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Authors: Fiona McIntosh

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BOOK: Beautiful Death
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He dialled Lily’s mobile. Got her answering service . . . again.

‘It’s me,’ he said, trying to keep the peevishness out of his tone. ‘I’ve called a few times. Going out for a run but I’ll have my phone with me. Call me.’

He frowned. That was odd. Lily didn’t usually turn her phone off for such a long time. She had said there would be a lot of deliveries at the hospital today and tomorrow but surely she wasn’t still delivering at — he glanced at his watch — nearly seven. Or perhaps she was. He didn’t know much about the floristry business. But what nagged at him was that Lily usually checked her messages regularly and always got back to him quickly.

He sighed, pulled on his runners, grabbed his keys, thought about taking his iPod but instead pocketed his mobile so he could take Lily’s call if she rang, pulled on his hoodie and left Croom’s Hill, turning right to enter the elegant wrought-iron gates that heralded the entrance to the nearly 200 acres of one of London’s oldest enclosed parks.

By the time he had passed the Knot Garden, Jack had found his breathing rhythm, and his mind turned towards the case notes he’d begun reading, and would finish tonight. His irritation at Lily’s silence was soon forgotten.

At a quarter to three the next morning a van stole quietly into the car park of Sainsbury’s on Cambridge Heath Road, a stone’s throw from the Royal London Hospital. The engine was cut. Two men emerged from the vehicle wearing beanies, gloves and scarves wrapped halfway up their faces. They were not unusually dressed for the time of year — or night — although their furtive glances and stealthy movements
as they left the van behind them picked them out as being up to no good. Their luck held, however; at this hour no one looked twice at anyone else. Cars and shoppers were on the move into and out of the supermarket and its car park for a spot of late night/early morning shopping. The men melted away from the supermarket surrounds into the alleyway that led onto Commercial Road and turned right at the HSBC Bank. From there they wended their unhurried way towards Brick Lane. Minutes later, in Brick Lane’s Beizel Bakery, also open twenty-four hours, they were served by a weary counter girl, who could not know that the still warm, salted bagels she bagged up and took the money for were for two men who had just dumped a faceless corpse . . . not that they knew it either.

She batted uselessly at the fine dusting of baker’s flour that had settled around her shoulders before she tiredly counted out the change from the ten pound note to what looked like a pair of taxi drivers.

The men walked out of the shop, already cramming the delicious bread into their mouths and joshing each other about an easy night’s work delivering a van to a hospital. The men melted away into Tower Hamlets, stomping ground to many a famous crim, including Jack the Ripper and the Kray Brothers.

By the time she was found Lily was in full rigor mortis, her limbs stiffened, fingers like claws, her ruined face no longer beautiful . . . in fact no longer there.

5.

The middle-aged receptionist’s feet were lifted off the floor in the bear hug she received from DCI Hawksworth as he entered the top-floor corridor near the library.

‘I was hoping Superintendent Sharpe would secure you for us, Joan,’ Jack murmured for her hearing alone. ‘Thank you.’

‘I know how you need lots of mothering, Jack,’ she said, smiling warmly at him. ‘I also revel in the clamour of television and radio crews desperate to get interviews with you,’ she added archly over her half spectacles. He grinned.

Jack knew he was one of her favourites and to have the Joan Field stamp of approval meant he was definitely in the good books with the power players of New Scotland Yard. ‘Everything sorted?’

‘Just about. Helen’s been a saint. Malcolm gave her all of yesterday off and you know how she can get anyone to do anything for her.’ Jack nodded. Joan was one of the few people in the Met who called
everyone, no matter how senior, by their first name and got away with it. ‘So I think we have all we need to get going — anything else that needs to be done I’ll iron out today.’

He blew her a kiss. ‘Kettle on?’

‘Better!’ she called after him. ‘I secured an urn and a proper coffee-maker for you.’

‘Brilliant!’ Jack murmured as he arrived at the main operation room. It was still deserted but wouldn’t be for long. Kate, he imagined, would arrive first and then everyone would be in by eight. The clock on the wall told him that was in thirty-three minutes. He checked his mobile. No message from Lily. He pulled off his coat and scarf and threw down the files he’d pored over till just before midnight, and dialled her number. He hit her voicemail yet again.

Now he was worried.
Dare he risk it? Yes
. He scanned through the numbers in his phone until he found the name of her store and hit the call button. No one answered. Now that was strange. Lily and her mother worked from the early hours to buy and prepare their flowers for the day’s trading. Perhaps Lily’s silence meant there was something going down in the family — there was no other reason the shop would be closed. Had they found out about him?

He skipped through the numbers again till he found the one he was looking for and had never rung previously. He rang it now, holding his breath.

‘Hello?’ a small voice answered.

‘Alys?’

‘Yes.’ The girl sounded shaken. ‘Who’s this?’

‘It’s er, it’s Jack. Jack Hawksworth.’

‘Lily’s policeman?’

He was pretty sure Lily had admitted to her young sister that she was seeing Jack and the girl had
been sworn to secrecy. ‘Yes. What’s wrong?’ Her voice sounded strained.

Alys began to cry.

‘Alys? . . . Alys! What’s happened?’

‘Lily’s missing,’ she stammered.

‘What?’
Missing
? That word was so wrong.

‘We haven’t seen her since yesterday. My parents are with the police now. I’ve been sent to my room.’

‘Police?’ The irony was missed on Jack as he struggled to grasp that Lily’s family hadn’t heard from her either. He cleared his throat to help clear his mind. ‘Listen, Alys, where was she last seen?’

‘She had a full afternoon of deliveries, I think. I don’t really know the whole story because I’ve just come back from an overnight camp,’ she explained tearily.

‘I see.’ What a stupid thing to say. He didn’t see. He didn’t see anything because it wasn’t making sense.

She sniffed. ‘I thought she might have been with you to tell the truth,’ Alys added, a slight edge of conspiracy in her tone — but also hope.

‘No, I . . . I . . .’ Jack could feel the situation spinning out of control. His mind was already racing to how the police would find out about him, how it was going to look when they needed to ask questions about his relationship with Lily when he was spearheading the most prominent and ghoulish case in the country. ‘Alys, you mustn’t say anything about me,’ he blurted. ‘For Lily’s sake,’ he added, feeling treacherous.

‘I haven’t. I promised Lily I wouldn’t.’ She was resolute.

‘Good. Keep that promise. It’s only going to look bad. I’ll ring the police and explain, but we don’t want your parents getting any more upset.’

‘They’ll die if they find out, or if Jimmy finds out . . . our family’s name will be blackened.’

Jack couldn’t give a flying fig about Jimmy-bloody-Chan. ‘Then just say nothing. No one has to know about me. Lily and I are just good friends anyway,’ he said, despising the cliché as it escaped his lips. ‘We always knew it couldn’t turn into anything beyond friendship.’ At least that was honest. ‘Now, dry your eyes and try and stay calm. I’m going to do everything I can to find Lily, I promise you, Alys. In fact by tonight I’m sure we’ll all know where she’s been.’ Making a promise like this was suicidal — he knew better than this!

Joan signalled to him that something urgent was happening.

He rolled his eyes. How much worse could today get . . . and it wasn’t yet eight. ‘I’ve got to go, Alys, okay?’

‘Okay,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Will you call again?’

‘Promise. Now be strong. I’ll talk to you later.’

He heard her sniff before she hung up. He turned back to Joan distracted, and made himself focus. ‘What’s up?’

She looked grave but very little could unnerve Joan. ‘Another body I’m afraid, Jack, and the day’s hardly begun. I’ve got Malcolm on the line. He was rung first,’ she said, throwing up her hands. ‘Apparently they weren’t told that Panther is formally in operation. And be warned, the line’s really bad too.’

Jack pointed to his desk. ‘All right, I’ll take it here,’ he said, and waited for Joan to put the call through, his mind still churning with the thoughts of Lily.

The phone rang. ‘Sir?’

‘We’ve got another body, Jack, although I’m sure that won’t surprise you.’

Jack couldn’t hear Sharpe well. There was lots of noise in the background, including the unmistakeable gibberish of a British Rail announcement. ‘No, sir. What do we know?’ He tried not to shout.

‘All sketchy at the moment. Panther was only mentioned a couple of days ago on the intranet so a crime scene manager — what’s his name again? . . . Hang on . . . Ah, here it is, it’s Stu Appleton, has been appointed through North-East HAT.’ Jack scribbled the name down, straining to hear. ‘He called me a few minutes ago because he wasn’t sure if this related to Panther or not. I’ve told him you’ll call. He caught me on the tube between Southgate and Arnos Grove and the reception was poor before I lost the signal altogether when we hit underground, so I could barely hear much. You’ll have to find out more. I’ll be in meetings most of the day away from Empress, once I bloody get there. Anyway, get down to the morgue. It’s a woman, we know that much, her body discovered in the Sainsbury’s car park at Cambridge Heath Road, Tower Hamlets. SOCO is already crawling all over the area. Here’s another number.’

‘Say it again, sir, I lost the last two numbers.’

‘Bloody British Rail.’ He dictated it again. ‘Hotel Tango’s in charge, of course, but that second number’s for Bethnal Green Police Station if you need it. Their people found her. Appleton will fill you in but I suggest you get over to the RLH morgue immediately and ensure we’re dealing with the same killer. Take it from there.’

‘Will do, sir. I’ll call you back.’

‘I should be back at Earls Court after lunch.’

The line went dead. Jack’s head pounded and as he looked up Kate was standing in the doorway.

She had a sympathetic expression on her face. ‘Déjà vu?’

He shook his head. ‘Much worse. Don’t even take your coat off. We’re going over to the morgue at the Royal London Hospital.’

‘Okay,’ she said evenly, clearly sensing his mood, looking at Joan who’d arrived at her side.

Jack did too. ‘Joan, you’ll need to just settle everyone down. I’m taking Kate with me to Whitechapel but give Cam Brodie this number will you? Ask him to call Bethnal Green and get us everything they’ve pieced together about the latest victim. I’ll contact the crime scene chief from the homicide team. Tell Cam he’ll need to send down a couple of our people to the scene when he knows the details. HAT and forensics are all over it. Tell everyone I’m sorry but we have another body. I’ll be back I hope by around ten and we’ll have our briefing then. You’d better order in some stuff. You know what to do. Oh, and one more thing, Joan . . .’ He consulted his mobile again, showed her the screen. ‘Can someone contact this translator, please? Kate hears on the grapevine that he’s the goods.’

‘Leave it with me,’ she said. ‘You two get going. Has he even said hello, dear?’ she said to Kate.

‘No, but I’m used to that,’ Kate replied, eyeing Jack. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine. Hello Kate,’ Jack said, nodding, taking in how good she looked. ‘You’ve grown your hair.’

She touched her darkly golden, layered hair self-consciously. ‘Yeah, well, it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other.’

‘Suits you,’ he replied. ‘We’ll take a cab. It will be faster, I imagine.’

‘Nothing’s fast at this time of the morning,’ Kate groaned, as they headed to the lifts.

It wasn’t her first body, but she hadn’t been to the RLH morgue before and she hadn’t attended a postmortem for so many years that she’d forgotten how daunting it could be. She felt suddenly nervous in the taxi they had managed to hail relatively easily outside the Met. And when Kate was nervous she talked.

‘Have you been to RLH morgue before?’

Jack was sitting in the seat opposite, travelling backwards. She hated going backwards; she also hated that he’d chosen not to sit next to her.

‘Yes, a few times. Are you a virgin?’ Now he sounded a bit more like himself.

She nodded. ‘Well, not really . . . I’ve done a couple, but be gentle all the same.’

‘You’ll be okay. Deep breaths, and look over the head of the pathologist. And if it’s Rob Kent, definitely don’t show him you’re squeamish or admit to being a first-timer at RLH. He loves to make police officers suffer.’

‘Right,’ she said, feeling more unnerved, then frowned at him. Through the glass partition the cabbie cursed at another driver’s stupidity. ‘Jack, you seem distracted. I thought you’d be all pumped and rearing to go on day one of a major new case.’

‘I was. But I’ve just received some news.’ He shrugged.

‘News?’

‘It’s personal. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.’

She looked doubtful. ‘Well, I’m here if you need
to talk. We’re near enough strangers these days so it will feel like therapy and my rates are cheap.’

He smiled sincerely at her and that simple action fired the familiar spark of desire. She looked at the traffic.

‘Tell me about the case,’ she said, steering away from further intimacy. ‘I’m assuming it’s this one about the three corpses that have been found with similar wounds.’

‘Correct.’

‘And that we’re on our way to view a fourth victim,’ she stated.

‘And that’s why you’re one helluva talented police officer, Kate Carter,’ he said.

She scowled at his sardonic tone. ‘Well, it didn’t take much to work that out. I should admit Brodie rang last night and we worked it out together.’

‘I’d be disappointed if you hadn’t,’ Jack said. ‘I’ll keep it short.’ He checked that the cabbie’s glass was completely pulled across and they could not be overheard. Nevertheless he spoke quietly, leaning forward, none of which Kate minded. She, too, leant in to get close.

‘Three bodies, presumably now four, have been found dumped with such alarmingly similar injuries that we believe we’re dealing with the same killer. MO is nearly identical in the first three — give or take a kidney — and I doubt we’ll find much difference with this next one. He . . .’ he paused, recalling their previous case together, ‘or she, is removing their faces.’

‘Their what?’ Kate gasped, snapping to full attention. ‘Faces?’ she repeated, a look of horror spreading across her features.

He nodded. ‘The file notes suggest this is a person who’s pretty adept with the scalpel. The work is neat,
precise. And pathology reckons it can place the first three in order of death by the professionalism with which the cutting was done.’

‘It keeps getting better, you mean?’

‘That’s exactly what I mean.’

‘Who are the victims?’

‘So far two of Asian origin, probably in their earlyish thirties, and a European man in his forties — his was the first body found and we think he may have been a gypsy . . . and now this woman that we’re on the way to learn more about. So far we are guessing that the bodies are those of illegal immigrants. There are no dental records, no fingerprint records, no one seems to have missed them, there are no references to their build, age, etc, on the missing persons list. Until someone comes forward to report someone fitting the descriptions missing, we’re working on the assumption of illegals. Not having faces makes it very tricky, of course.’

She wasn’t sure if Jack was being black-humoured with his final comment, but as she sat back and studied him, there was no amusement at all in his expression.

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘A new perversion we’ve stumbled across. I don’t know. But none of the victims were sexually assaulted. Bruising is minor and consistent with legs or wrists being tied, but there are no other wounds.’

‘Just the face he’s after, then?’

‘Sorry, not exactly, one lost his kidneys as well.’

Now Kate looked disgusted. ‘Sick,’ she said, glancing out at the streets of Whitechapel, teeming with people from the Asian community. She knew
the area quite well. ‘This place is a real Little Bangladesh, don’t you think?’

He nodded. ‘Where are you living now?’

‘Not too far from here, actually. Stoke Newington. Dunsmure Road. I bought a tiny townhouse and I’m very happy there. A quick stroll to Bethnal Green tube — all very easy.’ She looked back at him. ‘I heard you’ve defected,’ she added.

Jack was getting used to this. ‘Yes, I’m a southern boy now,’ he said, adding a Texan-style drawl to his words.

‘I love Greenwich,’ she said wistfully. ‘Do you use the park?’

‘As often as I can. You’ll have to come over — I’ll take you to all the famous sights.’ And when she gave a groan, reminiscent of Malcolm Sharpe, Jack chuckled. ‘The BBC loves Greenwich for its period features,’ he told her. ‘You’re missing out in the north.’

BOOK: Beautiful Death
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