Murder Club (26 page)

The woman collapsed to the floor and Danny Vine went sprawling across the bonnet of a stationary Volvo estate and smashed onto the pavement. Luckily he wasn’t cycling anywhere near full pelt. He stood up painfully and the woman was already on her feet, and shouting in his face. She was tall, and was dressed in what looked like a real fur coat.

‘I’m sorry, are you hurt?’ he asked.

‘Never mind me – that man’s stolen my bag. Get him.’ She spoke with a slight Scandinavian accent and was clearly used to getting her own way. She pointed to a man who was trying to make his escape down the street, his progress impeded by the multitude of Christmas shoppers.

‘Okay, I am a policeman,’ Danny said.

‘Go and arrest him then!’ said the woman, encouraging Vine on his way with a small shove as he mounted his bicycle.

Danny gradually picked up speed as he rode down the middle of the road, the traffic crawling in both directions on either side of him.

‘Stop, police!’ he called out.

The man, in his twenties dressed in a grey hoodie, filthy denim jeans and distinctive yellow running shoes, looked back over his shoulder and crashed into a group of middle-aged women, knocking one of them to the pavement.

PC Vine stood up on his pedals and pumped his legs.

The man ahead of him threw another backward glance at his pursuer and darted through the traffic across the road, turning right into Kendal Street. Danny jumped off his bike and followed him, threading his way through the cars which were picking up a bit of speed now that the bottle-jam at the Marble Arch end of the road had cleared.

As he turned the corner, Danny jumped back on his bike as the man turned left into Portsea Place, then left into a cul-de-sac.

As Danny swept into the cul-de-sac himself, the man was some thirty yards ahead, looking at the wall at the end of the street and wondering if he could make the climb. Suddenly he turned, and came charging back at Danny. Danny pedalled straight at him but, at that moment, a cat ran out and he swerved to avoid it, clipping the man as he went and knocking himself off balance to land in a pile of black bin bags. Danny took a moment or two to disentangle himself and cursed as he saw the man dashing out of the street. But he grinned when he noticed that the thief had dropped the bag he had stolen from the Scandinavian woman.

His grin disappeared, however, when Danny attempted to stand up and spotted the pale white arm
he
had uncovered. He moved the rubbish bags aside to reveal the young woman’s body that the arm belonged to. Her skin was white with cold, the veins showing through its pearly translucence, the colour drained from her perfectly formed lips. Her eyes frosted, cold and immobile. The lashes brittle and her long blonde hair fanned out around the black bag beneath her, as though she were floating on some dark lake.

Danny Vine took a deep breath or two, checked for a pulse, even though he knew it was futile, then pulled out his mobile phone.

DR KATE WALKER
was back in her police surgeon’s office at White City.

She tapped a pencil nervously on the desk as she sorted through the reports. Tap. Tap. Tap. Realising what she was doing, she put the pencil down, then snatched it up again and twirled it in her fingers. After a moment or two, she sighed and threw it to the back of her desk. Then she picked up a DVD and slid it into the player on the side of her laptop.

After a moment or two, the disc started playing. It was CCTV footage of the night when Bible Steve was brought into police reception, locked in a holding cell, to be later charged and released.

She fast-forwarded the footage to when he was first brought in, paused it and zoomed in on the man’s face. His long hair obscured his forehead. She made a note on a pad by the laptop, confirming the time and noting there was no visible bruising to the man’s head.

She zipped forward to footage of the custody cell and let the tape play, pushing the volume slider to maximum.

Bob Wilkinson opened the door and held it wide for Laura Chilvers to enter. ‘All right, calm it down, Bible,’ he said. ‘You’re not in Kansas now
.’

Bible Steve stood up from the bench bed and, casting his eyes heavenwards and spreading his arms wide, shouted, ‘It is God who arms me with strength and makes my way perfect. He makes my feet like the feet of a deer; he enables me to stand on the heights. He trains my hands for battle; my arms can bend a bow of bronze. You give me your shield of victory, and your right hand sustains me; you stoop down to make me great. You broaden the path beneath me, so that my ankles do not turn
.’

Lowering his arms he looked at the doctor, then squinted his eyes and pointed at her. ‘I know this harlot!
’

‘
No you don’t, Bible. She just moved down here
.’

‘
She is a Jezebel! Satan’s spawn.’ He continued to point, saliva running into his beard
.

‘
She’s a police surgeon from Reading,’ said PC Bob Wilkinson
.

‘
I think you must be mistaking me for someone else,’ said Laura Chilvers and smiled at him
.

The drunken man clasped his hands over his ears. ‘That voice,’ he said, almost reverentially. ‘Are you my angel?
’

‘
No, like the constable said. ‘I’m just a police surgeon
.’

He opened his raw eyes and looked at her, tears welling up now. ‘Are you my guardian angel?
’

‘
I’m nobody’s angel!’ she said. ‘He’s still drunk, Sergeant. Get him some tea and I’ll check back later
.’

‘
What about
…’
the sergeant started to ask her, but Laura was already
…

Kate paused the tape at that point and picked up the pencil again, tapping it on the desk top. She took a sip of her tea. Kate had a gut feeling that the supposed remedy the ancient herbs claimed to supply would do nothing to help. She moved the tape on to later that same evening when Bible Steve was brought from his cell.

‘
I’m out of here, Sergeant.
’

‘
Just take a minute. The cells are full back there.
’

‘
Are you going to charge him?
’

‘
You bet! I want him charged and out of here as soon as.
’

Laura’s nostrils quivered. ‘I can see why.
’

Bible Steve looked up at her. ‘I am here, you know!
’

‘
No doubting of that, Mr Bible.
’

‘
What are you going to charge me with?
’

‘
Putting people off their sweet-and-sour pork balls,’ said Dave Matthews and Laura laughed
.

Kate forwarded the tape again.

Laura gestured for the constable to bring him to her office. As they walked towards it, Bible Steve turned and looked at her
.

‘
I know you,’ he said
.

‘
No, you don’t
.’

Bible Steve looked across at the constable. ‘She interfered with me, the last time I was here
.’

‘
She wasn’t even here the last time you were brought in, Steve.
’

‘
Interfered, I tell you!
’

Kate stopped the tape once more and fast-forwarded to the CCTV footage from Laura’s office. Glad that all areas had to be covered now.

Laura shook her head and took her hands out of his. ‘No. Like I said. I met you earlier, on the street, and when you were in the cell. You were drunk. You still are
.’

‘
No. I know you! You are my angel. My guardian Angela!
’

He reached out for her and Laura stepped back, her eyes wide with horror
.

Kate rewound the tape and played it again, focusing on Laura’s expression. She paused it again and then wrote on her pad:
She knows him. What’s their relationship?

There was a knock on the door and Diane Campbell stuck her head round.

‘How’s it going, Kate?’

‘Just doing the report on Bible Steve.’

‘Are we in the clear?’

Kate hesitated before answering, then gave her a quick smile. ‘I think so. There doesn’t seem to be any bruising to his head while he was in custody. It looks like all the damage was done after he was released.’

‘We’ve just had a call in. The body of a woman matching the description Bible Steve gave us has been found.’

‘She’s dead?’

‘A couple of days, according to Derek Bowman.’

‘Who is she?’

‘We don’t know yet.’

‘Cause of death?’

‘She was beaten. We know that much. Will learn more when he has done the post, I guess.’

‘What kind of beating?’

‘A long thin object.’

‘Like Bible Steve?’

‘Could be. Bowlalong wasn’t specific. I’m heading to the morgue now. Want to tag along?’

Kate looked at the frozen image of Laura Chilvers and closed the laptop. ‘Yeah,’ she said, standing up and putting on her coat. ‘Maybe whoever beat Bible Steve also battered this woman to death. Maybe Bible saw it. That’s what he remembers.’

‘He said he did it himself, though. Blood on his hands.’

‘Maybe it was the woman who hit him. Defending herself against him, maybe?’

‘Maybe.’ Diane Campbell opened the door and they walked through reception towards the front doors, waving at Dave Matthews who was behind the desk talking to a couple of uniforms. ‘What’s the update on Bible?’ she asked.

‘They’re operating on him shortly. He has bleeding varices, torn blood vessels in his stomach. It’s why he was throwing up so much blood earlier.’

‘These torn varices. Were they the result of the beating he was given?’ asked Diane as they walked into the car park.

‘More likely a result of his alcoholism.’

‘Is he going to be all right?’

‘I don’t know, the poor guy is in a pretty terrible state.’

‘This
poor guy
might just have beaten a twenty-three-year-old girl to death, let’s not forget that.’

‘I think he’s mixing things up in his head. I’m pretty sure there is something going on we don’t know about.’

‘That’s for damn sure,’ Diane agreed. ‘We’ll take my car.’

PATRICIA HUNT STOOD
by the window overlooking the car park of the South Hampstead Hospital. It was full. Some of the cars had a couple of inches of snow on their roofs and some didn’t. Still hot from the journey in, she guessed. She looked up at the dark sky. Soon the whole city would be covered in a white shroud.

She sat down next to her husband. His breathing was laboured and he had an oxygen mask attached to his mouth. His eyelids were closed but the eyes beneath them moved from side to side, and his body twitched every now and then, like a cat might when dreaming.

In the corridor a team of nurses and a porter wheeled a hospital bed down towards the operating theatre. Drips attached to the patient, and monitoring devices. He had long unruly hair and a bearded face.

Patricia Hunt made the sign of the cross on her forehead and chest and mumbled a prayer.

‘God save us,’ she said. ‘God save us all.’

She picked up the leatherbound notebook she had brought from her husband’s office in the garden, and started reading.

Zambia, borders of Namibia. 1989
.

The missionary knelt on the floor of his hut. He ran a finger under his dog collar to loosen it slightly. It was just past dawn, but the light was brightening and the heat was building. It was a simple room. Wooden floor and walls with a pitch roof. The wood had been stained and varnished. He knelt on a simple rug. A single bed lay beside the side window. Netting covered the windows casting a mottled pattern on the floorboards. He had a plain desk and chair opposite the door that led into his hut, and a washstand with a bowl and jug on it. There was a large ceiling fan overhead that, had it worked, might have brought some relief from the growing heat. A heat that would bake the ground even harder by midday. Even at that early hour, it was enough to force beads of sweat on the missionary’s brow, which he mopped with a large, cotton handkercief. Moisture from the night still hung in the air and it reminded him of the time he visited the Butterfly House in Kew Gardens. He mopped his brow once more and tried to shake the memory away.

He looked up at the simple crucifix hanging on the wall and made a sign of the cross.

‘Oh Lord,’ he said. ‘I know I am a sinner, and I know I am not worthy. But make me strong in your service. Make me strong in my faith. Make of my weak body a weapon to fight evil on your behalf. Make of my weak mind a chalice for the purity of your love. Make my heart strong so that I might bring that strength to the weak who falter on the path of righteousness; succour them, Lord, and guide them to your glory.’

And then the screaming began.

The sound of running feet. Shots firing from automatic rifles. The whop-whop-whop of rotor blades as a helicopter came in to land. Shattering the peace of that humid dawn in the way that only man and natural catastrophes can.

The missionary threw his handkerchief to the floor and staggered outside into the village.

White men in black combat gear with no insignia, and black scarves wrapped round their lower faces, were shouting at the terrified villagers who were scattering before the automatic fire of the invaders which mowed them down.

A scream came from the church to the reverend’s left. It was built of plain varnished wood, just like the reverend’s hut, only some twenty times bigger with a tall cross mounted on the apex of the roof above the entrance doors. Entrance doors that stood open.

The missionary ran towards the steps leading up into the church, glad he wasn’t hampered by his service vestments. He was wearing Chinos with a pale blue shirt and a dog collar. The back of his shirt was dark with sweat as he rushed into the building.

At the far end of the aisle his assistant, a young Zambian woman, stood with three young girls whose eyes were wide with horror, as they looked at the man with the automatic rifle pointed straight at them. Another man, thick-set with iron-grey hair, shifted the upturned altar to reveal a plate cover set into the ground. He opened it and brought out a small, white canvas sack.