Hidden Witness (7 page)

Back inside he began the process of inspecting, recording, describing and bagging each item taken from the dead man, aware that care needed to be taken to preserve any evidence that might be useful, and that such evidence might well be invisible to the naked eye. All the stuff would be going to the forensic science lab for analysis sooner rather than later, so he had to do a good job and not compromise any evidence.

The first item he picked up was the man's sports jacket, which to Henry's untrained eye, looked quite an expensive one. All the clothing, on brief inspection, seemed to be good quality Italian. In an inside pocket was a slim, pigskin wallet, heavily stained with blood. Henry opened it carefully. There was a maker's imprint in the leather and Henry guessed it was an Italian word, something to check on, perhaps. There was no form of ID in the wallet itself, just a hundred pounds in twenties, a hundred Euros, an old thousand-lira note and a faded, bloodied, photograph of a young child. A granddaughter, Henry hazarded. There was nothing else in the jacket, other than three keys on a ring, one mortise, one Yale, and the other possibly a padlock key.

Henry recorded the items, then carried on with what was left in the basket – trousers, socks, shoes (definitely Italian leather), a shirt, silk tie, a vest – and Henry made sure he noted each item and sealed it in the appropriate manner in the correct type of bag.

Finally he was left with two items, a watch and the old man's walking stick. The watch was a heavy Rolex and Henry looked at it longingly. One day, he promised himself, and logged it, tagged and bagged it, then moved on to the stick. It was silver tipped with an intricately carved wooden handle. Henry held it up and his eyes skimmed it, but just as he was about to drop it into a polythene bag, something on the shaft caught his eye, about two-thirds of the way down from the handle. He frowned, then packed and did the paperwork for the stick.

The only things he hadn't recorded were the keys.

He held them up on the simple ring and said, ‘But no ID,' to himself. He scratched his ear thoughtfully.

An old man, out and about at night with no form of identification. How weird was that? Well-dressed – slightly dashing if anything – well nourished, a bit of money in the wallet. And a not-so-old bullet wound in the ribs.

Unless something turned up in the meantime – such as, ‘My old grandad's not come home,' and here Henry thought that unless grandad was a dirty stop-out, that ‘meantime' might well have passed as it was now well into the early hours – one of the first tasks of the morning would be to flood the area with uniforms knocking on doors armed with an artist's impression of the old man's face, as a direct photo might have been a tad too gruesome to shove under peoples' noses at breakfast time. Although Henry realized he was making an assumption, he'd lay odds that the guy was on his way home – but from where and to where?

Already the questions and ideas were starting to mount up and Henry's mind, fatigued as it was, was starting to marshal these thoughts. He sat down at the desk in the mortuary office and jotted down a few ideas about the way forwards with the investigation in the notebook. He'd hardly had time to scribble down three headings on separate pages – ‘Victim', ‘Location', Offender' – when someone came into the office and interrupted him.

It was DS Alex Bent, who tapped lightly on the glass door, even though it was open. He was drenched, looked exhausted. ‘Boss?' he said, quietly but urgently.

Henry squinted at him. ‘I was just about to solve this murder by cracking the intricate medieval and religious code I found in this book,' he said seriously, tapping his finger on the notebook.

‘Really?' Bent said, Henry's little joke flying right over his head.

‘Yeah – so this better be good.' Henry closed the notebook, realizing it was completely the wrong time of day to have a stab at humour. ‘What?'

‘Well, you being the only SIO in spitting distance – do you want to turn out to another job?'

The shiny, perfectly sharpened dissecting knife was poised above the old man's chest, ready to make the first incision: the classic cut down the middle of the body from the soft skin just below the Adam's apple, all the way down to the pubes. From that first cut, the outer layers of skin and subcutaneous fat would be pared away to expose the ribcage which, depending on its condition, would be removed by use of shears, not unlike those found in a garden shed. It would then be lifted off like the lid on a square biscuit tin. Only difference was there wouldn't be any goodies in this tin, but a squashed heart, lungs, liver and kidneys – organs that would then be hacked out for examination.

‘Don't even think about it.' Henry said mock dramatically as he swung through the mortuary door.

The pathologist, Keira O'Connell, paused, keeping the knife hovering just inches above the flesh like the Sword of Damocles. She inclined her head and peered over her facemask. ‘And why not?' she asked, voice muffled. ‘Has this man actually died of natural causes, meaning a post-mortem is no longer necessary?'

‘Would it be possible to delay?' Henry asked.

‘Give me one good reason.'

‘Another shooting's come in – young lad up on Shoreside. No more details as yet, but I'd like you to come to the scene if possible.'

‘OK . . .' O'Connell checked the clock and for the benefit of the recording equipment stated the time and date and that the PM was being suspended for the time being, then asked the mortuary technician to turn off the machine. He obeyed, using a remote control. ‘Not much detail you say?' she said, stepping away from the slab and replacing the knife in its position in the line of tools, then removing her mask, ‘but you must have something?' she asked Henry. She walked towards him, peeling the latex gloves off, then unpinning her hair, which she shook free and patted into place, even though the expensively cut bob tumbled out perfectly.

Something clogged up Henry's throat as he replied, ‘No, nothing,' dreamily.

Ten minutes later the body had been stored on a tray in the chiller, his belongings secured in a locker – Henry taking the key – and they were en route to the scene in his car.

‘You know, if this isn't a murder, I'll still have to claim a call-out fee.'

‘It's a murder. I have enough faith in my officers for them to be right about that – so you'll be handsomely recompensed for your troubles and you can continue to live in the style to which you're accustomed. How much for tonight? A grand, I'm guessing.'

She guffawed. ‘I wish.'

They drove on in silence for a few minutes. Rain continued to lash down heavily, the windscreen wipers trudging manfully against the deluge that was like buckets of water being thrown repeatedly over the car. A strong wind was also getting up.

Henry glanced surreptitiously at his passenger – just as she was doing the same at the driver. Both shuffled uncomfortably as their eyes locked briefly.

‘You're a superintendent now?' O'Connell said. Henry nodded. ‘Well done. Last time we met I remember you being unceremoniously dumped off an investigation – the Asian woman who'd been set alight.'

Henry swallowed at the memory. Not one of the highlights of his topsy-turvy career.

‘Dave Anger, wasn't it?' O'Connell went on. ‘Your boss at the time? He'd got it in for you. Your nemesis, I think you called him.'

‘Yeah,' Henry growled and added creepily, ‘but vengeance was mine.' He raised his eyebrows.

‘And we went out for a drink.'

‘Mm – and I blew it, as I recall.' So she did remember. He squirmed.

‘You did, rather. All me, me, me.'

‘C'est la me,' he shrugged. They'd reached the outskirts of Shoreside. He drove to the front of the shop parade and pulled up. There was a lot of police activity.

‘And I was in a relationship then, and you were, and then I wasn't, and you were . . . and then I wasn't . . .' Her voice dried up and he yanked up the handbrake. She gulped. ‘Still not,' she said and gave Henry a meaningful look.

‘Just my luck,' Henry said. He paused, sighed, then clambered out into the rain again. He was almost thankful for the drenching which had the instantaneous effect of dousing his easily aroused ardour. Just the thought of what might have been had been enough to trigger numerous snapshots in his mind's eye of the ways in which a pretty female pathologist might be naughty. He tugged his hood over his head, banished the images, and dashed over to Alex Bent, who, having made to the scene ahead of him, was waiting under the awning that covered the walkway in front of the shops.

O'Connell was right behind, having flicked open her mini-umbrella. She also carried a medical kit with her.

The trio made their way to the rear of the shop parade – although the term parade was a bit of a euphemism. The only two shops left on the block were the chippy and a newsagent. The others – formerly a hairdresser, bakery and launderette – had closed, were ‘steeled' up, rather than boarded, victims of the credit crunch and the encroachment of vandalism and intimidation from Shoreside yobs.

Henry's face ticked uncomfortably with the memory of the last serious incident he'd dealt with on the tract of ground behind the shops, which was part car park, part rubble heap, part fly tip. A wild young man had been stabbed to death in a gang feud, a case that not reached a satisfactory conclusion.

Henry had lost count of the number of crimes committed in this area. This no-man's land between civilization and the jungle that was the Shoreside estate. People crossed it at their peril, night or day, to get from the shops to Song Thrush Way. And that did not include the incidents that had taken place in the alley itself. Gangs congregated and sorted out their differences, drug deals were done, rapists and flashers lurked, robbers waited, hiding patiently for their next victim . . . and occasionally, people were murdered. Henry was very much aware of the local name for the alley.

It was such a hot spot that it had the unusual honour of having its own incident location ID in the police logging system. Unusual because most incident locations related to large areas, such as council wards, not mini-no-go areas. Recognizing the problems, the police were constantly badgering the council to get their finger out, but lack of money and willpower were big issues.

‘Looks like he was crossing from the chippy to the alley,' Bent was saying as the three of them stepped out of the light and walked towards the scene, heads tipped against the rain. ‘Chips everywhere, apparently. Haven't seen myself, yet. Obviously met whoever killed him just short of the alley and was shot in the head . . . apparently.'

Two marked police cars and a police van were parked at skew-whiff angles on the car park, as though they'd just been abandoned. Uniformed cops milled around. An ambulance was parked further away.

Henry said, ‘Who was the first officer on the scene?'

‘Her.' Bent pointed to one of the constables. Henry stopped and beckoned to the lady, recognizing her but not really knowing her.

‘You were first to arrive, I'm told. What happened?'

The officer was as completely soaked as anyone. Even her hat had lost its shape, the brim now corrugated. ‘Er, comms got a call on the treble nine saying someone'd been shot here. Caller refused to give details. I took the job.' She shrugged. ‘Found the lad there . . . that's about it, really. Drew back, cordoned it off, called the jacks in.'

Henry nodded. ‘Do we know the deceased?'

The PC said, ‘I'm not a hundred per cent. I haven't been through his pockets or anything, didn't want to spoil any evidence.'

‘When you say you're not a hundred per cent, what do you mean?'

‘Looks like one of the Costain's.'

The name hit Henry. ‘Let's have a see.'

The scene had been cordoned off with tape strung from two broken lampposts, really nothing more than jagged stumps, a stack of bricks and a wheelie bin. A crude but effective first barrier for the time being. Henry, Bent and O'Connell ducked under the tape. The police cars had actually been parked at an angle to each other so their headlights bathed the scene until the arrival of something actually designed for the job of lighting up a murder scene. The lighting wasn't too effective, therefore, but it was better than nothing for the moment and would have to suffice until the circus rolled in.

The boy was lying on his side, facing away from them as they approached him. He looked for the entire world as though he'd just got down on the ground for a sleep. Henry pulled out his mini-Maglite torch and screwed the lens to switch it on. Bent was holding a much sturdier version that he also turned on. O'Connell had stopped and taken a torch out of her bag, one of those wind-up ones.

Despite all the lighting, it was only when they were much closer to the boy that they could see the horrific injury to the head.

Bent whistled appreciatively.

Henry bounced down on to his haunches, his ageing knees cracking loudly, and shone his torch into the boy's twisted face.

‘Two shootings on one night,' he muttered. It might have been something everyone was thinking, but still had to be said out loud, although the additional question, ‘Are they connected?' remained implicit.

O'Connell was at his right shoulder, seeing the boy from his viewpoint. There was a gaping exit hole on the right side of his head that had removed his ear and upper jaw. The whole face was distorted.

‘Do you know him?' O'Connell asked.

The thin beam of Henry's torch worked slowly across the remaining features, open, staring but blank eyes, the mouth contorted horribly, blood oozing out of it.

Henry nodded. ‘I know him.' He stood up, knees cracking again, and spoke to Bent. ‘He wasn't alone, either.'

He flicked his torch beam around the ground, seeing the scattered and disintegrating chips and other food, and noting the two sets of wrapping paper.