Down into Darkness Read online

  Down Into Darkness

  In addition to being a critically acclaimed writer of crime fiction, David Lawrence is a successful screen-writer. His books are published in the United States and have been translated into fourteen languages.

  Down Into Darkness is the fourth novel in the Stella Mooney series, following The Dead Sit Round in a Ring, Nothing Like the Night and Cold Kill (all available in Penguin paperback).

  Down Into Darkness

  DAVID LAWRENCE

  MICHAEL JOSEPH

  an imprint of

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  MICHAEL JOSEPH

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  First published 2007

  1

  Copyright © David Lawrence, 2007

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright

  reserved above, no part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,

  or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior

  written permission of both the copyright owner and

  the above publisher of this book

  EISBN: 978–0–141–90240–1

  To Sean O’Brien

  1

  Someone looking up might have seen her hanging in the tree, but people don’t look up unless something draws their attention, and she was almost completely hidden by broad green leaves. Now and then, a breeze caused the smaller boughs to shift and tremble, throwing on the body of the girl a dappled light which camouflaged her as effectively as the leaves.

  Late spring in London and much too hot. It was shaping up to be a summer of drought. Newspapers carried long feature articles on global warming with artists’ impressions of the deserts soon to take over the south. If you were in any doubt about those predictions, you could sniff the air for the unmistakable, scorchy smell of pollution hanging in the streets. The girls of London, leggy and stylish, had summer highlights in their hair; they wore crop-tops and micro-skirts and gold bangles that showed off their tans. The whores up on the Strip wore even less.

  At eight in the evening it was still light and still hot. Couples strolled through the dusty streets arm in arm. There were people going home after a late shift at the office; people on their way to a bar or a restaurant; people with things on their minds. Bikers went by, and kids on roller-blades; traffic went nose to tail.

  A boy sat with his girl on the back seat of the top deck of a bus. They were new as a couple: everything fresh and exciting and slightly feverish. Even in public, they found it tough to keep their hands off one another. He kissed her and, just briefly, put his hand to her breast. The bus was slowing down, backed up in a line of vehicles waiting at a junction; as it came to a stop, its uppermost windows lightly brushed the leaves of a roadside tree. The girl smiled and touched the boy’s cheek, then, for no good reason except that they had stopped, looked beyond him to the tree.

  Sunlight glanced off the leaves, throwing jittery fragments of white light, and the girl saw what she thought, at first, was a fork in the tree-trunk; the leaves rustled and shuffled, and the shape became a broken branch twisting gently in the breeze.

  Then, as the breeze quickened, she saw the naked torso as it turned and, a moment later, the face staring across at her, dark as a ripe plum.

  2

  Stella Mooney and John Delaney were eating at Machado’s, a restaurant in a small square just off Notting Hill Gate. Tables had been set up on the edge of the square, and strings of white lights sparkled in the branches of ornamental trees. Candles on the tables shuddered, throwing buttery pools of yellow light in the near-dusk, and swifts were flying wall-of-death circuits, shrieking as they skimmed the brickwork.

  Stella said, ‘Well, fuck you, Delaney.’

  It was the end of a conversation that had gone like this: ‘Are you happy with us?’

  ‘With us?’ Stella had been eating langoustine and, when Delaney asked his question, was holding the little creature between the forefinger and thumb of each hand and picking at it with her teeth. She wondered if the question had an edge to it. ‘Why wouldn’t I be happy with us?’

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘So… Are you happy with us?’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Delaney nodded and smiled at her like a man with a secret to keep.

  ‘Just a minute. You’re not about to fetch a ring out of your pocket, are you?’

  ‘No.’ And Delaney started to laugh. ‘A ring? Jesus Christ, no.’

  Which is when she said, ‘Well, fuck you, Delaney,’ then leaned across the table and stifled his laughter with a kiss.

  He topped up their wine glasses and they ate in silence, his eyes on her. She said, ‘Then what –’ in the same moment that her mobile phone rang.

  Delaney said, ‘Don’t answer it,’ more suggestion than instruction, but she had already taken the call. For the most part she listened, and when she spoke, spoke softly. Then she got up, kissed Delaney again and walked across the square towards the side street where her car was parked.

  One or two men at other tables paused to watch her go. Delaney noticed this and smiled, watching her also, making an inventory of his own. Stella was thirty-three: still young enough to use only a touch of make-up. Dark hair, blue eyes, tall and slim but not skinny; her mouth a little too broad, perhaps, and her nose a fraction long: little imperfections that made all the difference. Delaney stayed to finish his meal. He drank the rest of the wine, then ordered a single malt whisky with his coffee as the cut of sky above the square darkened to lilac. He sat back in his chair and looked up, as few people do, because the swifts had caught his attention. They circled at madcap speeds, shrieking, shrieking, shrieking.

  Detective Inspector Mike Sorley had called Stella because he’d worked with her before and reckoned her the best detective sergeant in Area Major Investigation Pool operations. He had already second-guessed Stella’s own choices for the team and had checked the availability of DC Pete Harriman, DC Maxine Hewitt, DC Andy Greegan and DC Sue Chapman. Sue wasn’t a street cop; she was a systems coordinator with a tidy mind and an eagle eye.

  AMIP-5 covered murder investigations over an area that included Notting Hill, Holland Park, the Kensals and part of Paddington; it took in some multimillion-pound mansions, a high rise, no-go, badass waste land called the Harefield Estate, and pretty much everything in between. North of Notting Hill, as you get to Kensal Green, was the Strip: a blaze of lime and pink and purple neon, shebeens and shanty-casinos, hookers working the kerbs, deals going down in alleyways, music floo
ding from doors and windows with a beat so loud and deep that it shifted your viscera.

  Stella drove the length of the Strip, then turned off into residential streets. The whole population was out, sitting on doorsteps, lounging in foldaway chairs, drinking beer; the smell of ganja drifted in through the open windows of Stella’s car. Bust one, you bust the neighbourhood.

  The white glow in the sky four streets away was halogen.

  Andy Greegan’s job was to create an uncorrupted approach to the body, which wasn’t easy when it was hanging sixteen feet above the ground. Sorley and Stella discussed a game plan.

  ‘Portable scaffolding,’ Sorley said, ‘and drape the tree.’ They were staring straight up, like star-gazers. Pete Harriman joined them. ‘How did he get her up there?’ he wondered.

  ‘Yes,’ Stella said, ‘and when? There’s traffic up and down this road all day. People are out and about, especially in this weather.’

  ‘He arrives with a body and a rope,’ Harriman said; ‘no one sees him or, if they do, they notice nothing unusual. He strings her up… How does he do that? Throw her over his shoulder and shin up the tree?’

  ‘What makes you think he came with a body?’ Stella asked.

  Sorley’s phone rang: a contractor with scaffolding and net-drape. He wandered off to take the call.

  Harriman said, ‘You think he killed her at the scene?’

  ‘Easier for him in some ways: he hasn’t got a corpse to deal with – deadweight. If she’s alive, she’s more portable.’

  ‘Or else, easier if she’s dead. The killing’s done.’ They were still looking up. Stella’s neck was paining her. Harriman added, ‘So – alive or dead, it must have been under cover of darkness, yes?’

  ‘Seems that way.’

  ‘In which case, she’s been up there since before dawn.’

  Stella lowered her head and massaged the nape of her neck. She was thinking of the way some birds of the air had with flesh.

  3

  Night had come in while they waited for the scaffolders. The tree was shrouded in green net, behind which lay a fretwork of steel scaffolding, and the area was lit like a film set. Men in white coveralls were walking the high platforms, taking samples from trunk and branch. They might have been botanists on a field trip. There were halogens at ground level; their harsh beams lit what they touched, leaving the rest of the interior dark and jungly. The warm breeze stirred a fetid smell.

  Stella wasn’t good with heights: the planking seemed to shift under her, like foreshore sand when the tide’s out, and she felt a churning low in her gut. None of this was helped by the fact that she had started her period that morning. DC Greegan’s photographers, one taking stills, one making a video record, were standing directly opposite the hanging girl. A couple of lights had been hoisted and roped to the steel in order to illuminate the body; they threw deep black shadows. The street was cordoned off, and the space around the tree held a cathedral quiet, so that the clack-clack of the shutter release and the whirr of the video camera seemed unnaturally loud. Stella didn’t want to look at the girl.

  Pete Harriman had made the climb with her, fast and nimble like a scaffolder. Stella’s knuckles had whitened every time she shifted her grip, and she had climbed on her arches rather than on the balls of her feet. She and Harriman stood by the stills cameraman, who was shooting all angles. The girl was slim, and, despite the pull of her own weight, her back still held a curve. Across her shoulders, just where a yoke might go, were two words written in black marker pen:

  DIRTY GIRL

  A small, warm gust shook the tree, and she made a lazy half-turn that brought her full-face.

  ‘Jesus Christ Almighty.’ It was Harriman’s voice: all he had to say on the matter. Oddly, the sight cleared Stella’s head; she forgot about the queasiness and the false sensation of movement in the planking. The girl seemed out of focus, her face blurred for being eyeless, the faint pubic smudge sketched in; the blood backed up in her veins gave her body a dark blush like spoiled fruit. Stella called down to Greegan, who was one level below them.

  ‘How long now?’

  ‘They’ve got what they can, Boss. It’s not easy, taking forensic traces from a tree.’

  ‘Can we bring her down?’

  ‘Okay.’

  The rope holding the girl was tied off to a branch a little way below her feet. Stella watched as the forensics officers started to cut her down. One had attached a harness to the body; it fitted like a corset. He linked a winch hook to a steel ring set in the harness at the level of her shoulder blades, then held her round the waist, taking her weight, while another cut the original rope close to the branch, taking care to preserve the knot the killer had tied. People knot rope in different ways.

  Stella stayed up on the gantry. She didn’t want to be on the ground to witness that sad descent. She didn’t want to see those white feet, blameless and bare, emerging from the leaf-cover.

  The police doctor pronounced the girl dead at the scene of crime, took rectal and vaginal temperatures, noted the lack of rigor mortis and gave a 36-hour time bracket for the moment of death. It was warm inside the SOC tent, and the girl was leaking fluids and odours. She lay heavy on the ground, as if she had fallen; her open mouth and the hollows of her eyes made a dark mask.

  When the doctor had finished, paramedics moved in to lift her and take her to the morgue. Science hadn’t finished with her yet. They each gripped a corner of the green plastic sheet she lay on and took her up tenderly, letting her body settle on to a collapsible gurney.

  The doctor was a young man and hadn’t long been seconded to police work. He stood close to Stella as the gurney was wheeled out. He said, ‘Who would do such a thing?’

  Stella almost smiled. She said, ‘Someone. Anyone.’

  The AMIP-5 team would meet next morning: Mike Sorley had already requisitioned the basement of a police admin. building in Notting Dene. Stella left her car parked in the empty street and ducked under the blue-and-white police tape. Houses on one side, the railings of a children’s play area on the other, the tree on the street side of the railings. She closed her eyes, the better to see how it might have happened.

  Two, maybe three o’clock in the morning. But London was never still, never quiet, never dark. Street lights, evenly spaced. A car draws up by the tree. Do other cars go past? Probably. Are people still on the streets at this hour? Of course, but not many and not often in a street like this. Is someone looking out of a window, someone unable to sleep, someone with a restless child, someone in love or in grief?

  Is she alive or dead? Let’s say she’s alive. Has he stopped because he lives near by? Or she lives near by? Are they lovers – does she feel safe with him? Or has he picked her up? Did they meet at a party, in a bar, did he offer her a lift home?

  Hey, I’m going that way. I could drop you off.

  Is she a runaway, is she Ms Ordinary, is she a woman with a career, a cheating wife, a mover and shaker, a minor celebrity, a hooker from the Strip looking for a quiet place to get the business done?

  They get out of the car.

  Is she still unafraid, or is he forcing her, threatening her with a gun or a knife? Is she laughing with him or pleading with him? Either way, somehow, he strips her, and he strings her up. Is she already dead when he does that, or does she hang in the tree, the night-wind stroking her body as she writhes and chokes, a darkness descending on her that is deeper than the London half-dark, a darkness filled with the howl of blood in her head and the hard rasp of her own torn-off cries?

  Stella walked through the Strip. Dealers were trading openly, and the whores were strolling the kerbside in their Spandex and boob-tubes, their heels and halters, on offer to the needy and the woebegone. Their pimps watched the action from black SUVs with wraparound sound-systems. The shebeens and casinos offered a three-day drunk or a five-day poker game. She knew the Strip, she knew some of the people, but no one paid her any attention; they were all too busy getting what they wa
nted: dope or sex or booze or fun. Or money.

  Two streets away things were quieter, as if a truce had been called. She went into Nico’s All-Nite and ordered a coffee. The owner was Turkish; he’d bought the place from whoever had bought it from Nico. He said, ‘It’s too hot. For this time of year? Too hot.’

  The place was empty. Stella sat at a formica table with cup stains and thought about the dead girl. What her name might be; who she was before she died.

  She wondered what John Delaney had been going to say before her phone cut him off.

  He was asleep when she got back: used to her sudden call-outs and erratic time-keeping. Sometimes she wouldn’t go back to his flat but stayed, instead, at the place she had shared for five years with George Paterson; that was before she had met Delaney, and George had sniffed the air, getting the scent of betrayal.

  She went to the freezer and took out a bottle of vodka. From the shelf, a shot glass; from the fridge, a single cube of ice. When she poured the vodka over the ice, covering it, a slight meniscus formed at the top of the glass, just this side of spillage.

  Hey, I’m going that way. I could drop you off.

  No, she probably knew him better than that. Most murder victims knew their killers; it was the fiercest type of intimacy. But how did he hoist her up like that?

  And why?

  She drank a couple. A couple or three. Then she took her clothes off in the hallway, so she wouldn’t wake him. The bedroom was completely dark, the way he liked it, blackout curtains blanking the London night-time glow. Delaney stirred as she got into bed and turned towards her; the heat from his body, and his earthy smell in the deep darkness, gave her a little erotic charge. Something to do with not being able to see him; something to do with anonymity. She let her hand slip across his belly, but he didn’t wake.

  The girl came to her in a dream. She was walking the Strip in lime-green Lycra and long diamanté earrings. A car drew up, and she went across, bending low to the window, showing the client the goods. They struck a deal, and she opened the car door. Stella could see, on the back seat, his killing apparatus: rope, winch, a metal ladder. She moved forward, wanting to stop the girl, but it was like wading through heavy surf. She called out, and her voice distorted, the words jumbling and shuffling.