章節 2: SILENT VICTIM
Sunday morning at eight o'clock, Detective Vivian Gates was awakened from a dream in which she was travelling to Egypt with her father. Her father was a cool, distant man who had never taken her anywhere, but the dream seemed plausible enough even though they had never done anything of the sort.
With her eyes shut, Vivian reached until her fingertips made contact with the glossy plastic surface of her bedside table. She then fidgeted with the receiver resting on the pillow next to her.
She muttered, "Mmm?"
"Vivian?"
"Sir?" Upon hearing Backwoods's voice, she attempted to pull herself from Rico's embrace. Still, she was unable to go very far. She scowled and dabbed at her tired eyes. Since she was a small child, Vivian had always had difficulty waking up.
Backwoods apologised for waking people up so early on a Sunday, but there was a suspicious death that occurred after closing last night.
"Yes, in that case, sir. Vivian pushed herself up against the pillows and away from the sheets. suspicious demise. She understood what that implied. Work. Right now. Her breasts were exposed as the thin bedsheet fell off her shoulders. The early morning cold in the bedroom had made her nipples hard. She felt vulnerable talking to Backwoods while sitting up in bed, undressed, for a brief moment. But he was unable to see her. Stop being such an idiot, she told herself.
"There is not much to go on," continued Backwoods. "Even the victim's name is unknown to us. As soon as you can, please come down here.
"Yes, sir. I'll be right there."
After putting the receiver back, Vivian got out of bed and ran her fingers through her hair. Standing on the tips of her toes, she extended her arms toward the ceiling until she felt the knots in her muscles pop.
Then, she padded to the living room, stopping along the way to observe her thighs and waist circumference in the wardrobe mirror. She would have to start that diet again soon. Before she went to take a shower, she started the coffee-maker and put some old CDs on the player to help her wake up.
She was thinking about her date with Micheal Flynn, a DC from Regional Headquarters, as the hot water played over her skin last night. After taking her to see an Alan Bennett play at the Georgian Theatre in Richmond, they discovered a cosy pub off of the market square, where she enjoyed a half-pint of cider and cheese and onion crisps.
As they made their way to her car, huddled under her umbrella due to the intense downpour and Micheal's lack of concern for carrying one, she sensed his warmth and responded accordingly; in fact, she was on the verge of accepting his invitation to return to his house for coffee. Nearly. She was not ready yet, though.
She wanted to. Oh, she wanted to. Especially when they kissed good night in her car. It had been too long. But they had only been out together three times, and that was too soon for Vivian . Although she had recently given up her personal life to focus on her career, she had no intention of sleeping with the first attractive man who happened to cross her path.
She realised she had been standing in the shower for so long that her skin was beginning to glow, so she quickly dried off and changed into a polo-neck jumper that matched her eyes and a pair of black jeans.
Her curly blonde hair was lucky enough to require very little maintenance. After applying a small amount of gel to add shine, she was prepared to proceed. She ate a piece of dry toast and sipped the last of her black, sugarless coffee while Rod Stewart sang "Maggie Mae."
She quickly ran out the door while she was still eating, grabbing a light jacket from the hook. She could have walked for exercise on another occasion because it was only a five-minute drive to the station.
Particularly this morning. With clear blue skies and a slight chill in the air, the day was ideal for an autumnal celebration. As she walked to her car, she felt the early lemon and russet leaves from the trees squishing under her feet due to the recent winds.
However, Vivian only stopped for a moment today to take in the clear air before getting into her car and turning on the ignition. On her first attempt, her red golf started. A fortunate start.
_____________________________________________
Backwoods leaned by his office window, his favourite spot, blew on the surface of his coffee and watched the steam rise as he looked out over the quiet market square. He was thinking about Jane, about their marriage and the way it all seemed to be going wrong. Not so much wrong, just nowhere.
She still hadn't spoken to him since the opera. Not that she'd had much chance, really, with him being out so late at the crime scene. And this morning she had barely been conscious by the time he left. But still, there was a discernible chill in the house.
Last night's rain had washed the excesses of Saturday night from the cobbles, just as the station cleaning-staff disinfected and mopped out the cells after the overnight drunk and disorderlies had been discharged. The square and the buildings around it glowed pale grey-gold in the early light.
Backwoods had his window open a couple of inches, and the sound of the church congregation singing "We plough the fields, and scatter drifted in. It took him back to the Harvest Festivals of his childhood, when his mum would give him a couple of apples and oranges to put in the church basket along with everyone else's. He often wondered what happened to all the fruit after the festival was over.
The Dalesman calendar on his wall showed Healaugh Church, near York, through a farm gate. It wasn't a particularly autumnal shot, Backwoods was thinking, as he heard the tap on his door.
It was Vivian Gates, first to arrive after Detective Superintendent Thorn, who was already busy co-ordinating with Regional HQ and arranging for local media coverage.
As usual, Vivian looked fresh as a daisy, Backwoods thought, Just the right amount of make-up, blonde curls still glistening from the shower. While no-one would describe Vivian Gates as an oil painting, with her small button nose and her serious, guarded expression, his clear, blue-grey eyes were intriguing, and she had a beautiful, smooth complexion.
Not for Vivian, Backwoods thought, the wild, boozy Saturday nights favoured by Tom Bennett, who followed hot on her heels looking like death warmed over, eyes bleary and bloodshot, lips dry and cracked, a shred of toilet paper stuck over a shaving cut, thinning straw hair unwashed and uncombed for a couple of days.
After the two of them had sat down, both nursing cups of coffee, Backwoods explained how the boy had been killed, then he walked over to the map of Eastvale on the wall by his filing cabinet and pointed to the ginnel where the body had been discovered.
"This is where Agent Ford found him," he began. "There are no through roads leading west nearby, so people tend to cut through the residential streets, then take the Carlaw Place ginnel over the recreation ground to King Street and the Leaview Estate. Thing is, it works both ways, so he could have been heading in either direction. We don't know."
"Sir," said Vivian , "you told me on the telephone that he'd probably been killed shortly after closing time. If he'd been out drinking, isn't it more likely that he was heading from Market Street? I mean, that's quite a popular spot for young people on a Saturday night. There's a fair number of pubs, and some of them have live bands or karaoke".
Karaoke. Backwoods felt himself shudder at the thought. The only other words that had similar effect on him were country-and-western music. An oxymoron if ever there was one.
"Good point," he said. "So let's concentrate our survey on the Market Street pubs and the Leaview Estate to start with. If we draw a blank there, we can extend the area".
"How much do we know, sir?" Lieutenant Corey asked
"Precious little. I've already had a look at the overnight logs, and there are no reports of any major shindigs. We've talked to the occupants of the terrace houses on both sides of the ginnel, as well as the people across the street. The only one with anything to say was watching television, so he didn't hear anything too clearly, but he was sure he did hear a fight or something outside during the Liverpool-Newcastle game on 'Match of the Day."
"What exactly did he hear, sir?" Vivian asked.
There was only some squabbling and muttering, followed by the sound of people fleeing. He could not say how many, but he had more than one thought, or which way. He assumed it was just the typical bunch of inebriated idiots, and he had no plans to go outside and investigate."
As Dr Lieutenant Corey carefully picked at the tissue covering his shaving cut, he said, "You can hardly blame him, these days, can you?" It began to bleed once more. "As soon as they lay eyes on you, some of these jerks will kill you. Besides, it was a bloody good match."
"Anyway," Backwoods went on, "you'd better check with Traffic, too. We don't know for certain whether the attackers ran home or drove off. Perhaps they were pulled over for speeding or received a parking ticket".
"We ought to be very fortunate," Corey muttered.
Drawing two sheets of paper out of a folder on his desk, Backwoods gave one to Corey and one to Vivian. It depicted the impression of a young man with thin lips and a long, narrow nose who was most likely in his early twenties. His hair was neatly combed back after being cut short. It looked very thin on top and, despite his youth, seemed to be receding at the temples. Backwoods thought he saw a tinge of arrogance in the expression, but there was nothing particularly noteworthy about him. That was, of course, probably just the work of the artist.
He said, "This was the idea of the mortuary's night shift attendant."
"A few months ago, he began drawing corpses as a way to kill time after growing bored with having no one to talk to at work. He refers to them as "Still Lifes".
Clearly a man with untapped abilities. As for the nose, well, it had been badly broken, so he told us this was all speculation. He was speculating about the height and prominence of the cheekbones, since they had also been fractured. However, he remarks that the overall form of the head and the hair are correct. That will have to do for the time being. All we know for sure is that the victim was approximately six feet tall, weighed eleven stone, and was in excellent physical condition, possibly an athlete, with blonde hair and blue eyes. Not a scar, tattoo, birthmark, or other characteristic that would set them apart. He gave the folder a tap.
"Tomorrow morning, we will attempt to get this in the papers and on the local TV news. For the time being, you can begin by going from house to house, and then you can canvass the pubs after they open. Four cops have been assigned by the uniform branch to assist. Finding out who the poor bugger was is our top priority, followed by learning who he was last seen with before he was killed. Alright?"
Both of them nodded before getting up to go. "And bring your cell phones or personal radios so you can communicate with each other." I want the left hand to be able to tell what the right hand is doing. Good?"
"Yes, sir," Vivian replied.
"I think one of us should show Dr. Gilbert the courtesy of being present. He has kindly offered to come in and do the post-mortem this morning," Backwoods grinned grimly.
Don't you?"
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