Carnal Acts (25 page)

Ollie Forrest felt the cuffs on his wrists being opened. He opened his eyes and saw a figure whose face was covered in a black balaclava. That person rapidly stepped back and waved a cattle prod at him, before exiting and slamming the door. In the faint light from beneath it, Ollie saw there were things on the table next to the bed. He went through the open door to his right and found a small but fully equipped bathroom. He emptied his bladder and dashed water over his face. Then he drank from the large bottle of water and ate the thick cheese sandwiches that were on the table.

He lay back and tried to work out what the hell was going on. The side of his head still ached. He remembered the girl on the moor, then wondered what had happened to his quad bike. Had the shithead who’d hit him, most likely the same coward in the balaclava, nicked it? Surely the cops would be looking for him by now. He remembered the call he’d received. They had already been on his land, after the Albanian knife-woman.

Then Ollie thought of Heck Rutherford. He could rely on him to give the search priority. They’d been at prep and senior school together. Then again, they were very different. He was devoted to playing with himself, while Heck was a choirboy when it came to messing around. He shrugged off advances. There were others, like Ollie, who could tell when something was on offer. He’d never stuck his dick into another boy’s arse, that didn’t interest him, and he didn’t let them do that to him – they didn’t dare because he was strapping lad. At the minor public school they’d attended, things were different. The headmaster, a lecherous old git, had seen advantages in allowing girls into the sixth form. They didn’t need accommodation because they stayed at home and no extra teachers had to be hired. Heck was on a full scholarship. Ollie and he shared a study for the last three years. Heck was a hell of a rugby player, the best school boy number eight in the county, and Ollie was a bullocking hooker. That was about all they had in common. Heck was smart and Ollie wasn’t. Heck seemed to be satisfied with kissing the girls who hovered around him like butterflies in a flower garden. Ollie, already losing his hair and ugly as sin, sniffed out which girls were up for it and got stuck in. Heck had never said anything, but Ollie knew he disapproved.

Now Heck was a detective chief inspector, though he was lucky to be alive. They didn’t meet often these days, but Ollie had gone to visit him in the Royal Vic after he’d had surgery for the horrible wound he’d taken. It looked like all the blood had been drained from him. Ag had been there, watching over him like a pocket prizefighter. She’d never been keen on Ollie, having seen how he was after he’d sunk a few at parties. He would have had her any time.

Then he heard footsteps outside the door, the light partially blocked. The key was turned and Balaclava Man came in again, cattle prod directed towards him. The business end hung a few inches above his chest as the fucker clicked the cuffs round his wrists again – Ollie had put them where they needed to be at
speed. The guy pulled a balaclava without eyeholes over his head and moved away. A dim light in the passage was all he could see, then it went out.

In the darkness he sensed someone had come close silently. A whiff of perfume entered his nostrils through the wool and made him sneeze. He heard a sigh of what sounded like disgust. Then, to his amazement, a hand was on his groin, searching for his button and zip, and pulling his trousers and pants down to below his knees. He was hard in seconds. A leg went over him and he felt bare flesh on his outer thighs. He was unable to reach for the woman’s breasts. He had a burst of panic when he thought it might be a man, then he felt himself being guided into a damp cunt.

The bitch rode him, she rode him hard, and when he came she pushed down on him, grinding against his groin until he gasped. Then she was off him and he felt movements he couldn’t understand. She was still on the bed, he could feel her hair on his legs. What the hell was she doing?

Heck and Joni were standing behind the glass screen and looking down at the post-mortem that Dr Bertha Volpert and her assistant were carrying out on Nick Etherington.

‘Bloody hell,’ Heck muttered, as the mortuary assistant ran the electric saw around the skull. The top of the cranium, part of it damaged by the blows from the still unlocated rock, was levered off to expose the brain.

Joni thought of the boy’s desire to go to Cambridge. All his thoughts, all his knowledge of French, history and maths, all his emotions were gone, leaving only defunct tissue and nerves. The studying, the efforts he’d made on the sports field, the friendships – all wasted. The laughter, the spirit that drove him to
construct the traffic light he’d worn on that fateful night, the grief he’d felt for his father, had already dissipated.

‘Lady and gentleman,’ came Doctor Volpert’s voice from the loudspeakers. She had come from Germany to study at Newcastle decades ago and married another pathologist. Her pronunciation, syntax and random use of idiom sometimes gave her away. ‘Would you like a running report?’

Heck nodded.

‘Cause of death, multiple and extensive penetrating trauma to the head and face. He would have died of shock, although damage to the brain may have shut his system down sooner. The time I estimated last night – no more than two hours at most before he was found – has, I gather, been further narrowed down by other factors.’

‘The anonymous call was received at 7.43 p.m. and the first officers arrived on the scene at 8.01,’ Joni said, into the microphone in front of her.

The doctor lowered her protective glasses and looked at the file on an adjoining table. ‘I took the first of my temperature readings at 8.45. Do you think this caller without a name reported the incident immediately?’

‘No way of telling that, doc,’ Heck replied.

‘I’d say he or she didn’t wait long before calling.’ The pathologist moved down the body and stood over the groin. She picked up Nick Etherington’s distended penis. ‘I checked last night – after his grandfather left – and took a fluids sample from inside the prepuce. There’s no question that the victim had indulged in sexual intercourse not long before death.’

‘Could you be more specific about the time?’ Joni asked.

‘You mean how long before death he had sex?’ She shrugged. ‘A few hours at most. We’re running tests, but I don’t think a prophylactic was worn. The characteristic ring mark at the base of the penis is not evident, though it may have already disappeared.’

‘You’ll be taking samples of the stone fragments from his face, of course,’ Heck said.

Dr Volpert squared her shoulders, not deigning to answer.

‘Any other wounds or injuries?’ he asked.

‘Recent ones? A twenty-two-centimetre gash on his left shin, caused, I would hazard, when he went through the branches at the roadside. Lacerations and contusions to both elbows.’ She raised a finger. ‘Note well – this shows that he went down the slope on his front. The killer turned him over before delivering the blows to his face, having first hit him at the base of his skull – there’s a bruise and stone fragments externally. I’m sure I will find a haematoma shortly. That blow would at the very least have seriously disabled the victim. There are several older wounds – scarring to the upper chest, right ankle and left wrist.’

‘He was a rugby player,’ Heck put in. ‘A bloody good one at that.’ He’d seen the Abbey School team play several times.

‘My friends,’ the doctor said, lowering her voice. ‘You must be careful. The force used to inflict the wounds was massive. I have rarely seen such damage except in motor or industrial accidents. The person who did this is almost undoubtedly male and equally undoubtedly in the grip of intense passion – whether rage, misdirected lust, jealousy, I cannot tell, of course. This poor boy had an implacable enemy, you can be certain of that.’

Heck and Joni thanked her and walked out of the morgue.

‘We need his phone,’ Heck said, ‘especially if he’d been with a member of the opposite sex. They’d have arranged a meeting.’

Joni nodded. ‘He’s bound to have used social networks. His computer will have to be examined. Right, I’m going to find the ACC and interview the mother and grandfather.’

Mrs Normal on the front line, Heck thought. How much more trauma did those poor people have to go through?

Michael Etherington was standing motionless in his grandson’s room. Around him were the bed that Rosie had carefully made up, the desk covered in open textbooks and notepads, and the wardrobe with the door that never stayed shut. Inside he could see the Abbey School blazer and a row of white shirts, while there was a heap of footwear in the corner – black shoes, trainers, rugby and cricket boots, and a pair of running spikes. Nick had been school champion over four hundred metres and at the long jump for the last two years.

Michael went out of the room and down the passage. The door to Rosie’s room was ajar and he opened it further. She was under the covers, breathing deeply. The district nurse had come during the night and given her a sedative. She’d be awake soon. He had already taken Nick’s room apart and put things back so his daughter-in-law wouldn’t notice. The police were bound to go through it soon. There was no sign of a diary; as far as Rosie and Michael knew, Nick hadn’t keep one. His laptop would be taken, but Michael had already transferred all the files he could find to a memory stick and would download them to his own computer.

He went back into Nick’s room and got down on his knees. Not to pray – the residual faith he’d taken from family and school had been burned away in Bosnia, where he had seen things which proved either that there was no god or that any such being was indifferent to humanity. He put his hands under the wardrobe, feeling for anything he might have missed. All he found was a wrapper crushed around a piece of desiccated gum. The idea that it had been in his grandson’s mouth brought tears to his eyes. He put it in his pocket as carefully as if it were a holy relic.

Michael looked at the boxes that Nick had filled with his possessions. One was full of game cards, collected with devotion when he was younger; another contained pages cut from
soft porn magazines; and another, programmes from rugby matches, including internationals at Murrayfield in Edinburgh – several of which they had attended together. He looked again at the bookcase on the other side of the fireplace. It was contained paperbacks ranging from Tolkien to Terry Pratchett. More recently, Nick had spent such free time as he had reading popular history – Beevor on Stalingrad, Hugh Thomas on the Spanish Civil War, Piers Brendon on the decline and fall of the British empire. Michael was glad Niall Ferguson’s more positive book about the empire wasn’t there. He’d seen the results of modern empire-making after the first Gulf War and in the Balkans, and had openly taken against it. That was why he’d been given a desk job during the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. He believed young men and women deserved better than the horrors they’d been thrown into. But none of that mattered now his grandson was gone. The only thing he wanted was justice.

The major general sat in Nick’s chair and thought about how that could be achieved. Although he didn’t much like Ruth Dickie or her black subordinate, he thought they were probably good at what they did. But what could that amount to? The people responsible for Nick’s death would slither away, he was sure of that. Only death would be ample recompense for his grandson’s life, so full of promise had it been.

Michael Etherington would act quickly and decisively. He didn’t care if that cost him his freedom or even his life. There were tried and tested former brothers in arms he could turn to. Nick would be avenged.

Joni was waiting for the ACC in the entrance hall of Force HQ when her mobile rang.

‘DI Pax,’ came Mrs Normal’s voice, ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been called
to an unscheduled meeting with the chief constable. You go on, but remember – leave the major general to me.’

It was only a fifteen-minute drive to the village. Joni prepared herself for what would be a difficult interview. The fact was, most murders were committed by family members. She had no suspicions that Rosie and Michael were guilty. On the other hand, the latter seemed to know something and to be prepared to act on it. She hoped Ruth Dickie would make him see how foolish that would be.

She pulled up behind the Jaguar, relieved to see that both it and Rosie’s Saab were there, as well as a small Citroen that was presumably the FLO’s. Michael Etherington answered her soft knock.

‘DI Pax,’ he said, his eyes narrowing. ‘I hope you’ll use more delicacy than you did when you spoke to Nick.

So it was to be like that. ‘You’ll be relieved to hear that Assistant Chief Constable Ruth Dickie will shortly be arriving to interview you. In the meantime, I’ll be talking to your daughter-in-law, with the constable in attendance.’

The major general’s chest swelled. ‘Rosie isn’t up to it.’

‘These are difficult times for everyone, sir,’ Joni said, ‘but you want to help us catch the killer, don’t you?’

Michael Etherington stared at her and then took a step back. ‘Very well. But she hadn’t recovered from Alistair, my son’s, death. She’s hurting very badly now.’

Joni took a risk and put a hand on his sweater-clad forearm. ‘I know. It isn’t the first time I’ve done an interview on such occasions.’

That seemed to comfort him. He nodded and led her into the sitting room, full of floral covers and curtains. Rosie Etherington was on the sofa, a blanket around her. The FLO was holding her hand.

‘WPC Kirsty Shearer, ma’am,’ the thin middle-aged woman in civilian clothes said, rising to her feet.

Joni waved her to sit down, then turned to the major general.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, inclining her head towards the door. He went reluctantly, giving his daughter-in-law an encouraging smile. Joni pulled over a pouffe and sat on it, her head lower than Rosie’s. She hoped it made her less threatening.

‘Hello, Mrs Etherington,’ she said, in a low voice, waiting until the damp-eyed woman looked at her. ‘I’m so sorry about your son.’ Again she paused, watching as more tears were shed. WPC Shearer whispered caring words and they gradually had some effect.

‘Why … why would someone … someone do that to Nick?’ Rosie said, wiping her eyes with a bedraggled tissue. ‘He was … he was only a boy.’

Joni nodded. ‘I know, Mrs Etherington, it’s an awful thing. But that’s why I’m here. We need to find the person who did it.’

Rosie’s gaze hardened. ‘Why do you care? You didn’t even believe Nick before.’

Joni absorbed the hostility, her eyes never leaving the other woman’s. ‘Your son was a wonderful human being, Mrs Etherington. I could see that the first time I spoke to him.’

‘When you handcuffed him to the fence in front of that hellhole?’ There was more to the woman than Joni expected. She admired her spirit in adversity. It gave her hope that she might know something important.

‘All I saw at that moment was a cardboard traffic light.’ She hesitated, then decided to push harder. ‘And a pair of beautiful brown eyes.’ Rosie sobbed. ‘Beautiful,
scared
brown eyes.’

‘Nick … didn’t know fear. He was a fighter. You didn’t see him on the rugby pitch. He never gave up, he fought to the end of every match, no matter what the score was.’

‘I have no doubt of that, Mrs Etherington. But your son was murdered.’ She didn’t go into details of the injuries as she wasn’t sure how much the major general had passed on. ‘It’s my job to find out by whom and why. More than ever, I’m convinced that his death is linked to something he saw in Burwell Street.’

‘I don’t know anything about that. He … he didn’t tell me. You’ll have to ask his friends.’

‘We’re doing that. So how would you describe him after Sunday night?’

Rosie shot her another aggressive glance. ‘Shocked. I don’t know what you said to him.’

‘Nothing to upset him, I can assure you. I apologised for handcuffing him and I think he accepted that. Did he talk to you about the man in the doorway who had been stabbed?’

‘Not much. I don’t think it gave him nightmares. He’d seen plenty of rugby injuries, not least his own.’

‘How was he before Sunday? He must have been under pressure with A-levels coming up.’

Rosie shook her head, raising another tissue to her face.

‘Mrs Etherington?’

‘He … he was coping.’

Joni played one of her aces. ‘He told me he wanted to go to Cambridge.’

The hand holding the tissue dropped.

‘Did he?’ she said, surprised.

‘Yes, it turned out he was studying the same subjects that I did.’

The second ace broke the last of Rosie Etherington’s defences. ‘Nick … was different these last few days. Not in a bad way, though he may have been distracted.’ She leaned forward. ‘I think he was in love.’

Joni disguised her interest as best she could. ‘With whom?’

‘I … I don’t know if I should say. He didn’t talk to me about it.’

Joni waited.

‘My father-in-law will tell you anyway,’ Rosie said. ‘Evie Favon. Lord and Lady Favon’s daughter. Michael drove him up to the Hall every day this week.’

Joni knew the Favons were local big shots, not least because the Force HQ building used to be in the family. She’d seen the man’s unattractive face in the local press often enough, sometimes accompanied by his much more striking wife. She wasn’t aware they had a daughter, but why would she have been?

‘He was coming back from Favon Hall last night when he … when he was attacked,’ Rosie said, as if she only just made the connection. ‘Michael drove him up and he cycled back.’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘You don’t think…?’

‘What?’

Rosie looked bewildered and didn’t answer.

‘I don’t think what?’ Joni nudged.

‘Nothing. You’ll be speaking to the Favons, won’t you?’

‘Of course. You know, Nick told me he didn’t think he’d make the grades for Cambridge,’ Joni said, playing her third card.

‘Evie was helping him with the English papers. She did her exams last year. She was supposed to be in Africa on her gap year, but Andrew Favon reversed into her and both her legs were broken. Apparently she’s made an amazing recovery.’

Joni scribbled notes. Heck would fill her in on the aristocrats. ‘So Nick was studying hard,’ she said, ‘but he still got dressed up for May Sunday.’

‘Yes. For some reason making that stupid traffic light engaged his interest.’

Joni considered telling her that she had rescued Nick from a backward flop into the river, but decided against it. Claiming too many links to her son might make the bereaved mother jealous. Besides, she’d just had a thought.

The conversation continued, but Rosie had little more of significance to add. Joni heard a knock at the front door and got up. She could see the ACC’s car on the street.

‘Thank you, Mrs Etherington,’ she said, getting up. ‘We’ll need a formal statement, but that can wait for a day or two. Again, my deepest condolences.’ She beckoned WPC Shearer to the door. ‘ACC Dickie’s just arrived.’

The FLO raised an eyebrow. Mrs Normal wasn’t known for getting her hands dirty, even with murder cases.

Joni went out to buttonhole the ACC before she started on the major general. She was wrestling with her memory. Had it been Nick as traffic light who had led his friends to the brothel
in Burwell Street? If so, he might have had something in mind – something involving the person she was sure he had seen there.