Killing the Beasts

'Long day already?' McCloughlin said with some sympathy. 'Come on then; what are the developments so far?'

Jon opened the file. 'Well, not a major amount to be honest. We're just completing the Major Incident First Actions. The mother, Diane Mather, has filled us in on the basics of her daughter's life. Twenty-two years old, single, worked shifts in the Virgin Megastore on Market Street, vocalist in a band called The Soup — fairly well known locally. Few gigs in Band on the Wall and The Night and Day Cafe.'

McCloughlin raised his eyebrows to indicate he had no idea what Jon was talking about. 'Don't worry, it's my age. Carry on.'

Jon gave a half smile. 'Enjoyed clubbing, a regular out and about round town. Socialized mostly with the other band members and a few of the staff at Virgin, people she'd met on the club scene and old mates from college. Her neighbour described her as a bit of a ravehead, intimating that she used drugs. There was evidence of that in her house, too. Could be relevant.'

McCloughlin nodded his agreement. 'Which college did she go to?'

'Stockport. HND in Communications and Media.'

His senior officer rolled his eyes. 'What happened to courses where you actually learned something useful?'

Jon carried on. 'Her mum insists, as they always do, that she didn't have an enemy in the world.'

'Have you put together her movements during her last twenty-four hours?'

'Pretty much; she spent the evening at home with the other band members, and they all left her at about midnight.'

'Boyfriend or recent ex?'

'Recent ex. Lead guitarist in the band. The other two band members concur it wasn't a nasty split. Can't have been too bad if they were still all doing their music together.'

'So what are your first ideas?'

'Well, I think she knew her attacker. She certainly trusted him enough to let him into the flat. There's no sign of a forced entry and no sign of a violent struggle inside. But somehow she ended up dead, suffocated by a load of white gel in her throat. There are also questions about how she was subdued for the stuff to be introduced in the first place. Initial toxicology analysis has shown up quite a cocktail of drugs in her blood.'

'Enough of anything to knock her out?'

'The toxicologist couldn't be sure.'

'How about witnesses? Did no one see anyone enter her house?'

Jon shook his head. 'Uniforms have questioned all the immediate neighbours and the OET has conducted door-to-door enquiries. Most people were out at work; the remainder didn't notice anyone coming or going.'

McCloughlin tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair.

'Other points of interest,' Jon continued. 'She was saving up for a round the world trip. The money is still in her bank account. Thirteen hundred and forty quid. The drawers in her room had been disturbed and a few photo albums were on her bed when I checked upstairs. One contained various shots of her posing nude in her room. It seems she was charging for private glamour photo shoots. We're checking all numbers on her phone records.'

'Well, that's got to be significant. Wasn't she found in her dressing gown?'

'Yes.'

'Good. Looks like there are some promising avenues to follow up there.'

Jon shifted in his seat.

'Something else on your mind?' McCloughlin asked.

Jon coughed. 'You mentioned on the phone about taking me off Operation Fisherman so I could concentrate on this.'

McCloughlin nodded. 'And you're wondering if, seeing as this case has such solid-looking leads, you can keep an oar in Operation Fisherman?'

'Just pop my head in every now and again. Keep track of developments.'

McCloughlin didn't look pleased. 'This is your first murder case as SIO. Believe me, it will soak up attention levels you didn't know you had, however simple we think it appears. I don't want anything to distract you. 'He sat back in his seat and interlinked his fingers. 'I pointed this out on your last assessment, Jon. You have a propensity to fixate on certain cases. You're not a Mountie, always getting your man. You're in the Greater Manchester Police and the modern system means you can be switched off cases as and when events demand. Get used to it.'

Jon stared at the floor.

McCloughlin regarded him for a second longer. 'Listen, once this case is cleared up, you can return to your place on Operation Fisherman. But remember, this one is… 'The phone on his desk began to emit a pleasantly subdued beeping. Raising one finger, McCloughlin picked the receiver up. 'Yes?' His eyes, previously on the pad of paper in front of him, suddenly lifted to Jon's face. 'I understand. Give me the details again.'

He scrawled them down on a memo pad and hung up. 'Another body has been found. Mary Walters, twenty-three years old. Flat one, forty-six Lea Road, Whalley Range. The attending officer says her throat is blocked up by white stuff.'

As they drove up Withington Road, Jon observed the cafe bars and stylish restaurants creeping outwards from Chorlton. 'Jesus, this place has changed,' he remarked.

McCloughlin didn't answer and Jon continued to stare out the window at a stretch of enormous houses flanking the road. Built for wealthy cotton merchants in the last century, all had long ago been divided into flats or converted into drab-looking guest houses with vacancy signs in the front windows. Now it seemed every other one was clad in property developer's scaffolding. Signs strapped to the metal poles announced who had laid claim to which building. A modern-day gold rush.

'I read somewhere this area's had the biggest jump in house prices for the whole of Manchester. Six years ago people couldn't sell their property around here for peanuts,' Jon commented.

'Shit — another missed chance,' McCloughlin said, whipping the car round into Lea Road. Five police cars and an ambulance were already parked haphazardly on the pavement in front of number forty-six, yellow crime scene tape shivering in the chill autumnal breeze. The house was similar to the massive ones on the main road, solid, chunky brickwork, large stone windowsills and a metal fire escape clinging to its side.

The two men cut through the crowd of curious onlookers and approached a uniformed officer holding a flip notebook. Flashing his warrant card, McCloughlin asked, 'Who's in there?'

The officer glanced down at his pad. 'Just the SOCO and the photographer at the moment, sir. The officers who first attended the scene are talking to CID over there.' He pointed to a group of people gathered in the outer cordon.

'Is that who found her?' asked Jon, nodding discreetly at a heavily built girl sitting in the back of an ambulance, a paramedic comforting her.

'That's right,' answered the officer. 'Emma Newton.'

'And it's the ground-floor flat?'

'Yes. It's got its own front door, round the back of the building.'

McCloughlin pointed to the officer's pen. 'OK, DI Spicer and DCI McCloughlin, MISU. We're going in.' After introducing themselves to the other officers, they put on white scene-of-crime suits and overshoes, then passed into the inner cordon and walked down the driveway running along the side of the building. 'That helps,' remarked McCloughlin. 'Private entry, no communal hallway.'

They rounded the corner and found themselves in a large rear yard closed in by high walls. A rotting sofa lay next to a rusting car in the corner, front tyres missing. Large trees in the neighbouring gardens enclosed the area. A sign tacked to an overhanging tree read, 'Smile! You're on CCTV.'

They both turned round and started scanning the back of the building for cameras. 'Perhaps it's sitting on one of the windowsills inside,' said Jon, unable to spot it.

'Could be. 'They approached the short flight of steps leading up to the door of flat one. A little wind chime hung to the side of the door, the draft round the back of the building only strong enough to make the wooden tab at the end of the string twist slowly round and round.