‘We need to formally ID this one, but it’s not Beth Rose,’ said Mortimer. ‘We believe it’s a thirty-seven-year-old white female called Bryony Wilson. At least that’s what we’ve got from the ID on her.’
He led them down the hallway and through the first door on the left into a small living room. A sofa had been pulled out and behind it lay the body of an obese young woman with a length of telephone cord tight around her neck. Her face was bloated and purple.
Two CSIs were crouching down and taking swabs from under the victim’s fingernails, which were black.
‘Tommy, can you get me a close-up of the face and neck,’ said a voice Erika recognised. The crime scene photographer leaned over and took a shot and then stood back, revealing Isaac.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think this was part of your investigation.’
Erika quickly explained why they were there.
‘This poor girl was strangled,’ said Isaac. ‘I don’t think she was killed in here. This carpet is fairly new and can you see there are marks where she was dragged. There are also carpet burns on the backs of her thighs, which would indicate that she was still alive when she was dragged through, although only just… There’s bruising to her face, and the wrists; there are fingermarks just below the right hand.’
The crime scene photographer leaned in and took another shot. The flash dazzled Erika, and the small white light swam in her vision for a few seconds. She smiled at Isaac. He nodded. They came back out in to the hallway with DCI Mortimer.
‘Who found her?’ asked Peterson.
‘Her cleaner,’ he said. ‘There was also a carving knife on the floor here, but no blood. Which leads me to think she was trying to defend herself. We need to check it for prints.’ He indicated the kitchen, and they followed him down the hall. ‘She was found with her handbag; all the cash and cards were in there, so I’d rule out this being burglary.’
The kitchen was small and cosy, with a view out over a tiny dark yard. A row of orange streetlights illuminated four large gas towers. Laid out on a small kitchen table with two chairs were the contents of Bryony’s handbag.
‘The cleaner did the living room last,’ said Mortimer.
‘So she cleaned up the dirt and the forensic evidence?’ added Moss. Mortimer nodded.
Erika went to the contents of the handbag laid out and labelled in clear plastic bags. Bryony Wilson’s work ID caught her eye. She picked up the evidence bag and stared at it, turning it over in her hand.
‘What is it?’ asked Moss.
‘This ID. Look. Bryony Wilson worked for Genesis,’ said Erika.
‘If she works for them, then that’s the connection,’ said Peterson.
‘But what the hell is the connection?’ asked Moss.
Chapter Seventy-Five
Erika, Moss, and Peterson left the crime scene and removed their crime scene overalls, depositing them in bags for the crime scene manager.
DCI Mortimer accompanied them out, and one of his officers met them at the front gate.
‘You need to see this, sir.’
They all moved across the road, to where a police support van was parked with the headlights on full beam. Just in front of it, a uniformed officer stood beside a drain, the cover removed, and was training a torch down to where another officer wore blue crime scene overalls and was lying on her side on the tarmac, with her arm deep in the drain. Just as they reached her, she pulled out her arm, her sleeve black and grimy, and in her gloved hand she held a muddy cracked mobile phone. She placed it in a clear evidence bag.
‘This is getting weirder by the minute,’ said Peterson. ‘If the blue Ford pulled into this street, or when it pulled in, it would have been on this side of the street.’
‘We need to find out who that phone belongs to,’ said Erika.
‘If it’s Beth’s it counts out us knowing where he took her, if he dumped the phone here,’ said Moss.
‘But what has Bryony Wilson got to do with all this?’ asked Peterson.
‘If that’s all, I need to get back into my crime scene. Let’s keep in contact by phone,’ said DCI Mortimer.
They thanked him and went back to their car parked at the entrance to the street.
* * *
Erika put on the heaters, and they sat in silence for a moment. The glowing clock on the display showed it was coming up to 4 a.m.
‘What do we make of all this?’ asked Erika, turning to face Moss, who was sitting in the back. Peterson turned also, hooking a long arm over the back of his seat.
‘Okay. Bryony Wilson worked for Genesis. All our victims have been found in dumpsters owned and managed by Genesis. She’s the obvious link to the killer,’ said Moss.
‘You think she was involved?’ added Peterson.
‘Beth Rose was abducted just after 8.15 p.m. Twenty minutes later, the car comes here. Bryony could have been involved,’ said Erika.
‘We’re looking at a couple who kill?’ asked Moss.
Erika drummed her fingers on the window. ‘We need to have her house pulled apart. Check for anything suspicious, computers, forensics, people who knew her. I also want to pay a visit to the office where she worked. There are seventeen Genesis offices in London alone. We now have this one office where she worked. What time do you think it will be open?’
‘I wouldn’t expect people to start arriving for work until eight thirty, nine a.m.,’ said Peterson. ‘So that’s four, five hours.’
‘What’s the chances of us getting home and back in time? There’s rush hour to take into account…’
‘Maybe we should find somewhere to bunk down for a couple of hours, get some sleep,’ said Moss.
Peterson nodded. Erika looked out into the darkness and a fine sheen of rain began to fall.
‘Thank you, both of you,’ she said. ‘I know we’ve been on the go for hours, but we’re getting closer. How long since Beth was abducted?’
‘Coming up to fifty-seven hours,’ said Moss.
‘Shit,’ said Erika. ‘What if we’re too late?’
Chapter Seventy-Six
Beth had lain on the cold floor of the cage, drifted in and out of sleep, and lost track of time. The cold and the lack of food sapped her energy. Despite the bandage on her arm, the blood continued to seep through the crepe material. Her jeans were wet, but it was dark and she couldn’t be sure if she’d wet herself, or if it was blood.
She now knew who was keeping her captive, but she cursed herself for not paying attention to the news. She’d heard her friends at drama school talking about girls who had been abducted and then left in dumpsters. She’d been through stages of blind panic, screaming the place down, and then calm resolution. At one point she’d started to cry, thinking that her dream of fame would now come true – but it would be as a murder victim.
In the darkness she had felt around several times at the padlock which fastened the chain behind her neck, but lifting her bound hands stretched the cuts on her arms and made her hands slippery with blood.
Once or twice she’d thought he was coming back, when there were some bangs and shudders, but then she heard a terrible wailing sound. Was he keeping another girl here?
‘Hello?’ she yelled. ‘Hello who’s there?’