Tick Tick Tick (2 page)

The hallway is throbbing with police, even the firearms unit is here. When I see that coppers are overly anxious I know we’ve got a major problem. Something real ugly is on the other side of that door and it’s down to Mack and I to figure out what the hell has happened.

I hate the banality of death, the vacuous space that it leaves behind in other people’s shattered lives. But worse than that is the sheer brutality, the menace of torturing another human soul just for some sick, sordid, twisted perversion, usually with some sort of grudge vengeance. Goddamn it, I both hate and want this part. I want it because I know that I would be driven to find the killer, to get him tossed into the cesspits of a dark lonely cell where I know that he will suffer unspeakable torments, over and over again. And no, I do not feel pity. That to me feels like true justice, a place where he will be punished by the darkest men in the world, with twisted souls of their own, and he will pay dearly for seeking vengeance where vengeance did not deserve to live.

The neighbour stands shaking in the hallway, her face white as she gnaws at her fingernails, or what’s left of them. Her eyes have that frenzied look of a woman in complete and utter shock. Her body trembles from head to toe, almost in a rhythm. I can see two coppers trying to question her, but anyone with half a brain can see the delayed shock; hell she can’t even speak. Her mouth just sort of hangs open. I know that this woman has seen horrors that are almost unimaginable to most people. This is not a cheap TV show or a film, this is for real, and unfortunately she will see it repeated over and over in her nightmares for the rest of her life. I know the feeling well.

‘What have we got?’ I ask the nearest copper.

‘One dead girl and I mean dead. She’s not a pretty picture in death.’

I didn’t know there was such a thing in murder cases.

‘Just great,’ I snap, gearing myself up.

‘The rooms have been checked and cleared and the CSIs are already in.’

Fantastic, how many people have trooped through this flat already? And how do the CSIs
always
get there before me?

White protective suits, gloves and masks are thrust at us. I shrug mine on quickly, eager to get this over with. Mack takes a little longer trying to get the zip up over his protruding stomach; I do the decent thing and pretend not to notice. Looking around I make eye contact with another copper who’s free. ‘Who was the first on the scene?’

‘I was,’ replies Dave, an old hand at this who’s probably been called out to as many murders as me. Perhaps we should’ve kept score over the years.

‘Did you touch anything?’ I have to ask, knowing he will resent it, but still.

He looks annoyed. ‘I know the procedures.’ I merely stare at him until he backs down first.

‘No sir, the door was already open.’

‘How about her?’ I nod to the woman.

‘Far as I can tell, she had a spare key. Hadn’t seen the girl for a few days, so she just unlocked the door and walked straight into hell.’

‘That’s what being a good neighbour will get you every time,’ says Mack, still fidgeting with his zip. It looks like he’s going to burst out of the suit.

‘Dave, get her out of here and take her back to the station. Get her statement and a full set of prints, but go easy on the woman, she’s already having a real bad day.’

‘Yes sir.’ Dave starts to walk away.

‘Hey Dave?’ He turns. ‘Don’t forget to bag her clothes and slippers here. I want them checked.’ He simply nods with his glare still in place.

I look at Mack. ‘Let’s do it.’

‘Okay.’

Steady steps, slow and sure, making positive that we didn’t compromise any evidence. I’m looking for clues, any sort of clue. The flat is tidy. I flick a finger over the mirror frame – no dust. Various watercolours hang neatly, so she obviously had a good eye for detail. Flowers in a vase have wilted due to the heaters being on full blast, a liquid mould grows in fetid blue and greens, the odour pungent. Jesus, it feels like a goddamn furnace in this suit. I give the kitchen the once-over, again spotless.

‘Looks secure, give it a check.’

Mack nods and proceeds to give the door and hall windows a final check. Nothing, no signs of forced entry. This girl had let her victim in – why? A trail of mottled brown on the light beige carpet leads us into the lounge. Stark magnolia walls that look recently painted are now covered in a plethora of blood splatters. I can see the lemon silk curtains have numerous stains on them too. The CSI team are already here and we have no choice but to wait until they’ve completed their tests. The Forensic Medical Examiner has already started. He’s measuring her, taking the body temperature, various pictures of the blood splatters, examining her for rape and any other form of abuse. All I can hear is the click, click, click of the cameras working away, then a pause, more film loaded, the camera whining as it loads up again, click, click, click.

What a way to end your life – murdered then demeaned by complete strangers taking your picture from every conceivable angle, in your moment of absolute and utter vulnerability. I despise this part, but try damn hard never to show it and give them the satisfaction. I think it’s the callousness of how they treat people in death; some FMEs are more understanding, more humane. Others, like this one, couldn’t give a monkey’s toss as he goes about his routine with undiluted venom.

‘What takes them so damn long?’ gripes Mack.

‘They just like pissing us off,’ I snipe, the old fury beginning to boil up inside me, questions already forming in my mind.

Why did she let him in? Did she know him? Would I get to know him? Dear God I hope so, I really hope so.

Finally we get the nod to come over. I stand looking at what was once a beautiful young girl filled with vitality and the sparkle and zest of life. Her hair is now matted with blood, smears of it on her face are now dried dirt brown, and blood has seeped from the corner of her mouth and her nose, encrusted now upon the whitewashed porcelain face. Her eyes have sunken into the deepest hollows, as if trying to escape from the ravages of excruciating pain. All that looks back at me now is a bruised and battered face with the familiar vacant stare of death, haunting me with so many unanswered questions.

I can feel that hatred lines the room like an ozone layer, evil films seeping one above the other, entwisted and encircled in death. She lies sprawled on the floor, her hands bound tightly behind her back. The neck lies at an awkward angle, obviously snapped. I can see a range of ligature marks around her neck, the sallow cream dress completely shredded, her underwear shredded too. Through the ripped clothes I see that her belly has been split open, the cut running all the way down from her breasts to her hips – I can actually see her insides.

Mack recoils. ‘Oh shit!’

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I didn’t like the feeling of this case one little bit. This was no normal run-of-the-mill street murder. The FME glances up at me; I know him from way back, a smart-mouthed bitter old hack who couldn’t wait another day for retirement, and he treats each case like it was just another tick in the box. He’s wiry and has a face that has seen too much death, his nose slightly crooked and a mouth that droops to one side. I know he’s going to pass on this case as if it was on fire – too much trouble for him.

‘You’re not really going to ask me what she died of, right?’ he snarls.

‘Don’t piss me around, I need the actual cause of death, and you damn well know it,’ I bite back at him, my eyes not moving from his. Another grimace and he turns away –
Chickenshit
, I think.

He bags her hands and then bags her head to protect any evidence; she looks like she’s been vacuum-packed now. Mack walks off in disgust. I can see his fists clenching and unclenching in undisguised anger. He stops… noticing that all her shoes are in the corner of the lounge, arranged from lowest to the highest heel.

‘I’ll let you know when I’ve done the post.’ the FME gripes.

‘Need it like yesterday, Doc.’ I try a smile, not sure if it works, but anything’s worth a try.

‘Don’t you always?’ Sarcasm oozes from his twisted mouth, as does a little drool. Lovely.

‘You got a time of death?’

He starts packing his samples neatly away, almost lovingly. I try not to look, but I can’t help it.

‘I suspect around two to four days, maybe more. Once I’ve done the cut and got all the lab samples back, you’ll be the first to know.’

I didn’t believe that line for a second. I know as soon as he gets the body back to the morgue he’ll pass this one straight on to someone else. He’s getting a little irked at me now, but frankly I don’t give a toss. I have a job to do as well.

He stuffs her body into the bag like it’s a piece of meat; there is no delicate touch, no respect and certainly no decorum. I watch the vacuum-packed head being quickly covered and I’m relieved.

‘Was she raped?’

He sighs loudly. ‘Repeatedly.’

I’m getting to the stage I’d like to shove my fist into the other side of his mouth, kind of straighten it up for him – I hold my tongue and clench my fists instead.

Mack traipses back in. ‘I’d say we got one more weird nutter on the loose.’

‘Nothin’ new there then,’ I reply.

‘You see the shoes?’

‘I saw.’

‘How come her shoes were in the lounge?’

‘Maybe she moved them? Who knows?’

We move through to the bedroom, this was definitely a young woman’s room; soft lighting, floral curtains, contrasting cushions on the bed. I never could understand why women always needed to put cushions on a bed, I mean they just get chucked off anyway, unless she only used the bed herself? An old, tired music box sits on the night stand, its paint scratched and faded with a broken ballet dancer inside, the once candy pink costume now faded to a mottled grey. It still has all her valuables in it. The song is ‘Ave Maria’, and I wonder momentarily if that will be played at her funeral now instead?  In the box of jewellery are a pretty sapphire ring, some gold chains, earrings and a bracelet; nothing too posh, but good enough for a burglar.

The chest of drawers has been ripped open, the contents searched, pants and bras hung out staring at me, reminding me that a young life that should have just been starting is now at a bitter and savage end. Her wardrobe has been ransacked, clothes scattered around. There’s plenty of space for shoes, but none are there – why have they been moved? And
who
moved them?

‘My guess is he’s cleaned it. We’re not going to find anything here, but send the boys in anyway, see what else they can turn up.’ I can feel the first beats of frustration.

‘Okay.’ Mack makes the necessary calls without question.

On my way out I notice that the pictures of her family and friends are all lopsided – moved? I take another look. The girl was sitting in a back garden playing on an old wooden swing when she was a child, happy, smiling, and enjoying the sun on her face. The exuberance of a child content with life, laughter and play. Another with her parents, their arms enfolding her like a security blanket, all three happily laughing into the camera. There are shots of various family scenes, all comfortable and relaxed in each other’s company. A family once united will now be divided, ripped apart by unbearable grief. Why would anyone bother to move pictures? I ask forensics to check for prints. We move out, letting the team get on with their job – there’s nothing much else we can do here for now.

Leaving the flat I feel an inordinate sense of sorrow. The banality of death never gets any easier with time – in fact it gets worse. I stride back to the car, the wind still whips and stings in my face and I welcome it, anything to dissipate the unforgettable stench of death.

The pavements are now heaving with people. They don’t care about the weather; all they want to see is the dead body in the bag rolled out before them. What is it about ordinary people that turns them into bloodthirsty sightseers of death? Even at a road accident scene, you can spot all the drivers slowing down, craning their necks to try to get a glimpse, to see if anyone’s dead. Perhaps if they had to deal with it like me they would change their opinion. Somehow I doubt it.

Good news obviously spreads fast. The media frenzy had begun in earnest; their vans are rammed everywhere, parked haphazardly on the roads and pavements with their antennas flailing in the wind. Reporters rush to get to me, it’s always the same. Tape recorders and microphones are plunged in my face as I try to get past. I do my usual imitation of a bored copper, glower at them, and ignore them with practised ease.

‘No comment,’ is my stock reply.

‘But if you could just give us the exact details,’ asks a probing reporter with an innocent smile on her face.

‘Are you deaf? I said no comment.’ Marching off, her reply isn’t the most polite I’ve ever heard. Let’s put it this way, she’s certainly no lady.

I stop the first copper I see, away from the throbbing crowd.

‘I want the results of the neighbourhood canvas on my desk, like yesterday, and make sure the witness’ statement is waiting for me in the morning.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And get rid of these media jerkoffs!’ I shout.

Mack catches up with me. As we near the car more flashbulbs go off, in his face for a change, making him jump out of his skin. I turn and recognise that purple tinge that’s taking hold of his face; and I know what’s coming next. He grabs the photographer by his coat and pulls it tight around his throat. The guy’s gasping for breath as he tries to get away, but the more he tries, the harder Mack pulls. I can actually hear the guy wheezing and choking; I simply stand and do nothing – just watch. The camera finally falls to the ground and Mack accidentally thumps his big boot down on it.