Carnal Acts (17 page)

Heck and Joni, wearing coveralls and bootees, stood side by side and looked at the body in the water. The right leg had been secured to a nearby tree trunk. The sun was high in the sky, but the light was blocked by the tall trees where the river took a bend northwards. Birdsong rang out over the softer rush of the water. They had looked at the map when they arrived. The crime scene on the Coquet was twenty-eight miles north of Corham and a couple of miles west of Rothbury.

‘What’s that on what’s left of his neck?’ Heck said, squatting down by the tape lain by the SOCOs on the grassy path.

Joni was trying to make sense of the torn skin below where the Adam’s apple would normally be. ‘A bite?’ she wondered aloud.

‘You know who cuts off heads and hands.’

‘Bad people.’

‘Yeees. What kind of bad people?’

‘The professional kind.’ Joni glanced at her boss. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

‘Do you now?’

‘Gangsters like the Albanian kind would have no problem doing this.’

Heck shook his head. ‘I did think that for a few seconds. Then I told myself not to jump to conclusions. The Newcastle gangs did worse than this often enough. It isn’t so easy to hide the victims’ identities these days with DNA testing.’

‘But that isn’t the point of mutilation. They’re sending a message to the enemy.’

‘Right.’ Heck peered at the corpse again. ‘This fellow was young. Even after some time in the water– not too long, I’d guess – his muscle tone is pretty firm.’

‘The skin isn’t worn much either,’ Joni put in. ‘Except around the knees. Those look like keyhole surgery scars.’

‘A sportsman, maybe.’ Heck drew her away as the photographers finished and men in wet suits started getting the corpse out of the river. ‘Let’s hold off on the speculation for a bit, Joni. We need to get things organised here.’

Tasks were given to the officers on scene. Pete Rokeby led a group of uniformed officers combing the woods for tracks and other trace evidence. Eileen Andrews interviewed Brian Sweeney. He was twitchy but calm, keeping his red setter on a short leash and eyeing her dubiously. He had little to tell. He had seen no one else on his brief walk, nor any vehicles parked near the river. Soon people in the local houses, which were few, would be canvassed and the pathologist and SOCOs would give their preliminary impressions.

Doctor Bertha Volpert was kneeling by the body, which was now on a rubber sheet on the bank. She was suited up, her hair in a matching white hat. The apparel gave her the look of an over-inflated Michelin woman. She shook her head after taking temperature readings.

‘I’ll have to do the calculations back at the lab,’ she said. ‘The river water is cold and it has reduced that of the body.’ She looked up at Heck and Joni. ‘So don’t even think of asking about time of death.’

‘I don’t see any lacerations or other marks,’ Joni said.

‘You are observant, DI Pax. I do not know if the Coquet is a river full of fish, but he hasn’t been nibbled at. That could suggest he hasn’t been in the water for many hours.’

‘The question is, did he have his throat ripped out before his head was taken off or afterwards?’ Heck said.

Big Bertha gave him one of her trademark crooked smiles. ‘It will be very hard to tell, DCI Rutherford. The bite or bites
– the tearing of teeth is unmistakable – would result in massive loss of blood, but brain function may have been terminated by severe head injury. Alternatively, he may have exsanguinated from a wound higher up the throat. He looks to have been in good physical shape.’ Dr Volpert nodded at Joni. ‘Going back to DI Pax’s earlier point, it is suggestive that there are no defence wounds on the hands or arms. The animal – probably a dog, though I have to check the wounds in the lab – might have been on him before he could react.’ She paused. ‘Or perhaps he managed to keep it at bay with some implement for a time.’

‘It didn’t happen here, of course,’ Joni said. ‘The bank is undisturbed.’

‘Assuming there are no blood deposits in the wider vicinity, no,’ the pathologist said.

‘The killer, or rather, the owner of the killer dog who mutilated the corpse, took a chance dumping the body here,’ Heck said. ‘Although it may have happened under cover of darkness. Why take the risk?’

‘So that DNA and other trace materials were washed away, of course,’ Big Bertha said tersely. ‘Fingerprints on the body will potentially have been compromised as well.’

‘Let’s hope we find some footprints then,’ Heck said.

Joni glanced around. ‘It’s obviously not a path many people use – there’s no signpost on the road – but I suspect there’ll be plenty of prints to be excluded before we find those of the person who dumped the body. And the ground is dry.’

‘I’m glad I don’t have your job,’ the pathologist said.

Heck and Joni picked their way over the markers left by SOCOs to a secluded spot between two sycamores.

‘First question,’ Joni said. ‘Why was the victim put in the river? If he’d been buried on a moor or in one of the numerous forests around here, we’d never have found him.’

Heck nodded. ‘Our dog-owning friend either wanted him to be found or didn’t care.’

Joni looked away. ‘The latter’s even more worrying than
the former.’ She waved a blowfly away. ‘Second question. How many people in Northumberland own dogs trained to go for the throat?’

‘How long’s a piece of string? This is the country, Joni. Most people have dogs and plenty of farmers have vicious ones.’

‘Not ones that would do that kind of damage.’

‘Probably not. The average sheep dog’ll give you a nasty nip at worst. I’d say that wound was caused by a large hound, but there’s still no shortage of them. And there’s no point going through the dog licence archive because, a) not every bugger buys a licence and, b) there’s no record of training. Obviously there’s the Dangerous Dogs Act, but that only covers a few breeds.’

‘We need to check the missing persons register.’

‘Aye, put one of your people on that.’

Joni stepped over the crime scene tape and took out her phone. Before making the call, she turned back to Heck. ‘Of course, there is another possibility. The victim might be an Albanian pimp that Suzana Noli caught up with.’

‘That’s bit far-fetched,’ Heck replied. ‘Where would she find a dog?’

‘Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she tore his throat out herself.

Heck watched Joni as she started to speak into her phone. Sometimes her human side was to the fore and at others she was colder than a sea trout.

‘So what do we do with him, Kylie?’

‘What do you think, Pumpkinhead? Squeeze his nuts till he tells us where Gaz is.’

‘It’s quiet enough around here.’

‘Aye, Daryll, it is. When we’ve finished, we can dump him in the sea.’

‘You what? You mean kill him? He’s a fucking Albanian.’

‘That’s the point, Jackie. He’s seen all our faces. Do you think we’ll keep
our
nuts if we let him loose? These people are animals.’

‘Still, Kylie, killing him because he … oh, I get it.’

‘Glad to see one of you’s got more than half a brain, Hot Rod. Right, let’s get started. Hold him still.’

Thwack.

‘Fuck, that hurt.’

‘Why don’t we take him outside and use the bats on him?’

‘Good idea, Daryll. Right, dickhead, out. Keep a tight grip on him. Aye, lean him against the car. So where’s Gaz, you fucker?’

‘Don’t know no Gaz.’

Crack.

‘Sure about that?’

‘Fuck you.’

Crack.

‘Jesus Christ, Kylie. You’ve broken his fuckin’ arm.’

‘Who cares? He’s got another one. For the time being.’

‘Yeah, but…’

‘Yeah, but what? This is our mate we’re talking about.’

‘All right, but you canna kill the guy.’

‘Watch me, Pumpkinhead. Listen, you twat. We know someone who saw you put Gaz into a Bentley.’

‘Aye, a Bentley Continental GT Speed.’

‘Shut up, Jackie. Where was he going?’

‘Fuck you. Aaaah!’

‘Dinna worry, man. One of your balls is probably still OK. Pick the bastard up, Hot Rod. No! Shit! Fuck! Get after him!’

‘What about Hot Rod?’

‘Stay with him, Daryll. Come on, the rest of you.’

‘Fuck. Where did he get that knife?’

‘Good … fucking … question, Jackie. I thought … you … searched him?’

‘I … did.’

‘Come on, he’s getting … to the road.’

‘Ah … ah canna run … any more.’

‘Useless tosser … Pumpkinhead…’

‘Oh fuck, he’s … stopped that car.’

‘Oh fuck. He’s … fucking … gone.’

Heck went back to Corham after a couple of hours and Joni stayed to supervise the canvassing and search in the woods. Officers from Rothbury had been drafted in and were going through the undergrowth on their hands and knees. None of the people in the cottages had seen anything, but some had gone to work. Interviews were being arranged, but one woman lived on her own and the neighbours didn’t have her number. Pete Rokeby was trying to track her down.

‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ the chief SOCO said. ‘Whoever dumped the body was strong as an ox. I measured the victim’s feet and there aren’t any prints as big as that. He must have taken a size twelve.’ He looked around disconsolately. ‘Then again, there aren’t many useful prints on this dry ground.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Unless you’ve got really sharp eyes.’ He pointed to an area on the bank that had been taped off.

Joni kneeled down by it and stared at the grass. It had been trampled, but as the growth was fresh, there wasn’t much damage to it.

‘See that?’ the SOCO said, extending a hand.

‘Sort of. Medium-sized shoe?’

‘Aye. It’s only a partial, but I estimate it at a size ten. It’s fresh and close to the water, so there’s a good chance it’s our man’s. Unlikely to be a woman’s, is it? It’s an Adidas trainer, I recognise the sole pattern.’

‘It could be a woman wearing whatever shoes she could find.’

‘Well, she’d have to be bloody strong to have carried the victim
this far from the road. Big Ber—, I mean Dr Volpert, estimated his weight at over twelve stone.’

Joni had a flash of the half-naked woman running away from the brothel. Could Suzana Noli have carried the tall man along the path? How would she have got him here? In a stolen car? Or the victim’s own car? Had she been hitching and killed the man who’d picked her up? She had murdered one of the Albanians, seriously injured another and forked a third. She’d already shown she was capable of anything. On the other hand, she was skinny and probably undernourished, like the other Albanian woman. This case might not be connected to her at all.

‘Whoever it was wanted the body to be found,’ the SOCO said. ‘This isn’t exactly the middle of nowhere.’

‘Perhaps the killer didn’t know the area,’ Joni said, arguing against herself out loud. ‘Perhaps the victim’s killer wasn’t the same person as the person who dumped the body.’

‘Could be. Then you’ve got to wonder which of them cut off the head and hands. If there are two people involved, you’ve got more on your plate, haven’t you?’

Joni nodded, ignoring the SOCO’s evident delight as Pete Rokeby walked up.

‘I’ve spoken to the last potential witness,’ he said. ‘Violet Crichton. She sounded pretty doddery. She said she didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. She’s coming to Force HQ in the afternoon to give a statement.’

‘The body was probably dumped first thing in the morning – maybe even in the dark if the guy – or woman – knew the area.’

‘Woman?’

Join told him her thoughts about Suzana Noli.

Pete looked dubious. ‘She’s a slip of a girl, isn’t she? I mean, I can see
you
carrying the victim down here, but her…?’

‘Thanks,’ Joni said, unsmiling. She looked around the sylvan scene, the sun now glinting off the river and the birds still loud. She had just got her bearings. Her mother’s cottage was less than three miles to the west.

Ag Rutherford had driven to work the long way round. Every Wednesday she took her father-in-law to his friend Gavin’s place. The idea was that they played music – David on the Northumbrian pipes and his pal on acoustic guitar – but she suspected they nattered most of the day, consuming numerous mugs of tea laced with whisky. The old man was usually the worse for wear when she picked him up in the late afternoon, making the kids double up with his less than politically correct comments. Most of the time she let him get away with it.

‘Lovely morning,’ he said, struggling to push the Fiat’s seat back as he looked out over the fields.

‘Spring has blown in with its full and glorious palette.’

‘You should write poetry, lass,’ David said, with undisguised admiration.

Ag didn’t tell him that she did, not that she’d ever had anything published. Even Heck was unaware of what she wrote in the leather-covered book she locked away each night. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed by her writing – rather, it was the only thing that was hers and hers alone. She loved her husband and kids, she loved her job, she even loved the old reprobate sitting beside her, but she needed something for herself. She’d always been good with words, but it was only since Heck’s cancer that she’d started putting her thoughts down in free verse. Although the diagnosis and treatment had been hard for all of them and she knew her husband wasn’t clear of it by a long way, some of its effects had been positive. They were closer as a family and Heck had a better grasp of who he was; at least some of the time.

‘He’ll be all right, won’t he, Ag?’ her father-in-law asked, his voice cracking.

She wasn’t surprised by the question. David asked it almost every day. Answering had become a kind of ritual, the words forming a protective sheath around the man they both loved.

‘Course he will,’ she said. ‘He’s a tough one, your son. It was
bad, but he’s over the worst. At least he’s got a grip on his stomach these days.’

David laughed. ‘Aye, it was tricky in the beginning. Remember the time he threw up on that toffee-nosed woman’s shoes?’

Ag shot him a warning glance. ‘Alice Liphook was very good about it. She said her husband had done much worse.’

Her father-in-law shook his head. ‘Poor Alf. Thirty years with that dragon and then a stroke turned him into a vegetable. Just as well he didn’t last long after it.’

Ag wasn’t going to defend Alice, the ‘Dame’, as she was known by the other governors. She’d worked out how to handle her – massage her ego frequently – and she could be a useful ally.

‘I remember when she was young,’ David continued. ‘By God, she was a stunner. She liked Olive because she was handy at bridge.’ He fell silent.

Ag knew he felt guilty about how he’d treated his wife in the years she struggled with emphysema. He was a kindly man, perhaps too kindly, and he couldn’t stand to see her suffering. He’d done more than the average man of his generation, but he’d taken every chance to meet up with his pals, often driving when he was way over the limit. Heck had been forced to have several words. Ag herself hadn’t found Olive easy. She was overprotective of her elder son and always gave the impression that he could have found a better woman to marry, meaning a woman with more style and less commitment to her work. Ag had never been one to apologise. She was a teacher because she had a vocation and she bought clothes for the family in Marks and Spencer because they were good value, end of conversation.

‘Poor buggers,’ the old man said, pointing to a line of people walking from an open-backed lorry to the gate of one of the large fields by the road. There were men and women, most of them young, their clothes ragged and dirty. They looked defeated, their faces blank and their shoulders slumped. ‘Poles, I should think, or other Eastern Europeans. Doing the jobs our benefit scroungers won’t touch. The Poles and Czechs, they
were heroes during the war. Now see what their grandkids have got.’

Ag let that invitation to political argument pass. Her
father-in
-law had voted Conservative since his thirties, his lowly management position at Corham Steel representing an upward move in society from his coal miner father’s class. Her own family had always been liberals, many of them insufferable
do-gooders
if truth be told, but she felt betrayed by the Lib Dems’ decision to form the coalition government with the Tories. She didn’t agree with her father-in-law’s harsh attitude towards the twenty per cent of society that were locked in the benefits spiral – some of the kids she taught came from such families and many of the parents were as honest as David.

‘I certainly wouldn’t want to work in the fields,’ Ag said, ‘even now the weather’s better.’ She’d caught a glimpse of the
hard-faced
ganger at the lorry’s door. These workers wouldn’t have a lunch hour and would only be taken back to the lodgings where they slept ten to a room when the sun was well down in the west. The
Corham Bugle
had run several stories about the appalling conditions migrant workers were forced to accept, both those from EU countries and from further afield. Nothing had happened, of course. The estate owners were in bed with agri-business and couldn’t give a damn about the people on the ground. She’d read enough local history to know there had always been such accommodations.

‘Looks like one of them has done a bunk,’ David said, as they approached a slim figure on the narrow road.

Ag slowed down, thinking about offering a lift. As they passed, she saw it was a young woman, her high cheekbones brought into relief by the woollen hat she had pulled down low. She was wearing what looked like a good quality leather jacket, but her trousers were grubby and she was limping along in battered trainers. There were plastic bags in both her hands and a laptop bag across her chest. She doggedly refused to look at the car and its occupants.

‘I wouldn’t pick her up,’ her father-in-law said. ‘She probably stinks.’

‘While
you
are a paragon of cleanliness,’ Ag murmured. Her father-in-law had become erratic in his bathing habits and Heck had been forced to make that point to him.

She accelerated, seeing from the clock on the dashboard that she was in danger of being late, a cardinal sin for a head teacher. But there was something about the woman – girl, really, probably not many years older than Kat – that bothered her. Then David started coughing and she had to pound his back when he leaned forward. He’d been getting these fits more and more often, but he wouldn’t go to the doctor. Men. Heck had been the same. She’d had to drag him to the GP and then to Corham General for preliminary examinations. If he’d put it off much longer … that didn’t bear thinking about.