Isaac shook his head as they stared at the photos spread out over the table.
Erika went on: ‘The remaining clothes Janelle was wearing, a low-cut top and a see-through black lace bra are described as “provocative” in Benton’s report, so he leans on the theory that she may have been a prostitute who met a nasty end…’
‘As opposed to Lacey Greene who was a nice middle-class university graduate who went missing,’ finished Isaac.
They looked back through the crime scene photos of Janelle. The black lace bra, and a flimsy top with spaghetti straps she wore were both filthy and soaked with blood, and she was naked below the waist. Like Lacey, her legs were criss-crossed with cuts, and streaked with blood.
‘Were there any witnesses in Chichester Road?’ asked Isaac.
‘No. But there are striking similarities to the Lacey Greene crime scene. This time the dumpster was in the car park of an old print-works at the end of a residential street. The car park is shielded by trees. A neighbour found her body when she went to put a bag of household rubbish in the dumpster.’
‘Erika. Is the SIO on the case aware of this?’
‘I hope so. I’ve left Melanie Hudson three messages: two this morning, one this afternoon… I also called the nick and told them I left messages. She hasn’t got back to me.’
‘You know how crazy things can get…’
‘Isaac, if this was my investigation I’d leap on this. It would go to the top of the queue,’ she said, jabbing her finger at the crime scene photos.
Isaac flicked back through the report. ‘The flies had got to her, I remember. There were larvae in her wounds.’
‘There’s another thing. Your report on the post-mortem is incomplete.’
‘Incomplete?’
‘You can see the file is a mess. I’ve tried to get in contact with DCI Benton, but he’s now on an extended holiday in the Australian outback.’
Isaac studied the printed pages. ‘Yes, there seems to be a page missing. Do you think something is being covered up?’
‘No. I’ve had a look at Benton. He’s had a long distinguished career. It looks like in this instance he was sloppy.’
‘Presumably concentrating more on his imminent retirement,’ said Isaac.
‘I just need to know what the missing section of your report contains. Specifically, if Janelle’s wounds had started to heal, and if you found bruising to her wrists and neck consistent with her being chained up?’
‘Hang on. I can check. I backup all of my reports,’ said Isaac, getting up. He went upstairs and returned a few moments later with a printout. ‘Yes, the wounds had started to heal, and I identified bruising consistent with her wrists and neck being bound with a small-link chain.’
Erika took the printout from him and read it. ‘How long can you work on this from the sidelines?’
‘Not much longer,’ she said.
‘You’re going to have to pass all of this on, and let it go, Erika.’
‘I can’t.’
‘But Sparks is running the Murder Investigation Team, and DCI Hudson reports to him. What makes you think he’d hand it over to you?’
Erika hesitated. ‘Isaac, I’ve been thinking. Perhaps I should apologise to Sparks.’
‘Are you mad?’
‘No. What if I went to see him and laid it all on the table? I apologise and I ask if we can wipe the slate clean. I’ll say I’m prepared to eat humble pie and work with him.’
Isaac’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Humble pie isn’t a dish I’ve ever seen you order, and after all that’s happened, you’re going to apologise to him? That’s not the kind of thing you do, Erika.’
She sighed. ‘Maybe it should be. I’m so stubborn and blunt with so many people. Maybe it’s time to change. This case has got under my skin. I need to work on it. My pride and my stubborn attitude has resulted in me pushing paperwork, stuck in a desk job.’
‘You really think you can wipe the slate clean with Sparks? You had him thrown off the Andrea Douglas-Brown murder case. And you didn’t pull any punches.’
‘I have to at least try. What matters to me is finding who did this to these two young women. These murders were sadistic and well planned… And I don’t think it was Steven Pearson. Which means not only do they have the wrong man, but the bastard who did this is still out there, waiting until the dust settles so he can do it again.’
Chapter Eleven
It was early evening when Darryl Bradley left the train. He was often the only person to alight at the small station on the outskirts of London, the last stop on the daily commute. He walked out of the station and went to his car, parked in its usual spot by a wire fence, backing onto snow-covered trees and fields.
It was cold inside the car as he set off home, keeping to the speed limit as he drove through a small village, the shops and houses shuttered up for the night. At the end of the village was a set of crossroads and the traffic lights were red. He came to a stop and glanced over at the Golden Lion pub, which sat on a grassy bank to his right. The windows were steamed up, and glowing softly. A minicab pulled into the car park, and two attractive young girls got out. One had dark hair and the other was blonde. They were dressed for a night out, in tight jeans and smart little jackets.
A car came roaring up to the lights, swerved around him, and drew level, on the wrong side of the road. Darryl saw it was Morris Cartwright driving. He was a thin man in his late twenties, with lank greasy hair and a grimy virility. He was employed by Darryl’s father on their farm. Morris’s windows were open, and he made a sign for Darryl to wind his down, which, reluctantly, he did.
‘Alright office boy?’ he grinned. His gums showed pink and wet above a line of yellowing teeth. Morris was well known in the surrounding villages. He had a dodgy past, but never seemed to have any trouble finding a woman – not that he was known for his high standards.
‘Evening,’ said Darryl, looking back pleadingly at the traffic lights, which remained red.
Morris tipped his head towards the pub car park, and the two young girls. The dark-haired one was bending into the mini cab to pay the driver. Her short jacket had ridden up, revealing taut honey-coloured skin and a black Chinese symbol tattoo at the base of her spine. Her blonde friend was waiting patiently to one side, and she noticed Morris staring.
‘You want my fucking autograph?’ she snapped.
‘Nah. I was just admiring your friend’s tattoo. What does it say?’ he asked as the mini cab pulled away. The dark-haired girl turned her attention to Morris , and gave him the once over, clocking him as a loser.
‘It’s the Chinese word for peace,’ she said.
‘That’s nice. I like having something to read when I’m in the shitter!’ said Morris, thrusting his hips up and down at the steering wheel and sticking out his tongue. The lights turned green, and he roared away with a crazy laugh and screech of tyres.
Darryl was left staring at the two girls.