‘Right, right, I’m with you now,’ Henry said, trying to pacify her and slow it down so he could get his own head round this and manage the situation. ‘Here, Fi, come on, sit here.’ He patted the edge of the bed. ‘Come on,’ he coaxed. She was resolute, unwilling to move. Her face and jaw were set hard, eyes glistening with anger. ‘Look, come down to this level, I’m getting a crick in my neck.’ He smiled boyishly.
Despite herself, she weakened and sat down, clenching her fists. Henry propped himself on one elbow and tried to touch her face gently.
She shied away, not wanting the intimacy of the gesture. Henry thought she looked beautiful, even in her working clothes with her hair pulled tightly away from her face and neck, tied into a school-marm bun under the cap. It accentuated her fine bone structure. From a looks point of view, Henry knew how lucky he was. When she was ‘done up to the nines’ she was absolutely stunning. Unfortunately, Henry had started to find her personality somewhat grating. While admitting his own was probably not much better, he was struggling to feel close to her emotionally and intellectually.
He glanced at the clock. 3.30 p.m. Only an hour since Karl had left. He had planned to have another three-quarters of an hour sleep, which now seemed unlikely. Henry — being a sensitive soul — sensed that tears were not far away and he wanted to avoid a blubbering scene at all costs.
So he lied.
‘Jane Roscoe is a DI dealing with a murder that happened on South Shore last night. I had some information she needed as a matter of urgency, that’s all.’
‘So you pass information in the police mouth to mouth, do you? Kissing? Did you have a secret message in your spit?’
‘No, no, no, no,’ he cooed, holding up a hand. Here was the lie, ‘She also happens to be a very old friend. I know her and her husband very well. He and I used to play rugby together. It was a friendly kiss, nothing more. Certainly nothing sexual.’ God forgive me, he thought, but needs must.
‘Is that the honest truth?’ Fiona snuffled.
Henry nodded sombrely.
‘Oh, thank God,’ Fiona gasped in relief. ‘I thought you were going off me.’
‘Never,’ he said softly. Crisis diverted. He lay back. ‘I could do with a bit more kip before I go back to work, sweetheart,’ he suggested.
She seemed not to hear. She pulled off the hair net, shook her gorgeous locks free and kicked her mini-wellington boots off, then slid in next to him. He was very hot and naked.
‘I was worried,’ she admitted, hugging him.
‘No need.’ He yawned, hoping she would take the hint.
Next thing he knew, Fiona had disappeared under the duvet and his limp cock was in her warm mouth. He groaned, but not with ecstasy. Although he was unable to prevent an immediate erection, he would rather have slept than had a blow job. Which in itself said something about the relationship, he thought.
Gill was changing out of his motorcycle leathers, back into his casual gear. He had a quick glance round the flat to satisfy himself that everything was hunky-dory. He slid his denim jacket on, ready to leave and head to his real home.
When the ‘rat-at-at’ spanked on the door, Gill’s bowels almost opened. He did not move. He closed his eyes. Maybe they would go away, whoever it was. More knocking. They were persistent. The sound of the letter-box flap opening.
‘Hello,’ someone called, ‘could you come to the door, please?’
David Gill’s legs turned to a sort of mush.
‘I know someone’s in,’ the voice called. ‘I heard you moving about, so please come to the door. This is the police.’
Fourteen
Jane Roscoe decided that any time spent at the scene of Joey Costain’s murder was well spent. There was no point in rushing anything and thereby losing evidence. Once the forensic and SOCO people had done their initial work and withdrawn, Roscoe, kitted out in the latest high-fashion overalls and overshoes, together with the pathologist, Dr Baines, reassessed everything.
Baines was useful to have around. He had been to hundreds of murder scenes and had carried out the subsequent postmortems, so his experience was vast. He wasn’t very old, either, Roscoe noted. Not like most of the pathologists she had come across before who were usually of or approaching pensionable age. Baines was in his mid-forties at most. He was also modest and helpful which endeared him to her. He recognised she was the senior investigator and that he was there to support her, and seemed to have no problems with that state of affairs.
She bled him dry with her constant questions. Patiently he answered them all, even when they had been repeated several times or were silly. An hour and a half of minutely working through the scene saw both of them parched. A break and a drink was needed. They peeled off their protective outer garments and left the flat, body and entrails still in situ.
Outside there was a good deal of uniformed police activity. The front of the house was cordoned off and uniformed officers guarded the scene closely. Roscoe and Baines ducked under the crime-scene tapes and strolled to a nearby cafe. Roscoe bought the brews and an Eccles cake each.
‘What do you think then?’ she asked Baines. She had a lot of her own ideas but wanted to see if his matched hers.
He chewed pleasurably on a mouthful of currants, swallowed and had a swig of tea from a cracked mug. ‘He was murdered by a maniac — sorry I don’t have the correct psychological terminology to go with that rather obvious conclusion.’
‘That’s OK — nor do I.’
‘A maniac, but someone who is cold, calculating and very prepared. I think this attack was pre-planned. I’d also hazard a guess that the victim knew his attacker well or at the least trusted the attacker.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Roscoe’s mug stopped halfway twixt table and lip.
‘Unless I’m mistaken, there is no sign of forced entry to the flat, no sign of any defensive wounds on the victim’s hands or forearms, although when I get the poor sod on a slab, such wounds might become apparent, though I doubt it. My cursory examination of the skull shows a massive concave dip around the crown, consistent with something like a ball hammer. Joey had been comfortable enough to have turned his back on his killer, so he wasn’t expecting trouble.’
‘Unlikely to be a member of the Khan family then.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing, just musing out loud. Go on, please.’
‘Little more to add at this stage. I think he knew his killer and I also think this killer has killed before.’
‘Two issues there,’ Roscoe picked up quickly. ‘Him? How do you know it’s a him?’
‘A man or a very strong woman. I think the victim had been dragged and placed where he was. I don’t think most women could have achieved that. It’s not a sexist remark, it’s factual.’
‘I’ll go with that. Now why do you think he might’ve killed before?’
‘I’ve been to a lot of murder scenes. Murders committed by first timers are always rushed and messy. This one was done by someone who took his time, was supremely confident, who knew what he was doing. Probably one of a series, I’d guess.’
‘I’ll look into that, thanks, Dr Baines.’ Roscoe picked up her Eccles cake and bit into it, experiencing a moment of pure, unadulterated joy as the sugar and fruit burst onto her tongue. How could anything that tastes so good be so bad for you, she thought — ‘a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips’. Sod it! She took another bite.
‘I believe you know Henry Christie quite well,’ she said through the mouthful.
Baines perked up visibly at the mention of the name. ‘Henry? Yes — we go back a long way. Haven’t seen the old libertine for some time. How is he? I’m surprised not to see him, actually. This kind of thing is right up his street.’
‘He’s OK. Sends his regards. He’s been transferred into uniform.’
Baines almost choked on his cake. ‘Uniform? Well I never.’