My Bloody Valentine (Alastair Gunn) (8 page)

Fortunately, her thoughts were interrupted.

‘Antonia?’

She looked up, smiling. ‘DI Maguire. I was just wondering where you were.’

Her
cheer wasn’t returned as Mike’s expression clouded, but within seconds they were surrounded.

‘Ma’am.’ Yasir seemed relieved to see another woman. ‘How are you?’

‘Fixed, pretty much, after six weeks of intensive relaxation.’ She glanced at Mike, who looked like he was already itching to get her out of here. ‘Thanks to everyone for the chocolates, by the way.’

‘So is this …’ Yasir motioned at the wheelchair. ‘ … permanent?’

‘Oh no.’ Hawkins patted the armrest. ‘I’ll be out of this thing in a few days.’

Sharpe leaned in. ‘We couldn’t believe it when we heard about –’

‘You know what?’ Mike cut him off, taking hold of the chair’s handles. ‘Internal guidelines say we don’t discuss the case, not till the inquiry’s tied up. Antonia, we need to talk in private.’

He began to push, but Hawkins flicked on the brake. ‘Let me say hello first.’

‘So are you back?’ Todd asked. ‘Or just visiting?’

‘She’s visiting,’ Maguire said.

‘No,’ she retorted. ‘I’m back.’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘Anyway,’ Hawkins pointed at the sparsely adorned white boards, ‘looks like I arrived at just the right moment. New case, is it?’

‘Yes.’ Sharpe began. ‘Young wom–’

‘Actually,’ Maguire spoke over him again, ‘mine’s
urgent. I’ll brief you in your office, then maybe after we’ll play catch-up on the case.’

He leaned over and released the brake, staring at the others until they cleared a path in the direction of Hawkins’ office. As she was propelled forwards, Hawkins realized the argument was going to happen whether it took place in private or not.

Mike rolled her into the office and launched her towards the desk before closing the door behind them. Hawkins grabbed one wheel, rotating herself to face him as he reached up to twist the blinds shut. Through the shrinking gaps she caught a glimpse of her team returning to their desks, and realized just how badly she wanted to be involved.

Mike turned on her. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘What the hell are you doing here,
ma’am
?’

‘Screw your rank-pulling; you shouldn’t be here.’

His voice rang in her ears. The words hadn’t been spoken loudly, but an ongoing inability to sleep, combined with whatever fog still clouded her thoughts, ensured they were loud enough to cause Hawkins discomfort. She ignored it, assuring herself that half the issue was boredom; that once she was back at work her psychological discord would ease. She also chose not to mention the detour she’d almost taken towards Occupational Health on the way over from Vaughn’s office. She’d visit the duty counsellor at some point, deal with the ongoing flashbacks for good, but right
now she needed work more, and the two requirements didn’t mix.

So her personal problems could wait.

She regarded Maguire. ‘You know your accent really comes through when you’re annoyed.’

‘We agreed, Toni, no work till you’re out of the chair. I won’t let you play fast and loose with your recovery, and neither will Vaughn.’

‘Actually, he will. I just left his office. I’m back in charge.’

Mike paused; she waited for his reaction. It would be highly irregular for a DI to stomp off to the chief super’s office, demanding an explanation for why his immediate boss had been allowed back to work against
his
better judgement. Of course, that was assuming he believed she’d seen the DCS at all; Mike wasn’t the gullible type. And, if he called her bluff, she’d be back in trouble five minutes through the door.

At last his expression softened. ‘Vaughn okayed it?’

‘Yep.’

‘No restrictions?’

‘None.’

Mike stared at her for a moment, as she felt the weight of untruth settle in her lap.

‘Geez, I coached Alan on this. He was supposed to be my wingman. Said he wouldn’t bring you here, no matter what.’

‘Don’t blame Dad, he’s losing his edge. And, technically, I may not have told him where we were going.’

‘You
lied to him.’

‘Slightly, but he came round once we got here. Come on, Mike, I’m approaching insanity after six weeks out. My dad and Vaughn understand, and you do, too, underneath all that asphyxiating protectiveness.’

For a moment he just breathed. ‘Samantha Philips.’

‘What?’

‘The victim.’ He waved towards the main office, at the investigation going on out of sight beyond the blinds. ‘Twenty-four-year-old Londoner. Sam to her friends. Repeat hammer blows to the head.’

Hawkins raised her eyebrows. ‘
Very
Sutcliffe. Where?’

‘Found before dawn yesterday in a park near Bethnal Green, right out front of the housing block she just moved into. And that ain’t all. The apartment was state-funded, ’cause Sam just got out of the joint; she served six years in Holloway for killing some guy called Brendan Marsh, who she accused of raping her straight after she turned eighteen. Verdict was murder. This attack may not be linked, but we’re checking out Marsh’s family and friends, in case it was payback.’

‘Did they know each other before?’

‘He was one of her college lecturers. There were rumours about them being into each other beforehand, but nothing solid. And the whole campus was blown away when she attacked him. Details are weird, though. First, Sam didn’t even report the rape, leave alone point the finger at Marsh in the six months between the
alleged assault and his death. Which means there was no proof he raped her in the first place. Then, out of nowhere, she starts sending him texts like a loaded groupie, begging for them to meet up. Then she turns up at his house, and he lets her in, but as soon as he relaxes she cuts his throat with a knife from his own kitchen. Afterwards she doesn’t even bother to run, just calls 999 and hands herself in. Cops arrive and there she is, covered in blood, just staring at him. She confessed to the whole thing in court.

‘One thing in her favour, she wasn’t his first. Trial heard that Marsh had a thing for students. He’d already been convicted of one rape, a few years back, and accused a stack of times before that. But no one checked his record when the college took him on.’

‘What about her? Any other previous?’

‘So far we found nothing in her past that’s even
near
what she did to Marsh, but she was no saint, either. Drug use, violence, shoplifting; she had the whole set.’

‘Sounds interesting.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Mike replied. ‘But that ain’t the worst of it. You didn’t catch the news today, did you?’

Hawkins thought for a second. Her father had imposed John Denver at volume all the way to Hendon, probably in retaliation for her continued – and bad-tempered – imposition, while Hawkins herself had been so focused on her pending conversation with
Vaughn that checking on current events hadn’t entered her head. ‘No. Why?’

‘Think about it. What was yesterday?’

She checked her phone. ‘The fourteenth.’

‘
Of
…’

‘February.’ As she spoke, Hawkins realized what he was talking about. ‘Shit … Valentine’s Day.’

‘There she goes. And the papers ain’t gonna pass up a gold-plated opportunity like that, now, are they?’ Mike walked to the door. ‘Wait, I’ve got some of the tabloids here someplace.’

He disappeared into the main office, as the implications blighted Hawkins’ mind. She had just spent six weeks in hospital, watching the after-effects of an apparently Christmas-related murder spree being callously wrung out for every second of airtime they were worth. And it had stayed on the agenda throughout, thanks to high levels of interest from an increasingly panicked London population.

But now, just as mass paranoia had begun to subside, if a new murder could be linked to an entirely different seasonal event, especially the next most widely recognized one on the calendar, no doubt the whole media spectrum would happily re-tap such a fresh and lucrative vein.

Mike returned, handing her copies of the
Mail
and the
Express
. She looked down at exactly the types of headline she’d just foreseen: T
HE
V
ALENTINE
K
ILLER
; B
LOODY
V
ALENTINE
.

It
took her a moment to excavate a comforting thought.

‘Ah’ – she held up a pensive digit – ‘but Valentine’s Day is a yearly event, and even the tabloids can’t string a single murder out till next year, on the off chance he’ll do it again.’

‘I’ll go with that.’ Maguire nodded. ‘But what if this is a regular thing for him, and they find a whole string of bodies, going back years? Or what if he killed more than one ex yesterday, and we’ve only found one of them so far? That’s gonna plant a big old smile on your average editor’s pan.’

Hawkins’ short-lived positivity shrank as she accepted the possibility. He was right; of course, the papers were full of stars newly disgraced for decades-old indiscretions, so why should murderers be any different, especially given fresh notoriety by their latest gruesome act?

At least it was the sort of case that, successfully resolved, could revive a tattered reputation.

In this instance, hers.

She looked up at Mike, suddenly energized. ‘Is the scene still ours?’

‘Yeah, why?’

‘Come on, then.’ Hawkins rolled herself forwards, poker-faced as her muscles protested. If Mike knew she was in pain, he’d take her straight home.

‘Come on, then,
what
?’

‘Well, in my experience’ – she stopped beside
him – ‘it’s generally best if the officer leading the investigation gets to visit the murder scene. Don’t you think?’

Mike didn’t reply, just shook his head and opened the door.

18

Doors banged up front, and footsteps moved along either side of the truck before the two men appeared. Bull recognized the taller one, but the second guy was new.

They let down the tailgate. ‘Out.’

Everyone stood, crouching inside the truck. Bull’s heart pounded.

They shuffled in twos to the edge and dropped on to the road. Bull was out early, scanning the scene.

The lights on the trucks were off, but the sky was clear and the moon was high, allowing him to see the derelict buildings surrounding them and the piles of random crap dotted here and there.

They were told to line up.

Bull joined the queue behind Liam, one of the older kids who was normally up for everything. But, tonight, Bull could see Liam’s legs shaking. Which was good, because his were, too.

They moved off, entering a narrow alleyway that ran between two buildings, leading down a slope to their right. The alley swallowed them one by one, blackness closing in all around. It went on and on, falling away more steeply the further they went, but at last they came out on a second, even narrower street.

Bull joined the crowd forming ahead of him. There was a stronger smell of burning now, and an eeriness to the silence that made him feel sick. Quiet chatter broke out in the crowd, but Bull didn’t join in.

They were told to shut up.

Everyone stopped talking as the voice at the front told them to get into groups; that the trucks would be brought down now the area was confirmed clear, that their job was to clean the place up.

Confused, Bull worked his way around a few of the taller guys for a better view. At first he couldn’t see anything through the steam venting from a burst pipe. He moved forwards, peering deeper into the dark.

And saw bodies all over the ground.

19

‘Of course I’m worried,’ the caller urged. ‘Every time I look there’s another attack; some new girl getting killed. I have two daughters, Peter. I’m barely sleeping at night.’

‘So what should be done?’ the radio presenter asked.

‘I think the police should be out on the streets; taking control.’

‘You mean martial law?’

‘No, no, Peter, I’m talking about community policing, like we had in the sixties.’

‘You think that would help?’

‘It certainly wouldn’t hurt. Otherwise, things are only going to get worse, you mark my words. We’ll be under curfew by spring if they don’t sort this out.’

‘Okay, Maggie, thanks for your call, but we need to move on. There are plenty of people waiting to tell us how the recent spate of murders in London has affected them. Let’s move on to Shaun. Hi, Shaun …’

Hawkins turned the radio down, tensing as another shockwave shot through her torso, just about managing to keep the signs of agony from registering on her face. She didn’t want to show Maguire that, despite having
been back at work only a few hours, her still-recovering body had already given up for the day.

‘Sorry.’ Mike steered the Volvo around the next pothole. ‘I know you Brits like a challenge, but I’ve seen smoother ranch tracks. You okay?’

‘Fine,’ she lied. ‘But if you keep it out of the deeper gorges, my internal stitches might hold till dinner time.’

Mike smiled thinly, reinforcing Hawkins’ suspicion that he’d been upset by her not even mentioning Valentine’s Day. They’d only been back together for a few weeks, and so far their peak amorous encounter had been the previous evening, a five-minute fumble when her father had gone for a walk, which Hawkins had curtailed when Mike’s hand brushed one of her scars. She hadn’t told him that, of course, replacing honesty with a lame excuse about not wanting to be interrupted by her dad, tangling like a couple of teenage amateurs. For the rest of the evening, she’d gently avoided opportunities for affection, despite Maguire’s best efforts to engage. So perhaps he’d been hoping for some kind of amorous gesture, to reassure him she hadn’t lost interest for good.

Whether that was the case or not, Hawkins had spent most of Valentine’s Day planning her return to work, utterly blinkered to the date’s significance, and to Mike’s potential need for her to show commitment to their relationship by marking it.