Fever of the Bone

CHAPTER 6

The rain was still teeming when Alvin Ambrose arrived to pick up his boss from the post mortem on Jennifer Maidment. Any chance of garnering trace evidence from the crime scene was long gone. The only source of physical information about Jennifer’s fate was the girl’s body itself. DI Patterson trotted to the car, head down and shoulders hunched against the sharp sting of the rain, and threw himself into the passenger seat. His face was scrunched up in disgust, blue eyes almost invisible between lids swollen from lack of sleep. Ambrose wasn’t sure if the disgust was because of the weather or the autopsy. He nodded to the coffee carton in the cup holder. ‘Skinny latte,’ he said. Not that Patterson needed anything to make him skinnier.

Patterson shuddered. ‘Thanks, Alvin, but I’ve not got the stomach for it. You have it.’

‘How did it go?’ Ambrose asked, easing the car towards the car park exit.

Patterson yanked on his seat belt and stabbed it into its slot. ‘It’s never good, is it? Especially when it’s a kid.’

Ambrose knew better than to press for more. Patterson would take a few moments to compose himself, assemble his thoughts, then he’d share what he thought his bagman ought to know. They reached the main road and Ambrose paused. ‘Where to?’

Patterson considered, never one to leap to judgement. ‘Anything new come in while I’ve been in there?’

There had been plenty, a ragbag of bits and pieces signifying not a lot. Stuff that was going nowhere, bits and pieces that officers way down the totem pole would have eliminated by teatime. One of Ambrose’s roles in their partnership was to sift through what came in and decide what was worth Patterson’s attention. It was a responsibility he’d been apprehensive about when Patterson had first picked him out for his bagman, but he’d soon learned he had judgement worth trusting. That Patterson had known this ahead of him only cemented Ambrose’s respect for his boss. ‘Nothing that needs your attention, ‘ Ambrose said.

Patterson sighed, his hollow cheeks puffing in and out. ‘Let’s go and see the parents, then.’

Ambrose turned into the traffic and summoned up a mental map of the best route. Before he’d made the first turning, Patterson began talking. It was, Ambrose thought, quick off the mark for his boss. A measure of how heavy Jennifer Maidment was weighing on his spirit.

‘Cause of death was asphyxiation. The polythene bag over her head, it was taped tight to her neck. No sign of a struggle at all. No blow to the head. No scratches or bruises, no blood or skin under her fingernails.’ His voice was leaden, the words slow and deliberate.

‘Sounds like she was drugged.’

‘Looks that way.’ Patterson’s face altered as anger replaced depression. Two dark flushes of colour tinted his cheeks and his lips were tight against his teeth. ‘Of course, it’ll be fucking weeks before we get the toxicology results. I tell you, Alvin, the way we do forensic science in this country, it’s a joke. Even the crappy old NHS is faster. You go to the GP for a full set of blood tests and you get the results, what, forty-eight hours later? But it takes anything up to six weeks to deliver a toxicology result. If the bloody politicians really want to deter criminals and up the detection rate, they should throw money at the forensic services. It’s insane that we can only afford the technology in a tiny percentage of cases. And even when the accountants let us have some access, it takes fucking for ever. By the time we get the results, nine times out of ten all it does is back up what we’ve already pulled off with old-fashioned coppering. The forensics should be there to help the investigation, not just to confirm we’ve arrested the right villain. That Waking the Dead? And CSI? I sit there in front of the telly and it’s like some horrible black comedy. One episode and I’d have used up my entire budget for a year.’

It was a familiar rant, one of several that Patterson trotted out whenever he felt frustrated with a case. Ambrose understood that it wasn’t really about whatever his boss was criticising. It was about what Patterson saw as his failure to deliver the sort of progress that might help the grieving families with their pain. It was about being fallible. And there was nothing Ambrose could say that would make either of them feel better about that. ‘Tell me about it,’ was all he said. There was a long pause while he gave Patterson time to compose himself. ‘So what else did the doc have to say?’

‘The genital mutilation was apparently the work of an amateur. A long-bladed knife, very sharp. Probably not anything exotic - could have been a carving knife.’ Patterson made no attempt to disguise his revulsion. ‘He inserted the blade into the vagina and twisted it round. The doc reckons he might have been trying to cut out the whole lot - vagina, cervix, uterus. But he didn’t have the skill for it.’

‘So we’re probably not looking for someone with medical knowledge,’ Ambrose said, calm and apparently imperturbable as ever. But under the surface, he felt the slow build of a familiar dull anger, a rage he’d learned to contain as a teenager when everyone assumed that a big black lad was always going to be up for a fight. Because when he gave in to it, the fact that he was a big black lad meant he was always going to be in the wrong, one way or another. Better to burn inside than end up taking the weight of everybody else’s need to prove themselves. And that included teachers and parents. So he’d learned to box, learned to put the power of his fury under the discipline of the ring. He could have gone all the way, everyone said so. But he’d never enjoyed the demolition of his opponents enough to want to make a living out of it.

‘The doc said he wouldn’t even ask this one to carve a bloody turkey.’ Patterson sighed.

‘Any signs of sexual assault?’ Ambrose signalled to turn into the Maidments’ street. He knew how Patterson adored his Lily. There would be no mercy, no pity in this hunt if the killer had raped his victim too.

‘Impossible to tell. No anal trauma, no sperm in her mouth or throat. If we get really lucky, there might be something in the samples that have gone to the lab. But don’t hold your breath.’ The car drew to a halt. When they caught sight of him, the lounging pack of journalists came to life and surrounded the door. ‘Here we bloody go,’ he muttered. ‘Neither use nor ornament, most of them.’ Patterson shouldered his way through the throng, followed by Ambrose. ‘I’ve got no further comment,’ he muttered.

‘Give the family a break,’ Ambrose said, spreading his arms to keep them at bay as his boss approached the house. ‘Don’t make me waste our time getting the uniformed guys down here to move you away. You back off now, we’ll see what we can do about sorting out a press call with them, OK?’ He knew it was a pointless request, but at least they might try and make themselves a little less conspicuous for a while. And his bulk did sometimes carry its weight in these situations.

By the time he got to the door, Patterson was already halfway inside. The man holding the door would probably pass for handsome in other circumstances. His hair was thick and dark, shot through with silver. His features were regular, his blue eyes had that slight downward angle that seemed to appeal to women. But today, Paul Maidment had the gaunt and haunted look of a man one step away from life on the streets. Unshaven, hair awry and clothes crumpled, he looked blankly at them through red-rimmed eyes as though he’d lost his grip on all the conventions of behaviour. Ambrose couldn’t begin to imagine what it must be like to step off a plane thinking you’re about to be reunited with your family only to discover that your life has been shattered beyond repair.

Shami Patel hovered behind Maidment. She made the introductions. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get the door, I was in the kitchen making tea,’ she added. Ambrose could have told her Patterson didn’t care for excuses, but this wasn’t the time.

They filed into the living room and sat down. ‘We could all use some tea, Shami,’ Ambrose said. She nodded and left them.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t at the airport to meet you myself,’ Patterson said. ‘I had matters to attend to. Concerning Jennifer’s death, you understand.’

Maidment shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea what you people do, I just want you to get on with it. Find the person who did this. Stop them wrecking another family.’ His voice caught and he had to clear his throat noisily.

‘How’s your wife?’ Patterson said.

He coughed. ‘She’s . . . The doctor’s been. He’s given her something to knock her out. She managed to hold it together till I got home, but then . . . well, it’s better that she’s out of it.’ He spread his hand over his face and gripped tight, as if he wanted to rip his face off. His voice came at them slightly muffled. ‘I wish she could stay out of it for ever. But she’ll have to come back. And when she does, this’ll still be here.’

‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am,’ Patterson said. ‘I’ve a daughter about the same age. I know what she means to me and my wife.’

Maidment dragged his fingers down his face and stared at them, tears spilling from his eyes. ‘She’s our only child. There won’t be any more, not at Tania’s age. That’s it for us, this is where it ends. We used to be a family, now we’re just a couple.’ His voice cracked and shivered. ‘I don’t know how we get past this. I don’t understand this. How could this happen? How could somebody do this to my girl?’

Carrying a tray loaded with steaming mugs, milk and sugar, Shami returned. ‘Tea,’ she said, handing round the drinks. It was a mundane moment that broke the mood and made it possible for Patterson to move the interview forward.

‘According to Claire, Jennifer said she was planning to bake you a cake to welcome you home. That she had to go to the Co-op to get some chocolate for it. Was that something she usually did? Made a cake for you coming home?’ Patterson said gently.

Maidment looked baffled. ‘She’d never done it before. I didn’t even realise she knew how to bake a cake.’ He bit his lip. ‘If she hadn’t done that, if she’d just gone to Claire’s like she was supposed to . . .’

‘We’re not convinced she was telling Claire the truth,’ Patterson said, his voice gentle. Ambrose had always been impressed with Patterson’s care for those left in the shadows of violent death. The only word he could think to apply to it was ‘tender’. Like he was conscious of how much damage they’d already taken and he didn’t want to add to it. He could be tough, asking questions Ambrose would have struggled with. But underneath it, there was always a consideration of other people’s pain. Patterson let his words sink in, then continued. ‘We wondered if she was using that as an excuse so Claire wouldn’t ask too many questions about where Jennifer was really going. But we had to check with you. To see if it was the kind of thing she did when you’d been away.’

Maidment shook his head. ‘She’d never done anything like that. We usually went out for a celebration dinner if I’d been away for more than a couple of nights. All three of us. We’d go for a Chinese. It was always Jennifer’s favourite. She never baked me a cake.’ He shivered. ‘Never will now.’

Patterson waited for a few moments, then said, ‘We’ve been looking at Jennifer’s computer. It seems she and Claire spent a lot of time online, both together and separately. Did you know about that?’

Maidment clutched his drink like a man possessed by cold. He nodded. ‘They all do it. Even if you wanted to stop them, they’d still find a way. So we got together with the Darsies and insisted on the girls’ computers having all the parental controls on. It restricts where they can go and who can get to them.’

Up to a point, thought Ambrose. ‘She used RigMarole a lot,’ he said, picking up the baton of the questioning. He and Patterson had been working together so long they didn’t even have to discuss their tactics in advance. They knew instinctively how to let things flow between them. ‘The social networking site. Did she ever talk to you about it?’

Maidment nodded. ‘We’re very open as a family. We try not to be heavy-handed with Jennifer. We’ve always made a point of talking things through, explaining the reasons why we don’t let her do something or why we don’t approve of some behaviour or other. It kept the lines of communication open. I think she talked to us more than most teenagers. At least, judging by what our friends and my colleagues say about their kids.’ As often happened with the abruptly bereaved, talking about his dead daughter seemed to shift Maidment to a place where he could briefly disconnect from his grief.

‘So what did she have to say about RigMarole?’ Patterson said.

‘They liked it, her and Claire. She said they’d made a lot of online buddies who’re into the same TV programmes and music. I’ve got a page on RigMarole myself, I know how it works. It’s a very straightforward way of making connections with people who share your interests. And their filters are very good. It’s easy to shut somebody out of your community if they don’t fit or they’re breaking the boundaries you’re comfortable with.’

‘Did she ever mention someone with the initials Zed Zed? Or maybe Zee Zee?’ Ambrose asked.

Maidment ran a finger and thumb across his eyelids then rubbed the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘No. I’m pretty sure she didn’t. You’d be better off asking Claire about that level of detail. Why are you asking? Has this person been stalking her?’

‘Nothing like that, as far as we can see,’ Ambrose said. ‘But we recovered some message sessions between them. It looks as if ZZ was suggesting he or she knew some secret Jennifer had. Did she say anything like that to you or your wife?’

Maidment looked bewildered. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Look, Jennifer isn’t some wild child. She leads a pretty sheltered life, to tell you the truth. She’s hardly ever given us a minute’s worry. I know you’ve heard all that before, parents trying to make out their kid was a little angel. I’m not saying that. I’m saying she’s stable. Young for her years, if anything. If she had a secret, it wouldn’t be the sort of thing you’re thinking about. Drugs, or sex, or whatever. It would have been a crush on some lad, or something silly like that. Not the sort of thing that gets you murdered.’ The word brought reality crashing back down on Maidment, crushing him all over again. The tears began to creep down his cheeks. Without a word, Shami reached for a box of tissues and pressed a couple into his hand.

There was nothing else useful to be learned here, Ambrose thought. Not today. Maybe never. He glanced across at Patterson, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

‘I’m sorry,’ Patterson said. ‘We’ll be on our way now. I want you to know that we’re throwing everything we’ve got at this. But we still need your help. Maybe you could ask your wife if Jennifer said anything about this ZZ. Or about secrets.’ He stood up. ‘If there’s anything you need, DC Patel here will sort you out. We’ll be in touch.’

Ambrose followed him from the house, wondering how long it would be before Paul Maidment could get through five minutes without thinking of his murdered daughter.