Death Line (11 page)

Frowning, he glanced up. “You taking the piss?”

“As if. Give us a chip.” She returned the wink. “Straight up. You’re a pro. Got to be a front runner.” Good looking, personable, Powell was everything she
wasn’t. Unlike her, he played all the games by the books, minded his PCs and Qs when the thought police were in earshot, and ’cause he was a plodder, rarely stepped out of line.

Two or three second stare then: “Thanks, Bev.”

She sniffed. “Mind, you might have to sleep with the boss.”

There was a gleam in his eye. God, she’d handed him that on a plate. He opened his mouth then, like her perhaps, thought better of it. “Miss Byford, will you?” It wasn’t
a snipe. Question was sincere though she didn’t much care for his obvious concern.

“Easy come easy go.” She gave a one-shoulder shrug, knew it’d be like losing a right arm. And leg. So why was she treating the guv like he was in the latter stages of the
plague?

“Yeah right. Y’know, Bev, there’s no harm saying how you feel.” Pull the other one; it hurt like shit.

“Drop it, mate.” Non-negotiable. She turned her head, gazed through the window at a couple of jets crossing the wide blue sky. Eight o’clock on a Friday night. God, was this
the high life or what? Eat your heart out, Paris Hilton. Still, Powell wasn’t exactly clubbing it.

Blowing on his tea, he asked: “You in tomorrow?”

“Yeah. First thing.” She’d offered after the late brief. Knight wanted a review team to take apart the inquiry so far, plus a couple of potential leads needed chasing on the
motor seen in Marston Road. Nothing else had emerged during the session. Except for the rockets Lancelot had launched at forensics and toxicology who still hadn’t reported findings and at
the, quote: ‘bastard with a sieve that was jeopardising the entire operation’. Knight was so desperate, he’d actually called on whoever was responsible to put their hand up to
it.

“I’m in over the weekend as well,” Powell said. “Show willing, eh?” Looking for Brownie points more likely. “Wouldn’t do you any harm, you
know.”

“What’s that?”

“Concentrate on your career for a change.”

Had the guy got a death wish? “You cheeky sod.” Eyes flashing, she scraped back the chair. Even with a hand tied behind her back, she reckoned she was a better detective than Powell
would ever be. Glaring, she grabbed her bag. Knew if she was honest, he’d also hit a nerve. What the hell else had she to focus on? Johnny Depp was hardly beating a path to her door. Byford
was beating a retreat. Oz was getting spliced. Why the hell he’d invited her to the wedding beat Bev, though. The bastard. Oz, that is. No, make that Powell, too. She cut him a lethal glance.
“When I want adv...”

“Cool it, Morriss. I only meant if I get made up...”

“...it’ll be at a counter in Boots, mate.”

“...there’ll be a DI post going. Maybe time you tried again?”

Wind. Sails. But only momentarily. She reckoned if she made inspector, they’d be doing happy meals at McMartians.

Quick whiz round Tesco later, Bev was putting her key in the door at Baldwin Street. She hated going home to an empty house. The guv always said the same. Slinging the fob on
the hall table, she kicked off the Docs, toted the bags into the kitchen. Booze mostly, bread, bacon, baccy. She sighed. At least Byford had had a taste of marriage, had kids who’d find him a
berth in an old folks’ home come the time. Fuck’s sake, Beverley. Get a grip. She opened the fridge, poured a glass of Pinot, placed the bottle against her forehead, gave a wry smile.
Maybe she should have taken Powell up on his offer of a quickie. In The Prince.

Cheeky bastard.

Still smiling, she shook her head. Admittedly Powell was quite tasty since he’d started going to the gym, let his hair grow a little longer, but blonds had never been her cup of PG.
He’d given her food for thought, though. Raising the glass, she toasted the future, pictured absent friends.

DI Bev Morriss? Who knows? When hell freezes over? Or when she started playing the games? She snorted. That’d be the Winter Olympics then?

The courting couple thought they were seeing a shop dummy, dumped by kids having a laugh. Monica and Ron had been to the village pub and were strolling amiably arm in arm back
to her place. Full moon, balmy night, love was in the air. Neither was in the first flush, but they lingered for a kiss and cuddle on the bridge over the railway line at Foxton, just outside
Birmingham. Relaxed, merry, maybe they’d had a drop too much because the unexpected sight gave Monica the giggles: the odd angle, legs askew.

Squinting, Ron leaned over the bridge to get a better look. “I don’t reckon it is a dummy, Monica. Look at the clothes. Must be a guy.”

Frowning, she leaned over, too. “Don’t be daft, love. It’s July.”

They were both easy mistakes to make.

“You don’t think...?” Curiosity piqued, Ron peered further down the line. “Hell fire.” And froze. His whisper somehow had more impact than Monica’s whimper.
Both so wanted the object to be a red ball. Both dismissed the thought instantly. This time neither was mistaken.

Though shiny and slightly deflated, it was still recognisable as a head.

The intercity had been travelling at just shy of a ton, the body on the line unnoticed by the poor sodding driver though services were halted now. Wasn’t uncommon. There
were around a hundred similar instances a year, according to some stats. Luck really that a British Transport police officer rifling the dead man’s pockets for ID recognised the name and had
the nous to call Highgate CID. By the time Bev and Mac arrived, the embankment was lit like a movie set, special effects provided by nature. Moonlight cast a silvery grey sheen through a row of
sycamores, and skimmed slopes overgrown with weeds and grasses. From a field across the way, a bunch of Jerseys gazed on dolefully, chewing the cud, looked as if they were commenting on the action.
It was more film noir than
Brief Encounter
. Though for Roland Haines it had been that too.

Roland Haines. The early shout had come as a shock. Though Bev reckoned DC Danny Rees who made it was more shaken. Even old hands don’t come across headless stiffs every day. Rookie Rees
and Darren New were the first non-uniform officers attending, and given the dead trainspotter was Haines, they’d wanted senior back up. Powell had buck-passed. Again. It was now down to Bev
and Mac, or more accurately the FSI guys, to pick up the pieces – actually, make that body parts. It was a toss-up who was most pissed off.

Blowing her cheeks out, Bev locked the motor, glanced along a line of parked police vehicles that further narrowed the already tight country lane. The meat wagon was standing by, but it looked
as if the pathologist was running late. Though suicide had been the natural initial assumption, discovering Haines’s identity had turned that idea on its head. Bev grimaced; the phrase was
unfortunate given the circs. Either way, until it was established whether Haines had indeed taken his own life, the Foxton cutting was being treated as a crime scene.

Still fairly subdued, Bev and Mac watched from the bridge, elbows on rail. Cooks, broth, spoil and all that. It looked almost surreal down there. Moonlight glistened off steel tracks and metal
cases as a white-suited and overshoed FSI team carefully picked its way through undergrowth, dead branches, and rotting or rusting detritus. Each investigator’s gaze was focused on the rough
terrain, except when one or more of the four knelt for a closer look, deciding whether to bag and tag. Crime scene manager Chris Baxter’s gait and stance were distinctive. Bev raised a palm
acknowledging his nod. Further down the line, stills and video cameras were capturing everything that didn’t move. Including Haines whose mangled corpse could give Humpty Dumpty a
metaphorical run for his money.

“Shit way to go,” Mac murmured.

“Likely didn’t know what hit him.”

“Other than the 23.10 to Euston?” She heard the humour in his voice.

“Funny boy. Y’know what I mean.” Daft as it sounded it was probably true. Anyone opting for death by diesel train would have to be well tanked up. And if the choice
wasn’t theirs, they’d hardly lie down and take what was coming. They’d need to be unconscious or at least restrained, rope, cable, whatever.

“Think he had a sudden fit of remorse, boss?”

“Dunno, mate.” She couldn’t really see it. Those eyes of Haines still gave her the creeps. Maybe he’d made one enemy too many. No point jumping the gun though. Not till
they knew the score. For that they needed Doctor Death.

Mac must’ve been thinking along the same lines. “Wonder what rubbish excuse Overdale’ll come up with this time?” Home Office pathologist Gillian Overdale. Bev preferred
the nickname. Bloody woman always kept the cops hanging round. If anyone mentioned it, she’d fix them with her basilisk stare and say the bodies weren’t going anywhere.

“Talk of the devil.” Bev shielded her eyes against the light as a torch-wielding silhouette scuttled in from the right. She added a sotto voce: “’bout bloody
time.”

“You sure, boss?” Mac was squinting too.

The nearer the figure got the less it looked Doc-shaped. “Maybe not.”

“Wotcha, sarge.” An unsmiling Danny Rees cut the beam. “Sorry you got lumbered.” Danny boy was not looking his best. Pound to a penny he’d barfed.

“No sweat.” Actually bets were off. It was barely detectable but she’d caught a whiff of vomit. Yep. The not so shiny shoes bore tell-tale traces. “What we
got?”

He swallowed. “Christ, sarge. How could anybody do that? What a mess.” She’d a certain amount of sympathy but he’d see worse. It went with the territory.

“Here to find out, Danny. So...?”

“I had a word with the couple who called it in? They’re in the cottage just down the lane.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “They’ve got coffee on the go if
you...”

“Sod the coffee, Danny. Did either of them say or see anything helpful?”

He glanced at the ground. “Not really.”

No then. “What else?”

“I got a list of names from the pub landlord. Locals who were in there last night. Thought we could chase them in the morning.”

“Any motors left in the pub car park, lad?” Nice one, Mac. ’Cause Haines sure hadn’t walked here. Might have had a chauffeur though.

“I’ll check.” Tad shamefaced at the omission but at least he hadn’t tried brazening it out.

“’Kay,” Bev said. “And?”

He waved the heavy-duty torch. “We had a scout round, trying to see where he gained access. Nothing obvious, sarge, but loads of places where it’s possible, gaps in hedges, bust
fences, that kind of thing. Darren’s still out there with uniform trying to narrow it down. Again, we’ll get a better idea in the morning, bit more light.”

She glanced at her watch. Almost one a m. They could start knocking a few doors later, too. Foxton was no heaving metropolis but it was possible someone had been curtain twitching.

“Sergeant Morriss.” A slightly breathless Overdale. She’d eschewed the customary Harris tweed and scuffed brogues for baggy jeans and well-worn trainers. And she’d need
them.

“Doc.” Tight-lipped nod.

“Late. No excuse. I fell back to sleep. Sorry.” The candour took the wind out of Bev’s sails but more than that the woman looked pretty rough. Her moon face had an unhealthy
sheen; the eyes were red-rimmed, looked sore.

“Bev?” Four heads turned when Chris Baxter called softly. “One of the guys found this.” He held a scrap of paper between gloved fingers. “Suicide note.”

“I very much doubt it.” Making up for lost time, Overdale’s professional gaze was already scanning what was left of Haines. “From what I can see the body would have been
dead long before a train hit it.”

It was more what the pathologist hadn’t seen. “There wasn’t enough blood, boss,” Bev told Knight and the rest of the squad. “Overdale says if
Haines had been alive when he was hit the tracks would’ve been awash, ground would’ve been soaked.” The pathologist had talked carotids and jugular spouting like the Trevi
fountain. But only if Haines’s heart had been pumping. Given the train’s impact, there’d been more than enough gore around anyway for Bev’s liking. As for the severed
head... it wasn’t a thought to hold. Bloody thing had already given her nightmares, and she’d only had four hours’ kip. Knight had put the early brief back an hour, it was just
gone nine now. Maybe she was wrong, but the squad seemed animated by the news of Haines’s demise. For sure, no one was shedding any tears.

The DCI still appeared to be taking it in. “So likeliest scenario is Haines was dead before the train hit him?”

Bev and Mac exchanged glances: you could say that. “Best guess is he was murdered someplace else... there’s no forensic so far to dispute that. The killer drives the body to Foxton
and...” She’d painted part of the picture, rest was best left to the imagination.

Knight nodded. “Does Overdale have any idea how he was killed?”

With the state the body was in? Get real. She settled for a diplomatic: “Nothing obvious, boss. Post mortem might throw up something.” Blood tests, too, assuming he had enough left
in his veins. “She checked the wrists for ligature marks. Nothing doing.” Difficult to check the neck. Bev swallowed, shuddered again. “If he was restrained, the killer took the
rope or whatever with him.” FSI had checked and checked again: nothing doing. New batch of uniforms and detectives had been out at Foxton since first light, checking for tyre tracks, talking
to villagers.

Knight finally stopped pacing. “There’s absolutely no doubt about this, is there, sergeant? He was murdered?” Bev raised an eyebrow. Was there a punch line?

“What, like you mean Haines might’ve got a mate to put him out of his misery?” It came from Mac, but Knight had asked for it. Bev couldn’t have put it better herself.
Going by the curve on Powell’s lip, he appreciated it, too. The DI propped against his favourite wall looked as fresh as the proverbial. Wonder why?

Knight threw Mac a cool: “Are you trying to be funny, Tyler?”

Mac didn’t look amused. Like Bev he’d been up half the night and was still firing on more cylinders than Knight appeared to be. “The pathologist couldn’t have been
clearer. Haines was already dead when the train hit him. End of. I can’t see your problem.”