BURIED CRIMES: a gripping detective thriller full of twists and turns (5 page)

‘So you know that your suggestion that Rae isn’t up to the job simply because of her background breaks every principle of recent parliamentary acts. You might have been working on training programmes, but I was there before you, translating the legal principles into practical procedures. I have a degree in Law, Neil. That’s why I was on that first panel. You must have seen my name on the action plan, surely? Why do you think you were in the follow-up group? The Home Office wanted to maintain the link with Dorset.’ She paused to catch her breath. ‘None of that really matters. What is important is that Rae’s background should not be made public and should not be used as an excuse for unwarranted judgements about her. She’s a first-rate detective with great potential and that’s all that matters.’

Marsh broke in at this point. ‘I agree. I’ve been very impressed with her work. She’s much better than I was at her age. She’s never given me any cause for concern.’

The two senior officers stood glaring at each other. Then Neil Dunnett turned on his heel and left the room.

There was a silence.

‘What was all that about?’ Marsh said.

‘There’s something going on in that nasty little brain of his. He didn’t even pick up on the fact that I’d arranged for further scans. That’s unusual since it will inevitably add to the cost. So what was he thinking about when I mentioned it? I didn’t like what he said about Rae and I didn’t expect it. I just hope it isn’t the start of something serious, because we’ve got enough on our plates as it is.’

He’s obviously anti,’ Barry said quietly. ‘What can we do?’

‘We just keep supporting Rae as long as she’s with us and doing a good job. I think he’s prejudiced against women generally, let alone a trans woman like Rae. I thought so a couple of years ago when I had my first brush with him, before he realised who I was. It wasn’t pleasant. He’s a bully who likes to pick on people he thinks are weaker than him. Unfortunately for him, he picked on me. He ended up with egg on his face, and he’s kept well clear of me ever since. He probably won’t try it on with me again, but he’s feeling out Rae as a possible substitute. Bullying by proxy.’ She looked at Marsh. ‘I’d hoped we could relax as far as Rae’s concerned, after her triumph last autumn, but I was clearly being overoptimistic. What concerns me is that Dunnett used to chair the promotions committee before he went off on secondment, but they didn’t fill his role with anyone permanent. Now he’s back I think he’ll slot in again, which is a problem. I was hoping that Rae might consider taking her sergeant’s exams sometime in the next few years. I think we can read his comments as a warning shot.’

‘But her position is protected by law. That’s what you said just now.’

‘Technically you’re right, Barry. But in practice so much depends on the boss’s day-to-day attitude. He or she can deliberately make life difficult for an individual, as some trans people discover to their cost. Rae’s happy with us, and we’re happy with her. But all Neil Dunnett has to do is initiate some kind of redeployment process under the guise of efficiency savings. He could shift her to some job where she would be side-lined, needled and made to feel unwanted. It’s in his power, that’s the problem. We live in insecure times, all of us.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll phone Sandie Blake about the possible leak. If someone at HQ is gossiping, they need to be stopped. But it’s pointless to speculate too much and we’ve got this current case to focus on. I want to see how Dave Nash’s team are getting on over in forensics. Do you want to come?’

* * *

The set of labs housing Dorset’s Forensic Unit was a hive of activity. In one of the rooms soil taken from around the two bodies was spread out on every available bench. Items of potential interest were accumulating in a set of trays, each fragment labelled with a card. The largest and probably the most important collection held fragments of clothing and associated fibres. Sophie peered at some of the items though a microscope. She noticed something pink amidst the dirt.

‘From around the girl’s body,’ Nash explained. ‘It appears to be cotton, and we think it may have had a pattern on it. A blouse or dress, maybe?’

‘Could be,’ Sophie answered. ‘You’ll need to judge how soft the fabric was. If it was very soft, it could have been a nightdress or pyjamas. The thing that would help most, I suppose, would be if a label could be found. You know, with the shop it came from, or washing instructions. Labels are sometimes harder-wearing than the clothes they’re attached to.’

‘I don’t think my team are likely to miss anything, Sophie.’ Nash sounded a little put out.

‘I wasn’t implying that, Dave. Goodness, why is everyone so touchy today? Maybe we all worked too hard over the weekend and need a break.’ She looked at another tray, holding a small, steel link. ‘That’s a link from a bracelet, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. We think the rest was ordinary steel and has rusted away, leaving the link clip. It was only found a couple of minutes ago, so there might be more from the same bag of soil.’

‘Anything from the boy yet?’ Marsh asked.

‘Nothing of any importance, even though I’ve got half my team working on the samples from around his body. A few clothing fibres, that’s all.’

‘Well at least it doesn’t look as though they were naked,’ said Sophie.

Nash shrugged. ‘Does that help in any way?’

‘Psychology. If it was a stranger, it wouldn’t matter to them whether the children were clothed or not when they dumped them in the hole. If it was a family member or someone known to them, they’d be more likely to bury the children with clothes on. It doesn’t prove anything, of course. But it provides a pointer.’

‘Do you think they were buried at the same time, Dave?’ Marsh asked. ‘Well, it looks that way at the moment. There was little difference in the compactness of the earth around them, and no obvious layering. The two rugs show the same amount of disintegration, so my current guess is that they were put there together. Only a guess, mind.’

‘Okay, but we’ll keep our minds open about it,’ Sophie said.

She looked at the forensic chief. ‘The cellar. It’s been niggling away at me ever since we went down there on Saturday. The floor seems to be of hard-packed loose material, maybe earth, maybe something different. Most of it is covered in closely laid paving slabs, but the section at the far end is open. It didn’t seem damp in there at all, just chilly.’

‘You want me to take a look?’

‘I need to cover every possibility. Would it be possible to take a few samples from the soil patch and do some analysis? But what traces could there possibly be after twenty years? What kind of things would we be looking for?’

Nash shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but I’m not a forensic archaeologist or an analytical chemist. In this kind of situation, we contact the experts. We can call in our friendly archaeologists from Bournemouth University, and the analytical squad from Southampton. Problem solved, though it will cost us. Do we have the money?’

Sophie frowned. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll have to do a bit of schmoozing. At least Jim Metcalfe is still in post as ACC, so I have one ally. What you could do meanwhile, Dave, is to contact those people and see if they think it’ll be worthwhile. Find out if there could be any traces if those poor kids were held in the cellar for any length of time. Then get back to me. Okay?’

Nash nodded. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

Chapter 6: Faces and Skulls

Wednesday morning

‘Yes, I can do that.’ Louisa Mugomba was talking to Sophie and Barry Marsh in the incident room. ‘It was always going to be the next logical step for the software and I have a prototype ready. All I need are the detailed measurements for each skull.’

‘They were due to be scanned first thing this morning, so we’re expecting the results any minute now,’ Marsh said.

‘Right. Send me everything, including the visual images from the scans and X-rays. It all helps.’

‘This will be really useful, Louisa,’ Sophie added. ‘If we can create some kind of likeness and publish the images in the press, then maybe it will stir someone’s memory. It’s just about the only avenue open to us. There’s not much else to go on. How’s your work being funded, by the way? Still by the Home Office?’

Louisa shook her head. ‘That money dried up with the completion of the last package, the one I used with you a couple of years ago. It got me my doctorate, by the way.’ She stretched out her legs and rubbed a knee. ‘I bruised it at the weekend playing hockey for the university . . . Anyway, the money for this stage is coming partly from the EU with the UN funding the rest. They want to use it to help identify the bodies of mass murder victims who’ve been buried during conflicts. You know, for war crimes investigations. That’s why I’m still in post at Southampton. I’ve got a year’s grant as a post-doctoral researcher. It fell into place nicely, because it’s exactly the kind of project that will help me land a permanent job somewhere, maybe in forensic archaeology. I never imagined that I’d end up in this line when I was doing my first degree in computing and software design, but I love it. I’m using my skills to do something really worthwhile.’

‘How does the programme work?’ asked Marsh.

‘The first stage recreates the skull as a three dimensional image. I’ll use the scan data as the input for that. Maybe I should consider developing an input method that takes the scan data directly, but at the moment I’ll have to enter the figures manually. Once I have the image, I’ll compare it to the photos of the skull to check that it’s right. Then I start adding muscle and other soft tissue. I get help with that from one of the medics who has worked with me on the programme. Finally we add skin and hair. That’s where we have to use some guesswork. In your case, we don’t know what the hair looked like, nor do we know the skin tone, so I may have to produce a range of images for each of the heads. I’ll get them emailed to you and you take it from there. Okay?’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Sophie replied. ‘And if the result is anything like the image from that previous programme, it’ll be a real bonus for us. It was so good that it refreshed my memory as well as one of my team members.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. It helped us so much. He’d been lurking in the crowd outside the police station — trying to judge whether we’d fallen for his tricks, I suppose. It helped us to nail him.’

‘Is that common? Hanging around during the investigation?’

‘Oh yes. A lot of criminals have huge egos. In their minds the world revolves around them and their desires. They really do feel much more important than anyone else. Their feelings, their needs, their resentments always take priority. And checking on the police’s progress, or lack of it, helps to feed their overinflated opinion of themselves. It’s quite astonishing, the number of killers who even volunteer to help with searches of the area where a body might be found. Not that it will happen in this case, twenty or so years after the event. Deaths like these leave so few clues.’

Louisa frowned. ‘I did realise that this was an unusual case and would need a lot of sensitive handling. It’s quite shocking, isn’t it? How do you manage?’

‘We just get on with it. What else can we do?’ Sophie shrugged. ‘We have to solve the crime, just like any other. But it isn’t like any other, we know that. So we make sure we’re always aware, always careful about what we do and how we act.’

Louisa nodded. ‘By the way, since the software is still under development, I’ll categorise your request as a test case. It won’t cost anything.’

‘That’s a relief,’ Sophie replied. ‘I can see that money’s going to be a problem with this investigation, since it all happened in the dim and distant past. The powers that be consider it high priority, as you can imagine, but the budget will be smaller than for a current murder investigation. And we don’t even know that it is murder. There could be other reasons for them being buried like that.’

Louisa wrinkled her nose. ‘I can’t think of any that are anything but bad. Who would ever do such a thing?’

Marsh heard a beep from his computer and went to check on an email message. He came back a few minutes later carrying a print-out. He handed the pages to the computer software specialist. ‘The two sets of skull dimensions. I’ve forwarded the email to you as well. Remember — it’s all confidential.’

‘Of course. Just like last time. I should have some news for you in a couple of days. Is that okay?’

‘Fine, thank you. Let us know if you need more information.’

Barry Marsh saw Louisa out of the office. He returned to continue the planning, but was interrupted by Sophie’s desk phone. She listened, frowning in concentration. She wrote down a phone number and replaced the handset.

‘Curiouser and curiouser.’ She looked up at Marsh. ‘Apparently the vicar at St Paul’s phoned in a few minutes ago and asked if I could go round and see him. He might have some information about the investigation, but he didn’t say what. Let’s go and see what he has to say, Barry.’

* * *

The minister at St Paul’s parish church was a soft-featured, kindly-looking man with iron grey hair and twinkling eyes. He smiled at the two detectives, shook hands and invited them inside.

‘I’m Tony Younger, the parish vicar. I hope that this visit won’t be a waste of time for you. I’ve been worrying about it ever since I saw the news about the two children’s bodies in that local garden.’

‘So, exactly how do you think you can help us, Mr Younger?’

‘It’s about some poems that were sent in for the parish magazine. We’ve always encouraged our parishioners to submit stories, essays and verses that might be uplifting or that have a faith-based theme. It’s always nice to have an input from ordinary people. It makes it more interesting than just being a list of what’s on and when.’

The detectives followed the vicar into his study. ‘So these poems were in your magazine?’ asked Sophie.

‘Well, that’s the point. I never included them. They were unsuitable for a monthly parish newsletter. I never really knew what to do with them. They were sent in anonymously so I had no way of contacting whoever sent them. I just hung onto them in case their author ever contacted me to ask for them back. They never made much sense to me, although I could tell that the writer was suffering some kind of mental anguish. I even put a request in the magazine a couple of times, asking for them to contact me, but I never got a response.’

‘When was this? When did they arrive?’

‘About seven or eight years ago. There was nearly a year between them. I always wondered whether the person would have sent more if I’d published them.’

‘And what makes you think they’re relevant now?’

‘I suggest you read them. I think you’ll spot what made me think of them when I saw the news on Saturday.’

He passed across a clear plastic wallet containing a couple of sheets of paper. Sophie pulled on a pair of latex gloves, extracted the top page and studied it, slowly. What she read made her shiver. She had felt the same overwhelming sense of self-loathing herself, just a year before. This person was down in a dark pit of despair, unable to see a way out. And there it was, the reference that had made the vicar suspicious.

She handed the first page to Marsh and picked up the next one. Further outpourings of self-loathing, but again a relevant reference.

Sophie turned to the minister. ‘You were right to contact us. I’ll need to take these. Who else has touched them, apart from you?’

‘My late wife, when they first arrived. They’ve been in my filing cabinet since then.’

And there haven’t been any more? Nothing remotely similar?’

‘No. That second one was the last. Maybe by then whoever wrote them had worked through the problem.’

‘You said your late wife, Mr Younger,’ Marsh interjected. ‘Did she pass away recently?’

The vicar nodded. ‘Three years ago. Cancer.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that. You have our sympathy. It must have been a terribly difficult time for you.’

‘It still is. The sense of loss never goes away.’

There was a silence. Sophie took the two sheets of paper and slid them back into the folder.

‘I can see why you never published them. Whoever wrote them seems to have lost his or her soul,’ she said.

The vicar nodded slowly. ‘I know. I understand that sense of desolation now, after the loss of my wife.’

‘Do you think it’s likely that they come from one of your parishioners? Would anyone else be sending you material for the parish newsletter?’

‘Well now, there’s the problem. We don’t just restrict circulation to our churchgoers. We deliver one to every house in the area, right up to our parish boundary. It costs a lot of money, but we had a specific donation for that purpose left to us in a will. So they could be from anyone living in the area, not just one of my regular parishioners. I do get some non-church stuff and put it in whenever I can, as long as it’s suitable. That was a condition of the funding bequest.’

‘Who else knows about these poems, Mr Younger?’

‘No one. Chrissie and I decided that we’d keep them to ourselves.’

‘Please keep it that way. Certainly for the time being.’