A Long Time Dead (The Dead Trilogy) (15 page)

It was Wednesday 12.30; Chris lowered his head and took a large bite from his burger. He chewed and swallowed hurriedly as the phone rang. Wiping a hand across his shining lips, he picked it up. Meat juice trickled down his chin and landed with a splat in the centre pages of his
Racing Post.

“Log number? Right, I’ll print it off and we’ll head out. Oh, who’s SIO? Right, right. Well who’s deputy SIO, then? Yep, okay. I’ll be taking Paul with me. Okay.” Chris replaced the receiver and said, “Better chew and drink fast, Paul. That’s your last meal for a while.” More juice dripped onto his cardigan.

Before Chris could satisfy Paul’s curiosity, Roger strode into the office and declared there had been another murder. “They’re wondering if it’s connected with the one on Turner Avenue.”

“Why’s that?” Paul stammered.

“Both young females—”

“No comparison,” Chris blurted out. He swigged tea. “Look where they happened, Roger: Turner Avenue and Potter Lane. It’s like comparing Beirut with Florida.”

“Potter Lane’s near the Barnstones Estate, Chris, and that’s like the Turners in places. Rough as a bear’s arse. And they both happened indoors; both women lived alone. They’re seriously considering them being the start of a serial.”

“Anyway, we’ll soon see. Won’t we, Paul?” Chris wiped his hands down his trousers.

“Yeah,” was all Paul could say.

“You’re not concerned about contamination?”

He screwed the burger wrapper up, dragged a sleeve through the grease on his chin. “I think we’re safe on that score. But thank you. Anyway, it’s on my patch and I’m going.”

“It’s your call,” Roger said. “You still okay with me having a couple of hours off?”

“Go for it. The job would be easier with you
and
Paul, but I think we’ll cope. You go and look after your lady, and give her my best, won’t you?”

“Course I will, and thanks, I appreciate it.”

It was raining again when Chris climbed from the MIV. He instructed Paul to set up the camera equipment, and sought the deputy SIO. “And don’t forget to sterilise the tripod’s feet,” he called over his shoulder. “And then document the fact.”

Shelby, in the end found Chris. “Did you come via Brighton?”

“Traffic was—”

“Never mind,” Shelby smiled. “I took the liberty of commencing a scene log and erecting barrier tape, Chris,” he said, “though if you need it moving—”

“It’s fine, thanks. Saved me a stack of bloody time, it has.” Both men ducked beneath the tape and strolled towards the house, getting a feel for the job, summarily casting a glance over the windows and doors for anything obvious. “What’s it all about then?”

“I’ve got to say, Chris, this is a peculiar one.”

Shelby pulled up the collar of his big camel hair coat, something all detectives of Shelby’s generation seemed to wear. Maybe it was part of the entrance criteria, Chris wondered.

“The girl, Nicky Bridgestock, has no enemies that we know of, and she’s clean as a whistle as far as drugs and men go. We’ve run her details through all our systems: bugger all. And according to her friend,” he flipped open a small black book and scanned the scribbles on the last page, “Miss Joanne Philips, Nicky is a really good girl, rarely goes out, though she did last night, and…” Shelby paused, closed the book, “Well, she’s the typical girl-next-door.”

“So how did she die?”

“Dunno; I’ve not even been inside yet. You know me with scenes like this. I stay clear if there’s a chance of contamination. I won’t go in until you guys have put stepping plates down and I’m wearing a silly-suit.”

Chris offered a wry smile, “But you’re already wearing a silly suit.”

Shelby feigned dismay. “Don’t let my wife hear you say that.”

“Go on, then. What have we got?”

“Micky Harris forced entry since Miss Philips was concerned by Nicky’s absence from work.”

“And?”

“According to Micky, she’s got a big hole in her head or her neck; he didn’t want to get too close. And Miss Philips was having a fit on the floor behind him so he didn’t have the chance anyway, he says.”

“Right.”

“Nicky seems to have come to a rather sticky end, starkers on her bed with a gunshot wound or similar, to her head. So far, all I can say is that she was out clubbing last night, left early because she was up for work the next morning – told you she was Miss Prim-and-Proper – but didn’t show in because of the massive headache she had this morning. Don’t yet know who did it or why.”

“No forced entry?”

“Won’t know until the PM.”

“No, I meant the doors or the windows.”

“Ah. No, they’re all in order, no damage at all, except Micky’s.”

“Have we pronounced life extinct yet?”

“Doctor Rahall’s on his way; shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

“Paul,” Chris called, “get the gunshot residue kits to hand, will you?”

“We don’t
know
it’s a gunshot wound,” Shelby pointed out. “I mean, none of the neighbours we spoke to heard a bang of any description, we’re only going on what Micky saw in her dark bedroom.”

“Preparation is nine-tenths of the game.”

“Fair enough,” Shelby said. “I’ll get out of your way and let you get on. Though if anything shows up, let me know, okay.”

“You can come and have a butchers yourself when we get the stepping plates down, only be twenty minutes. Oh,” he clicked his fingers, “have you sorted a pathologist yet?”

“All in hand.”

“Not that prat, Dwight Thistlethwaite-Smythe or whatever his bloody name is?”

“Bellington Wainwright? Yes, it is,” Shelby said.

“And Jacob Cooper, is he aware?”

“Yes, the Coroner’s Officer is aware. I’m reasonably up on these things, Chris.”

“It might be worth putting a ballistics expert and a biologist on standby.”

“It’s not amateur night, y’know.”

“Point taken. Right, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get suited up now and go and play.”

“By the way, I thought Roger was working today.”

“He is, but he didn’t fancy coming out to this for some reason.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Don’t know,” Chris said. “Anyway, it’ll give young Paul there an insight into how to do the job properly.”

Shelby walked away shouting, “Back soon for a look around then, Chris.”

Kensington Road, an upmarket street in St John’s, not far away from HQ, was where the Occupational Health Unit had its base. Roger sat outside in his car watching the wipers flick back and forth, oblivious to the wind as it rocked and jostled him; hurling leaves and long-dead tin cans down the pavement. Pink Floyd played
Comfortably Numb
again, quietly in the background.

He had two important things spinning in his mind.

Hobnail wasn’t missing after all. On the way out of Ward Street car park just ten minutes ago, Roger had almost knocked him over. His mind, he told Hobnail, was working on other things. But what Hobnail had said in reply blew him over, sent his thoughts skittering down avenues not previously hoped for. His brain worked on Hobnail’s news like it was all-consuming. It was good news. In a way.

But it would have to wait until later for full consideration, until Roger had attended to the other thing on his mind. He closed the car door against the force of the wind, and then allowed it to blow him towards OHU’s glass fronted reception. Inside the reception area, Melanie busied herself with files and invoices, yet she stopped her work when Roger politely coughed.

“She’s out.”

“Her car’s outside.”

“She’s still out.” Melanie went back to her invoices.

“Why so hostile?”

“I know what you did to Al—”

“Come through, Roger.” Alice stood in her office doorway, arms folded.

As Roger sat, Alice closed the door and stood before him, business-like. The atmosphere, so calming the last time he was here, felt unfriendly, and there was a distinct chill in the air. “I hope that you’re here for professional reasons.”

“I wanted to apologise for the other night,” Roger said.

“How sodding gracious of you. Would you like to bend me over the desk while you’re here, just as a PS to last night?”

“I am truly sorry for not coming clean with you when I first got to your house, but I wasn’t strong enough to just come right out and finish it; I…I still have feelings for you.”

“I shall do my best not to shout, here. Are you intimating that you would like to recommence our relationship?”

“No,” he said quickly, “no, I’m not saying that. I’m saying that I handled it badly and would like to apologise for that. I still think we have no future together.”

“You used me in the most repulsive of ways, and for that, I’m not sure I can forgive you.” Her eyes were dark, menacing, and her pale lips a tight line on an unemotional façade.

“I can understand that, Alice. I came here to say I’m sorry; to say I’m
genuinely
sorry, and that I hope I can still come to you with my problems.”

Alice sat opposite him, this time with the desk between them, still business-like but with arrogance attached. “I accept your apology, whatever the motive behind it is, but I will never forgive you. You know that, don’t you?”

“I am sorry—”

“Stop saying you’re sorry; you’re beginning to annoy me,” she said. “As far as our professional sessions are concerned, I will continue to counsel you for your own good. I want you to know that I could refer you to another counsellor, but it would mean you starting from scratch again, and I don’t think that would benefit you at all.”

“That’s very kind.”

“No, it is not.” She stood again. “Above all, I am a professional, and I could not let something of a personal nature interfere with my professionalism, no matter how intense that ‘nature’ once was. When you next come to see me, neither of us will mention anything relating to our previous out-of-hours experiences together; it will be purely to help you with the nightmares adversely affecting your bid for promotion. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Alice, that’s very, very clear.”

“Now, if that’s all, I am busy.”

Roger left the office, closing the door behind him. He didn’t stay to chat with Melanie, who ignored him anyway. He just quietly left and let his concerns drift over towards Yvonne.

Alice left it five minutes and then called, “Melanie, bring me Roger Conniston’s file, will you?”

“Okay, Alice.”

“I have a few backdated entries to make.”

Doctor Rahall pronounced life extinct; he saw no reason to move the body, merely felt for a pulse and studied the girl’s eyes. Nothing else was needed. He couldn’t give more than a very loose approximation of the time of death because of the heat. It slowed the body’s rate of cooling and therefore made any measured body temperature uncertain. It seemed to him, however, that rigor had only recently begun to set in, and “that usually happens about twelve hours after death,” he said. “The air temperature is almost thirty degrees. I’ll make a note of it and of the body temperature, and file it for the pathologist. Okay?”

Chris instructed Paul to seize the doctor’s scene suit as an exhibit, and then turned the heating down. Cursing and sweating, he opened as many windows as he could without risking loss of evidence. But he could still see the heat haze wafting off the bedroom radiator.

And now, dressed in their white scene suits, white overshoes, facemasks and latex gloves, they stood on stepping plates and leaned over Nicky Bridgestock’s body. Chris peered at the girl’s white face, studied its features as he would a natural history exhibit. “Right,” he turned to Paul, “can’t take any more photos at this stage. We’ll take some after the body has gone.”

“So what’s next, Chris?”

“Well, it’s perfectly clear that she hasn’t had her head blown off, so we can forget the gunshot residue kits. She’s been stabbed in the left side of her neck.”

“How many times?”

“Just once.”

“Go on, then, enlighten me.”

“Come round here and I’ll show you.”

Paul did, being careful not to disturb anything lying on the floor, especially the girl’s underwear.

“You see she’s been stabbed in the first quarter of her throat, that’s where the carotid artery runs. The carotid artery supplies the brain with blood, which is pumped under tremendous pressure directly from the heart. Now,” he pointed at the wall beside Nicky’s head, “see all the blood, how it has spurted from the neck in ever decreasing arcs across the wallpaper?”

“Yeah,” Paul said.

“That’s arterial bleeding. She’s been stabbed once because we can see only one initial, or primary, arc. See? All the ones below it are subsidiaries of it. They’re decreasing because her blood pressure’s dropping all the time.” He swept a finger through imaginary arcs, dropping it a couple of inches each time. “If there had been more than one penetration into the neck then we could expect to see separate arcs, like tiny teardrops, created by the knife, or whatever, as it was pulled out, leaving behind its own small track on the wall. That’s called cast-off spray. This is the art of blood spatter interpretation and something you could expect to pay hundreds to the labs for.”

“But seriously, couldn’t you tell she’d only been stabbed once because she only has one puncture wound?”

Chris blinked. “That as well.” He straightened. “Anyway, until we begin hacking and slashing in the mortuary, it’s still unclear how many times she’s been stabbed. There’s too much blood around to see the wounds clearly.” He checked his watch. “Okay, come on, it’s twenty past three and there’s work afoot. I want to take you right through this scene and on to the mortuary if I can. But we’ll have to get a move on. So, go grab a body bag, two or three acetates and some poly bags for her head, hands and feet. Oh, and some adhesive tape. And some string.”

They peeled Nicky’s head away from blood-soaked pillow, noting how the blood beneath her was still in its slimy stage while the exposed blood on the bed and that caught in her hair was dry and as flaky as dandruff. Chris held the head clear of the pillow while Paul slipped the plastic bag over and then pulled it down before tying it around her neck with string that glistened red.