Blood Axe (19 page)

43

On Friday morning,
Ian dropped Bev at the station. She refused his offer to carry her luggage to the platform and he dropped her off across the road from the station. Her case was on wheels and she was only going away for the weekend, although, from the size of the case she was taking, she could have been going away for two weeks. They kissed goodbye in the car, a quick peck on the lips, before she jumped out. He watched her crossing the road, her spiky blonde head bobbing along jauntily above a bright red coat, her case bumping up the kerb behind her. He waited, but she didn't turn to wave. With an empty feeling, he drove along Queen Street and left on to Skeldergate Bridge. Fishergate led him to the Fulford Road and the police station. His day was about to begin.

He had barely sat down at his desk when the duty sergeant ran in.

‘There's been another one!' he snapped.

Ian didn't pause to ask him what he meant. His colleague's shocked expression told him enough. He hurried to the incident room where Eileen was standing, pale-faced and stern. Ted ran in behind Ian, followed in turn by Naomi who was scowling as though she had been interrupted in the middle of something important.

‘As you're probably all aware by now,' Eileen began, ‘there's been another attack.'

She flashed up a picture of a middle-aged woman, her face relatively unlined, her hair streaked with grey. A muted gasp went round the room. Ian stared in horror. Naomi's eyebrows shot up, her irritation changed to shock. The woman was lying, face up, across the two front seats of a car. Her face was splattered with blood, her torso drenched in it.

‘She was found lying in her car along the Tadcaster Road,' Eileen said quietly. ‘She'd been pulled half out of her seat by her attacker, who slashed her chest as you can see.'

‘With an axe?' someone asked.

Eileen inclined her head. ‘That's what it looks like.'

‘What the hell happened to her face?' someone else asked.

‘Out in the fields, it was probably crows,' Ted said.

‘What?'

‘I'm talking about her eyes,' the sergeant explained. ‘Birds always go for the eyes first. Scavengers find a target pretty quickly if it's not moving. That's how they survive. And a body along the edge of a fast road isn't likely to go unnoticed from the air for long. Raptors are always on the lookout for small dead animals that've been run over and killed. The eyes are the first to go because they're easy to get at. The hide of some animals is difficult to get through. But not hers,' he added sombrely.

The statement met with silence as the assembled officers digested this information.

‘Yes,' Eileen said at last, ‘she was lying there overnight, exposed, and part of the morning too. Her chest is slashed open, and, as you can see, her eyes have gone. A patrol car noticed the car first, about half an hour ago. She was in a BMW, too smart to be an abandoned vehicle. They thought joyriders had left it there. Then they noticed the birds, as you said, and they stopped to investigate. This is what they found.'

Ian stared at the pale blood-streaked face on the screen, trying to avoid looking directly at the eye sockets. Somehow they drew his attention, like gaping dark magnets. He had to look. Around the edges of the sockets he could see bone showing through, picked clean of flesh and tissue. Behind him there was a disturbance as someone ran from the room. Ian felt a tremor of pride that he hadn't been sick. He wasn't sure it was a good thing, but he was growing accustomed to viewing damaged corpses. It certainly helped him professionally. When he had started working in murder investigations, his squeamishness around dead bodies had been difficult to conceal. He wondered how many of his fellow officers had experienced similar problems. At least one member of his current team had not yet learned to control his reaction when faced with a mutilated human cadaver.

‘Her name is Beryl Morrison, aged sixty-three, living in North London. The car is registered in her name. What was she doing on the road between York and Leeds last night, and how did she encounter the killer? This attack raises a lot of questions and we need answers fast. SOCOs are scouring the site, but what I want to know is, what was our axe man doing halfway to Tadcaster? How did he get there? And why was he able to pull his victim from her car? He must have flagged her down somehow. Was he driving in front of her? Did anyone else see him? Can anyone describe his vehicle?'

She didn't add that someone might have noted down his registration number. That was too unlikely a stroke of luck to dare hope for.

‘He might have made out his car had broken down,' someone suggested.

‘But why would she stop? She could have phoned for help, or he could have. What made her stop and open her door for him?'

The discussion was inconclusive. This latest murder was puzzling, in many ways. The atmosphere changed rapidly from shocked inactivity to purposeful bustle as they split up to seek out more information. Ian felt ambivalent about his first task as he set off for London, to speak to the victim's husband. It was a depressing task, telling family about the death of a loved one. In some ways it was the worst part of his job. The dead were gone and beyond pain. The living would suffer for the rest of their lives. A Metropolitan police officer could be sent to Mr Morrison's house to give him the terrible news, but it was possible the dead woman's husband might be privy to information that would aid the investigation. Ian wanted to be there in person, to make sure the bereaved family were asked the right questions.

He was already on the train to London when he realised that he had forgotten to phone Bev to check she had arrived in Kent. He called her, but she didn't answer. On the point of calling her parents, he hesitated. He didn't really want to talk to his mother-in-law just then. It was more important to work on what he needed to find out from the dead woman's husband. Speaking to Bev would have to wait until later. An added incentive for travelling to London was that he could take the opportunity to look up his former colleague and fellow inspector, Geraldine Steel. She worked in North London. When he called her on the off chance, she answered straight away.

‘How about lunch?' he asked when he had explained he was on a train to London. ‘I know it's short notice, but I'm on my way to North London. It's all very last minute. I'll explain when I see you.' He realised he had made it sound as though he was expecting her to drop whatever she was doing to come and meet him. ‘If you can spare the time, that is.'

She laughed. ‘You're going to be in North London and you think I might not make time to see you?'

He smiled. ‘I'm looking forward to seeing you.'

‘Me too. It's been a while.'

44

It was barely
midday when Ian rang the bell at the Morrison's house. The victim had lived with her seventy-five-year-old husband in an expensive area just off Totteridge Lane in North London. The door was opened by a white-haired man. He peered short-sightedly at Ian with a slightly puzzled expression. He would have been as tall as Ian if he hadn't been standing with shoulders hunched, his back bowed. His voice was hoarse and he had a peevish expression on his craggy face.

‘Whatever it is you want, I'm not interested.'

Ian introduced himself and the old man took a step back, frowning.

‘A police officer? Oh dear. Has something happened?'

Ian suggested they go inside. This was not a message to be delivered standing on a doorstep. The old man fussed for a while. After scrutinising Ian's identity card he went inside to call the local police station and check his visitor's credentials. Ian waited patiently outside the closed door. He had travelled a long way to speak to the widower, but he couldn't fault him for being careful. When the front door reopened, Mr Morrison looked worried.

‘They told me you've come all the way from York.'

‘That's right. Can we go inside? You might want to sit down.'

‘It's Beryl, isn't it? Has she had an accident? I don't understand why you've come here from York.'

He was babbling nervously, preventing Ian from answering his questions.

Gently, Ian guided him inside and into the living room where he virtually pushed the old man down on a leather armchair.

‘Mr Morrison, I'm afraid your wife…'

‘I knew it! I knew something like this would happen.'

‘Mr Morrison, I don't think…'

‘Driving all that way, by herself, I knew there'd be an accident. I told her!' He looked angry, but Ian understood he was scared. ‘She will be all right, won't she? Where is she? I need to get to York, don't I? Is that what you've come here to tell me? Can you take me to her? I'll get my coat.'

He half stood up. Ian asked him to remain seated and he sank back into his chair again, his expression openly frightened now. Hating himself for falling back on the cliché, Ian began by saying there was no easy way to pass on the news.

‘I'm afraid your wife's dead.'

‘No! I shouldn't have let her go.'

‘It wasn't a car accident. She was murdered.'

‘Murdered? I don't understand.' Mr Morrison shook his head, as though trying to clear his mind. ‘What do you mean, she was murdered? She was going to visit our son…' He gasped. ‘Is Luke… has anything happened…'

‘Your wife was on the road to Leeds when she was attacked. Does your son live in Leeds?'

‘Yes, yes,' the widower began to gabble, as though talking would bat Ian's words away. ‘Yes, Luke lives in Leeds. He only moved there a month ago. Beryl was desperate to go and see him. I've been laid up with a bad back. I didn't want to sit in the car all that time so she said she'd go by herself. Oh God, why didn't I go with her? She should have got the train. I told her. Oh God.'

He dropped his head in his hands and began to cry. Ian wondered whether he had been rash, travelling all the way to London to bring Mr Morrison the news that his wife had been murdered. He had been keen to question the widower himself. Now he wasn't sure that would be possible. He gave the old man a few moments then spoke to him gently.

‘Would you like me to make some tea? Then I'll ask you a few questions about your wife, if I may.'

Mr Morrison looked up and heaved a deep sigh. ‘I'll be all right, just give me another minute. And don't worry about the tea.'

‘Is there someone you can call? Someone who can come and keep you company for a while?'

Mr Morrison frowned. ‘I suppose I'll have to tell her…'

‘Who?'

‘Our daughter. She'll have to know, won't she? Luke's in Leeds. Suzy's in Enfield, not far away. I could phone her. But what do I say?'

‘Would you like me to tell her?'

‘No, no. I'll tell her myself. And what about Luke? Do I tell him this over the phone?'

Ian said he would arrange for a police officer to visit the son in Leeds and tell him face to face.

Mr Morrison nodded. ‘Thank you.' He drew in a shuddering breath. ‘What happened?'

‘It seems she met someone on the road who attacked her. Did she know anyone in the area? She was killed just outside York, on the road to Leeds.'

Mr Morrison shook his head. He looked puzzled as he assured Ian that his wife didn't know anyone living in Yorkshire, apart from their son, Luke.

‘Are you sure? Could she have some connection in the area that you were unaware of?'

‘Inspector, we've been married – we were married, that is – for thirty-three years. We've never been to the north of England, never. And no one she knows moved there, until Luke went to Leeds. We were married for thirty-three years,' he repeated, tears in his eyes again. ‘You don't keep secrets after all those years, Inspector. I would have known.'

Walking back along the road towards the car that had brought him there from the station, Ian thought about what Mr Morrison had said. It didn't make much sense. According to her husband, the victim hadn't known anyone living in the area. Yet she had stopped her car and opened the door to a stranger. With a sigh, Ian instructed his driver to drop him at the nearest station. From Totteridge and Whetstone he took the Northern line down to Kings Cross where he had arranged to meet his former colleague. Geraldine was travelling down a different branch of the Northern line to meet him there. She had been his superior officer back in Kent when he was still a sergeant, before her move to London and his promotion to inspector. Her sharp insights had been legendary in the Kent constabulary, and he still missed working with her. He couldn't wait to discuss his current workload with her. The longer he spent investigating the case, the less sense it seemed to make. Looking at the facts with a fresh eye, he hoped she might be able to make sense of the mystery surrounding the axe murders.

45

Ian and his
former colleague had arranged to meet in a pub upstairs at Kings Cross station. Geraldine was already waiting there when he arrived. He spotted her as soon as he walked in. She was sitting against the wall, looking out for him. Her short dark hair glistened and her dark eyes seemed to glow with health. She half rose to her feet, and gave a little wave. He raised his hand to show he had seen her and she sank back into her seat, following him with her eyes as he made his way over to her. They didn't shake hands, or indicate through any physical gesture how pleased they were to see one another, but he returned her smile. It was enough.

‘It's a bit less hectic up here,' she said as he sat down. ‘We'll be able to hear ourselves talk. But let's order first. I'm starving!'

Ian grinned. He hadn't realised how hungry he was until then. While they were waiting for their food, he explained the reason for his trip to London. It was a relief to be able to talk about the purpose of his visit to Mr Morrison without being swamped with expressions of sympathy. Instead of commiserating, Geraldine spoke directly. They had worked too closely together in the past to feel awkward talking about death.

‘This is your axe murderer we're talking about, isn't it? The case is all over the news. I thought you must be working on it. I mean, York are going to put their best detective on a case like this, aren't they?'

He smiled at the compliment. She had praised his skills before, usually adding that she took full credit since she had trained him.

‘So where does the woman from Tottenham fit into it?' she asked, when he had outlined what had happened so far.

Ian explained they were working on the theory that she had been flagged down on her way to visiting her son in Leeds.

‘She was found lying across the front seats of her car. Her feet were still on the driver's side. The passenger door was open and she'd been dragged sideways from her seat head first, and her chest slashed open.'

‘With an axe.'

‘Exactly.'

Geraldine looked thoughtful. ‘So she stopped her car, we don't know why, and either she opened her door to enable him to grab hold of her, or else she left it unlocked for him to be able to open it from the outside.' She paused. ‘Was the window open?'

Ian looked up from his soup. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Was the passenger window open? If she stopped for some reason, and someone came towards her, what would she do? If she didn't drive off again quickly, wouldn't she have opened the window to hear what he wanted, before opening the door?'

Ian closed his eyes, picturing the scene. ‘The windows were shut.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘No. Shall I check? It won't take a moment.'

He made a phone call that confirmed the car windows had all been closed when the body was found.

Geraldine resumed thinking aloud. ‘So did she open the door to let him in? Or did the killer open it himself before he dragged her from her seat? Isn't that a bit odd? Someone opens your car door and grabs you. Wouldn't you try to drive away? She didn't get out of the car at all, did she?'

‘No. Her feet were still inside.'

They ate in silence for a moment.

‘This is all assuming she didn't know him, of course,' she added as she finished her soup. ‘Could someone have followed her from London? I don't see why not. Or what about the son who's moved up there? What do we know about his circumstances?'

Ian told her that Beryl's son had been living with his partner for three years and they had a one-year-old. It didn't sound as though the son or his partner would be setting out to murder Beryl.

‘And in any case, what about the other two victims? Anyway, we've sent an officer from Leeds to inform the son of his mother's death, and while we're at it, we'll eliminate him if we can. But he seems an unlikely suspect, given the other deaths.'

Geraldine nodded. ‘Although he has just moved to the area, hasn't he? And is it a bit of a coincidence that she's killed so close to where her son lives?'

Ian felt a momentary excitement. It was just possible the killer was connected to Beryl and that her murder would offer them the lead they so desperately needed.

‘But don't forget, the others were killed in the centre of York. This doesn't feel like a domestic. Beryl's the third victim.'

‘She's the third one we know about,' Geraldine reminded him. ‘There could be others.'

‘Don't say that! Someone outside the car got her to stop before he pulled her out of the car to kill her,' Ian repeated. ‘That's all we know for sure. Why did she stop?'

‘That's just what I was wondering. It was night. A woman of sixty, out driving alone in the dark. Is it reasonable to suppose she stopped her car for a stranger, and not only that, but she left the passenger door unlocked?'

They discussed the possibility that Beryl's car had broken down. If that was the case, she might have asked another driver for help. But they agreed that didn't make sense either. The car had been checked and nothing appeared to be amiss, and in any case Beryl would have telephoned for help, not stopped a passing stranger. Her phone was working, the battery charged. It was in her bag. As far as they could tell, she hadn't even tried to call anyone.

Over coffee the conversation moved on. Neither of them had kept in close contact with any other former colleagues in Kent so they chatted about themselves. Geraldine was keen to know how Ian liked York. He told her he was pleased with his move, but his wife hadn't settled yet.

‘It's early days,' she replied.

‘She needs to do something.'

‘Yes. Everyone needs to do something.'

They parted with mutual assurances that they would keep in touch. They had worked closely together on several cases in the past, sometimes facing extreme danger side by side. Such experiences were bonding. No longer a colleague, Ian thought of her as a close friend. He hoped she felt the same way about him.

‘You know you can always call me if you need to talk about a case,' she said. ‘Any time.'

‘Same here.' Staring into her unfathomable dark eyes, he added, ‘if you need anything at all.'

She laughed at that. ‘How about a seriously rich single man with no baggage?'

Usually one for lighthearted banter, Ian couldn't think what to say. He wasn't rich, but for an instant he almost wished he was single. He turned away without answering.

Watching the gently undulating green landscape flash past the train window, fields and trees, occasionally cows and sheep, Ian pictured a woman stopping her car out of town at night to speak to a stranger. Geraldine had raised an important question. Had Beryl known her killer? It was hard to believe she would have stopped for a stranger, but her husband was adamant she had known no one in the area apart from her son and his family.