Slow Slicing (DI Bliss Book 7) Page 7

  ‘And I’m saying I agree, Jimmy. For now. You’ve already said you expect further bags to be left for us to find. So, go ahead and get this show on the road, but if or when another chunk of flesh, or whatever else, eventually turns up, we speak again and we pay particular attention to any conceivable link to you as well. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’ His smile this time was fulsome. ‘Boss, if you’re looking for me to fight you on this, you’ll be disappointed. We’re on the same side.’

  Warburton nodded. ‘Good. What’s your immediate plan of action?’

  ‘I want to draw Pen, Bish and Gul into the task force. John and Phil can come aboard when they’re available. I’d also like to co-opt two civilian staff to represent us and liaise with Gablecross. Access to uniforms, too, as and when this thing takes off. Especially when it comes to interviews. The initial find was here in Peterborough, so ours was the original op, but as yet I see no reason to have a single case manager, nor exhibits and finance officer. I think those aspects can stay as they are, each of us working on our own, but providing full documentation and records to the other. It’s too fussy and too busy regards physical resources to work it any other way.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan to me. It will also make Gablecross feel valued, which in turn might promote a greater determination to make a success of the task force. I assume you’ll request four of their investigating team plus two civilians to form the JTFO so we have even numbers?’

  ‘Of course.’

  After a slight pause, Warburton pushed herself away from the wall and said, ‘Do you have any idea at all where to start?’

  Bliss was ready for the question. ‘The carvings, for me at least, are still the most crucial factor. The slices of flesh are critical items of evidence, of course, and those engraved figures are a signature of sorts. We just have to work out what they mean.’

  ‘I agree. The… interracial element is unexpected, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘It is. Took me by surprise.’

  ‘Any significance?’

  ‘None apparent, boss.’

  ‘Okay. Well, keep me informed, Jimmy.’

  When the DCI left to return to her own office, Bliss finished off his drink before going back out to chat with his colleagues. Each was as eager as they had been earlier to take part in the joint task force operation, perhaps more so following his confirmation they were leading it.

  ‘I’ll call Pete Conway shortly,’ he told them. ‘Have him choose his best foursome. Like us, their sole focus will become this case, and they’ll liaise with us every step of the way. No jurisdictional nonsense, either. You trust them as if they were part of this unit, and I’ll make sure the DSI passes on the same message to his troops. I got a bit of pushback on Saturday when I attended their briefing, but you’d expect that when we’re on their turf and looking to take over their case. I’m sure Conway will fix it. I never knew the man at SOCA, but my impressions were favourable when we met over the weekend. He has an outstanding record, from what I could gather.’

  ‘Boss, I have to ask,’ Chandler said, looking apprehensive. ‘But did you believe him when he said the figures meant nothing to him? Do you think he told you everything? Held nothing back?’

  Bliss understood the point she was making, and why she had asked the question. ‘In my opinion, he was genuinely bemused. The look on his face told me he knows of no possible significance to those figures. Plus, the man is putting the investigation ahead of himself, the need to resolve the case above any desire he has to be the one who solves it. That’s good enough for me.’

  ‘Sounds like he made the right calls,’ Bishop said.

  ‘I believe so. Anyhow, I’ll have a word with him and we can get this thing started. Until I have something better to offer, I’d like you three to start from scratch on our own case. Go through it all again – everything we have. I don’t think you’ll find anything we missed, but we have to start somewhere, right?’

  ‘I realise it’d be a bit contentious, boss,’ DC Ansari said, ‘but do you see any merit in us swapping case files with Gablecross? They work our find, we work theirs. Fresh eyes on both?’

  ‘You know, that’s not an awful idea,’ Bliss said, wagging his forefinger at her. Ansari was a star in the making. ‘I’m happy for others to study our work and go at it their own way. And if they find something we overlooked and it gives us a new lead, I’ll be even happier. I’ll suggest it to Pete when I talk to him. Well done, Gul.’

  ‘You’re not convinced, though, are you, boss?’ Chandler said.

  ‘About what?’ he asked.

  ‘You think no matter which of us looks at whatever evidence is available, none of us will find anything new.’

  Chandler’s insight delighted Bliss; it meant she was on her game. ‘Not entirely, Pen. But not far off, either. I’m satisfied with how we ran our case. We did our due diligence, and from what I’ve seen, Conway has his people doing theirs. Unless they happen to get a DNA hit on their slice of flesh, then no, I don’t see us moving forward yet.’

  Chandler held him with her perceptive gaze. ‘Until?’

  ‘Like I said before. Until carrier bag number three turns up.’

  Ten

  Though he had seen it many times, Bliss still did not understand the attraction of the Emperor Trajan statue on Tower Hill. The London Wall itself stood as a vestige of Roman architecture opposite the Tower of London, but the bronze statue in front of it was an enigma. Legend suggested the head did not match the body, so Bliss had always been fascinated as to which section featured Trajan and which did not. Also, it was historically unconvincing as a reminder of Roman rule, given the Emperor never visited Britain. Bliss also wondered why anybody should want to remind themselves of living under occupation.

  He knew the area well, having briefly been posted to Tower Bridge station on the other side of the Thames in Bermondsey. During his rare breaks, he had often escaped the confines of the old building to walk across the bridge, and had eaten many a sandwich on the exact bench beneath which a third white carrier bag had now been discovered.

  Earlier in the day, Bliss had taken a trip over to Peterborough’s NHS hospital at Bretton Gate. Upon entering the mortuary, Bliss immediately noticed Nancy Drinkwater’s absence from her office at the far end of the corridor. He hoped she wasn’t carrying out a post mortem, as he was looking to re-examine the original slice of flesh and would require her authority. He walked past the procedure and examination rooms, relieved not to find her leaning over a corpse inside one of them. Whatever noxious combination of chemicals and body secretions was polluting the air particles around him, at least he knew it was not from a fresh corpse. He pushed open the penultimate door along the passageway and stepped inside.

  The pathologist was getting changed, and let out a loud yelp of surprise as he barged in. The sight of Drinkwater yanking up a pair of trousers, having not yet slipped a top on over her bra, caused Bliss to swivel on his heels and turn away.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Nancy,’ he said, his back to her now. ‘I should have called out before blundering in like an idiot… But if it’s any consolation, you’re in decent nick for a woman your age.’

  ‘And screw you too, Ray,’ she replied, no malice in her voice. He heard the whisper of clothing hurriedly being pulled on, and chuckled to himself.

  Drinkwater had once told him he reminded her of the actor Ray Winstone, and she seldom referred to him by any other name now. Neither the nickname nor the reference bothered him. Continuing to face the door he had come through, Bliss said, ‘Any danger of me taking a look at our chunk of flesh, Nancy?’

  The rustling behind him grew louder, and he heard a zip being pulled. ‘You mean you didn’t get enough of an eyeful just now?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I did see more than I would ever have been invited to appreciate, though – and jolly pleasant it was too. Everyth
ing seemed to be in good order. And I do so admire matching underwear, by the way. But there are some days when only a slice of male flesh will do.’

  ‘I’m in full agreement there,’ she said, brushing past him and heading for the door.

  They examined the flesh together. Bliss explained that he was looking for any sign of other engravings, be it another figure or some other kind of marking or design.

  ‘Don’t you think I would have included it in my PM report had that been the case?’ Drinkwater said curtly. ‘Or are you suggesting I missed something?’

  ‘Not at all. I would never do something so crass. You’re a scary woman at the best of times. But I’m sure these engravings mean something, and I needed to see them again. just to satisfy my curiosity.’

  It was still impossible to tell which way around the figures were meant to be read: WSHO or OHSM. And Drinkwater had been right – there were no other clear markings in the flesh. It was while he and the pathologist discussed the findings that he received the phone call telling him there had been another find.

  Less than forty minutes after the call came in, Bliss and Chandler were on a train to King’s Cross, after which they tubed it to Tower Hill, where a uniform met them. Bliss knew the way: exit into Trinity Square, turn left, walk past the famous sundial and continue along the concourse towards the wall, and finally down a slope into the small garden area where the statue stood on a plinth so small it seemed to detract from the figure’s significance. The entire square was now sealed off by flapping tape and uniforms wearing short-sleeved shirts but still baking and sweating beneath the weight of their stab vests.

  The pair signed in. As they entered the garden, a strikingly tall beanpole of a suit broke away from a small group of fellow detectives and forensic techs who were gathered in conversation. Despite the heat of the day, the man looked pale and unflustered as he extended his right hand. They exchanged shakes and Mr Tall-and-Skinny introduced himself as Detective Inspector Max Riseborough from the City of London police.

  ‘I gather you have recent experience of this,’ he said, nodding in the direction of the bench upon which sat the white plastic bag.

  ‘Various cuts of human fillet, yes,’ Bliss replied. ‘But not the entire severed hand you’ve landed.’

  Riseborough grimaced. ‘Ugly business. Seen worse, of course, but from what I hear this catch is bigger than we originally imagined. A serial, no less.’

  While the DI spoke, Bliss regarded the scene investigation going on behind him. The forensic techs seemed to be going about their business in a calm and orderly manner, which was always a good sign. ‘That’s certainly possible,’ he said. ‘Though as yet we don’t quite know what kind of serial. We have no remains to go with our bits of body, so we can’t be certain at this stage if we’re even searching for a killer at all. Gablecross are still waiting for DNA results on their victim, but with a bit of luck we can get a decent set of prints off this hand. If fortune is favouring us today, we may get a match.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Riseborough said, bowing his head. ‘That remains to be seen. From what we were able to ascertain upon first examination, the fingertips had been sliced off and cauterised.’

  Bliss sighed. Precisely what they didn’t need. ‘That’d be a ballache, for sure. But from everything we learned during our journey down here, there’s every possibility of us having three separate victims out there somewhere.’

  ‘Yes. I had a quick word with Pete Conway after making contact with you. He’s on his way over from Swindon. He tells me you’d just agreed upon a JTFO when our call came in to rock the boat.’

  Bliss caught something in the DI’s tone and manner. ‘You know DSI Conway?’ He feared he already knew the answer.

  ‘I do. We spent some time working together. Pete was based at Wood Street nick, over by the Barbican. I was working out of Islington.’

  ‘That rambling old brick fortress on Tolpuddle Street?’

  Riseborough gave a wide, toothy grin. ‘The same. There was always a prodigious amount of overlap between his nick and mine, and me and Pete collaborated on all the serious stuff. The whole area was a cesspit of crime and criminals, and we spent far too much of our time jumping all over them from a great height.’

  This third professional connection troubled Bliss, but he took it in his stride. ‘Small world. I was stationed right here for a short while, too – south of the river at Tower Bridge.’

  ‘Just for the record,’ Chandler piped up, ‘I’ve also worked in this part of London, during my stint on Operation Sapphire. Though I’m sure it’s not at all relevant.’

  Riseborough arched his eyebrows. ‘Working rape and sexual assault must be a drain on the emotions.’

  ‘It was. I did over ten months of my secondment here. I worked a lot of sickening cases. But this one is shaping up to be something unique.’

  If it were possible, Riseborough had paled further still. He turned to glance over his shoulder at the bag now lying open on the bench. When he shifted his attention back to Bliss and Chandler, his mouth had thinned and a heavy frown sagged on his brow. ‘I think you may be right, Sergeant. Pete said the figures on the hand meant nothing to him. They’re not ringing any bells for me, either. How about you, Jimmy?’

  A description of the engraved figures had been one of the first things Bliss had asked for when he took the call from Conway. Two letters and two numbers again: FE04. Nothing about it spoke to him, other than wondering if it suggested a date. He shook his head. ‘I’ve racked my brains – thought about little else all the way down here – but I’m coming up empty. Given the first two…’

  Bliss’s voice trailed away. Riseborough’s mouth had fallen open and his face was now a vacant mask turning rapidly from white to grey.

  ‘You all right there, Max? You’re starting to look a little peaky.’ Bliss put a hand on the man’s arm, searching for signs of alarm in his eyes. He’d once worked alongside a DC, a decent detective with a big family and a loyal and loving wife, whose heart gave out on him as the two of them chased down a burglar on foot. Bliss had administered CPR, breathed into his colleague’s mouth while covering his nose, just as he had been trained to do. All to no avail. Bliss got him back, but the heart attack killed the man before the ambulance had taken off with him inside it.

  Riseborough had wide eyes on him now, thin creases lining his forehead. He swallowed with obvious discomfort. ‘Shit. I fucked up.’

  Bliss looked anxiously around to see if anybody else had overheard. ‘You may want to think more clearly before you start putting words to it, Max.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t a costly oversight. Or at least, I don’t think it was. Not when it comes to the big picture. The thing is, though, I saw it. Saw it right there in front of me, written out on one of my DC’s notepads. We got WSHO from your scene, Jimmy. Pete’s gave up PC94. The carving into the back of my guy’s hand reads FE04. Broken down into three sections, they’re pretty meaningless, though I’m annoyed I didn’t pick up earlier on the letters from the first scene. That’s possibly because when I initially saw them they were in reverse order. But now it’s registering. When you piece them together, in order of find, they do mean something. Something important. WS gives us the nick, which is Wood Street. HO…?’ he offered.

  Chandler snatched at it. ‘First two letters of homicide?’

  Riseborough was slowly nodding his head and sighing gently. ‘Precisely how we were taught to describe it back in the day. Homicide, not murder or suspicious death. Then came the year, and here we’re going back to 1994. So station handling, crime type, year, followed by SIO’s initials: PC, in this case. Final characters give us the month and day of month. Put it all together and it becomes a case file number. An old one, telling us that on the fourth of February 1994, a murder was recorded at Wood Street police station and assigned to Pete Conway. If I’d seen the whole thing from the beginning I would’ve got t
here a lot sooner.’

  Bliss was relieved to have had the mystery solved, but disconcerted by the meaning. The current three cases referred back to a twenty-six-year-old murder. Given its location, it was not an investigation he had ever worked on, but it clearly had a significant connection to Conway. Not a coincidence, after all. His mind slid sideways to the man or men responsible for the severed hand and the slices of flesh.

  ‘Whoever’s doing this is biding their time,’ Bliss said. ‘Taking it at their own pace. They want to be recognised for what’s being done, but they’re not coming quietly or easily.’

  ‘Or without more victims, potentially,’ Chandler pointed out.

  Riseborough offered to call Conway. ‘I expect he’ll give it some thought during the remainder of his journey. Hopefully he’ll be here soon enough, by which time something will surely have dislodged somewhere in his memory.’

  Bliss accepted this observation with a grunt. He did not like the direction in which this case was leading them. The past was capable of taking you unawares, and he’d bathed himself in its dusky light far longer than necessary. Memories often led you astray; hindsight was seldom favourable.

  ‘He’s having a think about it,’ Riseborough said when he’d finished his call to Conway. ‘But he’s just around the corner, so he’ll be joining us in a minute or two.’

  Bliss decided to switch focus and bring them back into the moment. ‘Who discovered the bag?’

  ‘Local worker. Fancied a break on a bench by the wall. Saw the bag lying underneath. He says he’d intended handing it in if he’d found ID, but who knows? Anyway, he got more than he bargained for when he opened it up. One of my team is interviewing him now, back at Bishopsgate.’

  Bliss knew the DI was referring to the principal City of London police station. He turned a full circle, surveying the background. The garden was enclosed, caught in a wedge between the London Wall, Tower Hill underground station and Tower Hill Road. A stream of cars, vans, black cabs, and red buses flowed by in a dull roar of engines, punctuated every now and then by a squeal of brakes or someone jabbing their horn.