Kill Me Again (8 page)

The shower felt good, and Tom stayed under the pounding torrent for a good five minutes longer than usual. He tipped his head forward, enjoying the pummelling of the pulsating jet on his head and shoulders, clearing his mind of everything but the pleasurable sensation of hot water hitting his body. He had just grabbed the soap and started to rub it up his arms
and across his chest when through the open door of his en-suite bathroom he heard the telephone ringing in his bedroom. For once he decided to ignore it. By the time he got there the answerphone would have picked up, so whoever was calling could leave a message. He would get back to them as soon as he was dry.

Tom had had a restless night, wondering where Leo could be. He had spoken to Max to let him know he had been to the apartment, but there was nothing he could say to put Max and Ellie’s minds at rest. He hadn’t known whether to mention the fact that Leo’s clothes were scattered around the bedroom, but he couldn’t see what would be gained. It would only add an extra layer of worry, and he didn’t have any rational explanation at the moment, so he kept it to himself. Nevertheless, he was cross with Leo. Sometimes he could kill her for her lack of consideration.

He had finally got out of bed at about 5.30, knowing he wasn’t going back to sleep, and made himself a proper breakfast for once - bacon, scrambled eggs, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms – and he had felt better for it. He was still going to be early for work, but he should miss the morning rush hour, and that would save him about twenty minutes of sitting in traffic.

He switched off the shower and shook the water from his body.

‘Bugger,’ he muttered as he heard the phone ring again. He grabbed a towel and dripped his way from the bathroom to his bedside table, leaving wet footprints in the pale cream carpet.

‘Tom Douglas.’

‘Tom, it’s Philippa.’

Tom perched on the edge of the bed, clutching his towel around him with one hand, his phone in the other, as he listened to Philippa explaining that Becky had been called out that morning to a suspicious death. Never one to mince her words, Philippa got straight to the point.

‘I’m sorry, Tom, but I’m afraid it’s Becky’s opinion that the body is that of Leonora Harris.’

Tom drew in a lung full of air as he heard Leo’s name. It couldn’t be true, surely? He closed his eyes and saw her face, her hair, her body. He heard her laugh, felt her arms reach towards him. Not Leo. Please, not Leo.

‘Tom?’

‘Sorry, Philippa. Is she
certain
?
’
Tom let go of the towel and held the phone in both hands, for a moment scared he would drop it.

‘She says this woman is missing. Is that right?’

‘Nobody’s heard from her in a while, but I think
missing’s
a bit strong.’ That was exactly what he had thought himself the night before, but now more than anything, he wanted to rationalise this – to convince himself she wasn’t missing at all. ‘Leo’s very independent – she could be anywhere. Why does Becky think it’s her?’

‘She says she’s seen photos.’

‘Well I don’t know where. I never had one in the office.’

‘Don’t be naïve, Tom. Becky’s a resourceful girl.’

Christ, not Leo
.
She couldn’t be dead
. Tom felt a rush of guilt, as if he should have kept her safe. Maybe if he hadn’t ended things all those months ago she wouldn’t have been vulnerable to something like this. He would have known where she was – would have been able to protect her. Maybe having nobody in her life had put her at risk.
No. It can’t be right. Surely Becky’s wrong
?

‘Was there any identification on the body?’ Tom could hear the unsteadiness in his own voice and coughed quietly.

‘None that they’ve found up to now. When I’ve seen the body we’ll get her moved and search through all her clothes, but as yet there’s nothing.’

‘I need to see her, Philippa, before you do anything. I don’t want to alert her sister until we’re sure it’s her, and I want to say goodbye.’

He should have known better. Philippa played by the book.

‘You know that’s not possible, Tom. You know we can’t risk your DNA getting onto her body. I’m in the car now on my way to the scene. My driver says we’re two minutes away, then we’ll get her shifted to the mortuary. A forensic pathologist is on his way so we’ll be as quick as we can with the PM. Then, if you still want to, you can make a preliminary identification. Are you okay?’

‘Fine,’ Tom said. ‘I’m fine.’ He hung up without saying anything more.

Placing the phone gently back on the bedside table, he rested his hands, arms straight, on the bed by his side, clutching the now-damp duvet cover tightly in clenched fists. He glanced over his shoulder at the pillows and for a moment saw Leo’s face there, smiling at him as he dressed in the morning or gazing at him as he undressed to join her in bed. He remembered the way her feet always poked out from under the covers because she couldn’t
stand to be too hot, and how she had wrapped her long limbs around him each morning. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to stretch his naked body along the length of hers and hold her, safe and secure.

She couldn’t be dead. There was too much
of
her, somehow, to have been wiped out – so many complex layers, some of which had ultimately resulted in the end of their relationship, but others so sweet and vulnerable that he had never lost the desire to keep her safe. And he had failed.

The fact that he no longer loved her didn’t for a second reduce the pain. If anything it intensified it because his sense of loss was merged with the ache of regret and with pangs of conscience for the hurt he had caused her.

He dropped his head and took several deep breaths. He was no good to anybody if he couldn’t get some control back. His whole body was prickling, and he realised that he was covered from head to toe in goosebumps – whether from the shock or the cold he had no idea. He pushed himself off the bed and pulled open a drawer. The best thing he could do for Leo now was ignore the ache inside and find out who had killed her. It was time to get dressed and face whatever the day was going to bring.

12

Concentration was out of the question, and Tom stared blindly at the pile of papers in front of him. There was no point even pretending to work – the numbers on the spreadsheet just blurred into one incomprehensible mass. He wanted to speak to Becky and Jumbo, but he knew he had to wait for them to come to him.

He had asked to be kept up to date and had been told that the body was being moved. They had collected what evidence they could, but would of course continue to search once the body had gone from the scene. He shuddered at the thought of Leo being referred to as ‘the body’ and hated even more the concept of her being bundled into a body bag. Most of the time bodies were treated with respect, but there was the odd guy who thought that as the person was dead, there was no need to consider their dignity. Tom didn’t agree. At the end of their lives, more than ever, people should be treated with consideration and thoughtfulness.

He wasn’t going to be allowed near Leo’s body in case he contaminated her with his own DNA – which would cause catastrophic complications for the case. Normally the PM was completed before identification for that very reason – any traces on the body from the smallest fragment of skin to a stray hair could convict a murderer. If people other than the investigating team came into contact with the body, it brought into question the validity of the findings. He wanted to see her though – he needed to be sure.

The wait seemed interminable, and there was nobody he could talk to. He hoped and prayed that Max wouldn’t call him for an update.

Over an hour later there was a knock on his door, which for once he had closed. Becky poked her head into the room.

‘Is it okay if I come in, Tom, or would you rather I left you on your own?’ Her voice was shaking.

‘No, no. Please, Becky, tell me what happened, or what you think happened, and why you’re sure it’s Leo. Come in. Sit down.’

Becky was biting her lip. Much as he wanted to fire questions at her, he needed to give her a moment. If she lost control, it would take him longer to get the facts.

‘I’m so sorry, Tom. But I couldn’t risk you turning up and seeing her like that.’

Her words made the weight in his chest feel even heavier.

‘How bad was it? I need to know.’ He stared at Becky and forced the words out. ‘Had she been raped?’

Becky spoke softly, her words echoing in Tom’s head as he visualised the scene that Becky described.

‘We don’t know. She was propped against the tunnel wall, fully clothed, but Jumbo is certain she wasn’t killed there. She was wearing boots with heels and there was no mud on them – no sign that she had walked through that tunnel at all. Until they remove her clothes they’re not going to know for sure if she was sexually assaulted. My guess is that it’s unlikely. If she had been stripped and dressed again when he’d finished, he did a good job of it. Too good, really. Everything was buttoned correctly. She looked too tidy, if you know what I mean.’

Tom knew exactly what she meant. He had seen several bodies that had been redressed after a sexual assault, and they all looked wrong somehow, as if their clothes belonged to somebody else. He felt himself shudder. The only thing he could do was focus as if this were just another body.

‘Did we manage to get a forensic pathologist quickly enough?’ For a murder, they couldn’t bring in any old pathologist. He or she had to be accredited by the Home Office, and sometimes that meant quite a wait, occasionally with the body remaining in situ.

‘Yes, it’s James Adams, and we know he’s good and incredibly thorough. He’ll work out what happened to her, Tom – and we’ll catch him, whoever did this to her.’

‘How do you think she died?’

Step by step, Becky ran through the morning’s events, going over each point as often as Tom wanted her to. Philippa had opted to go to the post-mortem, and one of Becky’s sergeants was setting up the incident room. Tom knew Becky could justify spending this much time with him because he knew Leo better than anybody, and he might well be the best person to provide a starting point for their investigation.

They were interrupted by the telephone, and Tom signalled Becky to answer it for him. He didn’t want to speak to anybody right now. She listened for a second and handed the phone to Tom, mouthing, ‘Philippa.’

‘Tom, there’s been a change of plan,’ she said. ‘Can you get over to the mortuary right now, do you think?’

‘Are you going to let me see her?’ A mixture of hope and dread hit him in equal measure.

‘I’ve spoken to the pathologist, and we’re confident that when he’s finished all the external examination and the body can no longer be compromised it would be safe for you to come and take a look.’ Philippa’s voice softened. ‘I don’t like the thought of you sitting there wondering and hoping, if I’m honest.’ Sometimes Philippa surprised Tom, but he wasn’t about to argue.

‘I’m on my way,’ he said, pushing back his chair. For the first time since his shower that morning Tom felt a sense of purpose.

With all her heart Becky was hoping that she was wrong about Leo. But there was a small, unwelcome part of her brain that almost wanted to be right simply because she didn’t want to discover she had put Tom through all this grief for nothing. That would be truly terrible. She quashed the thought the minute it sneaked into her consciousness.

She insisted on accompanying Tom to the mortuary. She couldn’t let him go alone. He had started to stalk off across the car park to his old BMW, but Becky grabbed his arm.

‘There’s no way you’re driving. Come on – I’ll take you.’

For a moment she thought he was going to refuse. She knew he hated the way she drove, but surely for once he could forget that? And he wanted to get there quickly, didn’t he?

They jumped into Becky’s black Golf. She slammed it into reverse to get out of her parking spot, then pulled out onto the busy main road. It wasn’t far to the mortuary, but the traffic in Manchester could be hell, and she wasn’t sure which would be the best route. She turned her head to ask Tom, but closed her mouth and looked back at the road. If ever there was a face that said ‘Please don’t talk to me’ it was Tom’s. The tension was causing deep creases between his nose and the outer corners of his mouth, and the fine lines around his eyes were accentuated. She could see that every muscle in his face was rigid, and she glanced at his thighs to see one leg tap, tapping. She had never seen Tom like this, and more than ever she wished she hadn’t been the first person on the scene.

They completed the journey in silence, and on arrival at the mortuary Tom was out of the car and walking at speed into the building almost before Becky had the key out of the ignition.

Philippa was waiting for them in reception and reached out a hand to clasp Tom’s arm. He nodded his thanks and followed her down a long corridor, Becky keeping a few metres behind.

When they reached the final door, Philippa stopped.

‘We’ve put her in the chapel, Tom. We haven’t opened her up yet, but there are some marks on her neck that tell their own tale. We would obviously cover these for family, but I thought you could cope. If it’s Leo, and you’re certain, we’ll crack on with the PM and send someone straight off to break the news to her sister and brother-in-law.’