Redemption of the Dead (4 page)

Sean walked deeper into the flat, past the bathroom and the bedroom that the victim used until he reached the lounge – the place where the final scene from hell unfolded. He stood in the middle of the room and used the photographs to put everything back into place in his mind, just as it had been when the victim was discovered – before a single thing had been moved. But the pictures were so vivid and terrible he found it hard to look at them for more than a few seconds at a time. He wondered what it must have been like for the first police at the scene – cops who’d been called by the childminder when the mother wouldn’t open the door, expecting to find her asleep or drunk or at the local shop, but to discover
this.
Surely they’d be haunted by it for the rest of their lives, even if they never admitted it. And what must have it been like for the forensic team, who would have had to work in the scene for hours before the body was removed? How could they have concentrated totally – not been distracted? Not
missed
something?

Again he flicked through the photographs until he found the one he was looking for – a picture of a doll that had been sitting on the chair opposite the sofa on which the victim had been mutilated and violated – as if it had been
watching
the killer – watching the killer perform
.
Sean looked closer, using the size of the chair for scale, speaking out loud so he could hear his own thoughts – hear if they made any sense. ‘You put the doll there. You put the doll there so it could watch you rage all over her. And you chose the largest doll you could find because it felt more lifelike – as if you were being watched – watched by a child – by her child. You dragged her in here and you cut her throat, but then you left her and went to find the boy, didn’t you? But he wasn’t here, and that made your rage burn all the brighter, until you saw the doll – large and ornate – something an adult might own, but not a young boy, so you knew it was probably the mother’s and not the child’s. And that made it even more real for you. So you brought the doll back in here and placed it where it could see everything. Only, did you forget yourself, for a few moments when you thought you were going to seek out the child, did you forget you’d taken you gloves off? Because you did take them off, once you were inside, didn’t you? You couldn’t bear to have a barrier between you and the victim. You needed to feel her skin and you knew you couldn’t leave your prints on skin, so you took your gloves off. But while your gloves were off, did you touch the doll? Did you touch its plastic face? Did you leave us your prints? Did we miss them – in all the hell you left behind – did we miss them? We did, didn’t we? Fuck,’ he suddenly punctuated his thoughts as he closed the file and slipped it back into the unmarked envelope.

He walked to an unboarded window, hoping the view of the heath might chase away the images that threatened to lock themselves away in his mind forever. But as he looked out over the common land and dense wood he could think of one thing and one thing only.
This is our man. It has to be. Rebecca Fordham’s killer is the Parkside Rapist, and he’s going to kill again.
As he stared at the heath, all he could see was the dark figure of a faceless man moving quietly and quickly through the trees.
Waiting.

* * *

‘This is bollocks,’ Sean swore as he sat on the opposite side of the desk to Charlie Bannan. ‘It’s wrong, just like McCaig was the wrong man and they know it.’

‘It’s politics, son,’ Bannan tried to explain ‘and they don’t know they’ve got the wrong man. They may suspect it, but they don’t know it. As far as they’re concerned the criminologist told them McCaig’s the right man and the top-brass told them to listen to her.’

‘Then they should have told her to go fuck herself,’ Sean suggested.

‘Yes they should,’ Bannan agreed with a chuckle, ‘but they didn’t and they won’t. And there’s something for you to learn and never forget – don’t ever, ever, let outsiders tell you your business. We’re the police – we decide who is and who isn’t guilty – not some historian looking to make a name for herself, not some politician trying to make himself feel important. We put the guilty before the courts and if they fuck it up that’s not down to us and we move on. The Fordham Investigation team fucked up – they let an outsider
tell them their business and somewhere down the line it’s going to cost them – it’s going to cost them big-time.’

‘I hope it does,’ Sean told him. ‘But right now it’s not going to help us, so what are we going to do next?’

‘Nothing,’ Bannan admitted.

‘Nothing? But there has to be a way of getting them to hand over their evidence, or at least get a look at the lab report about the blood spray pattern. I’m convinced he put the doll on the sofa after he cut the victim’s throat, but before he did the rest. He wanted a fucking audience and he was in a hurry, so much of a hurry he forgot to put his gloves back on. The doll had a plastic face. He could have left us his prints.’

‘It’s an interesting theory,’ Bannan told him, but there was no excitement in his voice. Sean noticed it.

‘Wait a minute – you’d already thought of it, hadn’t you?’

‘I’d considered it,’ he admitted.

‘And did you tell anyone?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘It wouldn’t have changed anything. No one would have been interested in my theories. They had McCaig and that was enough.’

‘But what about checking the doll for blood spray patterns, to prove he put it there?’ Sean asked.

‘It wouldn’t change anything.’

‘But it could indicate he’d touched it – left his prints.’

‘The doll was dusted,’ Bannan crushed him. ‘There were no prints on it other than the mother’s and the boy’s. If the killer touched it at all he didn’t leave his prints.’

‘Something else then,’ Sean insisted. ‘Something else they missed.’

‘Forget it, son. There ain’t nothing I can do about it.’

‘There has to be,’ Sean insisted. ‘We can’t just let it slide.’

‘Yes, we can and yes, we will,’ Bannan told him. ‘This is a big boys’ game. You have to suck it up and move on. It’s what we do. When we catch the Parkside Rapist, and we will, we’ll know we’ve got the man who also killed Rebecca Fordham. Even if we never prove it in a court, at least we’ll know – you and me.’

‘That’s not enough.’

‘Sure it is. And for what he’s done to the other women he’ll get life anyway, so all things will work out equal.’

‘Not if he kills again,’ Sean reminded him, ‘and he will – I know he will.’

‘Then we’d better catch him fast, hadn’t we, son?’ Bannan told him. ‘Before he has a chance to.’

‘We can’t,’ Sean warned him, ‘not without access to the Fordham evidence. Do you have any friends at the Lab? Someone who owes you a favour?’

‘I know what you’re thinking and the answer’s no – I’m not going to sneak up the Lab and have a crafty look at what they may or may not have. You just don’t do that, son – not for anything.’

‘Why not? If you know they’re wrong.’

‘They’re Old Bill, son – more than that, they’re detectives. We don’t shaft each other – remember that.’

Sean tried to work the tension out of his neck by rolling his head around his shoulders.

‘Relax,’ Bannan told him, ‘we’ll get him and soon. This ain’t no master-criminal we’re after, it’s just another sick-nutter. He’s about due to fuck-up and when he does – we’ll be waiting for him.’

‘If you say so,’ he finally agreed, even though his heart told him differently.

Four thirty a.m. and Sean lay alone in the bed in his small flat, waiting for the alarm to break the silence in thirty minutes’ time. He’d been awake for a couple of hours, tossing and turning before giving in to the questions and fears that electrified his mind and made sleep impossible. He’d been this way since his visit to the flat where Rebecca Fordham had been killed, and he couldn’t help wondering whether Bannan was feeling the same or if he really could just blank it out and move on. Maybe one day he’d be able to push things to one side and forget about them, no matter how important they might appear to be. Maybe one day he’d be able to sleep like other people slept no matter what he’d had to deal with during the preceding day – but not yet – not now.

The oppressive silence of the dark, still, room was suddenly broken by the electronic shrill of a machine somewhere in the flat demanding his attention. In his tiredness he assumed it was his alarm clock, but soon realised it couldn’t be – He’d set it for five a.m., but it was still only four thirty. As his mind cleared he realized it was the phone ringing in the lounge. ‘Shit,’ he swore to himself. He jumped from his bed and jogged into lounge, composing himself for a second before answering. ‘Hello.’

‘PC Corrigan?’ the voice asked.

‘Who wants to know?’

‘It’s DS Melody. Jump through the shower and get yourself to work – there’s been a murder – a bad one.’

‘How bad?’

‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ Melody told him.

‘Is it linked to the Parkside attacks?’

‘Save the questions for when you’re here.’

‘What about Rebecca Fordham? Does it look like the same man?’

‘It’s too early to draw any conclusions,’ Melody warned him. ‘Just get yourself in to work.’ The line went dead just as Sean’s imagination came to life. He knew, somehow he just knew, the same man had committed both crimes. He dropped the phone and sprinted for the bathroom.

* * *

It was almost midday before Sean returned to the police station after hours of pounding the streets of Woolwich and hammering on council-flat-door after council-flat-door close to the scene where a young mother and her child had been murdered in their own flat. He’d been told almost nothing by DS Melody when he’d reported to the Enquiry Office just after six that morning. Any delusions he’d had of being taken into the heart of the investigation had been dashed as Melody handed him a pile of door-to-door enquiry forms and a list of streets he’d been designated to canvass. He’d spied Bannan deep in conversation with a huddle of real detectives, but he’d not even been able to catch his eye. He was back to being a very small cog in a very large machine. But he needed more – needed to see the scene and the victims who were still inside – needed to breathe it deep into his soul. Run-of-the-mill enquiries and tasks were no longer enough.

He slid into the Enquiry Office and dropped his paperwork off in the
returns
box before heading for the exit and the canteen. As he was leaving, he nearly walked straight into Bannan who was walking and talking with two other suited men. He looked at Sean almost as if he’d never seen him before, but when they locked eyes Sean sensed his sudden recognition. ‘Guv’nor,’ Sean greeted him.

‘Hello, son. Still with us I see.’

‘Guv’nor, can I have a word?’ He sensed the confusion in the other men’s faces that a mere plain-clothed-constable should be daring to ask for some of Bannan’s time – especially on a day like this.

‘Can it wait?’ Bannan asked without irritation. ‘I’m a little busy right now.’

‘Not really,’ Sean told him, his eyes burning with intensity of his need, something Bannan seemed to acknowledge as he turned to the men who were flanking him.

‘Give me a minute,’ he told them. ‘This won’t take long.’ The men nodded and gave him quizzical looks before moving away. ‘Alright, son. What is it?’

‘I need to see the scene,’ he almost demanded, prompting Bannan to gently take him by the bicep and lead him out of the Enquiry Office and into the empty corridor.

‘Listen, son – That’s out of the question.’ Sean went to protest, but Bannan stopped him with a raised hand. ‘Slow down,’ he told him. ‘The scene’s being forensically examined as we speak, even I’m not allowed in there at the moment.’

‘They might miss something,’ he argued. ‘But if I could see it then maybe I could make sure they don’t.’

‘Sean, you’re a PC attached to what is now a murder investigation – do you really think I’m going to parade you around the scene and have you tell a lot of very experienced people where they’re going wrong?’

‘If it helps catch the killer – yes.’

‘No,’ Bannan snapped before softening, ‘but listen – maybe I can get copy of the crime scene photographs in a couple of days, when they’ve worked them up.’

‘But they would have taken polaroids already,’ Sean reminded him. ‘I could see them now.’

Bannan shook his head and smiled. ‘You don’t give up do you? Alright, I’ll get you the polaroids and you can tell me what you think.’

‘Okay,’ Sean reluctantly agreed, his eyes cast down.

Bannan rested a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t be too pissed-off, son – remember what I told you – it’s politics, can’t be helped.’ He gave Sean a pat and started to walk away, but Sean stopped him with a question.

‘How did he get in? Was it like I said it would be? Did he wait for someone to get sloppy and leave a door or a window open?’

Bannan slowed to a stop and turned to face him, his skin suddenly a little paler.

‘I was right.’ Sean felt nauseas at the revelation that his prediction had come true.

Bannan looked him up and down for a few seconds before speaking. ‘Alright. Alright, son. Meet me here tonight. Eleven p.m. My office and keep it quiet. This is between the two of us. Understand?’

‘Yes, guv’nor,’ Sean answered with a smile.

‘You won’t be smiling later,’ Bannan told him. ‘That much I am sure of.’

* * *

Weak yellow street light seeped through the windows of the basement flat as Sean and Bannan let themselves in through the front door, leaving the single uniformed constable outside to keep journalists and macabre sight-seers away. Sean sensed Bannan reaching for the light switch and stopped him. ‘Don’t turn them on,’ he told him. ‘Just give me a second.’

‘The lights were on when she was found,’ Bannan explained. ‘Don’t you want to see it how he saw it?’

‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘In a minute, but not yet.’

Bannan didn’t argue, staying by the front door as Sean stepped a little deeper into hell. ‘Careful, son,’ he warned. ‘Forensics haven’t completed their examination yet. They’ll be back in the morning.’ Sean nodded to himself in the dark and stepped to the side of the hallway, hugging the wall, breathing in deeply, smelling and tasting the scene, the telltale metallic scent of blood – something he was already too familiar with – as he squinted in the gloom, trying to focus on the hallway ahead, seeing small dark patches on the carpet just ahead, the copper taste in his mouth growing stronger as he crouched closer to the largest of the circular patches. ‘Blood,’ Bannan confirmed, reminding Sean that he wasn’t alone. ‘Looks like she was first attacked in the hallway, but probably not fatally. After the initial attack he appears to have dragged her into the living room, where he cut her throat and … well, you’ve seen the polaroids.’ Sean agreed with everything Bannan said, while shaking his head slowly at the horror of what he described.