23
The fastest way back was on foot. Thread Street had been cordoned off anyway, because of the protest. They ran through stinging rain, Ozzie ahead, Bev close by, coat mis-buttoned, dress clinging to her thighs. Terraced houses and parked cars flashed past peripherally as every step took them closer. The only sound was the slap of soles on wet pavement. Bev had a host of questions, breath for just one. “Any ID?”
“Not yet.”
One name was beating in her head, keeping time with her pounding footsteps. How could she have been so stupid? If Vicki Flinn was in Brighton, Bev was The Queen. She’d been sold a line, and bought it wholesale.
As they rounded the corner the crowd, mostly silent now, turned to stare. Bev slowed up and scanned faces as she made for the park’s iron gates. People were congregated in small groups, sharing umbrellas; others were clustered along the railings, sheltering under the sparse overhang of trees. Anti-whore placards lay in the gutter, others were propped between the metal spikes. Strange, she thought, how no one was claiming ownership now – or authorship. She nodded at a uniform, one of many, circulating with notebooks and questions.
There was a ripple of excitement as several people pointed up the road. Bev turned and recognised a blonde off the local TV news. The girl must have flashed something to get past the police tapes. She was stumbling towards the action as fast as four-inch heels allowed. A camera crew was right behind, the first of many, once the news really broke. Bev tightened her mouth. The media were going to love this. Enough cops around to police a state funeral and still there’d been another murder. The crowd was already loving it. The drongos were wetting their knickers at the thought of getting on the box. In her mind, all Bev could see was a body. She shook her head. “Let’s get on with it.”
Ozzie held the gate open. “Watch your footing. It’ll be slippy.” He handed her a torch. “The governor said you’d know where to head.” She frowned, then recalled that Ozzie hadn’t actually visited the scene. She led them down a path through the trees to Bogart’s pool. She was shivering, didn’t know whether it was down to the cold, or shock, or something else. Bare branches overhead provided little protection from the rain; naked roots were a hazard underfoot.
“Shit!”
“You okay?” Oz asked.
I’m alive, aren’t I? She said nothing; realised she was too angry to speak. They were close now. She could see torch beams playing through tree trunks, raindrops dancing in the flares. She gasped as a wider tableau suddenly appeared. She should have realised immediately that the police floodlighting had kicked in, but she was jumpy, on edge. It took time to get used to the glare; she used it for steadying breaths, aware there were worse sights ahead. Everything was bathed in shades of black and white and silver. It reminded her of a Hitchcock movie. She realised simultaneously, that the impression had been reinforced because she’d glimpsed the silhouette of a man standing near the water. It was Byford’s; maybe she’d tell him, one day. Now was not the time for small talk. She looked again, his head was down, hands deep in his pockets. There must have been others around – the crew that had rigged the lighting for instance – but he appeared a forlorn and lonely figure. It was as she moved further in, and he turned at the sound, that she saw the body. She froze for several seconds then forced herself to continue, focusing exclusively on the girl.
She was young: early to mid teens; long limbs. The bobbed hair appeared black. The face couldn’t be seen from this angle. Bev was ninety per cent sure she knew whose it was. She concentrated on breath control and continued the visual examination. The girl’s arms were flung out as if she’d fallen, although there were no obvious injuries. She was wearing a short denim jacket and a denim skirt that was now round her waist. Bev itched to pull it down, straighten it, restore a little dignity. Given the greater degradation to come, the act would have been pointless, except in putting off the inevitable question. Byford voiced it anyway. “Do you know her?”
Bev didn’t answer. Keeping her glance on the girl, she inched forward, anxious not to contaminate the scene or slip in the sodden earth. She was silently chanting prayers to a God she’d never forgotten but thought she’d long ago renounced.
The girl’s head was facing the water. Bev had to work her way carefully around the body. There were noises: SOCOs gearing up; the bark of a police dog. All Bev remembered later was Byford’s whispered warning.
“Prepare yourself, Bev. She’s a mess.”
Bev knelt and gently lifted strands of hair obscuring the girl’s features. Her eyes were drawn not to the face, but to a gaping wound in the slender, white neck. She registered two thoughts. First: Byford was right, the body was a mess. Second: whoever it was, it wasn’t Vicki Flinn. She released a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding and knew without doubt she was about to throw up.
“It can happen to anyone. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
Bev’s eyes – and pride – were smarting. She gave a wan smile, aware Byford was only trying to make her feel better. She was still trembling, perched on an ancient tree stump, didn’t yet trust her legs to take her full weight. She could still smell blood and piss and decay but it wasn’t just that. She’d convinced herself the victim was Vicki and when she’d seen the dead eyes of a stranger, the shock had given way to a sick relief, followed by spasms of guilt, then a gut-wrenching anger. Literally.
She’d never take the piss again when some other poor sod puked at the sight of a body. The only saving grace was that she’d made it to the water. The contents of her alimentary canal had sunk into the murky depths of Bogart’s Pool. Pity the poor bloody divers if they had to drag it. And they might. They hadn’t found an ID yet and it looked as if several items of clothing were missing. SOCOs were on the case, but a proper search needed daylight.
“Why don’t you go home?” Byford suggested. “DC Khan can give you a lift.” He nodded at Ozzie, who was hovering at a discreet distance. “Get some rest, Bev. You’ll need all your energy tomorrow.”
She looked up and a sharp pain shot through her head. “I can’t. There’s loads to do.”
“It may have escaped your attention,” Byford drawled, “but half the bloody force is out here already.”
Sarcasm and swearing; as bad as that. She was dying to know how the unthinkable had happened.
“Don’t ask,” he sighed. “A body. Under our ruddy noses.” He nodded as a dog handler signalled to ask whether it was okay to go past. “Christ, I could do with a cigarette.”
“Thought you’d never smoked.”
“Exactly.” He rubbed a hand down the side of his face. “The doctor thought she may have been here several hours. She might even have been killed somewhere else and dumped later.”
Bev nodded. At least the girl hadn’t been dragged off the street in full view of the local constabulary. “Couldn’t have been much before four, surely?” she asked. “It’s still light before then.” Even the most ardent dog walker or fun runner would break off pursuits to report a body in the park.
“Your guess is as good as mine. That’s all we are doing till the post mortem.” He pushed up a coat sleeve, glanced at his watch. “Harry’ll be here any time. I’m happy to hang round. I still think you should get off.”
“Who found her?”
“Some bloke who says he nipped in here to take a leak.”
She supposed it was possible. “One of the protesters?”
He nodded. “Mike Powell’s talking to him now.”
She closed her eyes, saw the girl’s gaping wound again, swallowed hard, tasted bile.
“It’s the same killer, isn’t it?”
Byford didn’t answer. He was staring into space, an expression on his face she hadn’t seen there before. It was an appalling crime. He seemed somehow diminished by it. She sighed. They’d all be diminished by it once the hacks got going.
“The media circus’ll be setting up tent.”
He shrugged. “We might need them if we don’t get a name soon. I thought you might know who she was.” He paused. “For a minute back there you did too, didn’t you?”
She didn’t say anything. He pushed. “Vicki Flinn?”
She gave a quick nod. “Sick, isn’t it? I was actually relieved for a second.”
“You like the girl. It’s only natural.”
“Natural? Somebody loves that girl.” Bev nodded towards the body. “She was somebody’s baby once. There’s a mother somewhere out there, waiting for her to come home.” She looked down at her hands. “And for a few seconds, I was actually pleased that it wasn’t someone I know.”
“You’re all in, Bev. Go home.”
“Hold on.” She narrowed her eyes. “The meeting tonight? A couple of girls didn’t show.”
“Bev.” He kept his voice low. “She could be anyone. There’s no reason to suppose…”
The mobile was in her hand before he’d finished. “It’s worth a check.”
She guessed Val had been waiting by the phone. It was answered at the first ring. Bev dodged a few questions then put several of her own. It soon became clear the victim wasn’t Jo; the girl had turned up minutes after Bev’s sharp exit. Val’s description of Kylie was too close not to call. She hung on impatiently while Val searched for a number for the girl’s foster parents.
Bev glanced round uneasily. Byford had wandered off to have a word with one of the crime-scene team. A dog barked, made her jump. She shivered; the place was giving her the creeps. She hated the shadows and the smells, the creaking of branches and snapping of twigs. She only had to turn her head to see the dead girl.
It was a relief when Val came back with the goods. In return, the woman wanted details Bev didn’t know and reassurances she couldn’t give. She evaded another volley of questions and rang off promising to be in touch. She glanced at her watch: just after ten. It took less than a minute to establish that Kylie was safe at home. Bev shoved the phone back in her pocket, rubbed her face with her hands. Now what?
“Sarge?” It was Ozzie, running towards her. “The dog. It’s found something.”
She glanced over at Byford, who was already rushing back.
“Just through here.” Ozzie was in front. “It was nosing round one of the bins.”
They reached a small clearing. Bev knew the handler by sight, couldn’t remember his name. At his side, a massive longhaired Alsatian was yanking frantically at its lead. “It wasn’t hidden, sir,” the man said. “It was just shoved on top of all the rubbish.”
Byford was pulling on surgical gloves as he peered into the bin. “Looks like a bag or something.”
Bev moved nearer, hair rising on the back of her neck. It was about time they had a break. She watched as Byford delved in. It put her in mind of a lucky dip at a church fete. But what he brought out was of no use to a middle-aged male cop. It was a tasselled hat, royal blue, with a silver trim. And it was part of the uniform for one of the best girls’ schools in the city. Bev recognised it immediately. And the name that had been embroidered so neatly on the tag inside.
She must have gasped. There was a sharp edge to Byford’s voice. “What is it?”
“I think it’s one of ours, sir.” There was silence as she struggled to make sense of what she was seeing. The dog barked, irritating an already impatient Byford. It acted as a prompt even though her thoughts were still unclear. “It’s the name. You don’t come across it very often.” Bev met Byford’s gaze. “I know a Louella Kent. And I know she goes to the Holy Child School.”
“And?” Byford asked.
“The Louella Kent I know is DS Kent’s daughter.”