‘Then you’ll know about the rectal diazepam.’ Lyle’s initial shock at Jack being privy to the contents of the path report was soon replaced by indignation. ‘I was the one who told Foxy to look for it, DC Lyle. Which is something you could have done if you’d been more vigilant.’ Jack softened his tone. ‘We both know that I’m no longer your prime suspect. I’m trying to help you.’
‘Well...’ Although Lyle knew that he shouldn’t divulge any more information, he also wanted to know what Jack knew about Elliot Wetlock, so he hedged his bets. ‘It looks like accidental suicide. She had several prescriptions written by various doctors, medical and psychiatric. She had a diagnosis of anxiety, and she was known for storing her drugs in order to take them all at once for one big hit. It’s looking like this one went wrong. And regarding the enema, you can administer those yourself.’
‘Not if you’re unconscious,’ Jack said. ‘And the level of drugs in her system strongly suggest that she would have been.’
Lyle didn’t even know enough to be embarrassed by Jack’s insinuation that he’d got a key part of the investigation wrong, so carried on. ‘The talent scout seems to have been a figment of her imagination. Supporting the probability of schizophrenia, perhaps. It seems that her only actual brush with fame was being on the books at a local lookalike agency, and they stopped using her when she turned up at a job as high as a kite. The rest was fantasy. We’re about to release her body, DS Warr, so if you have hard evidence against Elliot Wetlock, you need to share that with me now.’
‘I’ve already told you, DC Lyle, you can’t self-administer an enema if you have the amount of drugs in your system that Tania did. Someone else delivered the fatal dose, so you’ve got a murder on your hands. You catch yourself a killer and your DCI will never forget your name again.’ Jack took a gamble that Lyle had, at least once in his short career, had to reintroduce himself to his own DCI. Lyle, now looking like a wounded puppy, confirmed that Jack was right. He again asked Lyle to accept his help.
Lyle stood up from his desk, leaving a sweat line on the leather seat. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked quietly. Jack nodded, prompting Lyle to make a quick confession in the hope that Jack could help him rectify his mistake. ‘I’ve given them the nod to clear the crime scene.’
Considering they were now against the clock, Lyle was driving like a middle-aged aunt. Jack couldn’t comprehend his need to obey the speed limit when he had a siren and lights at his disposal. Lyle had called the officer in charge of clearing the scene and halted the operation, but that order would take time to filter down to the officers on the ground and, until they arrived, Lyle had no idea if his crime scene was still secure.
They eventually arrived at a small block of newly built flats facing the riverside just along from Hammersmith Bridge. Lyle pulled into a resident’s bay, put his Met police card on the dashboard and led the way to the glass entry. Lyle quickly got the attention of the uniformed lady standing behind the small desk. He slapped his badge against the glass and she rushed to let them in.
Jack and Lyle rushed up the stairs two at a time, closely followed by the receptionist carrying her master key. When they got to the top floor, Flat 9 had no crime tape across the door because it had never been considered a murder scene. But the lady from the desk could guarantee that the cleaner had not been in since her shift started four hours ago, though she had no idea what had happened before that. Fortunately, as soon as Jack entered, it was more than obvious no cleaner had been near the place for weeks. Their crime scene was secure.
Lyle sounded like an estate agent as Jack made his way around the small, two-bedroomed flat. ‘This is one of the most sought-after blocks of flats in London. There’s a large gym and lap pool on the lower ground floor, but no car park. Each flat has a post box in reception. We checked Tania’s, of course: nothing of interest. And that...’ Lyle pointed towards a small, locked cupboard built into the wall just inside the front door. ‘You put small kitchen waste bags in there and they get collected from the outside. We looked through the contents.’
Jack had to admit the flat was stunning. The large living room had a balcony overlooking the river. The beige carpet matched the oat-and-cream-coloured armchairs and sofa and large ornate mirrors were positioned to make the room feel even bigger. There was a flatscreen TV and a stereo system stored in a cupboard with the doors open. Lyle took two pairs of nitrile gloves from his jacket pocket and handed one to Jack.
The kitchen was small and compact with a skylight view. Lyle pointed to a tiny fridge freezer, saying that there had been nothing at all inside the fridge, not even a pint of milk.
A glass-fronted cabinet was filled with white china on one shelf and wine glasses on another. Everything was laid out like a show home. The cooker top looked unused and the oven smelt as clean as the day it was bought.
The spare bedroom was very small and was being used for storage, but the master bedroom with en suite was fabulous. The entire space was an homage to Marilyn Monroe, complete with framed photographs and posters covering almost every inch of light-silver wallpaper. The wall-to-wall, mirror-fronted wardrobe doors were slightly open, and clothes spilt out all over the carpet. Designer shoes and handbags were thrown in piles in every corner. Underwear and negligees were draped over every surface and poured out of the open top drawer. Discarded takeaway cartons, pizza boxes, paper coffee cups and Coke cans completed the picture. The stench of old food hung heavily in the air, making it hard to breathe freely.
The king-size bed had been stripped of sheets and pillowcases, and the silk bedcovers lay in a heap beside it. The bedside tables had various ring marks from glasses and mugs, and there was a selection of face creams and lotions. Jack moved carefully around the room as Lyle read off the list of items that had been removed by the police, including bed linen, certain items of underwear, champagne and wine bottles, as well as her diary, laptop and all of the medication and drugs. Lyle explained that the mattress and bedsheets were spattered with numerous old stains such as menstrual blood, semen, faeces, urine and make-up. There were also patches of bleach all across the carpet.
‘Prints belonged to her, her father, a lad who we’ve eliminated due to the fact that he’s been dead five months — from drugs. And...’
‘And me.’ Jack completed his sentence for him. ‘On the champagne bottle, I know. She had it with her when she came to my house. But you won’t find my prints on anything that belongs inside this flat.’
Underneath the bed and littered across the room were hundreds of photographs of Marilyn Monroe, as well as stacks of books about her life and career, most of which had Post-it notes attached marking pages of interest.
‘He said she was lying on her side, curled up like a baby,’ Lyle said. ‘Mr Wetlock could see she’d been dead for days but apparently tried to revive her anyway. He called an ambulance and then us.’ Lyle watched Jack as he stood still and silently took in the scene as if he was replaying events in his mind to see if they added up. ‘I know you think it was her father, Jack, but I can’t see it. I took his statement. He was distraught. You can’t fake that.’
‘I’m sure he was distraught.’ Jack leant down and cautiously felt along the underside of the mattress. ‘I’m sure he loved her. I’m also sure he killed her. Did you find a syringe?’
‘She didn’t inject. The PM report indicates no track marks, recent or historic.’ Lyle began to sound pissed-off at Jack’s constant contradicting of his investigative findings. He might be young, but he wasn’t stupid. ‘We looked for needles. There were none.’