CHAPTER 10
It was almost five p.m. by the time they got back to Arbour Square. While George booked all the exhibits into storage, Dillon gave Jack a breakdown on what the autopsy had revealed.
“Is he sure about the killer having medical knowledge?” Jack asked. He didn’t like that idea one little bit, and neither would Holland. He could already picture the headline if the tabloids got hold of that information: ‘DOCTOR DEATH STALKS THE STREETS OF LONDON’.
“I’m afraid so, Jack,” Dillon confirmed. “And it makes sense. He cut her open like he knew what he was doing.”
“Fuck,” Jack said, gloomily. “That’s all we need – a psychotic doctor.”
“To be fair,” Dillon said, putting things into context, “Claxton did only say rudimentary medical knowledge.”
“So, it could theoretically be a mortuary assistant, a paramedic or even a hospital porter?”
Dillon nodded. “Or just someone who’s worked in a funeral parlour, embalming bodies. It could even be a weirdo who’s been reading too many medical books.”
“Well, that’s as clear as mud,” Tyler said, deciding that there was no point in speculating further. It would all come out in the wash, as his mum was fond of saying.
Dillon sniffed his lapel and wrinkled his nose. “I think I need a shower. I’ve got the smell of death all over me,”
“I thought it was just that ropey aftershave you wear kicking up,” Jack teased.
“Funny,” Dillon said, giving him the finger. “So, what’s been happening here while I’ve been gone?”
Jack explained that Reg had managed to fast-track subscriber information on mobile phones belonging to Tracey Phillips, Sandra Dawson, and Claude Winston.
“The call data shows that Tracey rang Winston once during the early hours of yesterday morning, a call that lasted approximately two minutes. Between five and six-fifteen a.m. Winston made a number of calls to Tracey’s mobile, none of which were answered. He also made one short call to Sandra Dawson just before six a.m.”
“What about cell site, have we got that?”
“We have, and the cell site data is even more interesting. It places Winston in the vicinity of Commercial Street around the time we think Tracey was killed.”
“So, things aren’t looking too good for Claude?”
“No, they’re not. Dawson’s testimony, combined with the phone data, put him squarely in the frame for this. If the DNA from under Tracey’s nails turns out to be his, which I suspect it will, I think we’ll have enough to charge him.”
“So, how did we find him?”
“The drug squad boys have been watching a wash house in Limehouse, run by a little oik called Clifford Mullings. They followed Mullings to another flat on a dodgy estate in Canning Town last week, and guess who opened the door to let him in?”
“Winston?”
“None other.”
“It doesn’t mean he lives there, though. He could just have been visiting.”
“I pointed that out to the drug squad, but they assured me it was Winston’s flat; said their information was one hundred percent reliable.”
“Have you told Holland?” Dillon asked.
“I’ve updated him with what we’ve got, but I’ve made a point of telling him not to get too excited just yet. I don’t want him telling the AC we’ve got this case cracked, only to find that Winston’s not our man after all.”
Dillon frowned. “He ticks all the boxes for me,” he said.
Jack shrugged. “’He would tick all the boxes for me, too, if it wasn’t for that message. I just don’t see what he could gain from writing something like that.”
“Maybe he’s trying to deflect us away from the real motive, hoping we’ll think we’ve got a serial killer on the loose when it’s nothing more than a simple revenge killing by an angry pimp.”
“Do you honestly think that’s why he went to town on her genitals or pulled half her intestines out – just to throw us off the trail?”
Dillon thought back to the SPM and shuddered. “She’s a sex worker. Maybe she was shortchanging him and this is a message to the other girls.”
“Do you really buy that?” Jack asked.
Dillon sighed, “How many times in the past have we been surprised by the senseless brutality of murder? How many times do we hear people say, ‘I never thought he would be capable of something like that?’ Maybe Winston was high when he killed her, or maybe he’s just an old-fashioned psychopath.”
“Yes, but is he an old-fashioned psychopath with rudimentary medical knowledge?” Jack asked.
Dillon considered this. “That’s a good point,” he admitted. “I can’t imagine Winston having any medical knowledge, but I could be wrong.”
“So, that makes two reasons why he doesn’t tick all the boxes for me,” Jack said.
Steve Bull shuffled into the office looking fit to collapse. He stopped, sniffed and recoiled. “Phwoor, it smells like something died in here. Where’s that pong coming from?”
“Me, I’m afraid,” Dillon admitted.
“How are you getting on organising a surveillance team?” Jack asked him.
Bull shook his head. “I’m not. I’ve spoken to C11. Every team in the Met is already deployed tonight. All they could advise was to phone back in the morning and they’ll try to accommodate us then. The one thing they did say, though, was that they won’t deploy unless we have a definite pick-up point. They just don’t have the resources to let a team sit on a dead plot all day.”
“Okay, put a briefing package together, Steve. If they aren’t willing to deploy unless they know he’s there, we’d better house him for them.”
“But we don’t even have a ‘nondy’ van,” Steve pointed out.
Tyler turned to Dillon. “Any chance you could blag the observation van from those Flying Squad mates of yours at Rigg Approach?”
Dillon shrugged. “I suppose I could phone over and see if they’re using it tonight,” he said.
“You might want to shower first,” Bull suggested, fanning his nose.
◆◆◆
The observations on Claude Winston’s address began at seven p.m. Despite their tiredness a sense of expectation now buzzed through the team, reinvigorating them.
While the aim on paper was purely to confirm
