Death Sentence (2 page)

‘I’ll make some calls today.’ He finally made a decision and prayed it was the right one.

Rebecca blinked, surprised.

‘Really?’ she asked, her wide aquamarine eyes peppered with that same haunting vulnerability Matthew had seen when they’d lost Lily, when she’d miscarried the baby she’d so desperately wanted.

‘As soon as I’ve attended this call-out, I promise.’ Was it possible she really did want this? That in some God-moves-in-mysterious-ways way that it might help fill the void in their lives? Matthew hoped so. Hoped that they were sufficiently prepared to deal with the baggage that would surely come with a teenager starved of natural parental affection.

‘Unless you get side-tracked, of course,’ she said, giving him a reproachful look.

As she had every right to, because he did get side-tracked, often. Not this time he wouldn’t. ‘I’ll make the calls,’ Matthew assured her, notching her chin up with his forefinger and locking his gaze firmly on hers.

Raising her eyebrows, Rebecca smiled amusedly. ‘Ooh, masterful,’ she teased.

‘I’ll ring you as soon as I know anything.’ Matthew circled her waist, drawing her closer. ‘And if it’s masterful you want, I think I can manage that too.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Rebecca held his gaze. ‘Does this mean I’m on a promise, Detective Inspector?’

‘Definitely.’ Matthew’s mouth curved into a smile. If there was anything to thank God for, he supposed it was that, after months of living in their own private hell, lying side by side yet poles apart in the bedroom—mainly because of the ghosts that relentlessly came to haunt him, the guilt—they’d at last found each other again.

‘You need to go.’ Rebecca stood on tiptoes, her infinitely kissable, pillow-soft lips brushing his, leaving Matthew wondering if he couldn’t delay another five minutes, ten possibly? Closing his eyes, he leaned in to her kiss and … … cursed as his phone beeped again in his pocket.

‘Damn.’

‘Sorry, I, er …’ Shrugging apologetically, he reached for it.

‘Duty calls, I know.’ Rebecca sighed pseudo-despairingly and rolled her eyes. ‘Go,’ she urged him, ‘before I’m tempted to drag you upstairs and handcuff you to the headboard.’

‘Now there’s a thought.’ Giving her a mischievous wink, Matthew planted a kiss on her forehead.

‘You will remember to ring me, though, won’t you?’ Rebecca asked, reaching to straighten his askew tie.

‘Scout’s honour,’ Matthew assured her as he checked his message. ‘If we’re both still good with it, we could make an appointment to see her at the care home. How does that sound?’

‘Like I might definitely be making good my promise with the handcuffs,’ Rebecca assured him, messing up his tie again, as she tugged him towards her to press a rather firmer kiss on his lips.

‘You’re a manipulator, Mrs Adams.’ Matthew gave her a mock scowl, wishing to God he had been able to be there for her, been able to give all of himself. Matthew wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive himself for that. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, the psychiatrist had labelled it. Selfish is what Matthew called it.

‘I know.’ Rebecca trailed a finger down his lapel. ‘And don’t you just love it, Detective Inspector?’

‘Depends on what you have in mind.’ Matthew smiled, glancing again at his beeping phone. His heart sank fast as he read the message from his DS, who’d now arrived at a possible murder crime scene. A young female, apparently. Possibly a known informant. Matthew’s gut clenched in cold apprehension.

‘Later,’ he said, making sure to keep his smile in place as he turned to head through the open lounge to the front door.

‘Have a good day; keep safe.’ Rebecca followed him. ‘Have you got your inhaler?’ she asked, checking up on him, as she always did. Matthew hated the thing, but he tried not to mind. A radiographer by profession and a worrier by nature, she was bound to remind him, he supposed.

‘Yes, I’ve got my inhaler.’ He pulled open the front door and patted his jacket pocket, indicating it was where it should be. ‘See you later.’

‘I’ll be here. Love … —’ …
you
, Rebecca finished, as the door closed behind him.

Rebecca felt it immediately. It was almost palpable, the deafening silence of a house without children. A beautiful house, three-quarters of a mile from the village school, a couple of miles from High Wycombe and access to the motorway, tastefully decorated with rescued pieces and white walls, it was perfect; and empty.

Her bare feet sounded loud on the natural wood floor as she padded across the lounge, debating what she should do before she went to work. She had too much time on her hands. That was the trouble. Time she didn’t particularly want to fill with housework. Perhaps she should consider going full time at the hospital? They could certainly use her with one radiographer off on maternity leave. But then, she’d need to be part-time to make space in her life now for Ashley.

Swallowing, Rebecca hugged her arms about herself and walked across to her laptop. Selecting her photo album, she found the up-to-date photo they’d requested the care home to send them. Please,
please
let it work out, she prayed, looking back at the young girl looking yearningly out at her. She wasn’t Lily. Nothing could ever replace their little girl in their hearts. Sometimes, when she was alone, Rebecca was sure she could hear her laughing. Or worse, crying. Heartbreakingly, sometimes she could hear her singing and gyrating along to some X Factor girl band pop song. Matthew had suggested they move, but Rebecca wasn’t ready to, not yet. She wanted to be reminded, to hold the memories. She also wanted to hold onto the feel of her— something she wasn’t quite sure Matthew would understand—the smell of Lily, that special smell that bonds mother and child together, and which seemed to permeate every pore of the house,.

Ashley had never had that bond as far as Rebecca knew. She was alone, on her own in a world she was ill-equipped to ever function in. She was also family. With her ebony hair, brushed to a silken sheen, and almond-shaped eyes the colour of rich cognac, she could almost be Matthew’s child. She was beautiful. Fragile, yet from the set of her jaw, strong, Rebecca sensed. Heaviness settled in her chest, and she found herself physically hurting for the girl, who must feel so alone. Poor thing, thirteen years old and already she’d been abandoned, abused and neglected, starved of affection, how heart-breaking was that?

More so for Matthew, who’d tried so hard to help his sister, searching for her in places that most people wouldn’t feel safe. He’d persuaded her home twice, securing places for her in rehab. Twice she’d left again, her craving for alcohol stronger than her craving to see her daughter grow.

Still, he searched for her, trailing from London to Birmingham after her, though he, above most people, knew in his heart she could only be helped if she wanted to help herself. He was a good man, a man hurting. Rebecca wished he’d share that hurt more with her instead of channelling it into his work. She swallowed back another tight lump in her throat. Then almost shot out of her skin as Matthew, who’d obviously realised there was something he’d forgotten before driving off, shouted, ‘Ditto, always,’ through the letterbox.

****

Matthew pulled in a terse breath, as he climbed out of his car. ‘Is it Brianna?’ he asked his detective sergeant, who walked towards him from the short alley that led from the back of the Thai Restaurant.

‘No official ID yet, but … ,’ DS Steve Ingram hesitated. ‘It looks like it, yes.’

‘
Fuck!
’ Matthew grated, knowing what
no official ID
meant.

‘Right.’ He blew out a sigh and steeled himself to walk back with Steve to see for himself.

Brianna Phillips?
Matthew couldn’t believe it. He’d only spoken to her yesterday. Scared witless, refusing to say why, she’d come to him and asked him outright if he could offer her protection in exchange for certain information. Videos, she’d hinted, directed by Patrick scum-of-the-earth Sullivan, Matthew was willing to bet. He’d been out of prison, what, six months? And he was as free as a bird to do what he liked, to whoever he liked, pedalling his crap, coercing underage kids to star in those videos. For what he’d done to Lily, the bastard should have been banged up forever. Or, better still, met an excruciatingly painful demise while he was in there.

Parasitic scum.
Matthew’s jaw tensed, his lungs tightened, as he tried, and failed, to still the images that played over and over, his child, her eyes silently pleading, the light in them finally fading, his world disintegrating. Before then, the goading look on Sullivan’s face when he’d paid him an official visit in prison. Sullivan’s brother under investigation, running the show while he was locked up, Sullivan hadn’t liked it.

‘How’s that pretty young wife of yours, DI Adams? Pregnant again, isn’t she?’ he’d enquired idly, blowing smoke circles into the air like he hadn’t a care in the world. ‘Congratulations, Adams. Didn’t think you had it in you.’

Matthew swallowed back the bile in his throat, picturing how Sullivan had casually stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forwards.

‘Give her my regards, won’t you?’ he’d said, his eyes as black as molasses and swimming with pure evil. ‘I would do it myself, but I’m a bit busy … banged up … in here.’

It
had
been a threat. Matthew had been sure of it. A threat the murdering psychopath had eventually attempted to have carried out. And Matthew had been able to do nothing about it. The bastard was out now though, wasn’t he, no bars to provide him an alibi.
Not for long, Sullivan. Not for long.
If it was the last thing he did, Matthew aimed to make sure Sullivan was taken off the streets, by whatever means.

Dammit.
He should have done something more when Brianna had come to him. There was no way he’d been able to make promises, offer her a safe house, but he should have done something, found her some kind of accommodation, stayed on it, before it came to this. Matthew swallowed again, hard.

‘Visual ID not possible then?’ he asked, tugging his collar loose.

‘Afraid not.’ Steve shot him a wary glance. He didn’t offer details. He didn’t need to. He knew Matthew would be filling in the blanks. Matthew was, graphically. Closing his eyes, he counted silently. At five, he managed to get a tenuous grip on his emotions.

‘Timing?’ he asked, feeling the abject sense of failure he always did when one of these girls turned up drugged and beaten, raped, or worse.

‘Not sure yet. Last night at a guess,’ Steve offered. ‘The body wasn’t discovered until they opened up shop and, er …’ he stopped and gauged Matthew cautiously again.

‘Put the trash out?’ Matthew finished sardonically.

Steve puffed out a breath and nodded slowly. ‘Pathologist and scene of crime officers are present,’ he went on, professionally following protocol, outwardly calm. Not detached though. Matthew eyed his colleague—a rugby-playing brute of a bloke— and noted the faint odour of vomit sympathetically. New to the squad, Steve was what, twenty-eight? Keen.
Corruptible?
Matthew wondered. The man was about to get married. He’d met his fiancée, a stunning girl, and judging by the love-struck look on Steve’s face when he’d introduced her, she was enough to keep him content at night even fantasising about her. Matthew guessed Steve wouldn’t be looking elsewhere. It was an iron-willed man or woman who didn’t succumb in some way to the seedy world of sex and drugs, though, sometimes getting sucked in, sometimes getting psychologically screwed. Detachment was a requisite part of the job if you wanted to sleep nights. Matthew only wished he could attain it.

Sighing, he braced himself as he headed around to the back of the restaurant. It was her. Matthew noted the bleeding heart tattoo on the girl’s upper arm immediately. Gulping back the sour taste in his mouth, he took in the lifeless, broken body of the teenager in a succession of sordid, stomach-churning snapshots. Face down, her head twisted to one side, she was almost unrecognisable. Her eyes swollen like two overripe plums. Her nose and lips split. Right arm, fractured, judging by the impossible angle. One shoe missing. Clothes … in brutal disarray. Matthew glanced away.

Nodding a greeting at one of the SOCOs taking requisite photos of the surrounding area, he noticed a fat bluebottle buzzing over the nondescript grey bin the girl was sprawled in front of. His stomach turning over and a distinct wheeze in his chest, Matthew tried hard not to breathe in the pungent stench of rotting oriental food and dead flesh.

‘I take it this is our crime scene?’ He turned back to the pathologist, who was busy making an external examination of the body.

‘Judging by lividity,’ the pathologist indicated the dark purple discoloration on the underside of the girl’s torso, ‘I’d say, yes.’

Matthew nodded. ‘Do we have a time?’ he asked, nurturing a faint hope that there might have been witnesses.

‘From the body temperature and degree of rigor mortis, I’d say post mortem interval is about eight hours.’

‘Cause of death?’ He glanced at the deceased girl’s eyes, now grey, opaque and empty, trying to remember what colour they were.

‘Asphyxiation, ligature.’

After suffering what kind of humiliation and terror, Matthew wondered, nausea sweeping over him.

‘Can we rush this one through, Nicky?’ He shrugged hopefully, knowing she was probably backed up.

The woman studied him for a second, and then, ‘I’ll do my best,’ she offered. Obviously, she’d picked up on the hint of desperation Matthew had heard in his own voice.

Matthew nodded his thanks, outwardly trying for composed, inwardly, broiling with hot, impotent anger.

‘Anything under the fingernails?’ he asked, praying there might be something they could go on.

‘Looks like they’re clean,’ she said, going back to her painstaking evidence collecting. ‘Very clean.’ She glanced meaningfully at him again. ‘The autopsy might yield something, but I wouldn’t count on it.’

‘No, nor would I.’ Matthew smiled bitterly, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. God really would have to be in his heaven, wouldn’t he, he thought cynically, for there to be enough DNA present to give him the bastard on a plate. Clearly, the assailant had cleaned up after himself. Clearly also, he’d known he wouldn’t be interrupted, meaning his minions had been on lookout or, possibly, doing his cleaning for him.