Urban Myth (7 page)

A
t least one of the little mysteries got solved when I came back downstairs. Nicole mentioned that she’d woken up just before dawn because I’d stolen the duvet – as per usual – and she was cold. So she’d switched off the ceiling fan before prising the duvet away from me and going back to sleep.

I was tempted to tell her that I’d wondered why it hadn’t been working when I woke up. But I decided not to because I didn’t want her to think I’d added it to the contentious list of ‘weird incidents’.

Tina appeared as we were dishing up the breakfast.

‘I’m famished,’ she announced. ‘I could eat a horse.’

‘What about a dog?’ Michael said in all seriousness. ‘Would you eat a dog if you were really hungry?’

‘Grow up, you idiot,’ she said. ‘Nobody eats dogs.’

‘They do in China. My teacher told me.’

‘Well your teacher doesn’t know what she’s talking about.’

‘My teacher’s a man.’

‘So what?’

‘Well you called him a she.’

Tina raised her eyes and dropped into one of the chairs at the table.

She was wearing tight jeans and a T-shirt – her usual attire – and her hair was tied back. Her skin was flushed from the heat of the shower.

‘You look very nice this morning,’ Nicole told her. ‘The New Forest air must agree with you.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever slept so deeply,’ she said. Then she threw a glance my way. ‘And I’d still be zoned out now if Dad hadn’t come in shouting his head off.’

‘Don’t you think that’s an exaggeration?’ I said, taking a seat next to her.

She shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

And so everything was back to normal. Tina had slipped into obnoxious teen mode, Michael had begun attacking his food like a pig at the trough, and Nicole and I chatted about our plans for the next two weeks.

It was good to talk about ordinary, mundane things. It had an immediate – and positive – affect on my mood. I started to chill out and every fibre and sinew in my body seemed to relax. It was hard to believe that so much tension had built up inside me since we arrived in England.

I offered to clear the table while Nicole and Michael went upstairs to get ready. Tina sloped off to the living room to watch television. When the kitchen was clean I tried again to contact Nathan Slade. But, frustratingly, the house phone still wasn’t working. So I searched out my cell, found it on the table in the hall, and decided to step outside to make the call. As I punched in his number I felt the autumn sun on my face. It was already gathering strength and looked set to stay with us for the rest of the day. It came as no surprise that there was no response from Slade, except for the same generic answering service asking me to leave a message. So I said I was anxious to speak to him and would he call me back straight away.

Since I was outside I took the opportunity to stroll around the house and have a closer look at it. It was certainly an impressive property and had been well maintained. The window frames, roof and
brickwork
were all in excellent condition. Even the small back garden was well kept, with neat, colourful flower beds and a couple of apple trees.

Beyond the rear picket fence there was a narrow stretch of grassland dotted with blackberry bushes and shrubs such as dogwood, hawthorn and heather. Then came the brooding woodland, a great dark wall of timber and foliage stretching for miles to the east and west of us. As I walked around to the front of the property the detached garage seized my attention. It was like a mini version of the house, with the same brickwork and pointed slate grey roof. There was an
up-and
-over door made of steel and painted brown. I guessed there was storage space in the loft area and that’s why the skylight had been fitted in the roof.

I walked around the building. There was a door at the rear and
another window. Out of curiosity I peered through the window, but the glass had been painted black on the inside and my own reflection stared back at me. I then tried the door but it was locked. That was only to be expected, since Nathan Slade had said in his note that the garage was out of bounds because he was using it to store his personal belongings.

As I stepped away from the door something on the ground caught my eye – a collection of cigarette butts, some of which looked as though they hadn’t been there long. Since I’m a non-smoker the sight of cigarette litter always makes me cringe. And this lot was no
exception
, even though it was a secluded place where few people would ever venture. It was my guess that a member of the family who had rented this place before us had come here to have secret smokes. Or perhaps it was Nathan Slade, hiding away from a disapproving wife.

The acrid stench of tobacco still lingered in the air – or maybe that was just my imagination. Anyway, it was more than a little unpleasant so I quick-stepped away from there and went back into the house.

F
or the first time in years DCI Jeff Temple saw the future as
something
other than an empty road littered with loneliness and disappointment. There was now the promise of good times to come; a glimmer of hope in all the gloom.

And he had DI Angelica Metcalfe to thank for it. Even her name pressed his buttons: Angelica – it was poetic and strangely beautiful.

He was still reeling from the shock of what she’d told him; it was as though his world had been rocked on its axis. He was desperate to talk to her about it, to ask her if she was absolutely sure she wanted to move in with him, despite the age difference and the fact that he was her boss, which would inevitably cause some complications.

But even though they were sharing a police pool car he knew that now was not the time. The case took priority. They were detectives before they were lovers. So during the fifteen minute journey across the city of Southampton he didn’t once raise the issue. Instead he talked about the investigation and what would need to be done after they confirmed the identity of the murder victim. But the conversation was somewhat stilted and he was relieved when they finally arrived at their destination, a small block of flats overlooking the Itchen River which flowed through part of the city.

‘It’s the block on the left,’ Angel said, referring to her notes. ‘Christine Faber lives at number ten. Genna Boyd is her next door neighbour. She says Genna’s single and lives alone, but hasn’t been around since the weekend.’

‘So let’s go see if Miss Boyd is the girl with the ankle tattoo,’ Temple said.

The entrance to the block had an access control system. On the wall speaker panel there were names against some of the buttons. Temple
spotted Faber against number ten and Boyd against number nine. He pressed ten and a high-pitched voice responded after fifteen seconds. ‘Yes? Who is it?’

‘It’s the police, Miss Faber. Can you let us in?’

The block was just as grim on the inside, with more graffiti and a threadbare carpet that was badly stained.

Christine Faber was waiting for them on the first floor landing. She was tall and willowy, with long straw-coloured hair that was stretched away from her face with a ponytail. Temple guessed she was in her early thirties. Her face was pallid and tight; her cheeks narrow, showing off her delicate bone structure. She wore a short mini skirt and a halter-neck top that revealed the tops of her large breasts.

Temple and Angel showed their warrant cards and introduced themselves.

‘Thank you for calling us, Miss Faber,’ Temple said.

‘That’s all right,’ she replied. ‘When I saw the news I knew who it was. It was the tattoo that did it. I spotted it when she moved in.’

‘When exactly was that?’ Temple asked.

‘Oh, about fifteen months ago.’

There were three doors on the landing. Temple gestured towards number nine.

‘Is that her flat?’

She nodded. ‘I rang the bell again this morning but there was no answer. But I’ve already contacted the landlord. It’s Mr Patel. I phoned him after I called you and he’s on his way over. He can let you in.’

‘That’s great, Miss Faber,’ Temple said. ‘So while we wait what can you tell us about Genna?’

Christine Faber shrugged. ‘Well we weren’t close friends. Only neighbours. But she was nice enough, and quite pretty. I invited her in a few times for tea or a drink, but she never returned the gesture. She liked to keep to herself.’

‘Do you know her age?’

‘Twenty-six. She told me once.’

‘You said on the phone that she lived by herself.’

‘That’s right. But she did have a lot of male visitors – if you know what I mean.’

Temple felt a low thud jar through his thoughts.

‘Can you spell that out for me please, Miss Faber?’ he asked. ‘What exactly do you mean?’

Another shrug. ‘Well she was on the game – along with some of the other girls in this street.’ She said it like it was no big deal – the same as any other job.

Temple and Angel exchanged uneasy glances. It was the kind of revelation that could have a significant impact on the investigation.

‘Are you sure?’ Temple asked.

‘Well she never came out and said it,’ Christine explained. ‘She told everyone she was a model, but it was bloody obvious what she did. As far as I know she didn’t have a proper job and yet she could pay the rent on this place and afford a car. But don’t get me wrong. I’ve never complained. I resorted to escort work myself a few years ago.’

Temple felt a frisson of disappointment. He didn’t want to believe that Genna Boyd and the young woman buried in the forest were one and the same. He knew what it would mean if they were. As a victim she would attract much less sympathy, both from the public and from his own officers. The general feeling would be that she had brought it upon herself.

‘You mentioned a car,’ Angel said. ‘Where it is?’

Christine shook her head. ‘It’s usually parked in front of the block, but the last time I saw it was the last day I saw her. That was Saturday. She drove away in it.’

‘What time?’

‘About three in the afternoon. I saw her from my window. But I have no idea where she was going.’

Temple took out his notebook. ‘Can you give me any details about the car? Make, colour, registration?’

‘It was blue and I think it was a Mazda. But I never noticed the number plate.’

‘What about her relatives? Can you help us there?’

‘She told me once that her father was dead but she had a mother living in Portsmouth. She didn’t say where exactly. But I got the impression they didn’t get on.’

‘And what about friends? Did she have many?’

Another shrug. ‘Well if she did she never talked about them. I asked
her a while ago if she had a boyfriend. She said she was too busy trying to get some money behind her to bother with a relationship.’

Just then a small, bald Asian man in a crumpled brown suit came bounding up the stairs. He was out of breath and shiny with sweat, but he managed to introduce himself as Rashid Patel, the owner of three flats in the block.

‘I do hope that the body you found is not Genna,’ he said. ‘That kind of thing is never good for business.’

Temple bristled at the man’s crass insensitivity. But then, to him, Genna Boyd was merely another source of income.

‘Have you got the key to the flat?’

The landlord took a bunch of keys from his pocket, unclipped one and handed it over.

‘You’ll have to wait out here,’ Temple said. ‘If we need you we’ll shout.’

Christine Faber invited Patel into her flat for a cup of tea. As he followed her in he started dabbing at his forehead with a hanky.

Temple waited until they’d closed the door behind them before inserting the key in Genna Boyd’s lock.

‘OK, gloves on,’ he said to Angel.

A moment later they were inside the flat.

‘Oh my God,’ Angel said. ‘What the hell has been going on here?’

The flat had been ransacked. Every room was a mess. Drawers had been pulled out and dumped on the floor. The carpets were littered with clothes and other personal belongings.

The trail of destruction began in the hallway where the contents of an airing cupboard had been emptied. Sheets and towels were piled against the wall and the door had been left open. In the kitchen it seemed as though nothing had been left untouched. Every drawer and cupboard gaped open. The linoleum floor was half covered with tins, packets, saucepans, crockery and food from the fridge, including butter and eggs.

Temple and Angel trod carefully, anxious not to contaminate the scene. But it was necessary to have a good look around the entire flat to make sure that it was empty. And it was. From the stench of the rotting food it had been for some days. In the living room the cushions
had been pulled off the two-piece suite and the contents of a low-level unit had been turned out – CDs, glasses, candles, a few bottles of spirits.

It was an otherwise small, bland room with cinnamon coloured walls and a door leading to a balcony that overlooked the road out front. The room contained an oversized flat-screen TV on a stand and a smoked-glass coffee table. There was a bedroom with a double bed and a tiny bathroom with shower and toilet. In the bedroom the walls were light green and there was a fitted wardrobe with sliding doors.

‘There’s no trace of blood anywhere,’ Angel said.

Temple had noticed this too. ‘Seems unlikely she was murdered here then. But we’ll know for sure after the techies have worked it over.’

As Angel started picking her way through the debris Temple took out his mobile and called the incident room. He asked for a
scene-of-crime
team to be sent to the flat; he wanted the pros to subject the place to another search. When he hung up, Angel drew his attention to something she had picked up off the floor.

‘It’s a photo album,’ she said. ‘Take a look at this.’

She held the book open at a page containing two pictures of a
dark-haired
girl standing in front of a large caravan. She was wearing snug jeans and a white blouse and she was smiling for the camera.

‘That’s our girl,’ he said.

Angel arched her brow. ‘You sure? You said her face was pretty messed up.’

Temple nodded. ‘Even so I’m ninety-nine per cent certain.’

‘So what do you think happened here, Guv?’

Temple mulled over the question before answering. ‘Someone was desperate to find something,’ he said. ‘In all probability it was whoever killed her. What I’d like to know is what he or she was looking for.’

‘We also need to find out if this happened before or after the murder,’ Angel said.

Among the stuff on the bedroom floor they found some personal documents: utility bills, a council tax demand, bank statements – even a mobile phone contract, which would come in useful. As a matter of priority they’d be requesting a call list from the service provider to find
out who she had been in contact with in the days and weeks before she was killed.

Temple glanced at a Barclays bank statement dated only a couple of weeks ago. It was an ordinary savings account and the then balance was
£
5,500. There had been regular deposits over the previous months of between
£
200 and
£
300 on each occasion.

Temple gave a little whistle. ‘Seems Miss Boyd was making quite a bit of money. We’d better check to see if anyone has been accessing her accounts over the past few days.’

But the money wasn’t the only surprise.

Under a pile of clothes in the wardrobe they found something that gave them a vivid insight into Genna Boyd’s life. And it also confirmed what Temple had begun to suspect – that this investigation was going to be anything but simple.