Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

'Enough of anything to knock her out?'

'The toxicologist couldn't be sure.'

'How about witnesses? Did no one see anyone enter her house?'

Jon shook his head. 'Uniforms have questioned all the immediate neighbours and the OET has conducted door-to-door enquiries. Most people were out at work; the remainder didn't notice anyone coming or going.'

McCloughlin tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair.

'Other points of interest,' Jon continued. 'She was saving up for a round the world trip. The money is still in her bank account. Thirteen hundred and forty quid. The drawers in her room had been disturbed and a few photo albums were on her bed when I checked upstairs. One contained various shots of her posing nude in her room. It seems she was charging for private glamour photo shoots. We're checking all numbers on her phone records.'

'Well, that's got to be significant. Wasn't she found in her dressing gown?'

'Yes.'

'Good. Looks like there are some promising avenues to follow up there.'

Jon shifted in his seat.

'Something else on your mind?' McCloughlin asked.

Jon coughed. 'You mentioned on the phone about taking me off Operation Fisherman so I could concentrate on this.'

McCloughlin nodded. 'And you're wondering if, seeing as this case has such solid-looking leads, you can keep an oar in Operation Fisherman?'

'Just pop my head in every now and again. Keep track of developments.'

McCloughlin didn't look pleased. 'This is your first murder case as SIO. Believe me, it will soak up attention levels you didn't know you had, however simple we think it appears. I don't want anything to distract you. 'He sat back in his seat and interlinked his fingers. 'I pointed this out on your last assessment, Jon. You have a propensity to fixate on certain cases. You're not a Mountie, always getting your man. You're in the Greater Manchester Police and the modern system means you can be switched off cases as and when events demand. Get used to it.'

Jon stared at the floor.

McCloughlin regarded him for a second longer. 'Listen, once this case is cleared up, you can return to your place on Operation Fisherman. But remember, this one is… 'The phone on his desk began to emit a pleasantly subdued beeping. Raising one finger, McCloughlin picked the receiver up. 'Yes?' His eyes, previously on the pad of paper in front of him, suddenly lifted to Jon's face. 'I understand. Give me the details again.'

He scrawled them down on a memo pad and hung up. 'Another body has been found. Mary Walters, twenty-three years old. Flat one, forty-six Lea Road, Whalley Range. The attending officer says her throat is blocked up by white stuff.'

As they drove up Withington Road, Jon observed the cafe bars and stylish restaurants creeping outwards from Chorlton. 'Jesus, this place has changed,' he remarked.

McCloughlin didn't answer and Jon continued to stare out the window at a stretch of enormous houses flanking the road. Built for wealthy cotton merchants in the last century, all had long ago been divided into flats or converted into drab-looking guest houses with vacancy signs in the front windows. Now it seemed every other one was clad in property developer's scaffolding. Signs strapped to the metal poles announced who had laid claim to which building. A modern-day gold rush.

'I read somewhere this area's had the biggest jump in house prices for the whole of Manchester. Six years ago people couldn't sell their property around here for peanuts,' Jon commented.

'Shit — another missed chance,' McCloughlin said, whipping the car round into Lea Road. Five police cars and an ambulance were already parked haphazardly on the pavement in front of number forty-six, yellow crime scene tape shivering in the chill autumnal breeze. The house was similar to the massive ones on the main road, solid, chunky brickwork, large stone windowsills and a metal fire escape clinging to its side.

The two men cut through the crowd of curious onlookers and approached a uniformed officer holding a flip notebook. Flashing his warrant card, McCloughlin asked, 'Who's in there?'

The officer glanced down at his pad. 'Just the SOCO and the photographer at the moment, sir. The officers who first attended the scene are talking to CID over there.' He pointed to a group of people gathered in the outer cordon.

'Is that who found her?' asked Jon, nodding discreetly at a heavily built girl sitting in the back of an ambulance, a paramedic comforting her.

'That's right,' answered the officer. 'Emma Newton.'

'And it's the ground-floor flat?'

'Yes. It's got its own front door, round the back of the building.'

McCloughlin pointed to the officer's pen. 'OK, DI Spicer and DCI McCloughlin, MISU. We're going in.' After introducing themselves to the other officers, they put on white scene-of-crime suits and overshoes, then passed into the inner cordon and walked down the driveway running along the side of the building. 'That helps,' remarked McCloughlin. 'Private entry, no communal hallway.'

They rounded the corner and found themselves in a large rear yard closed in by high walls. A rotting sofa lay next to a rusting car in the corner, front tyres missing. Large trees in the neighbouring gardens enclosed the area. A sign tacked to an overhanging tree read, 'Smile! You're on CCTV.'

They both turned round and started scanning the back of the building for cameras. 'Perhaps it's sitting on one of the windowsills inside,' said Jon, unable to spot it.

'Could be. 'They approached the short flight of steps leading up to the door of flat one. A little wind chime hung to the side of the door, the draft round the back of the building only strong enough to make the wooden tab at the end of the string twist slowly round and round.

Both men were now scanning the concrete steps, then the door itself.

'No forced entry,' remarked Jon as McCloughlin pushed the door open with the end of a pen. 'Hello? DCI McCloughlin and DI Spicer, MISU. Can we come in?'

A voice answered them from deeper inside the flat. 'Keep to the footplates please, gentlemen.' A tall man wearing a face mask stepped from one of the rooms.

As they approached him, Jon noticed a carefully arranged assortment of coupons cut from magazines on the little hallway table. Nearing the front room Jon said, 'Same odour. Slightly fruity, chemical. Can you smell it?'

'Yeah, I thought someone had been painting,' replied McCloughlin.

'So did I, in the first victim's flat. I think you'll find it gets a lot stronger the closer you get to her mouth.'

Now in the dim front room itself, Jon looked down at the obese body of a young woman. Her arms were stretched out at right angles to her body, long strands of brown hair spread out to the side of her head, purple hairband keeping it off her face. Every so often the scene was lit by flashes from the photographer's camera as he snapped shots from every angle. She wore a knitted jumper with sheep on it, a thick corduroy skirt and beige tights. Sensible slip-on shoes.

'Very Mumsy,' said McCloughlin.

Crouching down, they peered into her slightly open mouth.

The SOCO said, 'The trees cut out a lot of the daylight. I haven't dusted the light switch yet. But here, use my torch.'

Jon turned it on and held it centimetres from her lips. Just visible at the back of her mouth was a thick white substance. He played the beam over her hands, then the rest of her. 'She's been dragged here. Jumper's tight over her shoulders, hair is pulled under her head and is lying off to one side.' He directed the light at the corner of the rug nearest the door — it was slightly curled over.

'I'll go with that,' answered McCloughlin.

'I think you'll find she may have collapsed in the bathroom,' the SOCO stated. They stepped back into the hallway. There were only three other doors to choose from: kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. Looking in the bathroom, they saw a sink that was partially full of water, a bottle of liquid soap lying half submerged inside. On the floor next to a neat arrangement of toilet rolls was a large clamshell holding several brightly coloured smaller shells in its concave surface. Several had spilled across the lino floor.