Murder of a Dead Man (22 page)

He pressed down on the latch of the door set into the back wall. The click sounded alarmingly loud. He paused, poised ready to run. A dog barked further down the street – then there was silence. He stepped on to a garden path. Shutting the door behind him he crouched low and stole closer to the house. The only light came from the glint of the full moon on the windows. He inched stealthily forward, alert for the slightest sound.

A cloud drifted across the moon. When it sailed past he saw that the kitchen window was closed but not latched. He took out his penknife and slid it beneath the plastic frame. He didn’t have to exert much pressure for it to swing out towards him. The windowsill was bare. He paused again until his ears hurt from the strain of listening. A clock ticked from the room within, music blared out from a television next door. A voice echoed from the end of the street.

Heaving himself up on his hands he tried to haul himself inside. He was so weak it took an eternity. His arms wouldn’t bear his weight, but by scraping his knee against the wall and gaining toeholds he finally crouched on the sill. Losing his balance he fell into a sink. There was a shattering, tearing noise and the surface he was perched on gave way. He jumped down and turned his ankle.

Wincing in pain he looked around. Even in the moonlight he could see that this was no modern kitchen. The sink he’d almost wrenched off the wall was stainless steel, with a dent in the draining board.

Probably one he’d just made. He hobbled to a fridge and opened the door. The light illuminated a small piece of cheese carefully wrapped in grease-proof paper, a jar of jam, half a pint of milk and a tub of low fat margarine. Beset by a pang of guilt he closed the door. It looked and felt like the house of someone trying to survive on little money. A pensioner?

He opened a dresser. It contained half a loaf of bread, cut side down on a breadboard, glasses and plates. Taking a glass he filled it with water from the tap and drank deeply. After three thirsty refills he risked leaving the kitchen. A passage led to a cramped living room crammed with heavy, old fashioned furniture. On a sofa covered by a woollen blanket, was a cat. He scooped up the animal, intending to move it to a chair. It hissed and spat at him before running off. Draping the blanket around his shoulders, he left by the back door.

Further down the street he found a garage with a broken door. The place was cold, draughty, and stank of oil. But, huddled in a corner with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, he slept warmer than the night before.

‘Could I speak to Sergeant Trevor Joseph please?’

‘Speaking.’

Dan and Peter exchanged glances. Trevor had been acting like a snake with back trouble since he’d put an appearance in the office at nine, earlier than necessary after a night spent combing the streets.

‘Trevor, it’s Daisy.’

‘Hello there.’

As Trevor’s tone changed, Peter lifted his eyebrows at Anna.

‘Have you done anything about that information I gave you yesterday?’

‘No.’

‘I’ve found some old records that might be of interest to you.’

‘Where?’

‘In notes in our files. All the projects carry information on the early transplants. Remember what I told you about exchange of information? The first transplant was carried out on a male patient in his late twenties. The donor was twenty-eight. Does that tie in with your case?’

‘It could do. What are the dates?’

‘There are none, and what’s even more unusual, no photographs. All files should carry detailed shots of the patient before and after the transplant has taken place.’

‘Was the surgeon Marks?’

‘Yes.’

‘These files, they’re in your office?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’

‘You mentioned Marks?’ Peter questioned Trevor.

‘Daisy told me last night that the only person capable of carrying out a transplant in the country two years ago was a surgeon called Laurence Marks.’

‘And you didn’t tell us!’

‘I only found out late last night before we went looking for Tony.’

‘You bloody fool,’ Peter said angrily. ‘He could be a relative of Brian Marks.’

‘Of course. The solicitor. I knew I’d heard the name before.’

‘You’re turning sloppy in your old age,’ Peter said.

‘We’ve only lost twelve hours.’

‘I could have interviewed him last night.’

‘He’s in America.’

‘All the more reason to set to work on it sooner, rather than later.’

‘You’re going to get more information from Dr Randall now?’ Dan asked.

‘I am.’

‘Peter, go with him,’ Dan ordered curtly. ‘And telephone in with all the information Dr Randall has on this Laurence Marks as soon as you get it.’

‘Files on all twenty eight transplants that have been carried out abroad.’ Daisy heaped the files on her desk, before tossing a file that was thinner than any of the others on the summit of the pile. ‘The telephone number and address of Laurence Marks’s current project in the States is in this one.’

Trevor picked it up and opened it.

‘Would you like coffee?’

‘Please,’ Trevor murmured, already engrossed in the file.

‘Coffee would be fine.’ Peter smiled at her.

‘I’ll ask my secretary to bring it. You can use this office. I have ward rounds.’

‘I’m sorry, we’ve been keeping you,’ Trevor apologised.

‘If you have any questions I should be through in an hour and a half.’

Peter picked up one of the other files after Daisy left. He grimaced at the photograph pinned to the first sheet, the face of a corpse being peeled away from the skull. The second was no better. It was a badly burned face being prepared for surgery.

‘Real bedtime story stuff this. I think I’d rather have the grown up version.’

Trevor looked up quizzically.

‘The one without pictures,’ Peter explained.

‘I wish this one had pictures,’ Trevor complained. ‘All I have is a list of dimensions.

Centimetres from eyebrow to eye, from tip of nose to chin.’

‘Sounds like Patrick’s province.’

‘Until we find Tony we have nothing to compare these with.’

‘We have enough photographs of Weaver to paper the station.’

‘Colouring of skin – dark,’ Trevor read out.

‘Weaver’s skin was light.’

‘Presumably you can graft a darker shade of skin on top of a face that was originally lighter, but then it would show at the join. I wonder if they have stitches around the neck like Boris Karloff in Frankenstein?’

‘Can’t you be serious for five minutes?’ Trevor snapped.

‘When Tony turns up it will be easy to check him out. I can see it now. “Excuse me, sir, would you mind removing your tie and unbuttoning your collar so we can look for a stitch-line?”’

‘Have you thought through the implications of this case?’ Trevor sat in Daisy’s chair as her secretary carried in a tray of coffee and biscuits.

‘Thank you, darling.’ Peter winked at the girl and eyed her legs as she left the room. ‘What implications?’ he asked after the girl had closed the door. ‘You mean if you fancy someone’s face you’ll…’

‘I mean for terrorists and criminals.’

‘Criminals as in Anthony Weaver?’

‘Exactly.’

‘We caught up with Weaver because of his fingerprints.’

‘And if they transplant those next?’

‘You’re a real bloody pessimist, aren’t you?’

Peter pulled out his pen and notebook. ‘Name of doctor, Laurence Marks, right?’

‘Yes.’

Trevor pushed the piece of paper with Laurence’s USA address and telephone number towards Peter.

‘What else you got?’

Trevor continued to scan the file. ‘The transplant was carried out two days after the face was lifted from the donor.’

‘How do you store a face until you need it?

Next to the beef burgers in the freezer?’

‘We’ll check with Daisy.’

‘Anything on the recipient?’

‘Only that his face was removed after anaesthetic was administered.’

‘Nothing on its condition?’

‘No.’

‘What I can’t understand is why a man like Adam Weaver would want to change his appearance? With his looks he could have pulled any bird he wanted.’

‘In jail? Aren’t you forgetting he was a convicted murderer serving a life sentence with a judge’s recommendation of a minimum thirty years?

That can seem like a long time to someone who’s twenty-eight going on twenty-nine.’

‘New face in exchange for a new life.’ Peter heaped three sugars into his coffee. ‘He didn’t get far if that was his intention. Jubilee Street isn’t the kind of new life anyone in their right mind would want for themselves.’

‘Something must have gone wrong.’

‘Very wrong,’ Peter echoed. ‘I wonder what it was.’ He picked up the telephone, ‘I’ll pass Marks’s telephone number on to Dan.’

‘Have you got through to America?’ Peter asked as he and Trevor walked in through the door of the incident room.

‘Yes, but not to Laurence Marks.’

‘I’m not surprised. If I was Marks I’d keep my head down for a while.’

‘Why?’ Dan asked Peter. ‘We’ve no evidence to link him with the mutilation of Anthony George.’

‘Only the transplant notes.’

‘Nothing in them says he knew where the face he used came from.’ Dan replaced the telephone receiver. ‘All I’m getting is “Mr Marks is in conference, and won’t be available for some time.” And the “some time” doesn’t include a date.’

‘You really do expect him to talk to you, don’t you?’ Peter asked Dan.

‘I expect some degree of cooperation from an intelligent man – yes.’

‘Someone’s going to have to go over there,’

Bill predicted.

‘Me, please. Want to come?’ Peter asked Anna.

‘Not this time, Peter.’ Bill turned to Dan. ‘You have a current passport?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Get Sarah Merchant to book tickets for you.

When you find Marks, offer immunity, whatever it takes, but get the truth out of him. Preferably one that will stand up in court. Once we know exactly who and what we’re looking for, we might be in a position to clear up this mess.’

‘It would be a step in the right direction,’ Peter agreed with mock innocence.

‘What other leads are being followed?’ Bill barked.

‘Adam Weaver has a daughter, Hannah. She’s living here,’ Anna indicated the file on Weaver that Trevor had put in front of her when he’d left for the hospital.

‘Here, as in this town?’

‘Yes, sir. On Cowslip road, she’s living with her mother’s sister, a Blanche Davies. The aunt is twenty seven, single and a social worker.’

‘If you’re up to it, you and Trevor can go round there tonight. Check if the father’s tried to get in touch.’

‘Why not me?’

‘Because I’ve something else in mind for you, Peter,’ Bill smiled coldly. ‘In the Inspector’s absence you can co-ordinate the on-going search for Tony. Day and night. I’ll give you all the men I can spare.’

‘We can’t search and tag off every area in a town this size.’

‘No but we can search and move on.’

‘And if he moves in behind us?’

‘Stop being bloody awkward, Peter. Given enough men you can herd the vagrants into the underpass in the centre of town and interrogate them. They live in places we don’t know about. If our man is still in the area, one of them may have seen him.’

‘And if they have, do you really think they’re going to want to tell us about it?’

‘With your powers of persuasion, Peter. It should be a piece of cake.’

‘I telephoned Blanche Davies. She doesn’t get home until six o’clock. The girl is picked up from school by a neighbour who sits with her until the aunt gets home. I told her we’d be there around eight.

Thought it would be best to let them have tea and settle down before we go in.’

‘Good thinking,’ Trevor replied absently, his mind half on the case and half on Lyn. For the first time in six months it didn’t matter what time he got off shift. He’d been wrong, it wasn’t better to go back to an empty house. Even the prospect of Lyn angry was better than no Lyn at all.

Trevor and Anna drove up Cowslip Road and saw a gleaming grey Mercedes, complete with capped and uniformed chauffeur, parked outside Blanche Davies’ house. It looked ludicrous outside the semi, which was small even by the standards of the estate.

The tiny front garden sported a neat square of turf surrounded by a border of sprouting bulbs.

‘Social workers must get better pay than us,’

Anna observed looking at the car.

‘I doubt that’s hers.’ Trevor eyed the chauffeur, filing a description into his mind.

Before Trevor had time to switch off the engine, the front door opened and a man came out of the house.

‘That’s Marks.’ Anna cried.

‘The solicitor?’

‘I’ve never seen a photograph of the surgeon.’

‘I wonder why he’s such a long way from home,’ Trevor mused.

‘Do you want me to ask?’

‘We’re not here to question him. Whatever his reasons we’ll find them out in our own good time.

Nice cashmere coat,’ Trevor observed. A few months ago he wouldn’t have known cashmere from worsted. Just one more thing he had to be grateful to Lyn for.

An attractive blonde walked into the doorway.

Anna caught her breath. ‘She’s the spitting image of her sister.’

Brian Marks held out his hand and the woman took it. The solicitor leant forward and kissed her on the cheek.

‘Very friendly.’

‘Come on, Trevor, given the age difference, friendship is all it is,’ Anna scoffed.

‘Age difference doesn’t stop some men.’

‘You’re forgetting I’ve talked to Marks. A gap of forty years would bother someone of the old school type like him,’ Anna slid down in her seat, as the solicitor walked to his car, although she needn’t have bothered. Looking neither left nor right, Brian Marks climbed into the back seat. Moments later the Mercedes slid away from the kerb.

Trevor looked at Anna. ‘Shall we knock the door?’

‘Miss Blanche Davies?’ Anna asked as the blonde opened the door to them. Trevor stood back.