Vanished

Chapter 37

The following morning Maggie was in the kitchen stretching for her run, and Jack was sitting at the table with his coffee and toast, watching her every move. On normal workdays, Jack would be running round the house looking for his car keys or shoes or both. This morning, however, he was loving just watching his amazingly beautiful wife bend and flex her body, readying it for the three-mile run to the hospital. Jack wasn’t even aware that he was smiling.

‘I’ll be home by two,’ Maggie whispered seductively. ‘If you’re here, you can watch me warm down.’ As Maggie bent forwards, keeping her legs dead straight, and pushed the palms of her hands flat onto the lino floor, Jack stepped up behind her and placed his hands gently on her hips. She held her position for a second or two before standing up into his arms. He kissed her neck and she headed out.

Jack went upstairs and grabbed a quick shower before dressing in a tight black polo-neck jumper, dark jeans and black trainers. He pulled on a lightweight black running jacket and stuffed a ski hood into the pocket. In the top drawer of his desk was a burner phone he’d purchased many months ago to infiltrate the violent world of a London jeweller, who had a sideline in masterminding high-end burglaries in the Cotswolds. He had never imagined he’d need it again but had kept it regardless. Jack was ready. Although he had been left the car, he’d not be using it this morning in case it was picked up on CCTV.

Wetlock lived in a substantial three-storey house on Cheyne Walk in Chelsea. Jack stood on the opposite side of the road with his mobile to his ear as though he was talking to someone. He started walking, giving himself time to check out the immediate area for CCTV cameras, both private and public. They were everywhere in this particular neighbourhood, and they were definitely on the front of Wetlock’s home, positioned just beneath the upstairs windows. Without moving his mobile from his ear, Jack took several photos. He was desperate to get inside Wetlock’s home and find something incriminating, but there was no way to avoid being captured on security camera. He was about to leave when he saw Wetlock draw up in his BMW and park in one of two residents’ bays right outside his front door. As Wetlock went inside, Jack moved round the property and down a small alley framed by two silver birch trees. He covered the lower half of his mobile in his ski hood to muffle his voice, then called Wetlock’s land line.

‘Hey, Elliot.’ Jack kept his voice low and spoke slowly so that Wetlock would not miss a single word.

‘Who is this!’ Wetlock immediately sensed that the person calling was not someone he knew or wanted to know.

‘I wondered if you still had your business on the side?’ Jack said. ‘I could do with a little help to get through my med finals.’

It was a while before Wetlock responded, but when he did, Jack was impressed by how cool he sounded. ‘You have the wrong number.’

Jack jumped in before he could hang up. ‘Listen! If you don’t, the police will.’ Wetlock didn’t utter another word, but the heaviness of his breathing told Jack that he was listening.

‘I get why you did it. She was embarrassing and you’ve got a hard-earned reputation to protect. But you made a mistake, Elliot. And I found it.’ Again, Jack left a pause, which Wetlock didn’t fill. There were no questions, no indignation, no threats to call the police — all things that an innocent person would do. Wetlock was silent. He knew what Jack was talking about. For now, that’s all Jack wanted to know.

Walking home, Jack passed a Mercedes showroom and there, in the centre window, was a Mercedes Benz G Class. It was a ridiculously large car for London but — with the adrenaline still surging through his veins after threatening Wetlock, and still being dressed from head to toe in black — Jack was feeling bold. His eyes refocussed from the classiest-looking Jeep he’d ever seen, to the pristine salesman beaming out at him. The salesman was waiting, respectful and attentive, to make Jack an espresso and try to sell him a £50k vehicle.

As Jack struggled to hold the tiny handle of the espresso cup, he listened to the man list what was included and what were added extras. The salesman’s attentive smile waned slightly when Jack asked if he had a second-hand version of the same model — then he reconsidered and decided that a £30k Merc was still an excellent commission. The last second-hand model in the showroom was black, had an excellent low milage and one very careful retired gentleman owner. Jack asked if there was a further reduction if he paid cash, at which point the salesman stepped up a gear. He looked furtively around the showroom, openly making sure his boss wasn’t in earshot, then reduced the price by £5k ‘just for Jack’.

As Jack pondered whether they had £25k to divert from daily living to the purchase of a second car, Maggie called. She asked where he was and when he lied, the salesman deflated on the spot. Jack had clearly not asked his wife about getting a new car, so there would be no sale today.

‘I’m going to be late again, Jack. Something else has just happened with Wetlock, God knows what this time. Anyway, he’s called in. I’m staying on till they can find cover.’

After the call was done, Jack could see that the salesman had lost faith in him as a potential sale and now just wanted him to leave.

Hammersmith police station had recently had an impressive overhaul. Jack was led through freshly painted corridors towards a spacious second-floor room where CID were housed. It was bright, fresh and open plan, creating an invigorating atmosphere in which to work. It made Ridley’s squad room look very neglected. It was too neat and tidy for Jack’s liking, however: it looked as though no work was being done.

Lyle was sitting behind a large modern desk which had been split into zones for his computer, his reading and his phone calls. Again, this was far too tidy for Jack — to his mind, a police officer’s desk should be a busy, active place where they endeavour to spend as little time as possible, in favour of being ‘out there’, actually doing the legwork. But it was still one hell of a desk for such a young officer. Jack asked for an update on the investigation.

‘You know I can’t discuss that with you, sir.’ Lyle wiped his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. ‘The aircon in here doesn’t work. The window behind me is south facing and the blind’s knackered, so it’s like an oven some days. Sorry, I haven’t offered you a drink. Would you like some water?’ Jack declined and asked Lyle if he had received the latest pathology from Foxy, pointing out that he wasn’t asking Lyle to share the contents of the report; he was just after a yes or no. ‘I have had a recent update from pathology, yes.’

‘Then you’ll know about the rectal diazepam.’ Lyle’s initial shock at Jack being privy to the contents of the path report was soon replaced by indignation. ‘I was the one who told Foxy to look for it, DC Lyle. Which is something you could have done if you’d been more vigilant.’ Jack softened his tone. ‘We both know that I’m no longer your prime suspect. I’m trying to help you.’

‘Well...’ Although Lyle knew that he shouldn’t divulge any more information, he also wanted to know what Jack knew about Elliot Wetlock, so he hedged his bets. ‘It looks like accidental suicide. She had several prescriptions written by various doctors, medical and psychiatric. She had a diagnosis of anxiety, and she was known for storing her drugs in order to take them all at once for one big hit. It’s looking like this one went wrong. And regarding the enema, you can administer those yourself.’

‘Not if you’re unconscious,’ Jack said. ‘And the level of drugs in her system strongly suggest that she would have been.’

Lyle didn’t even know enough to be embarrassed by Jack’s insinuation that he’d got a key part of the investigation wrong, so carried on. ‘The talent scout seems to have been a figment of her imagination. Supporting the probability of schizophrenia, perhaps. It seems that her only actual brush with fame was being on the books at a local lookalike agency, and they stopped using her when she turned up at a job as high as a kite. The rest was fantasy. We’re about to release her body, DS Warr, so if you have hard evidence against Elliot Wetlock, you need to share that with me now.’

‘I’ve already told you, DC Lyle, you can’t self-administer an enema if you have the amount of drugs in your system that Tania did. Someone else delivered the fatal dose, so you’ve got a murder on your hands. You catch yourself a killer and your DCI will never forget your name again.’ Jack took a gamble that Lyle had, at least once in his short career, had to reintroduce himself to his own DCI. Lyle, now looking like a wounded puppy, confirmed that Jack was right. He again asked Lyle to accept his help.

Lyle stood up from his desk, leaving a sweat line on the leather seat. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked quietly. Jack nodded, prompting Lyle to make a quick confession in the hope that Jack could help him rectify his mistake. ‘I’ve given them the nod to clear the crime scene.’

Considering they were now against the clock, Lyle was driving like a middle-aged aunt. Jack couldn’t comprehend his need to obey the speed limit when he had a siren and lights at his disposal. Lyle had called the officer in charge of clearing the scene and halted the operation, but that order would take time to filter down to the officers on the ground and, until they arrived, Lyle had no idea if his crime scene was still secure.

They eventually arrived at a small block of newly built flats facing the riverside just along from Hammersmith Bridge. Lyle pulled into a resident’s bay, put his Met police card on the dashboard and led the way to the glass entry. Lyle quickly got the attention of the uniformed lady standing behind the small desk. He slapped his badge against the glass and she rushed to let them in.

Jack and Lyle rushed up the stairs two at a time, closely followed by the receptionist carrying her master key. When they got to the top floor, Flat 9 had no crime tape across the door because it had never been considered a murder scene. But the lady from the desk could guarantee that the cleaner had not been in since her shift started four hours ago, though she had no idea what had happened before that. Fortunately, as soon as Jack entered, it was more than obvious no cleaner had been near the place for weeks. Their crime scene was secure.

Lyle sounded like an estate agent as Jack made his way around the small, two-bedroomed flat. ‘This is one of the most sought-after blocks of flats in London. There’s a large gym and lap pool on the lower ground floor, but no car park. Each flat has a post box in reception. We checked Tania’s, of course: nothing of interest. And that...’ Lyle pointed towards a small, locked cupboard built into the wall just inside the front door. ‘You put small kitchen waste bags in there and they get collected from the outside. We looked through the contents.’

Jack had to admit the flat was stunning. The large living room had a balcony overlooking the river. The beige carpet matched the oat-and-cream-coloured armchairs and sofa and large ornate mirrors were positioned to make the room feel even bigger. There was a flatscreen TV and a stereo system stored in a cupboard with the doors open. Lyle took two pairs of nitrile gloves from his jacket pocket and handed one to Jack.

The kitchen was small and compact with a skylight view. Lyle pointed to a tiny fridge freezer, saying that there had been nothing at all inside the fridge, not even a pint of milk.

A glass-fronted cabinet was filled with white china on one shelf and wine glasses on another. Everything was laid out like a show home. The cooker top looked unused and the oven smelt as clean as the day it was bought.

The spare bedroom was very small and was being used for storage, but the master bedroom with en suite was fabulous. The entire space was an homage to Marilyn Monroe, complete with framed photographs and posters covering almost every inch of light-silver wallpaper. The wall-to-wall, mirror-fronted wardrobe doors were slightly open, and clothes spilt out all over the carpet. Designer shoes and handbags were thrown in piles in every corner. Underwear and negligees were draped over every surface and poured out of the open top drawer. Discarded takeaway cartons, pizza boxes, paper coffee cups and Coke cans completed the picture. The stench of old food hung heavily in the air, making it hard to breathe freely.

The king-size bed had been stripped of sheets and pillowcases, and the silk bedcovers lay in a heap beside it. The bedside tables had various ring marks from glasses and mugs, and there was a selection of face creams and lotions. Jack moved carefully around the room as Lyle read off the list of items that had been removed by the police, including bed linen, certain items of underwear, champagne and wine bottles, as well as her diary, laptop and all of the medication and drugs. Lyle explained that the mattress and bedsheets were spattered with numerous old stains such as menstrual blood, semen, faeces, urine and make-up. There were also patches of bleach all across the carpet.

‘Prints belonged to her, her father, a lad who we’ve eliminated due to the fact that he’s been dead five months — from drugs. And...’

‘And me.’ Jack completed his sentence for him. ‘On the champagne bottle, I know. She had it with her when she came to my house. But you won’t find my prints on anything that belongs inside this flat.’

Underneath the bed and littered across the room were hundreds of photographs of Marilyn Monroe, as well as stacks of books about her life and career, most of which had Post-it notes attached marking pages of interest.

‘He said she was lying on her side, curled up like a baby,’ Lyle said. ‘Mr Wetlock could see she’d been dead for days but apparently tried to revive her anyway. He called an ambulance and then us.’ Lyle watched Jack as he stood still and silently took in the scene as if he was replaying events in his mind to see if they added up. ‘I know you think it was her father, Jack, but I can’t see it. I took his statement. He was distraught. You can’t fake that.’

‘I’m sure he was distraught.’ Jack leant down and cautiously felt along the underside of the mattress. ‘I’m sure he loved her. I’m also sure he killed her. Did you find a syringe?’

‘She didn’t inject. The PM report indicates no track marks, recent or historic.’ Lyle began to sound pissed-off at Jack’s constant contradicting of his investigative findings. He might be young, but he wasn’t stupid. ‘We looked for needles. There were none.’

‘Not a needle. I’m looking for a syringe. The type used for anal insertion.’ Lyle clearly didn’t know if they had specifically looked for that type of syringe or not, but he insisted that no medical-looking equipment of any kind had been found. ‘Hospitals use them all the time,’ Jack said. ‘Wetlock would have been able to pick one up anytime.’ Jack left Lyle with that thought as he continued searching around and underneath the mattress. ‘How long was it before the emergency services arrived?’

‘We’re local, so maybe ten minutes before we got here. And the ambulance was a couple of minutes ahead of us. Her father was in shock. He just kept repeating that there was nothing he could do. We moved her pretty quick because she was lying in her own...’ Lyle leant on the doorframe and watched Jack continue his search. ‘He’d tried calling her a couple of times earlier that day and when she didn’t answer, he came round. He was in two minds because although he was concerned about her fragile mental state, he was also used to her ignoring him. He thought she’d been doing OK.’

‘What did the person on the front desk say about visitors?’

‘She never had any. Apart from her dad and he’d not been for four days.’

Jack stood bolt upright and stared at Lyle in disbelief. ‘He was here four days before he found her body? Around the time she actually died? Think, Lyle. No father walks into this flat and thinks their kid is “doing OK”. Does this look like the place of someone who’s doing OK? She was at my house twice in the space of a week, pissed, high as a kite and offering herself on a plate.’

‘As far as I understand it, he didn’t know that.’

‘Four weeks ago, he asked my wife to ask me to help him protect his daughter from being groomed by an unidentified talent scout—’

‘Who doesn’t exist.’

‘DC Lyle!’ Jack finally snapped. ‘I respect any officer who sticks to their guns in a case, but if you’re just going to spout bullshit irrelevancies, then I’ll find the evidence against Wetlock myself and take it directly to your DCI. Elliot Wetlock, a loving father and medical professional for more than thirty years, sees his mentally ill daughter living like this, surrounded by more prescription and street drugs than any one person should take in a lifetime, and he walks away? ’Course he fucking doesn’t. And he did know that she’d been to my house causing trouble because he was the one she called to come and collect her. I know she ended up in an Uber, but he’d have had a missed call and a voicemail from her.’

Now that Lyle was on the back foot and feeling like a fool, Jack softened his tone. He continued searching on and around the bed as he spoke. ‘Tania Wetlock was a liability to his career. This isn’t me guessing, DC Lyle: I know because my wife told me. This flat — it’s not about giving his daughter independence and responsibility, it’s about keeping her out of sight. You know he pays for it all, right?’

Lyle nodded. Everything was in Wetlock’s name, and he paid all of the bills.

Jack continued. ‘I know he looks like a doting dad on the surface. So you have to dig. Find his ex-wife. Find his old mentees from years ago.’ Jack got out his mobile phone and disappeared beneath the bed. Lyle moved round to keep him in sight.

Jack was sprawled on his belly on the filthy floor, half underneath the bed. ‘Get down here.’ Lyle reluctantly joined Jack, sensing that he’d found something that he and his team had missed. Jack held his mobile on its side, so that the torch shone into a gap between the ill-fitting skirting and the floorboard beneath it. Inside the gap, was a plastic wrapping. Jack took two photos of it in situ, before Lyle took a pencil from his pocket and hooked it out.

The wrapping read: Diazepam Rectal Gel 20mg.

Lyle and Jack lay side by side beneath the bed with the springs above them on the mattress pressing on their hair while Jack airdropped the two photographs he’d just taken to Lyle’s mobile, and Lyle snapped several more whilst Jack shone his torch on the single piece of evidence that they both knew could put Wetlock away for the murder of his daughter. Lyle secured the wrapper into an evidence bag, then both men got to their feet, brushing the dust and cobwebs from their clothes.

‘Dig into Wetlock’s career history,’ said Jack. ‘Look for him being unexpectedly promoted out of one hospital and sent to another. Look for recurring names on recommendations and for him being protected by the same people again and again. Anything that doesn’t feel right. I’m guessing it won’t take you long. Then get that rushed through for prints before going to your DCI with any new evidence. Say that in the process of eliminating Elliot Wetlock from your enquiries you made one final sweep of Tania’s flat. Don’t mention me.’

Lyle silently absorbed every word of Jack’s instructions. Jack then reiterated what his policeman’s instinct was telling him. ‘Maybe Wetlock had reached the end of his tether. Maybe he finally wanted peace — for Tania as well as for himself. Wetlock was seen here four days before she died, which is roughly the timeframe for her OD. Everything he did from that moment on was calculated playacting. When he came back days later and “found” her, the scene was set for him to play the grieving father. If you go after him in the way I’ve suggested, you’re raising the bar. Your guv will expect you to leave no stone unturned from this second on. If you’re not good enough, now’s the time to admit it.’

Lyle raised his chin and pushed his shoulders back, then nodded.

‘Good.’ Jack smiled. ‘Your career just got a lot more interesting.’