Past Mortem (36 page)

‘Detective Inspector.’ It was the coroner speaking for the first time. ‘What on earth are you saying happened in this girl’s bedroom?’

‘Tiffany Mellors was subdued, gagged, secured to a chair and murdered.’

‘But, Inspector,’ the. coroner asked, horror and bewilderment on his face. ‘Why?’

‘Read the note he made her write,’ Newson replied. ‘
The bullying killed me in the end
.’

THIRTY-THREE

E
d,
who is this man?
’

Newson and Natasha had left the Ruislip morgue and were heading back into town, baffling the afternoon traffic which was clogged up with the three-thirty school run.

‘I don’t know, Natasha. I just don’t know.’

‘How does he get in? He always gets in, doesn’t he? Every single victim just opens the door for him. I mean, this girl would be pretty streetwise, wouldn’t she? Young women know not to open the door to just anybody. Yet he knocks, she lets him in,
makes him a coffee
, for Christ’s sake, and half an hour later she’s dead. How does he do it?’

Newson did not reply.

‘Do you know what I’ve been wondering?’ Natasha continued. ‘I’ve been thinking that maybe it’s got nothing to do with their knowing him at all. I was thinking that perhaps he holds a position of authority. Perhaps he’s…’

‘A copper?’

‘Well, if he is it would certainly open doors and lull people into a false sense of security. You don’t expect to be killed by a policeman, do you? And don’t forget, Ed,
you know him
. Christine Copperfield said as much when she left her last message. You know a lot of coppers.’

‘And let’s be honest, a lot of coppers are bullies.’

‘Well, a few, certainly.’

‘Don’t forget, Natasha, I know how many bullies there are at Scotland Yard.’

Their route back to town took them past the school they had visited a few hours earlier. The school was disgorging its pupils into the street. A great scruffy green-and-yellow mass of youthful humanity walking past the flowers and the two or three reporters who were still hanging about hoping for more stories. Suddenly Newson’s attention was caught. He had seen someone he knew. A tall athletic figure in classic Ray-Ban sunglasses.

Roger Jameson.

‘Speaking of coppers,’ Newson said, ‘there’s one, an American one. I know him. We were at school together.’

Newson parked the car and approached his old classmate. ‘What are you doing here, Roger?’

‘Same thing as you, I imagine. The death of the girl who studied here has been all over the news. Everybody put it down to bullying and it was. But not the way they saw it, right?’

‘I asked what you were doing here.’

‘Oh, come on, Ed! You know damn well why I’m here. I’m trying to find out who it was that the girl Tiffany Mellors was cutting up. You’ve been in the school so I guess you know already. The moment I started reading about the lovely Miss Mellors I knew that she was no victim, leastways not until this serial psycho of ours whacked her, she wasn’t. It’s clear that whoever has been killing bullies has started to attack them at source. Now I don’t know what it is, but somehow there’s a connection between the kid that Tiffany was victimizing and the killer. Find that connection and we find him. So that’s why I’m hanging round school gates, Ed, looking for the connection. Don’t worry, I ain’t added paedophilia to my various crimes against society.’

‘You seem to have an uncanny nose for this investigation, Roger. It’s almost as if you have inside information.’

‘But you see I do, Ed. I told you. I
know
this killer. He’s just like me. That’s why I’m going to catch him.’

At this point Natasha joined them.

‘Good evening, miss,’ Jameson said, removing his glasses and fixing Natasha with a cool, easy smile.

‘Hello,’ Natasha replied. ‘You were at school with Ed, right?’

‘That’s right. We’re old friends.’

‘But you’re an American.’

‘I am now. I wasn’t then. Officer Roger Jameson, NYPD, at your service, ma’am.’ Jameson held out his big strong hand. He was almost a foot taller than both Newson and Natasha, slim and powerful.

Natasha gave him a dazzling smile. ‘Detective Sergeant Natasha Wilkie,’ she said prettily. ‘Her Majesty’s Metropolitan Police.’

Natasha and Jameson laughed together.

Newson fumed. He could see that Jameson was just Natasha’s type, big, handsome, sexy and a bullying bastard. ‘Roger’s gay,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ Natasha replied, clearly nonplussed at such an unexpected and unsought piece of information.

Jameson was surprised too. His eyes narrowed angrily as he turned his attention back to Newson. He clearly did not like having his private life thrown open in such a confrontational manner. ‘Yes, I guess that’s right,’ he said. ‘Since you bring it up, Ed. Took me a long time to work it out too, but I got there in the end.’

‘Yes, well…‘ Newson was embarrassed now, realizing how stupid and rude he’d been. ‘Anyway.’

‘So tell me, Ed,’ Jameson continued, his smile still easy but his eyes cold. ‘How long did it take before you worked out that you wanted to sleep with your sergeant here?’

Now Newson was taken aback. ‘I don’t know what — ’

‘Can’t see any other reason for you looking at her the way you do — ’

‘I have no idea what — ’

Natasha had turned bright red, but she made a good effort at nonchalance. ‘This is a peculiar conversation, isn’t it? I think I’ll leave you boys to it. But we do need to be getting back to the office, Ed. Goodbye, Officer Jameson. It was nice meeting you.’

‘My pleasure, ma’am.’

Natasha headed back towards the car.

‘Cute,’ said Jameson. ‘Who whacked the face? The boyfriend? You said she was attached. I presume you went straight round and punched the bastard out. Except that ain’t exactly your style, is it? You should try it. It’d probably get you laid.’

Newson was angry, with himself more than with Jameson. ‘I must remember not to share confidences with you in the future,’ he said.

Jameson sneered. ‘Yeah, I could say the same thing.’

‘I suppose that’s a fair point.’

‘Besides, Eddie, I don’t need your confidences to know you. I know you anyway. It’s a talent I have.’

‘You may remember that I asked you to supply me with a list of your visits to Britain over the last two and a half years.’

‘And I did. It’s on your email. I hope you’ll tell me if the dates check out.’

‘What dates do you think those would be, Roger?’

‘Ed, please. I told you that I wasn’t stupid. I know you must have a number of other cases under review. You have access to the central crime computer and I don’t. I’m presuming you’ve gone in there and reopened all the unsolveds and found some with our killer’s hands on them. Now you want to know if I was around when the murders got done, because if I was then maybe I’m the killer.’

‘Yes, I think that’s a pretty fair summation of what’s on my mind.’

‘Or maybe I emailed Helen Smart and told it all to her. I can be very persuasive. Stay in touch, Ed.’ Jameson turned and went, leaving Newson to join Natasha in the car.

For a moment they sat together in silence.

‘Um…that remark Jameson made,’ Newson said, ‘about…ahem…’

‘Wanting to sleep with me?’

‘Yes, that one. Amazing thing to say. So silly,
such
a cheap shot. And complete rubbish, of course. You know that.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Natasha replied.

When Newson got home he found Roger Jameson’s email detailing his trips to Britain as requested. Jameson had not been in the country when Adam Bishop had been killed. Nor had he been when Neil Bradshaw had been tortured in the seed shed. He had, however, been around when Denis Spencer had had his brains mashed with a book and also, more significantly, when Angie Tatum had been given her rough equivalent of a harelip. Newson already knew that Jameson had been in Britain when Farrah Porter had had her spine broken before being dumped in her acid bath.

There was also a message from Helen Smart. He opened it with little enthusiasm.

Hello Ed, Can’t get away from me, eh? You’ll have to get a new email address. I’m home alone, well not alone of course. Karl’s here, but he’s six and watching Rugrats. I love him but he isn’t the most stimulating conversationalist. Kids may say the damndest things but I’m here to tell you that they also say them about two million times. I’m naked right now. Just had a bath and I’m in the bedroom, my skin’s still damp. You probably don’t want to know that, or the fact that I thought about you while I touched myself beneath the warm water. So delete me. Delete me right now. Go on, scroll to the menu bar and delete me. Still reading? Thought you were. I’m sitting cross legged, by the way. The laptop’s on my lap, that’s where it was designed to go, I guess. It’s a good position, it means I can type this letter one fingered and keep the other hand between my legs. One fingered, right? Did you look at our Friends site recently? That moronic slapper Sally Warren has created an ‘In Memoriam’ page on the notice board. We’re all supposed to share our thoughts and our sadness about Christine Copperfield’s death. I did, I said that I THINK it’s great and I’m SAD it didn’t happen sooner. Yeah, really, I am THAT fucked up, Ed. But at least I’m honest. Don’t tell me Sally Warren is genuinely upset ‘A beautiful candle has gone out. A candle in the wind’. Bollocks, she’s LOVING it, the drama darting, Christine murdered, how wonderful! That means Sally Warren won. She wasn’t quite as pretty as Christine and she wasn’t quite as popular but hey, she’s not dead, she didn’t get murdered. That’s got to put her in front.

I’m angry tonight, Ed. No, don’t get paranoid, it’s not you. I’m not coming after you with my nail scissors. It’s a case I’m working on and I’ve no one to talk to about it. Not Henry Chambers, that’s for sure. What a prick. It’s disgusting. There we are together in our office, dealing with the most heartbreaking human tragedies and all he’s thinking about is putting his hands all over me. It’s in his eyes every second of the day. I can see his palms sweating when he comes near. He’d do anything for me, you know. That man would do absolutely anything to impress me. And I’d do anything to avoid being within ten feet of him. Funny, eh?

Newson stopped reading for a moment, thinking about Henry Chambers. Helen’s lovesick colleague. Newson could remember little about him other than the obvious fact that he was besotted with Helen. A small, unthreatening, anonymous man. The sort of person everybody knows but whom nobody notices.

The sort of person everybody knows
.

Helen Smart thought that he’d do anything for her. Would he? Anything? Could love do that to you? Unrequited love? Newson was in love with Natasha and he certainly felt that he would do anything for her. But would he really? Anything? Would he murder for her? If there was someone in Natasha’s life whose removal would make her utterly happy, would he remove that person?

No. He would die for her, he believed that. He would also kill in her defence; he was sure of that too. But he would not murder for her. Of course he wouldn’t. That was no kind of love, to nourish another person’s madness, to pander to an obviously sick and corrupted agenda simply because you want to sleep with them, to share your life with them. If you love someone you try to make them strong, you don’t endorse their weakness.

But then Newson was sane. He was in love with somebody sane. Was Henry Chambers sane? Was Helen Smart? In the latter case, not entirely. He wrote ‘Henry Chambers’ on his notepad and turned again to Helen’s email.

So what am I angry about? Do you care?

Newson did care. Something made him care very much. Somehow Newson did not believe that Helen Smart’s connection with his investigation was over yet.

I’m angry that there are so many little bastards in the world, that’s what! Bastards like Christine Copperfield used to be before she got what was coming to her. The’re all still out there, the bullies, ruining other kids’ lives just like the dead bitch ruined mine. Every day I get another batch of misery to sift through, all lost souls reaching out, thinking that I can do something to help them. Thinking that I can do something about it! All these terrible stories of lonely little kids being attacked by other kids day after day. One boy is writing to me at the moment and you wouldn’t believe what’s happening to him. It’s so terrible it makes me want to kill. Some little shit has been burning my client with cigarette ends. ‘Client’, eh? Huh! That’s what I’m supposed to call him. He’s not a fucking CLIENT, Ed! He’s a young lad living in hell. It’s been going on for months now and suddenly it’s started getting worse. The boy’s having his hand held in the Bunsen burners during science lessons, and it seems that yesterday the bully sat behind him on the bus and was flicking lighted matches into his hair. What kind of sick, fucked-up, low-life shit would want to do that? And how the hell do we stop him? We can’t, it seems. It’s incredible. If it goes on this kid is going to get seriously hurt, maybe killed. He’s insane with worry about it, but no matter how many times I tell him to go to his teachers or the police, he’s too scared. He lives in Brixton and there’s not a lot of trust in the police down there. Surprise, surprise. After all, you’re all shits, aren’t you, Ed? Everyone knows that. Where this lad comes from, appealing to you lot would just make matters worse, make him a target of the gangs. That’s how far you lot have got with your precious community policing policy.