slapped his hands against his thighs and crouched down. 'Come here, you stupid boy!'

The dog let out a snort of delight through its squashed nose and bounded towards the front door. Jon caught it by its front legs and twisted it onto the faded carpet. Grabbing it by its jowls, he planted a big kiss on its grinning mouth, then released the animal and stood up. Instantly it regained its feet, stumpy tail wagging so violently its entire back half shook.

By now Alice was standing in the doorway to the telly room, arms folded and a smile on her face. 'Nice to see you getting your priorities right,' she said, nodding down at the dog. 'You're late back - you've missed rugby training again.' Jon let his shoulders drop. 'New case,' he said, walking towards his partner and bending forward to kiss her. 'Not after you've just snogged that ugly hound,' she said, raising her arms and shying away from his puckered lips. 'Go and wash your mouth out first.' 'Did you hear that, Punch?' he asked the dog, feigning outrage. 'You're ugly and Daddy gets no kiss!'

From the corner of his eye he saw that she had lowered her arms. Suddenly he dipped to the side, then straightened his legs so his face burrowed upward to her throat.

Instinctively she pressed her chin down to her sternum to protect her windpipe. Giggling through clenched teeth, she said in a contracted voice, 'Get off!' A foot snaked round the back of his right ankle.

Not fully aware whether it was a playfight or not, Punch had started up a half-anxious, half-delighted barking. Jon felt Alice's forearm forcing its way across his chest, and realized she was manoeuvring towards one of her tae kwon do throws. He broke the embrace, stepping away from her and laughing breathlessly. 'I'll have none of your martial arts high jinks in my house.'