Tracers

TWENTY-FIVE

The Yale lock looked new, Harry noted. Shiny with no scratches or tarnish. But the wood where the latch should have fitted into the frame had been torn away, revealing a strip of yellow wood beneath the paint.

He used his knuckles to push the door further back. It revealed more damage to the inside of the frame and a scattering of wood slivers on the floor of the hallway.

There was no sound from inside.

They stepped over the debris into a short, carpeted hallway. The atmosphere had a dead, sad feel, as if the soul of the place had fled the scene, leaving just the empty shell. No memories, no presence, no trace of past warmth. . and no future.

Harry used his elbow to switch on the hall light. It didn’t help much, merely highlighting the worn drabness of the decor. Bedsit land in the flesh, he thought dourly, temporary accommodation for the disconnected.

The first door to the left was a bathroom with bath, sink and toilet. It was empty save for a few items of washing drying on a line and a faint smell of soap and perfume. The sink was half full of soapy water with a pale scum on the surface. Harry dipped his finger in; it was faintly warm. In the bath, a pair of tights lay coiled like a snake’s skin, and one of the taps was dripping into a brown stain on the enamel with a hollow, plunking sound. A crust of dried soap sat amid a dusting of talcum powder around the rim. The cabinet above the sink was empty save for a plastic razor.

The kitchen was small and smelled of a spicy takeaway and grease. Other than a layer of dust, it looked little used. Two drawers revealed some basic cutlery and plastic bin liners, and a waste-bin contained a jumble of plain polystyrene cartons and foil lids stained with dark sauce. Whoever lived here didn’t seem to be much of a cook.

‘Harry.’ Rik was standing just inside a doorway along the hall, looking down at the floor.

Harry joined him and peered past his shoulder.

It was a bedroom. A young woman was lying on the carpet, one hand pressed to her stomach. She was face down, as if she’d been trying to hide among the worn, dusty pile. She wore a plain jumper and black jeans, and had short, cropped hair and simple stud earrings. A pair of spectacles and one shoe were lying nearby. The heel of the shoe was broken, the nails protruding like a rat’s teeth. She was clutching a hand towel in her other hand.

Harry bent to check her pulse while Rik moved away to check the rest of the flat.

The flesh was warm and damp, but there was no flicker of life. A worm of blood lay on the back of the woman’s neck, just beneath the hairline, which was damp. Closer inspection revealed an area of scorched skin just below her ear, and a dark, puckered hole. Up close, he smelled the aroma of burned flesh and gunshot residue. By the way the fingers of her hand were twisted into the clothing of her stomach, she’d probably been hit in the middle first, doubling her over, placing her in line for the killer shot from above.

Harry felt a deep sense of outrage. Whoever had done this had acted with cold deliberation.

‘Not long happened.’ He wasn’t sure if Rik had heard, and realized he’d spoken without intending to. The killer couldn’t be far away, he reflected. They might even have passed him in the street. Another near miss, like the others. It was becoming a nasty habit.

He stood back, automatically trying to read what had happened. Without a full forensic examination it was all guesswork, but he had to try. Archer looked as if she had been surprised in the bathroom and had tried to get away. But the killer had caught her, her shoe heel breaking in the process. She clearly hadn’t had time to put up a fight. The end had been brutal and quick.

He walked through to the living room. Decorated in faded yellows and sparsely furnished with a brown leatherette settee, two hard-backed chairs and a table, it was more functional than homely.

Rik was emptying a travel bag sitting on top of a neatly folded blanket on the settee. He took out a jumble of casual clothing: jeans, tights, underwear, trainers and T-shirts, a couple of cheap paperbacks and some cash in a purse. No documents, however; nothing to confirm the dead woman’s identity.

The rest of the flat proved just as featureless. Nothing stood out. But then, Archer had hardly been here five minutes; there was no paperwork, no receipts or bills, none of the detritus of anything resembling an established life.

It was only when Harry returned to check the top of the wardrobe in the bedroom that he turned up anything significant. He found a brown jiffy bag containing a photograph in a plain black wooden frame. It was the sort issued by official photographers. The photo showed a group of men and two women in army camouflage uniform. They were smiling self-consciously at the camera, the way comrades and friends do, caught in a moment of time and out of context.

One of them was now lying on the floor nearby, a bullet hole in the back of her head.

Harry compared faces, identifying Archer in the photo. She looked confident and easygoing, her head cocked slightly to one side as if she’d been caught momentarily off guard. Not for the first time, Harry thought grimly. But certainly the last.

Rik joined him and peered over his shoulder. ‘Regimental Provosts,’ he said, pointing to a badge worn by both women and two of the men. ‘Tough bunch.’ He looked down at the body. ‘She was an army cop.’

Harry nodded. At least he now knew where the photo frame from the flat in north London had gone. She’d carried it with her. Though it was so mundane, she must have valued it. ‘Park thought she’d been trained to handle herself.’

He walked through to the kitchen, where a pair of faded yellow Marigolds hung over the edge of the sink. They were small but with a bit of pulling, fitted well enough. While Rik went to keep an eye on the back stairs, Harry carried out a more thorough search of the place, starting in the bedroom. He found a few neatly folded clothes in a chest of drawers, some shoes in the wardrobe, but not much else.

It was the same with the bed and bedside cabinet; nothing helpful, merely items for everyday living. Through to the kitchen, which showed two empty wine bottles, a mug and a glass, all wet. Maybe Joanne Archer had been a drinker, in spite of the exercise regime. He checked the cupboards, drawers and air vents. There weren’t many places to look and it was soon clear that whoever had killed her must have cleaned out anything that might have helped fill in her background.

‘Nobody’s life is this empty,’ he muttered, sensing Rik coming back to see how he was progressing. ‘Even after a few days you pick up some rubbish.’ He checked the small waste-bin in the bedroom. ‘Not even a tissue. It’s unnatural. Either the killer had help to clean up, or. .’

‘Or what?’

‘Or Archer had already sanitized the place as a matter of routine.’

‘Makes sense. No clues, no trail. Just like her place in Finchley.’ Rik frowned. ‘Heck of a way to live, though. Who the hell is this woman?’

Harry shook his head. The choice was stark, either way. It would take a professional killer to leave the area so empty of clues, and only a person living an extremely cautious life to have so little to show for her presence.

He returned to the bedroom and studied the body. He checked the fingernails and knuckles, found them clean and unblemished.

‘I don’t get it,’ he muttered. ‘If Archer was such a hotshot in the gym, and a regimental cop, why didn’t she put up more of a fight? She should at least have got one good shot at the bastard who did this.’

‘Unless she knew him.’

‘I suppose.’

Then Rik said softly, ‘Harry.’

Harry looked up. Rik was staring past him towards the bedroom door.

When he turned his head, he found himself looking down the barrel of a semi-automatic pistol.