The Death Collector (12 page)

‘I don’t know, but have you got any better ideas?’

When Gina stayed silent, Joe knew that she didn’t.

Sam sat at the back of the room, a notepad open in front of him.

They were in one of the empty rooms next to the Incident Room, everyone around a long table with a flipchart at one end. Briefings were best somewhere quiet, with all phones switched off.

The previous hour had been all about setting up the procedures and allocating roles. Hunter had, as usual, appointed Weaver as his deputy. That had been anticipated as soon as the nature of the murder was revealed. Hunter had the experience and the clout, but above all else it gave him the chance to practise for yet another heartfelt television appearance,
Glory Hunter
in full flow.

DI Evans had been given the role of Office Manager, to keep control of the Incident Room. The other roles were dished out: the Outside Inquiry Manager, Crime Scene Manager, Forensic Manager, Media Manager, House-to-House Manager. But it all came down to common sense in the end: what was suspicious and what wasn’t.

At least the investigation had started.

Hunter paced at the front of the room, acting with more composure and assertiveness than he had at the crime scene.

The atmosphere around the room had the expectant air that always comes with the start of an investigation. Everyone attentive and silent, not the chair-twirling, joking and pen-tapping that comes later, when the initial shock has died down. It doesn’t matter how long you have been doing the job, the sight of a dead body, someone’s loved one snuffed out, still provokes anger and a desire for capture. When it stops doing that, it’s time to stop doing the job, because you’ll begin to miss things and killers will go unpunished.

Hunter stopped and looked around the room.

Sam knew all about Hunter’s reputation. Ruthless and flamboyant, he dominated Incident Rooms and inspired loyalty amongst those who worked under him.

This was Sam’s first time as one of Hunter’s team, as the DCI switched from unit to unit, following the big stories, but still Sam thought there was something missing. Hunter seemed nervous and was mopping his brow, as if the heating in the room was turned up too high.

He started by asking for ideas or motives. He got back the usual collection of ex-boyfriends, angry husbands and random stalkers, so he listed them on the first sheet of the flipchart.

Someone asked about the post mortem, and Hunter replied that he expected it later that day. They needed to know how the body was cut up; it might help in linking it to any tools found with a suspect. It would give a better time of death and provide a better clue of what she had been doing. Had she just eaten and, if so, what? Had there been any sexual activity, and was there any sign that it was non-consensual? Were there any minute traces of the killer left on her that were not obvious from the scene?

The suggestions were limited in the absence of the victim’s identity, although Hunter preferred a domestic angle. More than half of all murders fall into that category and it was all about playing the odds.

Sam looked around the room to see if anyone was going to ask any questions, but most people were content to just look straight ahead and seem interested. He glanced at Charlotte and raised his eyebrows. She gave him a small shrug. No one had asked the question they had asked each other at the scene.

Sam coughed and raised his hand slowly. Everyone looked round to him, and when Hunter pointed, Sam said, ‘Why did he choose that spot to dump the body?’

Hunter’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

Weaver sat down in a chair at the front, facing the room. He folded his arms and crossed one leg over the other.

‘It looked like a display, the way the body was laid out, as if it meant something,’ Sam said. ‘We were supposed to see it, and he had the whole of Saddleworth Moor to choose from, but he picked somewhere away from a path. It’s as if he didn’t want anyone to see the display straight away.’ He swallowed as he became aware of the awkward silence in the room, because he had raised something important before Hunter had. He continued regardless. ‘She was found by a fluke, by that birdwatcher, and the moors don’t get busy with the walkers until the weekend. So why make a display if it isn’t going to be found straight away? Perhaps the location of the body is important.’

Hunter stared at him for a few seconds before he answered. ‘But it was found straight away, so your theory doesn’t stand up. White flesh on that dark ground and you’re saying it wouldn’t be found?’ He shook his head. ‘As for choosing the moors? You know what it’s like up there. At night, it’s complete darkness. The simplest answer is usually the likeliest one, that the body could be dumped without being seen.’

‘But why all the way up there?’ Sam went on. ‘Why not some woods somewhere nearer the city? It seemed symbolic somehow.’

Hunter folded his arms. ‘How long have you been on the Murder Squad?’ When Sam didn’t answer straight away, Hunter continued, ‘I’ve been investigating murders for two decades. So go on, tell me: what am I missing? What experience do you bring to the team?’

Sam felt his cheeks burn up. He knew how it would sound when he voiced it, that it was just a year, that his previous cases had been paper-shuffling, investigating financial crimes.

Hunter must have spotted Sam’s embarrassment and guessed at the answer. He wasn’t going to let it go. ‘I want to know. How long?’

Sam took a deep breath. ‘A year.’

Hunter didn’t smile or laugh, which was worse. He just shook his head as the rest of the room squirmed for him. Weaver snorted a laugh. Sam thought he had slowly worked his way into the squad. They knew he wasn’t the sort to snipe and gossip behind people’s backs, or one of those muscle-junkies who enjoyed barfly banter too much. Sam just got on with his job and applied the attention to detail he had picked up in the financial investigation unit. Yet no one was prepared to stand up for him in the face of Hunter’s scorn.

‘No one here has to be a profiler,’ Hunter said, no longer looking at Sam. He was playing to the gallery again. ‘Chase the forensics, the crime scene people, the house-to-house. You all know what you’re doing. Hard work solves murders, not looking for hidden patterns.’

Sam tapped his pen on his paper in frustration, until everyone looked round as a young detective burst into the room, his eagerness obvious from the sharp crease in his trousers and the way he ducked his head slightly as he advanced towards Hunter. ‘We’ve got her name,’ he said, and handed over a piece of paper.

Hunter read it and then folded it into his pocket. ‘Sarah Carvell,’ he said. ‘She appeared in court when she was younger for shoplifting and her fingerprints have just matched.’

Charlotte looked up. ‘She was reported missing yesterday,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the paperwork on my desk.’

Hunter held her gaze a second too long. ‘I’m heading to her house,’ he said, and pointed at Sam. ‘And you’re coming with me.’

Sam was surprised as he looked up from his doodles, jagged boxes, showing his frustration. ‘Me?’

‘Yes, you,’ Hunter said, and headed for the door.

Sam glanced at Charlotte, who shrugged and whispered, ‘He must want to keep you close. A loose cannon already. You should be proud.’

‘Yeah, right,’ Sam said. ‘I’ll let you know how it goes.’

He stood still in the living room, looking down at the floor with his fists clenched, at where she had been before he had dragged her to the cellar.

Things had changed. He had changed. He had never cut up before. This was something new. Visceral and dark. What had gone before had been about disposal, nothing more.

No, that was wrong. It had never been about disposal. It had been about burial, somewhere symbolic, part of why he did what he did. Chopping her up seemed more brutal somehow.

He closed his eyes. It was there again, that growing noise in his head, like a vibration, getting louder. It was growing harder to ignore. Things were changing. He searched for an emotion, some kind of panic, but he couldn’t find it. Instead, it was a need to strike out, to hurt; the thing that he kept restrained wanted to burst out. He didn’t think he could stop it, and neither did he want to.

It wasn’t his choice. It was the chain of events, the face at the window, the police involvement. The boy in the cellar. The intruder. Everything was changing. He had to do something about it, so he had left her as part-taunt, part-insurance. If it was the end for him, he wasn’t going to go down alone.

It had been the noises that had been the hardest. He’d clenched his jaw as the saw dug into the flesh, the firm squelch of a butcher’s shop followed by the tougher grind as the blade met the gleaming white of the bone.

He looked up to the photographs on the wall. His mother stared down at him, her face stern, her arm around him protectively. He turned away. Now wasn’t a good time to think of those days.

The air in the room seemed suddenly stale. He opened a window and let the cool breeze take away the sweat from his forehead.

He thought about that. Sweat. What he’d done was too risky. It left traces. A spot of blood could bring everything crashing around him, or if they swabbed her and his DNA came back. He knew his guilt would be inescapable if their trail somehow led to him.

He closed his eyes and grimaced. The vibration got stronger, like a steady hum. It made him think of the others. Those who had tried to walk away.

He gritted his teeth as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He searched for a number and heard it ring until a quiet voice said, ‘You can’t ring me at home, you know that. I’m not alone.’

He swallowed and tried to will away the tension in his head. ‘Emma, I need to see you.’

Silence at first, and then, ‘I can’t. I’ve told you why.’

‘I’m not accepting that. One last time. At least give me that.’

A pause. ‘When?’

‘Tonight. Come to my house. I’ll collect you. Usual place. Eight o’clock.’

‘Okay. I’ll see you then.’ She clicked off.

He put the phone against his forehead and took some deep breaths. One last time. Yes, that was right.

Joe drove to Carl’s house, through stone villages where blackened millstone buildings crowded the main streets. Some had been turned into shops that sold second-hand books and locally made food to cater for the walkers who thronged the streets in summer, fronted onto narrow pavements and old stone bridges that strangled the main road into tight passing places.

The villages didn’t suit the sunlight – the sun brightened the hills and took away some of the menace of the nearby moors. They looked best in the rain when the stone cottages acquired a shine and everything turned from gloomy to brooding.

The view changed as he turned into the lane that led to Carl’s house. Leaves trailed along the side of his car as the lane narrowed, but it didn’t open out into a line of stone cottages, as he’d expected. It had an idyllic country setting, with thick green hedgerows bordering fields where sheep grazed, the rise of the Pennines just visible further ahead. The small spread of houses was a blight, with grimy pebble dash and windows and doors that looked faded and old.

Joe parked on the drive, then reached across to the passenger seat, to where he’d put Carl’s papers from his visit to the police station. He skimmed through his scrawling handwriting, in case he had been wrong about not making a note of where Carl had been arrested. If there was any link between the arrest and his disappearance, it might be important. Joe sighed when he saw he hadn’t noted it down. The arrest had been too late and too routine.

Lorna Jex appeared in the doorway. Even through the windscreen, he could make out the dark rings under her eyes and the paleness of her skin. He climbed out of his car.

‘I haven’t slept,’ she said. ‘Come in.’

As Joe followed her in, he asked, ‘No sign? No news?’

Lorna shook her head. ‘It’s been two nights,’ she said, and led him along a dark hallway that smelled of old cigarettes and into a kitchen of dated brown tiles and mock-oak cupboards, a relic of the eighties. Photograph frames cluttered the walls, displaying family pictures that had faded into light browns to match the surroundings. As Lorna clicked on the kettle and spooned instant coffee into two cups, Joe said, ‘Has Carl ever done anything like this before?’

Lorna shook her head. There were no tears. She looked as though she had used up all of her reservoir.

She waited until the kettle boiled, poured the water and then passed a cup to Joe. ‘He would have called; he knows I’d be worried.’

Joe took a sip out of politeness and said, ‘I want to help.’

Lorna looked at Joe through the steam, her hands around her cup. ‘I thought you couldn’t, that everything was confidential.’

‘I’ve thought about that,’ Joe said. ‘You’re not going to complain about that, are you?’

Lorna shook her head.

‘So neither will Carl,’ Joe said.

‘Not if it helps him.’

Lorna shuffled into a living room that was a similar shade to the kitchen, with wallpaper yellowed by cigarette smoke and a carpet whose pattern was hidden by the hairs left by the scruffy terrier that curled up in a chair by the window. The dog opened an eye to look at Joe, but closed it again with a large sigh that made his body blow up and down like bellows.