The Slaughter Man (7 page)

Out in the street I could hear the quiet roar that Smithfield meat market makes through the night. Stan stirred in his basket and stared at me with bleary eyes, checking to see if I might be planning to give him some food. He settled back into his snoring slumber as I went to look in on Scout. She was sleeping peacefully but had kicked all her bedclothes off. I pulled the duvet back over her and quietly slipped out. I knew I should turn in and try to sleep, but I felt that I was missing something that was just out of reach.

I came back into the main space of the loft and stared at Mary’s face on my screen. She looked like a daughter of privilege, one of those rich English kids who grow up on ski slopes.

I hit play.

Mary sat before a poster that said LILLEHAMMER ’94, a flurry of white lines on a blue background, and it took me a moment to understand that they were meant to represent the Northern Lights. There was a man with her on stage, same kind of coach, middle-aged, also wearing a Team GB tracksuit. He covered the microphone with his hand and whispered to Mary. She nodded, composed herself and spoke.

‘Look – when I gave that interview to
Ski Monthly
I thought that we were talking about my fantastically slim chances of a medal. Right at the end of the interview, the journalist asked me if I had a boyfriend and I answered honestly – I
don’t
have a boyfriend and I don’t
want
one until I meet … someone special.’

‘The love of your life, Mary?’ a woman shouted, the question laced with mocking laughter.

Mary looked at her coldly, her white teeth bared in a thin smile, and I saw the fighting spirit in her.

‘The love of my life? Why not? It would be nothing less than what I deserve. And now – well. All this.’

Then there was a CNN reporter on screen.

‘
But Mary Gatling, the Ice Virgin of Lillehammer, may have found love in the snow of Lillehammer
.’

There was some footage of Mary coming a spectacular cropper on the slopes, and then CNN cut to the Olympic village, where Mary was being pushed in a wheelchair by a grinning young man – although Brad Wood was not as young as her. He was ten years older than Mary and looked it. The presenter on CNN could hardly contain her excitement.

‘
After withdrawing from the downhill event following a nasty fall, the young Brit was consoled by American biathlete, Brad Wood – who was just out of the medals in the biathlon but has perhaps been luckier in love
.’

The film cut to the closing ceremony. There were athletes everywhere. The Olympic flag was being passed from the mayor of Lillehammer to the mayor of Nagano. And Mary was out of her wheelchair now but walking with a cane in one hand and Brad’s meaty paw in the other.

‘
It looks like the Ice Virgin of Lillehammer has finally found her Prince Charming
.’

The film stopped with a close-up of Mary and Brad looking up at the fireworks of the closing ceremony, his arms wrapped around her tight. Wrapped up warm like a couple of kids at a bonfire. The clip had over a million hits. And there was more, much more. Mary Gatling 1994 Olympics. Mary Gatling 1994. Mary Gatling Ice Virgin. Mary Gatling Brad Wood 1994. Ice Virgin XVII Olympic Winter Games.

But I kept staring at the frozen frame before me. Brad Wood with his large hands placed protectively on Mary’s stomach. And they had that look I remembered. The delighted surprise of a man and a woman who can’t believe their luck in finding each other.

It might have been all the gear they had on.

Because I could have sworn that the Ice Virgin looked as if she was already pregnant.

An early morning mist hung over The Gardens.

At the far end of the gated community two uniformed officers stood either side of the crime scene tape that still surrounded the Wood house. Our people were knocking on doors of the other five houses. I watched one door opened up by a Filipina maid who we had already talked to.

Edie Wren cursed. ‘The door-to-door is a total washout,’ she said. ‘All we’ve had are housekeepers and cooks who were all off on New Year’s Eve.’

‘Good time to kill someone,’ I said.

‘Six houses and five of the owners are away on New Year’s Eve? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘They’re rich,’ I said. ‘Seriously rich. And the seriously rich have always got other places to be. Only the poor stay home.’

But it felt like the holidays were over. The gates of The Gardens were open and there was a steady flow of vehicles arriving. A pool guy. White vans. Live-out housekeepers and cleaners walking from the bus stop on the other side of Waterlow Park.

‘The security guard was quite certain the gates were closed on New Year’s Eve,’ I said.

‘Why would he lie?’ Wren asked.

‘The same reason they always lie,’ I said. ‘Because he was scared. Maybe he was asleep. Maybe he had slipped off to see in the New Year with his family. Maybe he was in on it, if only to open the gates. But if the gates weren’t open, then they came over the wall.’

‘There’s a lot of traffic now,’ Wren said. ‘Maids. Cleaners. Gardeners. Builders.’

‘The rich take a lot of looking after.’

‘We’re compiling a list of everyone who’s had access to The Gardens over the last six months. It’s not easy with casual workers who like cash in hand.’

‘Saves on the paperwork,’ I said, and we started walking towards the twelve-foot wall that surrounded The Gardens. Beyond it the wood that almost consumed Highgate Cemetery stretched off into the mist. The search teams had gone and stone angels peeked half-hidden from the trees.

‘If he – or they – came in over that wall, he – or they – didn’t go back over it,’ I said. ‘Not carrying a four-year-old child.’

‘Not if the kid was alive,’ Wren said.

‘But if he was dead – why take him?’

A big Lexus pulled into The Gardens. A deeply tanned man and woman of about forty were in the front seats. A teenage girl, her face hiding behind long hippy hair, was slumped in the back, plugged into an iPod. The driver’s window slid down.

‘Miles Compton,’ a tanned fifty-year-old man said. ‘We live next door to the Woods. Heard the news just as we were leaving St Lucia.’ His eyes left me and stared with horror at the tape around the murder scene. ‘Is it really true?’

‘I’m afraid it is, sir,’ Wren said.

Next to him, the woman’s hands were pressed to her mouth.

The man nodded grimly. ‘I always knew he would push his luck too far,’ he said.

‘Who?’ I said.

‘The boy. Marlon Wood. That arrogant little shit.’ He shook his head with real regret. ‘Bloody shame about the rest of them, though. Bloody shame.’

He drove off to the house next door to the Wood property. ‘I’m on my way,’ Wren said, and started walking towards them.

I walked to the wall and followed the perimeter around The Gardens. At the back of the house next door to the Comptons, workmen were taking down some scaffolding.

‘Stop that!’ I called.

They stared at me for a moment and then carried on dismantling the scaffolding.

‘
Zatrzymac!
’ I shouted, and my Polish was good enough to get them to stop immediately. ‘
Policja
,’ I said. ‘Let me try something, men.
Jing kweer
.’

As they conferred in Polish, I climbed up a ladder on the scaffolding and then another to the point where it was above the top of the wall. I walked to the end of the plank. The branch of a tree that grew inside the cemetery hung close to the house, brushing the top of the scaffolding. Some of the branches had been cut back, but it must have been a while ago now. I looked up at the branch above me and then jumped up and gripped it, hanging there for a moment, checking it wasn’t going to break any time soon. It seemed strong enough to hold me so I swung my legs up and caught it. The Polish builders had lit cigarettes and were enjoying the show. Sweating now, I shuffled down the branch, passing over the top of the wall. I kept going until my shoes touched the trunk of the tree. I clambered upright and started edging down the tree. I couldn’t see the Polish builders any more but I could hear them applauding. Coming down was easier, although there was a sheer drop for the final ten feet or so. How could you do it with a child?

With a child that was still alive, I thought.

I dropped into the cemetery.

I hit the ground and caught my breath, staring into the thick wild wood of Highgate Cemetery. There was a stone angel next to me. The features of its face had been worn completely smooth by weather and time. In the distance I could see glimpses of giant crosses and strange memorials. Massive stone animals. A lion. A dog. All curled up with their eyes closed, sleeping for eternity. It was like leaving the world behind and stepping into a dream. The silence was total. It did not feel like the heart of the city. It felt like another planet.

Then suddenly Mary Wood was walking towards me through the mist, watching me every step of the way, just the two of us in that silent place.

I held my breath, flashing back to when I had last seen her on a stainless steel table at the Iain West, and when I had first seen her dead in her marital bed.

And I realised it was not Mary Wood.

It was her sister, Charlotte Gatling. And she was looking at me with the same watchful intensity that I had seen when I was with Scout in Savile Row.

‘Please don’t give up on him,’ she said. ‘Don’t give up on Bradley. My nephew.’

I shook my head.

‘Never,’ I said.

‘I know you think he’s probably dead,’ she said, raising a hand before I could say anything. ‘I know that’s what the statistics all say – you find the child immediately or you never find the child at all. But he’s not dead, Detective. I don’t give a damn about the statistics. I can feel it. That little boy is alive.’

There was something in her hand.

A small toy. A cowboy. One of those eight-inch plastic figures. Boots, waistcoat, white shirt. No, not a cowboy. Han Solo from
Star Wars
. Of course – the space cowboy. Her nephew’s toy, I thought. Bradley’s favourite toy.

Then there were more people coming out of the trees and the day suddenly felt like a dream. There was her brother and a camera crew. The Media Liaison Officer and the Family Liaison Officer were trailing behind Nils Gatling and the camera crew, flustered and ignored, their high heels unsuitable for Highgate Cemetery in January.

‘What’s happening?’ I said.

‘We’re doing a reconstruction,’ Charlotte Gatling said. ‘For
Crimewatch
. They want me to be my sister arriving home so we can perhaps jog a few memories.’

‘Did we set this up? The Met?’

‘My brother set it up. It’s good, isn’t it? Exposure is the key. That’s what Nils says.’

‘Exposure can be counter-productive,’ I said, as gently as I could. ‘Because every nut comes out of the woodwork. We can get so many false leads that we miss the real leads. Exposure needs to be carefully managed.’

There was a flash of irritation in her eyes and I remembered her sister staring down the mocking reporter in Lillehammer.

‘But it’s better than just being ignored,’ she said. ‘Like the families of most missing children.’

‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s better than that.’

Then I saw something inside her start to crack. ‘So where is he?’ she said, her voice strained with distress, as though her throat wanted to choke down all the terrible questions. ‘What’s happening to him? What are they doing to Bradley?’

Thinking that way did no good, I knew. Thinking that way just paralysed you. But I couldn’t say that to her.

‘I’m going to find Bradley,’ I said. ‘I promise you.’

She stared at me as if she could see into my soul.

‘You really promise me?’

‘Yes.’

Her brother approached us.

‘They’re ready for you, Charlotte.’

‘My brother, Nils Gatling,’ she told me.

I held out my hand.

‘DC Wolfe of West End Central,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry about—’

But Nils Gatling was not interested in any more sympathy from strangers, and he had looked away before we had finished shaking hands, his face set and his eyes cold.

‘Just start doing your job,’ he told me.

‘HOLMES gives us six men who have been convicted of murder with what the law calls a captive bolt pistol over the last thirty years,’ Wren said. ‘It’s a very small club. Three are dead, two are doing time and then there’s the Slaughter Man.’

She hit a button on her laptop.

A good-looking man in his middle years appeared on the big plasma screen on the wall of Major Incident Room One. He wore shabby, threadbare clothes and looked as though he cut his own hair. In his large hands were two plastic supermarket bags. But he was still recognisable as the young man who had been locked up in Belmarsh in 1980. There was more than just a shadow of that seventeen-year-old. Because Peter Nawkins still looked as though he was thinking of absolutely nothing.

‘
That’s
Peter Nawkins?’ I said. ‘That’s the Slaughter Man?’

‘Handsome devil,’ Wren said.

The door to MIR-1 opened and a tall man of about sixty came in wheeling a suitcase. He smiled shyly at our applause, running a hand through his snowy white hair.

‘Dr Joe!’ DCI Whitestone said, happily adjusting her glasses. ‘Fresh off the Heathrow Express! Thanks for coming in.’

Dr Joe Stephen, Forensic Psychologist at King’s College, slumped at a workstation, foggy with jet lag. Gane stuck a mug of black coffee in his hand and he nodded gratefully.

‘Four dead and a missing child,’ he said, the California accent smoothed by thirty years in London. ‘I wanted to get started.’

He took a file out of his case and spread it before him. Crime scene shots. Autopsy pictures. The usual blank-faced catalogue of gore.

‘What do you make of it, Dr Joe?’ Whitestone said. ‘The abductors of children don’t spree kill. Mass murderers kill everything that moves but don’t steal kids. We’ve been struggling to make any kind of sense of it.’

Dr Joe seemed very tired. And it wasn’t just because of the night flight from JFK.

‘It feels like the deliberate destruction of happiness,’ he said.