‘It has less cover. He wanted to be able to see her. And he wanted her to be seen.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’
Most crimes are a coincidence- a juxtaposition of circumstances. A few minutes or a few yards one way or the other and the crime may not have happened. This one was different. Whoever did this knew Christine Wheeler’s phone numbers and where she lived. He told her to come here. He chose what shoes she wore.
How? How did you know her?
You must have seen her somewhere before. Perhaps she was wearing the red shoes.
Why bring her here?
You wanted her to be seen, but this is too open, too public. Someone could have stopped her or called the police. Even on a miserable day like Friday there were people on the walking trails. If you truly wanted to isolate her you could have chosen almost anywhere. Somewhere private, where you had more time.
And rather than kill her privately, you made it very public. You told her to walk onto the bridge and climb over the railing. That sort of control is mind-boggling. Unbelievable.
Christine didn’t fight back. There were no skin cells under her fingernails or defence bruises. You didn’t need ligatures to subdue her or physical force. Nobody saw you with Christine Wheeler in her car. None of the witnesses mention someone with her. You must have been waiting for her; somewhere you felt safe- a hiding place.
Ruiz has paused to wait for me. I walk past him and leave the footpath, climbing up a small slope. At the top of the ridge there is a knoll formed by three trees. The view of Avon Gorge is uninterrupted. I kneel on the grass, feeling the wetness of the earth soak through to my trousers and the elbows of my coat. The path is visible for a hundred yards in either direction. It’s a good hiding place, a place for innocent courting or illicit stalking.
A sudden burst of sunshine breaks through the scurrying clouds. Ruiz has followed me up the slope.
‘Someone uses this place to watch people,’ I explain. ‘See how the grass is crushed. Somebody lay on their stomach with their elbows here.’
Even as I utter the words my gaze is snagged by a piece of yellow plastic caught in a mesh of brambles a dozen yards away. Rising to my feet, I close the gap, leaning between thorny branches until my fingers close around the plastic raincoat.
Ruiz lets out a long whistling breath. ‘You’re a freak. You know that.’
The engine is running. The heater at full blast. I’m trying to dry my trousers.
‘We should call the police,’ I say.
‘And say what?’ counters Ruiz.
‘Tell them about the raincoat.’
‘It changes nothing. They already know she was in the woods. People saw her. They saw her jump.’
‘But they could search the woods, seal it off.’
I can picture dozens of uniformed officers doing a fingertip search and police dogs following a scent.
‘You know how much rain we’ve had since Friday. There won’t be anything left to find.’
He takes a tin of boiled sweets from his jacket pocket and offers me one. The rocklike sweet rattles against his teeth as he sucks.
‘What about her mobile phone?’
‘It’s in the river.’
‘The first one- the one she took from home.’
‘It wouldn’t tell us anything we don’t know already.’
I know Ruiz thinks I’m reading too much into this or that I’m looking for some sort of closure. It’s not true. There is only one natural convincing closure- the one none of us can avoid. The one Christine Wheeler collided with at seventy-five miles per hour. I just want the truth for Darcy’s sake.
‘You said she had money problems. I’ve known loan sharks to get pretty heavy.’
‘This is a step up from breaking legs.’
‘Maybe they pushed her so hard that she cracked.’
I stare at my left hand where my thumb and forefinger are ‘pillrolling’. This is how the tremors start, a rhythmic back and forth of two digits at three beats per second. If I concentrate hard on my thumb, willing it to stop moving, I can halt the tremor momentarily.
Clumsily, I try to hide my hand in my pocket. I know what Ruiz is going to say.
‘One more stop-off,’ I argue. ‘Then we’ll go home.’
15
The police vehicle lock-up in Bristol is near Bedminster Railway Station, hidden behind soot-stained walls and barbed wire fences. The ground shakes each time a train rattles past or brakes hard at a platform.
The place smells of grease, transmission fluid and sump oil. A mechanic peers through the dirt-stained glass of an office and lowers a teacup to a saucer. Dressed in orange overalls and a checked shirt he meets us at the door, bracing one arm on the frame as if waiting to hear a password.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ says Ruiz.
‘Is that what you’re gonna do?’
The mechanic makes a show of wiping his hands on a rag.
‘A car was towed here from Clifton a few days ago. A blue Renault Laguna. It belonged to a woman who jumped from the suspension bridge.’
‘You here to pick it up?’
‘We’re here to look at it.’
This answer doesn’t seem very palatable. He swirls it around his mouth for a moment and spits it into the rag. Glancing sideways at me, he contemplates whether I could possibly be a policeman.
‘You waiting to see a badge, son?’ says Ruiz.
He nods absently, no longer so sure of himself.
‘I’m retired,’ continues Ruiz. ‘I was a detective inspector with the London Metropolitan Police. You’re going to humour me today and you know why? Because all I want to do is look inside a car that isn’t the subject of a criminal investigation and is only here until a member of the deceased’s family comes and picks it up.’
‘I suppose that’s OK.’
‘Say it like you mean it, son.’
‘Yeah, sure, it’s over there.’
The blue Renault is parked along the north wall of the workshop beside a crumpled wreck that must have taken at least one life. I open the driver’s door of the Renault and let my eyes adjust to the darkness inside. The interior light isn’t strong enough to chase away the shadows. I don’t know what I’m looking for.
There is nothing in the glove compartment or beneath the seats. I search the pockets in the doors. There are tissues, moisturiser, make-up and loose change. Bunched beneath the seat is a rag for wiping the windscreen and a de-icing tool.
Ruiz has popped the boot. It’s empty except for the spare tyre, a tool kit and a fire extinguisher.
Going back to the driver’s door, I sit in the seat and close my eyes trying to imagine a wet Friday afternoon with rain streaking the windscreen. Christine Wheeler drove fifteen miles from her home, naked beneath a raincoat. The demister worked overtime, the heater as well. Did she open the window to call for help?
My eyes are drawn to the right where the glass has been smudged by fingerprints and something else. I need more light.
I yell to Ruiz. ‘I need a torch!’
‘What you got?’
I point to the markings.
The mechanic fetches an electric lantern with a bulb in a metal cage. The power cord is draped over his shoulder. Giant shadows slide across the brick walls and soak away as the light moves.
Holding the lantern on the opposite side of the glass, I can just make out the faintest of lines. It’s like seeing a child’s finger drawings on a misty window after the rain has gone. These lines weren’t drawn by a child. They were transferred from something pressed against the glass.
Ruiz looks at the mechanic. ‘You smoke?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I want a cigarette.’
‘You’re not supposed to smoke in here.’
‘Humour me.’
I look at Ruiz mystified. I’ve seen him give up smoking at least twice, but never take it up on the spur of the moment.
I follow them to the office. Ruiz lights a cigarette and draws in deeply, staring at the ceiling as he exhales.
‘Here, have one too,’ he says, offering me one.