The Jigsaw Man

‘Body parts are heavy though.’ Ramouter tried to quicken his step to catch up with Henley. ‘The human head weighs at least eight pounds.’

‘I know.’ Henley pulled out her mobile phone, which had started to ring. She saw who it was and ignored the call.

‘Head, torso, arms, legs. That’s at least six individual body parts.’

‘I know that also. So, tell me, what point are you making?’ Henley waited for Ramouter to reach her before manoeuvring him towards the river wall as though she was chaperoning a child.

‘I’m just saying that that’s a lot of dead weight to be carrying around at three in the morning.’ Ramouter paused and placed his hand against the wall, trying to catch his breath.

Henley didn’t openly express her agreement. She fished out a black hairband from her jacket pocket and pulled her thick black curls into a ponytail. She had forgotten how much energy it took to walk across the gradient slope of the riverbank. Worse, she felt mentally unprepared for the job ahead, with a trainee struggling behind her who had no idea this was her first time as senior investigator in almost a year.

‘It’s a bit grim, isn’t it?’ DC Roxanne Eastwood shouted out as Henley finally reached the first crime scene. ‘Morning, Ramouter. Not a bad gig for your first day.’

Henley had always thought that Eastwood actually looked and carried herself like a detective. Now, Eastwood was poised on the riverbank, the sleeves of her jacket rolled up with her notebook in her hand. She had come prepared for the river and was wearing a pair of jeans and trainers that had seen better days.

‘Morning, Eastie. How does it feel to be out of the office?’ Henley asked, her eyes drifting to a crime scene investigator who was putting an arm into a black bag.

‘I should be asking you that,’ said Eastwood, with a look of concern.

Henley silently appreciated the empathy and placed her hand on Eastwood’s shoulder.

‘But since you asked, it’s bloody terrible. I think I’ve got sunburn.’ Eastwood rubbed a hand over her reddening forehead. ‘Forensics are going to be wrapping up in a bit. Not that there’s much for them to do. Bag it and tag it.’

‘Where’s Mr Thomas?’

‘Ah, our illustrious treasure hunter. Last time I saw him, he was heading towards the shops. Said that he needed to get some water for his dog.’ Eastwood shook her head, obviously not believing a word of it. ‘I’ve got an officer keeping an eye on him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d already uploaded pictures of his find onto Instagram.’

‘I want him taken back to the station. Ramouter can take another statement from him.’ Henley said it purposely so that Ramouter would sense she was in control. ‘If he’s like most mudlarkers, he would have been out here first thing this morning waiting for the tide to go out. Where exactly were the arms found?’

‘Just over there.’ Eastwood pulled down her sunglasses and pointed towards the foamed waves created by a passing river bus. The tide had already come in where X had once marked the spot. A sense of urgency filled the air as the river regained its territory.

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘Only that he found the second arm about three feet away from the first.’

‘It’s a sick trail of breadcrumbs,’ said Henley.

‘You’re telling me, and before you ask about CCTV, there’re loads of cameras—’

‘But none aimed at this part of the river.’

‘Exactly.’

Henley’s mobile phone began to ring. She pulled it out and answered. After a quick chat, she ended the call.

‘That was Dr Linh Choi. You wouldn’t have met her yet but she’s our go-to forensic pathologist. She’s just arrived,’ Henley explained to Ramouter. She wiped away the sweat from the back of her neck.

‘So, we’ve got two arms, both legs and a torso,’ said Ramouter. ‘Where’s the head?’

Good question. Henley thought of the places between the two locations. A primary school, two nurseries and an adventure playground among the flats and houses. The last thing she needed was to find a head in the kids’ sandpit.

‘Can I have a quick look?’ Henley asked the assistant from Anthony’s CSI team, who had just bagged up the arm and was scribbling in her notebook.

‘Sure.’ The assistant unzipped the bag and pushed the plastic apart.

‘Fuck,’ Henley said under her breath. Her heartbeat quickened, her stomach flipped.

‘Oh,’ said Ramouter as he peered over Henley’s shoulder. One arm was covered with gravel. Slivers of seaweed criss-crossed old scars. The second arm. Slender wrist, the ring finger slightly longer than the index, broken fingernails. Black skin. Henley could hear Pellacia’s words from earlier ringing in her ears.

‘Too early to say if it belongs to the same victim or if it’s more than just one.’

‘Call DSI Pellacia,’ Henley told Ramouter. ‘Tell him that we’ve got two possible murder victims.’

Chapter 3

To anyone walking past, the natural assumption was that Greenwich police station was closed. The blue shutters at the front of the building hadn’t been raised for three years, and two lonely orange traffic cones blocked the driveway which led to a row of empty parking spaces. A faded poster redirected all prospective visitors to Lewisham police station or to call 101 if it was a non-emergency. The locals walked past wondering when the building would be knocked down and replaced with another overpriced, privately owned apartment block with a concierge service for the rich and a backdoor for the lucky few who had been allocated social housing. If the people had looked up, then they would have noticed that three windows on the fourth floor were open and a soft swirl of cigarette smoke was wafting out.

The Serial Crime Unit had been temporarily based on the fourth floor for six years. When the Metropolitan Police was a bit more flush, DCSI Harry Rhimes had been rewarded with the SCU after his team successfully apprehended a district nurse named Abigail Burnley, who had killed fifteen people under her care. Serial killers didn’t pop up with great regularity, so the department busied itself with serial rapes, burglaries, kidnappings and cases considered too extreme for any of the twenty-six murder inquiry teams spread throughout London. Six years later, Burnley was serving a life sentence, Rhimes had been dead for eight months, Pellacia was in charge of an underfunded unit and Henley was heading towards him with a face like thunder.

‘How dare you?’ Henley didn’t stop Pellacia’s office door from slamming shut behind her.

‘Don’t you think a little bit of respect is due? How about, How dare you, guv?’

DSI Stephen Pellacia, who had been smoking out the window, stubbed out his cigarette. The strain of being in charge of the SCU was starting to show. There was more grey streaked through his brown hair and the circles under his creased eyes were darker. The euphoria of being the boss had worn off long ago and Rhimes’s absence still hung heavily in the air.

‘You could have given me some warning before putting me out there. Then to top that off, you dump a bloody trainee on me,’ said Henley.

‘Why are you making this an issue? You’ve been on restrictive duties for six months. I thought that you would be—’

‘There has never been an issue.’ Henley almost spat the last word out. ‘You’re the one who told Rhimes that it would be best to stick me behind a desk.’

‘And you’ve been complaining about it every day since.’ Pellacia’s green eyes narrowed and the small muscles in his jaw flexed with tension. ‘Look, we’re going round in circles and I haven’t got time to argue with you. I’m already late with this briefing. There’s a lot to get through and I’m due at the Yard.’

‘Before we start—’ Henley took a breath and counted to three. ‘Do you have any idea who the lead investigator is going to be on this case? The sooner I update the CRIS report and complete a handover the better.’

‘Yeah, about that,’ said Pellacia as he stepped around Henley and reached for the door. ‘We’re not handing it over.’

‘What do you mean we’re keeping the case?’

The voice of dissent came from DC Eastwood. She pushed aside a loose strand of blonde hair from her burnt forehead. ‘I thought this was just was a one-off.’

‘It’s not,’ Pellacia said firmly, avoiding Henley’s stare.

The SCU was housed in a room that was now far too big for their team. There was a time when the officers had hot-desked with CID and the Community Support Unit. The building used to shake with the sound of a suspect banging on the old pipes in his cell. Now the cells were more likely to contain Stanford having a snooze. The team at this point consisted of Eastwood, Henley, DS Paul Stanford, who was en route to the Old Bailey to give evidence in a serial rapist case, and now Salim Ramouter. Pellacia was in charge and these days very rarely left the office unless it was to answer the calls of his superiors who were based at New Scotland Yard. The SCU was supported by a civilian admin team: Ezra, an ex-con at twenty-three years old and a computer genius who Pellacia had taken under his wing, and Joanna. No one knew how long Joanna had been knocking around the police stations of south-east London and neither did they know how old Joanna was, but the general consensus was that she definitely knew where all the bodies were buried and how many skeletons the Met had in their cupboards.

‘We’re overstretched as it is,’ said Eastwood. ‘I’ve worked eleven days straight with not one rest day. We’ve lost Stanford for the week.’

‘You’re pointing out the obvious, Eastie.’

‘And the last time I checked we were running six active investigations…’

‘Seven.’ Joanna walked through the door carrying a large cardboard box filled with various breakfast orders from the café across the road. She put the box down onto Eastwood’s desk. ‘It’s seven if you include the Thames Valley job that we’re’ – she raised her hands and made the quotation signs in the air – ‘consulting on.’

Henley watched Pellacia bite his tongue as Eastwood rolled her eyes.

‘Look, you may not like it but that’s what’s happening. None of the other murder teams have the capacity to deal with it. The investigation is staying here. Is that clear?’ said Pellacia.

‘Crystal.’ Eastwood shook her head.

Pellacia turned his gaze to Henley, daring her to challenge the decision that he’d just made. ‘As Stanford is stuck in court, I’ve decided that Ramouter is staying on this body-part case with Henley.’

‘You’re splitting up the twins?’ Joanna exclaimed in mock shock.

‘I didn’t think that Stanford would take offence at no longer being Ramouter’s mentor and temporarily separated from Henley.’

‘That’s what you think.’ Joanna took a sausage sandwich from the box. ‘Ramouter, just to give you the heads-up, those two are as thick as thieves. Stanford is Henley’s brother from another—’

‘We get it, Joanna,’ said Pellacia. ‘Right, let’s move on.’

Henley mentally went through her own checklist. Muscle memory had taken over as she attended the crime scene: observe the surroundings, note the familiar and unfamiliar. Treat everything as evidence. Prepare a narrative. Secure and protect. To the outside world, she was calm and composed. Inside, her heart was about to burst out of her chest, and the knots in her stomach twisted and tightened.

Henley’s phone began to vibrate on her desk. She felt sick as she read the text from her brother Simon:

Just been round to Dad’s. Wouldn’t let me in. Bell you when I’ve finished work x

‘Now, about this river case,’ said Pellacia. ‘Potentially two victims?’

‘It’s not potentially two. There are two victims,’ said Henley. She began typing a reply to her brother. ‘The torso, legs and one arm belong to a white male. The second arm belongs to, although the sex hasn’t been confirmed, a black female.’

Henley’s mobile phone vibrated across her desk for a second time. She picked it up.

‘And no other parts have been found?’

‘CSI recovered a head belonging to a white male in the skip outside 15 Nelson Mews,’ said Henley. ‘That was a text from Linh, by the way. The… parts have arrived at the mortuary.’

‘Two bloody victims,’ said Pellacia. ‘You never know, though. This could still be a nice, straightforward investigation.’

Henley didn’t reply as she picked up her bag, because every nerve in her body told her Pellacia believed that even less than she did.

Chapter 4

The building that housed the dead was walking distance from the police station, just off the high street where the cafés, pubs and estate agents gave way to more sparkling new hotels, unaffordable apartment buildings and a twenty-four-hour gym. It blended in anonymously among the Georgian houses and the council estate that shared the quiet road. Henley didn’t feel out of place now that she had her uniform on, a sharp midnight blue suit. It screamed authority even though she had kept on the black Adidas Gazelles.

‘Greenwich Public Mortuary,’ Ramouter read the sign on the wall as he finished the rest of his coffee. ‘They make it sound like a library. Like you can just walk in, show your card, pull up a seat and watch an autopsy.’

‘How long have you got left?’ Henley asked.

‘For what?’ Ramouter waited for Henley to release the child safety lock.

‘Until you’re no longer a trainee?’

‘What you’re really asking is, how long are you stuck with me for?’ The grin on Ramouter’s smooth brown face quickly disappeared as he saw that Henley was not smiling back. ‘I’ve got four months left.’ He rubbed at his beard. ‘But I did spend six months working in the Homicide and Major Crime team. It was good solid work, but I wanted something more challenging and West Yorkshire Police have nothing like the SCU.’

Henley felt a flush of empathy – it wasn’t his fault that he had been dumped with her – but the warmth was brief.

‘Well, things work a bit differently at the SCU. It’s very rare that we hit the ground running like this. The cases are usually passed on to us once the potential emergence of a serial killer or rapist has been identified. The preliminary work that we’re doing now has usually been done before we get going.’

‘But that’s not all that the unit does,’ said Ramouter, following Henley towards the detached building in the middle of the grounds. ‘There was that serial kidnapping and human trafficking case a few years back and also the Jigsaw Killer case.’

Henley winced as a muscle pulled in her neck. The Jigsaw Killer. The case that had changed everything. There had been praise from her colleagues, a commendation from the commissioner, a promotion to detective inspector. But the case had stolen a piece of her.

‘That must have been amazing to work on,’ continued Ramouter. ‘It’s what made me want to join the unit. The reason… Well, one of the reasons why I came down to London.’

Henley turned and looked at Ramouter. Even though she knew that he was nervous, there was no mistaking that familiar look of excitement in his eyes.

‘Don’t let what you saw in the media fool you. The SCU is understaffed and underfunded. I’m surprised that your transfer was even authorised. Look, in your average Murder Squad it wouldn’t be unusual to have up to a hundred people working on an investigation from the DSI down to your civilians, but at the SCU it’s just us and we spend a lot of time pulling in favours. There’s no glamour here and any praise is short-lived.’

Henley turned her back, entered the passcode she wasn’t meant to have, and pushed open the door.

Head forensic pathologist Dr Linh Choi was sitting at her desk with her back to the door, hunched over her lunch. Her long black hair was piled on top of her head, secured loosely with a biro. She bobbed her head up and down in time to the heavy drum and bass that was escaping from the Bose wireless speakers on her desk. Henley had met Linh over fifteen years ago, when they were both starting out in their careers and feeling woefully out of their depth. Their friendship had flourished over time. Henley tapped Linh on the shoulder.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Linh jumped in her seat. The hot wing in her hand fell back into the box. ‘You nearly gave me a bloody heart attack.’

‘Reliving your raving days, are you?’ Henley said with a smile.

‘Don’t you mean “our” raving days. You love this as much as I do. I’ve got a wicked mix that I found at home. I’ll have to send it to you.’ Linh muted the volume on her laptop. ‘You didn’t tell me that you were back. Had to hear it from Anthony,’ she said.

‘I’ll talk to you about that later,’ Henley replied.

‘And you’ve got a new partner? What did Stanford have to say about that?’

‘This is TDC Salim Ramouter, and he’s not my partner.’ Henley moved aside to allow Ramouter to step forward. ‘I’m his mentor. He’s just transferred from West Yorkshire Police.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, you couldn’t have asked for a better person to train you than DI Henley,’ said Linh, getting up from the chair. She cleaned her hand with an anti-bacterial wipe before extending it towards Ramouter. ‘Nice to meet you. Dr Linh Choi.’

She’d had the benefit of a private school scholarship and Cambridge University education, but you’d never have guessed from her thick south London accent. She pulled her glasses down from the top of her head.

‘I’ve just completed a preliminary examination on your male victim, but let me tell you about the arm first. There wasn’t much to go over, considering that we’re missing bits. A head, legs, torso, another arm would be nice.’

‘What can you tell us?’ asked Henley.

Linh shrugged. ‘Black female. Probably in her twenties but that’s all that I can tell you until you find the rest of her.’

Henley and Ramouter followed Linh out of her office, towards an examination room that resembled a hospital operating theatre. There was a chill in the air. Against the wall a row of metal cabinets provided temporary storage for the dead, while opposite were three deep sinks with a fridge in the corner. In the middle of the room stood four metal examination tables. Linh’s assistant, Theresa, was working on a body on the far table while listening to music on her Beats headphones. The scents of industrial antiseptic and soured bodily fluids tickled Henley’s nose.

Theresa inserted an expander into the body’s chest.

‘That used to be a 23-year-old bodybuilder,’ Linh said, shaking her head. ‘Heart attack. Collapsed in the gym. I don’t need a toxicology screening to tell me that he’s going to be pumped full of steroids.’

The sound of someone stepping on broken glass filled Henley’s ears as Theresa cracked the chest open. Ramouter took a step back.

‘The loo is the second door on your left,’ Linh said, amusement tickling her voice, as Ramouter turned and ran.

‘Sorry,’ said Ramouter when he returned a few minutes later with the look of shame in his eye.

‘That’s all right. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last,’ said Linh. ‘Right, are you ready?’

Henley nodded her assent and Linh pulled back the protective plastic sheet. The body parts that had been found along the riverbank and the driveway of 15 Nelson Mews were now arranged on the examination table, like a bloodied jigsaw that had yet to be fully put together. Henley felt lightheaded. She took a step back and tried to anchor herself.

‘Are you able to give us a time of death?’ Henley asked, trying to hide the nervous quiver in her voice.

‘Rough estimate,’ said Linh, ‘I would say between twenty-four to thirty-six hours for your man.’

Henley took a closer look at the tattoo on the torso.

‘It’s a scene from Full Metal Alchemist,’ Linh said. She sounded quite pleased. ‘That’s a Manga anime film, if you didn’t know. Way before your time,’ she continued for the benefit of Ramouter. ‘He’s got Ken from Fist of the North Star tattooed on his back.’

‘What can you tell me about the dismemberments? Before or after death?’ Henley asked as she walked slowly around the body parts, taking every detail in, ignoring the mobile phone that was vibrating in her pocket.

‘Both.’ Linh moved towards the top of the table. ‘Right arm and the left leg were removed first. If you take a look here,’ she pointed to where the left leg had been cut, ‘the blood had already started to coagulate. Death would have occurred within four minutes.’

Linh turned the lower end of the torso towards Henley, pointing out the bone, flesh and bowels. ‘There is hardly any coagulation at all here. So, four hours after death, your killer starts to remove the limbs. There’s an interesting puncture wound in the chest, just above the heart. That was done before death. I’ll know more once I start the autopsy after lunch. I will tell you one thing, though. They made a right shit job of cutting this body up. Look here.’ Linh pointed a gloved finger to two long, jagged cuts on the right shoulder. ‘There were at least two attempts made before the arm was finally taken off. It’s as if whoever it was had never used a Black and Decker jigsaw before.’

‘Was it a Black and Decker jigsaw?’ Ramouter asked. He was standing almost three feet away with his back to the sinks.

‘I wouldn’t have a bloody clue. You need a DIY expert for that.’ Linh’s eyes crinkled with laughter as she straightened the right leg. ‘But more importantly, take a look at this.’

Linh picked up the head and turned it towards Henley. She then prised the jaw open with her fingers. ‘Ramouter, grab the torch on the side,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got enough hands.’

Ramouter picked up the small silver pen torch and walked over to the table.

‘Come on. Don’t be shy. Shine it here.’

Ramouter did as he was told and shone the torch into the opened mouth.

‘Erm… Where’s his tongue?’ Ramouter asked.

Henley forced herself to take the torch from Ramouter and shone the light towards the back of the throat. The mouth was caked in dried blood and she could see the remnants of exposed striated muscle that formed the base of the tongue.

‘How?’ Henley asked.

‘It was cut off,’ Linh replied. ‘A very clean dissection which could only be achieved by something like a very sharp fillet knife or a scalpel.’

‘But how easy is it to cut out someone’s tongue?’ Henley wriggled her own tongue around her mouth, feeling the small tendons at the base stretch and pull.

‘While they’re alive? Bloody difficult. Which is why it would have made sense if the tongue was cut off post-mortem, but it wasn’t.’

‘Hold on, he was still alive when his tongue was cut out?’

Linh nodded. ‘To grab hold of the tongue while the person is alive would be difficult and the cut is so clinical. My guess is your victim was unconscious. Also, there’s another thing. Tell me if you notice anything about the legs.’

Henley crouched down. The calf of the right leg, covered with small grains of sand, fragments of seaweed and dried vomit, was muscular with fine, light brown hair. The left leg was the same but, on the ankle, a strip of skin, about two inches wide, was paler than the rest.

‘Our victim was wearing a tag?’ Henley said.

‘I think so,’ replied Linh. ‘If you look here.’ Linh turned the leg to examine the pale patch, which was no bigger than a matchbox. ‘Definitely, I would say that he was wearing a tag. I’m sure that if I got the measurements of a generic tag from one of the monitoring companies, it would fit.’

‘So, our victim was on court bail with a curfew?’ asked Ramouter. ‘That should give us something to go on. There must be a way of finding out if anyone has breached their bail in the last few days.’

‘Do you have any idea how many people are granted bail and placed on tag?’ said Henley.

‘Good luck with that,’ replied Linh. ‘I’ve taken blood, urine samples, the usual, and sent them off this morning. Hopefully, I’ll get something back by the end of the week. So, do we have a name? It feels a bit disrespectful to keep calling him… well, one of them, Manga man, now that most of him is laid out on the table like this.’