Scarred for Life (2 page)

The shadows dissolved into a handful of uniformed officers, with the cigarette smoke coming from a man muttering to himself in an Eastern European-sounding accent. In the mix of the orange glow from the street lights above and the blue rotating lights of the police cars, the scene looked like the type of disco where no one ended up going home alone.

One of the detective constables was taking notes but stopped to peer up as Jessica arrived. ‘I thought you’d knocked off for the day,’ he said.

Jessica shrugged – it was no wonder she always got the call: she was always the one stupid enough to drop everything and attend. ‘They told me there was a body,’ she said.

The DC nodded backwards. ‘Scene of Crime are there now.’ With a slight sideways motion, he indicated the man with the cigarette. ‘This is Pavel. He found the body.’

Jessica looked the man up and down: muddy jeans, walking boots, and a thin dark jacket. His eyes darted sideways catching the orange light, his pointed nose and stubbly chin making him look like a startled rabbit.

‘
Kto?
’ he said, his accent sounding thicker than before.

Jessica stepped a few metres away, gesturing for the officer to join her. ‘How’s his English?’

‘Better than my Polish.’

‘What did he say?’

The DC lowered his voice, even though they couldn’t be overheard. ‘He does agency work for some cleaning company in the city. A few people called in sick, so they’ve been behind all day. There’s a university rowing clubhouse down by the river they’re contracted to do once a week – but he only got here as it was getting dark. He was mumbling something about striking bin men and everything being messed up.’

‘What did he find?’

‘You’re better off seeing for yourself. SOCO are going to be there for a while.’

Jessica nodded, heading past the officers, down a slope towards the water’s edge. Away from the blue and orange lights, the moon gave the river an unearthly glow, black ripples serenely rolling towards the bank. Jessica watched them for a few moments, breathing the night air, knowing this was going to be another late one, followed by an early morning tomorrow and then who knew what else. She held the cool air in her lungs and then turned to face the large building behind her. At its front was an elaborate arched doorway, with wooden decking sloping down towards the water. Three boat landings stretched into the water, waves lapping at the struts that plunged into the dark depths. The whitewashed facade had some sort of cross-paddle logo painted on it that she couldn’t entirely make out in the dim light.

At the back of the building, bright white lights seared through the night, illuminating the grass verge that surrounded it. Jessica followed the light until the all-too-familiar shapes of the paper-suited Scene of Crime officers came into view. One of them was leaning into a tall metal wheelie bin, its once blue sides scratched grey, as another ducked into a translucent white tent.

Jessica didn’t need to go any closer to figure out what had happened. ‘Was the body actually in the bin?’ she called across.

One of the female SOCOs she recognised but didn’t know the name of eyed her suspiciously, until Jessica stepped into the light and revealed herself. ‘Thrown out like an old takeaway tub,’ the officer replied grimly.

‘Is the bin full?’

The woman shrugged, not knowing why it mattered, but she nodded anyway. It took Jessica a moment to remember which day it was: one of the curses of age.

Thursday, definitely Thursday.

With the bin full, it seemed likely that today was collection day – or would have been if the bin men weren’t on strike. It had been on the lunchtime news that they’d walked out that morning, protesting at a colleague’s suspension. She wondered if the killer knew the routine, assuming the body would be landfill by now. If it wasn’t for the industrial dispute, it probably would have been.

Jessica scanned the rest of the alleyway without edging any closer; the days of inspectors trampling on crime scenes were long gone. The wheelie bin was next to another, both pressed against a red-brick wall close to a fire exit. Above, a steep grass bank sloped down from the park towards a rough patch of concrete. Aside from a stray crisp packet blowing from side to side and the Scene of Crime gear, the alley was clear.

Sometimes you wanted to see more but occasionally the setting was enough, knowing that a person had been tossed away like they were nothing. Jessica would wait for the photographs and report.

She felt the wind bite, whistling between the verge and the clubhouse as she turned and headed back up the slope towards the other officers. Jessica approached the constable from before, who was standing by himself tapping something into his phone.

‘Any clue on the identity?’ she asked.

He looked up, nodding. ‘There was a wallet in his pocket. They’ve bagged it but there was a student ID in there. Some kid named Damon Potter; nineteen years old, local by the looks of it. We did an informal ID from the photo on the card and someone’s on the way to see his parents so they can make it official. Paperwork’s already being sorted. Poor sods. I’m surprised they called you down.’

At least the evening crew knew what they were doing, which was more than could be said for the new recruits on day shift. Jessica wouldn’t trust some of them to tie their own shoelaces.

With the SOCO team doing their jobs, the initial admin in hand, and not much more likely to be confirmed until morning, the handful of officers had begun to drift away, cleaner Pavel in tow. They were either heading for the patrol cars to go back to the station, or they’d felt the siren’s call from the kebab shop around the corner. Jessica knew where her money lay.

As she started digging for her car keys, Jessica noticed someone hurrying towards them: a tall, slender frame with large shoulders illuminated in the mishmash of light. The DC gave Jessica his best ‘no idea’ shrug as they waited. As he got closer, Jessica could see that the man was in his early twenties, athletic, with eyes that were darting past them towards the slope that led down to the boathouse. His tan was apparent even in the faded light, tufty sand-coloured hair topping off the beach-bum look.

Ignoring Jessica, he went straight to the constable, standing a good four inches taller than him and introducing himself as Holden Wyatt, student president of the university rowing club. Even before she heard the accent – gently northern but with the harsher twang coached away – Jessica knew the type. He’d ignored her because he’d automatically assumed a man would be in charge.

‘I got a call from campus security,’ Holden said.

‘Do you know Damon Potter?’ Jessica asked.

He spun to face her, realising his mistake and weighing Jessica up in an instant by running his eyes up and down her. He was seemingly used to being in charge of situations and followed with a short, assertive nod, before pushing himself up onto the tips of his toes, ensuring he towered over her. ‘Who are you?’

Jessica took her identification from her pocket and held it in the light for him to see. ‘De-tect-ive In-spec-tor.’ The words rolled around Holden’s mouth, as if he didn’t quite believe them. ‘Why have I been called down?’ he added.

Jessica didn’t actually know but she wasn’t going to show him that. ‘I tend to ask the questions. That’s where the whole “detective” bit comes from. Anyway: Damon Potter – who is he?’

Holden’s nose twitched and he looked skywards, biting his bottom lip as if trying to remember. It was a show entirely for her benefit as there was recognition in his eyes.

‘I think he’s one of our members. Perhaps a first year? The newbies only join in September or sometimes October, so I don’t know everyone yet.’

‘How many members do you have?’

‘Active? Eighty or so – I’m not sure. We have a membership secretary. Then there are life members, alumni, the president and so on.’

‘And you’re affiliated to the university?’

Holden’s head bobbed from side to side before he nodded. ‘Traditionally, yes, but we have our own constitution. Members must come from the university but we’re not a part of the students’ union, or the university itself.’

‘Do you get funding from them?’

‘A little.’

‘And how do you get to become student president?’

Holden glanced at the constable, wondering why he was being questioned. ‘Look, it’s getting late. I thought there’d been a break-in, or something. Is there a problem with the club? Or Damon?’

Jessica checked her watch, making the point that it wasn’t
that
late, and then nodded. ‘It’s not been confirmed but Damon’s body was found dumped in one of the bins at the back of your clubhouse.’

For a moment, Holden stared at her. She could almost see the cogs whirring in his head. ‘He’s dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘We don’t know yet. When did you last see him?’

Holden ran his hand through his thin mop of curls and noisily blew out through his mouth. A thin stream of breath spiralled into the air, making Jessica realise that it was now colder than it had been. ‘I’m not sure – we have a lot of new members at this time of year. Most of the first years row in their own teams because we already have established line-ups. I’m in the final year of my master’s and don’t necessarily know everyone. We have our own schedules for practising and so on.’

Jessica took a business card from her pocket and told him to call her if he remembered anything else about Damon. He asked if he could check the club over but she told him not until their search teams had picked through everything. After his previous confidence, Holden now seemed distracted, scratching his head and rocking back on his heels, losing an inch or so of height. He read the details on Jessica’s card before pocketing it and turning to walk back the way he’d come. They would need to talk again properly but she wanted to know her facts before she went eyeball to chest with him again – she was certain he hadn’t told her the entire truth.

As Jessica was about to call the station to find out where the search team was, the first drops of rain began to clatter onto the path. She felt sure that whoever had left the body knew what they were doing and wouldn’t have trampled across the grass at the back of the club – but an evening of rain wasn’t going to help.

Welcome to Manchester: mild one minute, chilly the next, pouring down moments later.

For now, the late team could deal with things but tomorrow someone was going to have to dig through the contents of both bins. Jessica knew just the people for the job.

3

The lights flickered in the newly refurbished incident room at Longsight Police Station. After a temporary spell upstairs without heating but with an increased risk of everything from asbestos poisoning to Legionnaires’ disease, everyone was allowed to work in the basement again. Well, ‘work’ being a subjective term considering the electricity had been on the blink since they’d moved back the previous month. That was combined with the fact that it still reeked of fresh paint.

Jessica scowled upwards as the white strip bulb chuntered angrily before deciding it wasn’t going to douse them in darkness. Below, the mix of uniformed officers and CID officers rabbited to each other.

Quieting them with her trademark ‘all right, shut it, you lot’, Jessica glanced at the scrawl of notes she’d made. Her handwriting really was appalling. Behind her on a whiteboard, images had been pinned up of the area at the back of the rowing club, alongside a large photograph of Damon Potter in his rowing uniform. He had a physique much like Holden’s the night before – tall and lean but with strong shoulders. His dark hair was cut short, determined brown eyes staring out into the room atop a chiselled jawline.

‘Okay, so we have an official ID on the body of Damon Potter from last night,’ Jessica said. ‘We should have cause of death back later but there were no obvious bruises on his body and no signs he was attacked. Regardless, he didn’t just fall into the bin – so someone knows what happened to him. I’ve got things to do today, so I want you lot doing the digging here. Who does he hang around with? Does he have a girlfriend or boyfriend? Where does he live? Who are his family? Is he a cat or dog person? All that sort of stuff. The night boys have started but nothing was open.’ Jessica nodded towards DS Louise Cornish, a middle-aged, slightly frumpy woman who was staring past her towards the board. ‘Louise will sort things at this end. Damon was a member of the rowing club, so I want details on that too – who are the main people involved? What do they get up to when they’re not dinghy-racing, or whatever it is they do? Those of you with Iz already know what you’re doing; those on bin duty are already on site – everyone else with Louise.’

Chairs scraped and tea was slurped as the assembled officers slowly started to move. Jessica nodded at Acting Detective Sergeant Izzy Diamond, indicating an unoccupied desk near the front of the room.

Izzy looked tired, blinking rapidly and pushing a loose strand of long brown hair behind her ear. ‘I know what you’re doing,’ she said, peering at Jessica, eyebrows raised.

Jessica tried to sound as if she didn’t know what her friend was talking about. ‘What?’

Izzy’s half-laugh wasn’t convincing. ‘You should’ve pulled my people to investigate your body in the bin.’

‘We’ve got enough officers.’

Izzy shook her head, not complaining. Jessica slid a photo out from under the keyboard on the desk. It was a still frame taken from a CCTV camera at an off-licence, showing a balaclava-wearing man pointing a serrated-edged knife in the direction of a cashier.

‘Any luck with the tattoo?’ Jessica asked, pointing at the complex shapes on the robber’s bare wrist.

Izzy shook her head. ‘That picture from Monday is the clearest. The marks are distinctive but we’ve not had anyone coming forward to say they know someone with tattoos like that. We’ve been around the city’s tattoo places and identified them as some sort of African tribal patterns but if our guy got it done in Manchester then no one’s saying anything.’

Four off-licences robbed after dark around the city, thousands of pounds taken, with the only clue being the tattoo. Jessica stared at the figure again. Not particularly fat or thin, dark short-sleeved top, jeans from George at Asda, size nine or ten workman’s boots, balaclava covering his face. It wasn’t an original outfit but it did the job.