Stop Dead Read online

  ‘It’s the smell that gets me more than anything else,’ he had confided to her when they were out for a drink together one evening. ‘Only don’t let on to the boss, will you?’

  He shuddered.

  ‘I can’t stand the smell of the place. And the thought that it could be me one day, up there on the slab, or it could be –’

  ‘Oh my God, don’t even think about it,’ Geraldine had interrupted, laughing.

  Ian had joined in her laughter, his amusement obviously fake; he couldn’t laugh about death. Geraldine wondered if the natural way in which she was able to divorce herself from any personal engagement with the cadavers she viewed in the course of her work meant she was unfeeling, inhumane even. But her detachment certainly helped her to function efficiently at her job.

  Miles looked up from the body he was working on as Geraldine entered. The body found outside Gino’s Café had been identified as John Birch, a thirty-two-year-old bus driver. Miles grunted in acknowledgement of her greeting, hazel eyes meeting her gaze solemnly.

  ‘Looks like we’ve got another one for you,’ he said, pointing a gory finger at the injuries the dead man had sustained.

  Frustrated, Geraldine stared down at the battered body. The wounds appeared to match those of Henshaw, Corless and Bradshaw exactly. That made four virtually identical deaths in just over two weeks. The exact details hadn’t been made public so the murders must all have been carried out by the same person, or group of people, and apparently with an identical weapon. Meanwhile the police could only speculate about the killer’s identity. They had no real evidence.

  ‘Must make you sick, seeing this again,’ the pathologist said.

  He sounded a trifle surly.

  ‘That’s four of them in a row. Isn’t it time you found out who’s killing all these poor buggers, and put a stop to it? Or at the very least can’t you get him to use a bit more imagination if it’s going to carry on like this, unless you want another death on your hands, because I might just die of boredom writing these pathology reports. Maybe you can put out an appeal on the TV, asking the killer to vary his methods.’

  Geraldine sighed.

  ‘We’re doing our best, Miles, we’re doing our best. It’s a tricky one.’

  ‘At the rate he’s killing people, he can’t be that difficult to find, surely?’

  Geraldine looked down at the victim.

  ‘I take it this was the same cause of death?’

  Miles shook his head.

  ‘Well, no, as it happens it’s not quite the same, although the injuries are identical.’

  Geraldine frowned.

  ‘What was the cause of death this time then?’

  ‘He died from a massive coronary while the previous three victims all died from blood loss. It was a close run thing, but it was the heart attack that killed him.’

  ‘So you’re saying he died from a coronary that was brought on by the attack?’

  The pathologist shrugged.

  ‘It’s impossible to say for certain what caused the coronary. Who can say? It could have been going to happen anyway, couldn’t it?’

  Geraldine considered.

  ‘Had he suffered previous heart trouble?’

  ‘No. He had a clean bill of health before this.’

  With John Birch’s injuries, there was no possibility his killer could get away with a charge of manslaughter. In any case the direct cause of death was irrelevant, if the murderer was implicated in the deaths of the other three victims. Once they had arrested the killer, a life sentence was inevitable. But first they had to find whoever was responsible.

  ‘Still no leads then?’ Miles asked, watching her expression closely.

  Unsure whether his enquiry was sympathetic or censorious, Geraldine faced him squarely across the table. John Birch’s cadaver lay between them, white and staring.

  ‘Whatever makes you say that?’ she asked. ‘Of course we’ve got leads. That’s what we’re doing, all the time, following up leads. Why do you think Sam isn’t here with me today? She’s back at the station following up a suspect right now. We’ll have this wrapped up soon.’

  Miles nodded.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ he replied, turning away, but Geraldine hadn’t finished yet.

  ‘I need to get back to the station, but before I go, is there anything else you can tell us, anything at all?’

  Miles gave her a quizzical look. She repeated her question. Any small snippet of information the pathologist could supply might help. She wanted to beg him to give her some clue to work on, anything that might blow the case wide open. It was all right for him to stand there, smugly patronising. While he dealt with tangible evidence, Geraldine was struggling with obscure intimations.

  ‘What kind of detail are you looking for?’ he asked. ‘Are we talking about DNA? There’s nothing yet. Nothing that matches anything we found at the other scenes. And I’m afraid the killer didn’t leave a calling card.’

  She refused to be rattled by his goading. He was probably intending to be light-hearted, but she was too stressed to be amused. She wanted to know if there was anything different about this victim.

  ‘Apart from the cause of death? Well, yes, there is one other thing.’

  He looked down at the body.

  ‘This chap was standing up when he received the initial blow. As you’ve seen, he was hit on the back of the head. The other three victims were all hit on the temple, assaulted from the front. In this case, the assailant approached him from behind.’

  Geraldine asked to see the bruise on the back of Birch’s head again. The body was carefully turned and they examined a large gash on the back of his head, surrounded by bruising. The dead man’s hair had been shaved to disclose the damaged skin.

  ‘What was it done with?’

  Miles shook his head.

  ‘It’s impossible to say what the weapon was, and in any case a different weapon was used in the attack on Henshaw. But they were all forceful blows, hard enough to bruise and break the skin. It must have stunned him, maybe even knocked him out. He suffered a coronary almost immediately afterwards which would have caused him to fall to the ground –’

  He indicated bruising on the dead man’s knees.

  ‘The other injuries were inflicted after his collapse, the first impact while he was still alive, the others post-mortem.’

  Geraldine focused on the blow to the victim’s head.

  ‘So he was standing up when he was first hit?’

  The pathologist nodded.

  ‘You’re sure of that? I need to know …’

  ‘Yes, but –’ he broke off and nodded, his eyes narrowing. ‘You want to see what that can tell us about the killer.’

  Geraldine leaned forward.

  ‘Is it possible to estimate the killer’s height from the angle of the impact? Can you tell that without knowing about the instrument that hit him?’

  Miles nodded thoughtfully. The dead man had been hit on the back of his head, just above the nape of his neck, with a heavy implement.

  ‘But what was used, exactly?’

  ‘Still no sign of a murder weapon then?’ he asked.

  They studied the injury. The bottom edge of the weapon had made a deeper impression than the top edge, suggesting he had been hit from below. The dead man was five foot ten. The pathologist estimated the killer’s height to be somewhere between five four and five six, although it wasn’t conclusive.

  ‘The weapon might have been swung, like a hammer, and made an impact on the upward trajectory,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Was he killed where he was found or moved after death?’

  ‘He was killed there, in the alley.’

  Geraldine was pursuing her own line of thought.

  ‘Could he have been hit by a woman? I mean, five foot four isn’t that tall. How powerful would you say the blow was?’

  ‘Powerful enough to knock him down – but yes, it could certainly have been dealt by a woman, if the victim was c
aught off guard. And he was hit from behind. If he’d had any idea what was coming, surely he would have turned round and tried to stop it.’

  He looked up at Geraldine, frowning.

  ‘You’ve got no idea who did this, have you? You don’t even know if he was killed by a man or a woman.’

  ‘We’re following several leads right now,’ she replied frostily. ‘We’ll get the killer. It’s just a matter of time.’

  CHAPTER 60

  While Geraldine had been at the morgue, Sam had been painstakingly tracing Lynn Jones’ history. As a teenager Lynn had left her family home in Acton after a falling out with her parents. They had reported her missing, but she had turned sixteen by the time she was traced. At sixteen she could not be compelled to return home, and she refused to go back voluntarily. After that the trail had gone cold for about a year until she had turned up in central London under her new name, Lolita. Somewhere in the interim she had become an addict and begun working for a pimp and dealer known to the drug squad. They had finally nailed him and he died of pancreatic cancer while serving a prison sentence. There was no record of how Lolita had managed without him. Presumably she had moved on to a new pimp.

  After lunch, Sam and Geraldine drove to the address in Peckham where Lynn’s mother still lived. The man who came to the door must have been in the hall because the door opened as soon as the bell chimed. He looked about fifty, with grey stubble on his cheeks and chin, and a balding head. Small eyes peered out at them, almost completely concealed in fleshy pouches.

  ‘What do you want?’

  His voice was shrill and he screwed up his face as though they had brought a bad smell with them. ‘We don’t buy no shit on the doorstep and we’re not interested in no crap religion.’

  He made to close the door but Geraldine stepped forward, explaining the reason for their visit.

  The man’s belligerence slipped in surprise.

  ‘Lynn?’ he repeated. ‘Did you say you’re looking for Lynn?’

  A woman’s voice screeched incoherently from inside the house and the man turned away to yell in reply.

  ‘Someone’s here asking about Lynn!’

  A woman appeared in the hall, hovering just behind the fat man, who shifted his bulk aside to allow her to speak to Geraldine. With wrinkled skin and stooped shoulders, she looked old enough to be her companion’s mother. She too seemed startled when she heard the purpose of their visit.

  ‘You want to know about Lynn?’ she repeated in surprise, her vacant eyes animated with fleeting interest. ‘After all this time, why would you want to know about her now?’

  ‘I know it’s a long time since she left home –’ Geraldine began.

  ‘Home!’ the fat man interrupted, rolling his piggy eyes. ‘If she ever thought of this place as her home, I’ll eat my hat.’

  At her side, Geraldine heard Sam cough. It sounded as though she was trying not to laugh. Geraldine turned and glared at the sergeant who looked down, biting her bottom lip. Geraldine turned back to Lynn’s mother.

  ‘May we come in?’

  Mrs Jones nodded dumbly and led them off the narrow hall into a small untidy living room at the front of the house, sloppily furnished with a couple of armchairs that didn’t match, and a pair of grey plastic chairs. There was a stale smell, as though the windows were never opened. Mrs Jones perched on one armchair, the fat man sank into the other, and the two visitors sat down on plastic chairs. The place appeared neglected, as did Mrs Jones. Her hair was greasy, her clothes creased and threadbare, her lips cracked.

  ‘We want to know about Lynn,’ Geraldine said when they were all sitting down, ‘anything you can tell us.’

  The woman sat brooding silently.

  ‘She won’t tell you anything,’ the fat man said. ‘She never talks about Lynn.’

  ‘Can you tell us about her then?’

  ‘Me? No. She’d left home long before I came to live here.’

  Geraldine turned back to Mrs Jones.

  ‘We need to find Lynn urgently. It will help her if we can talk to her,’ she lied.

  ‘You can’t help Lynn,’ her mother said in a flat voice.

  ‘I think you’ll find we can –’

  ‘No one can help Lynn. She’s dead. She died eighteen months ago.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Geraldine asked.

  She regretted the question straight away. As though a mother would make a mistake about such a matter.

  ‘That’s that then,’ Geraldine said tetchily as she climbed into the driving seat. ‘Lynn Jones isn’t our murderer because she’s dead.’

  ‘Funny we didn’t find any record of her death.’

  ‘That’s because we were looking under the wrong name.’

  Geraldine thought about her own fruitless efforts to trace Emily Tennant, and wondered if she too was looking under the wrong name. She sighed. They were scratching around for leads, and every time they thought they were onto something, they ended up going nowhere.

  ‘Where are we off to now?’ Sam asked, glancing at her watch.

  Geraldine thought aloud.

  ‘Why was hair from two different women found on the bodies? They can’t both be killers, because one type of hair belonged to Lynn, and she’s dead. Did Lynn sell her hair to be made into a wig that was worn by the killer? If we can trace whoever bought Lynn’s hair –’

  Geraldine didn’t finish the sentence. She knew it was an impossible task. To begin with, they had no idea when Lynn had sold her hair. Even if Rowena could help them to pin down a time, she was unlikely to know where the hair had gone. And if they found the wig-maker who had purchased it, the hair would most likely have been bought for cash, or sold on, or lost, and picked up by the murderer without any trace. Realistically, there was no chance they would find a record of the transaction, or that anyone would remember that one wig and its owner after so long; just another junkie desperate for money.

  ‘I know, leave no stone unturned,’ Sam muttered.

  ‘Sooner or later something has to go in our favour,’ Geraldine responded, but she no longer believed what she was saying.

  Not for the first time, she wondered what it would be like to work in a job that lacked any kind of moral responsibility, a job where failure was acceptable. First the DNA found at the scene of Henshaw’s murder had been a match with a woman in prison, and now the DNA found on Bradshaw’s body turned out to be that of a dead woman. Nothing about this case seemed to make any sense. She was beginning to think they would never find the person who had killed four men – so far.

  ‘Failure is not an option,’ she muttered fiercely as they drew up outside the hostel and left the car on a double yellow line again.

  Rowena greeted them indifferently, as though their visit was nothing unusual. Geraldine asked her straight away when Lynn had cut her long hair. Rowena frowned with the effort of remembering.

  ‘She had long hair,’ she offered at last.

  ‘Yes, but then she had it cut off. We need to know when that was.’

  Rowena stared blankly at a black smear on the floor and didn’t answer.

  ‘Rowena, when did Lynn get her hair cut?’

  ‘We called her Lolita.’

  ‘All right, but you know who I mean. When did Lolita get her hair cut off?’

  Rowena looked troubled.

  ‘Lolita had long hair,’ she repeated.

  ‘Did she ever have it cut in all the time you knew her?’

  She shook her head.

  If Rowena’s testimony was reliable, Lynn must have sold her hair after leaving the hostel. On the streets and desperate to feed her habit, she would have been making what money she could by any means possible. She might have been finding it difficult to earn money from soliciting without the protection of her pimp, with her looks no doubt fading as a result of her habit. A wig seemed the only possible explanation for Lynn’s hair turning up like that, but they had no way of finding out who had bought the wig and presumably worn it while killing Bra
dshaw.

  ‘Well, that’ll be a nice little job for you tomorrow,’ Geraldine said to Sam as they drove away, ‘checking the records of every wig-maker in striking distance of London.’

  ‘I know it’s got to be done, but you don’t really think there’ll be an official record in writing somewhere of blonde hair bought from Lynn Jones, or Lolita, do you?’

  Geraldine ignored the question.

  ‘Let’s get some chips on the way back,’ she said instead.

  ‘That’s the first sensible thing anyone’s said to me since we started on this crazy case with people committing murders from behind bars, and beyond the grave,’ Sam answered cheerfully. ‘I know where there’s a great chippy not far from here.’

  ‘I was counting on it.’

  CHAPTER 61

  Geraldine knocked at a dirty white door and waited patiently. She could have delegated the visit to a local constable but preferred to carry out the task herself, her judgement coloured by an experience in her early years as a sergeant. She had despatched an inexperienced constable to break the news of a fatality to the parents of a youth who had been knifed in a pub brawl. Geraldine still wondered if she was responsible for his crass performance. Her instruction had seemed innocuous enough: ‘Deliver the message and come back here straight away.’

  Years later she still felt cold when she remembered questioning the young constable. With hindsight she suspected his rapid return to the station had alerted her to the fact that something was wrong. If she hadn’t been there on his return she would never have discovered what had happened, and the outcome could have been dreadful. Finding the house empty, the young constable had put a note through the door informing the parents of their loss. Shocked, Geraldine had rushed to the house. Fortunately the family had not yet come home. She had waited in the car for five hours to intercept them and tell them in person that their son had been stabbed to death, before they saw the note that had been posted through their letter box.

  The latest victim to be bludgeoned to death by ‘The Hammer Horror’ had lived in Wealdstone, not far from the bus garage. Geraldine caught the overground from Kings Cross and walked for about a mile along the High Street past small dilapidated shops. Turning off the noisy main road, she found the small terraced property where John Birch had lived with his wife. This time she only had to wait a few minutes before the door was opened by a tall lanky woman. Dark hair streaked with grey hung in a straight fringe, through which her eyes gleamed anxiously from a narrow face with a small pointed nose.