She’ll learn, thought Owen. The magic wears off eventually. It’s a great job — the best he could imagine. But it was never quite the same after the first six months.
Toshiko was still busy at the table, tapping away on her PDA with that pen device. She was eager too, keen to complete Jack’s latest request.
Owen thought about Wildman’s corpse, ready for him over in the pathology room. He sipped at his lukewarm coffee, and decided that the stiff could wait.
He pushed open the far door of the Boardroom and strolled out onto the balcony. The noticeboard on the back wall had a cluttered collection of yellowing newspaper clippings pinned to it, along with cartoons, photos and leaflets. One polaroid showed him and Toshiko, grinning at the lens held at arm’s length. It was from outside the Castle. He’d got bored of having the photo stuck to the front of his dishwasher by a magnet, so he’d brought it in and half-hidden it on the board behind some money-off coupons for Jubilee Pizza. Toshiko hadn’t noticed yet.
By sitting in one of the metal chairs on the balcony, Owen could see Jack making his way to the exit platform. With a grinding sound far above them, a corresponding flagstone slid out of its place to create a square opening.. A handful of lights in the Plass twinkled on the steel tower, visible through the distant gap.
With a thrum of power, the hydraulics began to power the platform upwards. He could see Jack holding Gwen’s waist to balance her on the square stone podium. She was staring up into his eyes, engrossed in whatever he was telling her, favouring him with that gap-toothed smile of hers. The two of them were so preoccupied that they were both oblivious to Owen observing them, even when the lift drew level with him at the height of the balcony. It was like he was invisible.
Owen watched them draw further away from him, disappearing, leaving him behind. He saw them duck briefly, and laugh together. For a moment, he wondered why.
Then the first fat blobs of rain dropped from the open portal, blew over the balcony, and splashed into Owen’s upturned face. It felt like he’d been spat on. He shook the drops off.
Toshiko joined him on the balcony. ‘Design fault,’ she tutted. ‘I mean, have you seen the leaves that get blown through there? Not so many birds flying in these days. Not since Jack uncaged the pterodactyl.’ She was laughing, pointing to where the raindrops had spattered on Owen’s shirt. ‘Nasty weather tonight. There’s a storm brewing.’
Owen narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Yeah, and I’m starving. Not going out in that lot, so I think we get something delivered.’
He towelled his hair with his hand, tousling it, and studied Toshiko for a reaction.
‘I fancy a pizza,’ he told her. ‘How about you? We’ve got some money-off coupons somewhere, haven’t we?’
SIX
It was a miserable alley on a miserable night. They’d started off walking through the initial spots of rain in the optimistic brightness of Mermaid Quay, laughing even as the weather started to deteriorate. By the time they’d reached this grimy backstreet further over in Butetown, a steady drizzle had killed their high spirits stone dead.
Stone dead conveniently described the occupant of Wildman’s car. Gwen knew before she reached it that the scene wasn’t going to be pretty. She could deduce that from the dazed expression on the face of the police constable, a young woman who stood, trembling, twenty metres from the vehicle. Gwen touched her on the shoulder, a gesture of reassurance or solidarity, and then trailed in Jack’s wake as he cut through the police cordon to where Wildman’s car had been abandoned.
Jack waived the polite introductions, but didn’t immediately wave away the scene of crime officer in his usual manner. Gwen knew this was because there had been no information radioed in yet, otherwise Toshiko would have overheard it and passed it on to them. She gestured wordlessly to the other police officers at the scene to stay back.
‘Passer-by thought the woman had fallen asleep in the driver’s seat,’ the SOCO started. No preamble. Efficient, to-the-point. English accent, with a downward intonation that suggested Birmingham. A Brummie that Gwen didn’t recognise, so he must be fairly new. Only a few months out of the force, and already she was losing track of the team on her patch. Well, on her old patch.
‘Then the witness noticed the mess down the window, and called it in,’ the Brummie explained. ‘We forced the rear door to obtain access, in the unlikely event that the victim was still alive and needed urgent medical attention. Didn’t want to move the body, obviously. Photographers aren’t here yet.’
Jack scanned the area quickly, left to right. The car was a four-door Vectra estate, parked midway under the only streetlamp in the alley that wasn’t working. Jack played his torch through the windows into the car’s interior. A middle-aged woman was sitting upright in the front seat, though her head had drooped against the driver’s window. Her eyes were closed, and where her dyed blonde hair fell over her shoulder it was matted with blood.
‘OK, thanks. You can clear the area now,’ Jack told him.
The Brummie didn’t seem to understand this. Perhaps he thought Jack was talking to someone else. ‘Nasty wound. Gunshot from the seat behind, perhaps? The spray pattern across the roof of the car might suggest that.’
‘Thanks,’ repeated Jack.
The Brummie seemed to relax a little, now that he’d delivered his brief report. His attitude had changed, and he was chatting comfortably, despite the falling drizzle. ‘This reminds me of that woman in Tesco car park on a hot sunny day, who dialled 999 on her mobile,’ he laughed. ‘Heard a gunshot, felt a blow above the base of her neck. Sat for thirty minutes with her hand cupped behind her head to stop her brains from spilling out. Until we arrived and told her that the heat had exploded a canister in the back seat, and she was only holding a lump of ready-mix dough.’
Gwen watched Jack’s brow furrow. She stepped smartly between the two men. ‘We’ll take it from here,’ she told the Brummie before he dug himself into deeper trouble. ‘You can secure the perimeter, and keep the photographers back when they arrive.’
The Brummie opened his mouth to object, saw her raised eyebrows, and slunk away.
Despite the way he had spoken to the SOCO, Jack actually showed a great deal of respect for scene-of-crime protocols. He slipped on a glove, then eased open the Vectra’s rear door. He reached in to pop up the front lock, and opened the driver’s side. By swiftly positioning his hand in the gap, he was able to prop up the corpse and gently push it back into the car to prevent it from falling out into the road.
The dead body was still strapped into the seat. With the door now open, the upper torso lolled over onto the steering wheel, head dropped, right cheek downwards so that the face pointed back towards the passenger seat.
Jack’s torch played over the back of the corpse. She had been a thin woman in late middle age, wearing a knitted green cardigan over a patterned dress that was now stained heavily with dried blood and gory fragments. The head was only half-attached to the shoulders. Blonde hair had been torn out in lumps or wrenched away from the nape of the neck.
Not that there was much of the nape still visible. The flesh was ripped almost down to the clavicle. Further up into what had been the hairline was a ghastly hole, filled with clotted blood and with clumps of greyish matter visible in the mess. The curdled mess reminded Gwen once more, horribly, of strawberry yoghurt. It was too unbearably apt an image. She shivered because she knew that something had killed this woman by gnawing into the back of her skull.