Adrian Magson - No Kiss For The Devil

She had a sense that this one might be different.

The forensics officer was watching her, eyes in dark pockets of shadow cast by the arc lights. He wore a white suit and over-shoes, like the others, but exuded a different kind of aura; heavier, somehow, as if weighed down by authority or responsibility. He didn’t seem very pleased to see her.

‘Take it slowly,’ he said flatly. He glanced past her at Pell and lifted his eyebrows momentarily before adding, ‘Do you recognise her?’

The woman was lying huddled in the bottom of the ditch, her legs bent and her feet together, shoulders slightly hunched. She could have been asleep or even posing coyly, except that her hands had been taped together at the wrists, the material cutting deep into the skin. Her face was pale and beaded with moisture, wet strands of blonde hair plastered against her skull. Bruising showed on her cheeks and down one side of her throat, and one ear lobe was ripped, a faint staining of red showing where an earring had been torn away.

Riley guessed the woman was not much older than herself, maybe in her mid-thirties, although it was impossible to be certain. She wore a plain, dark jacket and skirt, with the hem turned up on one slim thigh to reveal a flash of white silk. Her shoes had once been shiny, but like her lower legs, were now smeared with mud. Her fingers were bare, although the glint of a watch showed on her wrist. Her hands looked well cared-for, the nails varnished with a blush of pink, and were splayed out as if somehow wanting to be distanced from what had happened to her body.

Riley forced herself to look at the woman’s face, passing over the slack mouth to the half-open, dulled eyes. They contained no discernible expression, simply two darker areas in an otherwise bloodless skin. But Riley fancied she could see a pleading glint deep inside, as if asking for something.

She felt her gut heave and swallowed hard.

‘What was done to her?’ she asked finally, eyes on the taped wrists. It was the first thing she could think of, familiar with images from Belfast to Baghdad of torture victims found tied up, as if death alone was not enough.

The forensics man didn’t answer immediately, but gave her a studied look. He shook his head. ‘It’s too early to tell.’

‘Anything?’ It was Pell, shifting about at the top of the slope, restless for an answer.

It was Riley’s turn to shake her head. Yet there was something chillingly familiar about the woman’s face. But she wasn’t about to commit herself to these men without a moment’s thought. Whoever the dead woman was — had been — she deserved more than that. If Riley got it wrong, the thought of some thoughtless copper blundering upon an unconnected family with terrifying news was something she didn’t like to contemplate. As she looked beyond the glare of lights, trying to make the connection to where she might have seen her before, she noticed two other figures in the background beyond the canopy, standing against a gleam of polished metal half concealed in the bushes. As her eyes acclimatised to the change, she recognised the shape as a small car. The men were checking under the bonnet.

‘Why me?’ she queried, to buy herself some time. ‘What made you think I’d know her?’ The car the men were examining had been driven with considerable force into the ditch and beyond, burying its nose into the undergrowth and churning up a burrow of earth as it went. As Riley’s eyes became accustomed to the pattern of light and dark, she was beginning to realise that the crime scene was far more than just this woman’s body.

‘Are you saying you don’t know her?’ Pell was champing at the bit, plainly having to hold himself in check.

‘I don’t think so. It’s hard to tell. Is the car hers?’ She guessed they must already have an idea, unless the car was stolen, of course. Or rented. The question remained, though: out of all the inhabitants of the greater London metropolitan area, why had Pell called her?

‘Yes.’ He beckoned her back out of the ditch, holding out a hand to help her up. He let go as soon as she was on safe ground, as if prolonged contact might be misconstrued. When she was standing alongside him, he produced a plastic evidence bag and angled it so she could see the contents.

‘This was found in the foot-well,’ he explained. ‘You might not have known her, but she seems to have known you.’

Riley studied the bag. Inside was a single square of yellow paper. A Post-it note, common in every household and office in the country. In spite of a smear of moisture on the outside of the plastic film, there was no mistaking what had been written on the paper in bold handwriting.

It was Riley’s own name and telephone number.

‘I don’t understand.’ Riley was slumped in the passenger seat of Pell’s car, holding a cup of coffee. It was lukewarm and sweet, like stewed caramel. But a welcome distraction from the scene outside. She was still wearing the white SOCO suit, and in spite of the lightweight fabric, she felt hot and constricted, as if swathed in cling-film.

‘It’s never easy,’ Pell replied. His tone was of a man who’d been here too many times, seen this often to be surprised anymore.

The car smelled of dog and damp. Sweet wrappers and wet-wipes were crushed haphazardly into the door pockets, some tumbling out onto the floor around her feet. A pair of men’s ancient trainers lay in the foot-well, faded and curled like dried banana skins. The two available cup holders were jammed with polystyrene mugs, each filled with rubbish. A mobile skip, office and taxi all in one, she thought.

‘You don’t believe in cleaning, do you?’ she said.

‘I don’t have the time.’

Outside, the night and the weather and the dark continued, interspersed with the comings and goings of the forensic and search teams combing the area around the body.

Riley stared through the windscreen, wondering how long it would be before the press showed up. Not long, if their usual contacts were on the ball. Journalists had a nose for a story and Journalist. Her stomach went ice-cold as her thoughts suddenly fixed with glaring precision on the awful realisation that Pell had been unwittingly right; the dead woman had known her.

She kept her eyes to the front in case Pell should interpret her expression. She needed time to think it through.

The dead woman’s face had looked vaguely familiar, yet without that spark of absolute recognition. It was like seeing a celebrity in the street, but not being sure. It hadn’t helped that, down in that hollow and under the glare of the lights, any notable characteristics had been flattened, leaving a uniform blandness like a shop-front mannequin.

Now she knew who she’d been looking at, she felt sick.

Pell had taken a phone call moments after getting into the car. From what little he’d said, she knew he’d been hearing confirmation of the dead woman’s name and details. She got the impression it hadn’t come as a surprise.

‘Turns out she was a journalist,’ Pell muttered finally, half to himself. ‘Name of Helen Bellamy.’ Under the dull glow of the interior light, his face was less angular than she’d first thought, but still with a determined quality, as if hewn from a lump of wood but with the edges softened. He was also smooth-shaven, and his eyes were surprisingly dark, perhaps with Latin origins. With the hood of his slicker down, she saw his medium-crop hair was peppered with grey. Late thirties, she guessed. Stressed.

‘A journalist like you,’ he continued pointedly. He drummed strong fingers on the steering wheel, a tattoo of frustration. ‘You sure you don’t know her?’

‘I… might have met her. But that’s all.’ Riley had to force the words out, aware that deliberate lies now might come back to haunt her. She hoped Pell hadn’t noticed her hesitation.