Thursday, 19 May
Detective Inspector Damen Brook woke to the sound of a barn owl hooting nearby. He still had his recently acquired reading glasses perched on the end of his nose so he pulled them off and laid them next to the reading lamp, still burning beside his bed. He inhaled the soft summer air nuzzling at his curtains and dozed for another minute, listening to the breeze ruffle the trees in the churchyard. Nothing else in the village stirred.
Brook felt the weight on his stomach and lifted the upturned copy of In Search of The Reaper from the duvet. He bent down a page and closed it before tossing it on to the polished floorboards. Local journalist Brian Burton’s book documenting Brook’s failure to catch the notorious serial killer was a few years out of date and so completely off the track that Brook had only persisted with it from a sense of twisted amusement — and the added bonus that it put him to sleep quickly.
He dragged himself out of bed and padded down the rickety stairs of his cottage, wearing only T-shirt and underpants. He flicked at the full kettle and sat at the kitchen table, his eyes wedged shut. As usual the cup and tea bag sat ready for this nightly ritual so Brook could postpone opening his eyes and engaging his brain. The fact that he’d learned to disengage his brain at all was a profound blessing and it was not to be curtailed until absolutely necessary.
For many years Brook had been rudely awoken, drenched in sweat, by visions of old cases, rotting corpses and mumbling half-forgotten names as he stirred. As the years passed, the dreams of ravenous rats devouring decaying flesh had faded as Brook had left his past in London behind. At the age of fifty he’d made some kind of peace with himself, and although his solitary life was no richer, he could at least wake up in dry sheets.
The kettle clicked off and Brook waved goodbye to semi-consciousness. He felt around in the dark for his cigarettes but realised with a sinking heart that, in the unlikely event that his resolve to quit smoking might weaken, he’d left his last pack in his station locker.
On his first sip of tea, the phone rang and Brook squinted at the kitchen clock as he picked it from its cradle. Nearly four o’clock in the morning.
‘Brook.’ He listened without enquiry to Detective Sergeant John Noble, looked sightlessly into the distance to get his bearings then rang off with, ‘I’ll be about an hour.’
Brook pulled his coat tighter and stared longingly at the welcoming disc of dawn creeping over the horizon, unseen birds heralding its arrival as nature began to shake a leg. He closed his eyes, blocking out the noise of activity behind him, and wondered how many millennia this little scene had been enacted. Man, vulnerable and reverent, mouth slackened by awe, gazing to the heavens to greet the sun’s approach, inspired and soothed by its promise of light and comfort.
Too often Brook’s insomnia ensured he was as familiar with this ancient ritual as the primitive cave dwellers of Stonehenge or Avebury, dancing, praying or sacrificing their way into the goodwill of the gods. But for once Brook wasn’t sitting on the bench in his cottage garden, nursing a tea and a smoke. Dawn found him shivering in the dank, misty fields to the east of Derby, awaiting the recovery of a body from the River Derwent.
He hated this part of the job — the wasted hours kicking his heels just to sign off on a suicide or a lone fisherman who’d waded in too far and been surprised by a deceptive current. Or maybe it was a show-off kid, swinging into the murky waters from a Tarzan rope and unable to clamber back up the slippery bank. Then more wasted hours, informing disbelieving relatives and ploughing through the paperwork.
Brook turned grudgingly back to the darkness of the river bank, itself burnished by the flashing orange suns of the emergency vehicles. He glanced resentfully across at DS Noble pulling on a Marlboro Light. Part of Brook’s own dawn ritual involved a cigarette but he’d made the mistake of giving up three weeks ago. Again.
He debated whether to cave in and ask his DS for a smoke. After all, it was his only vice. He wasn’t a womaniser or a heavy drinker like many in the job. He lived a sober, monastic life and did his work without complaint. He deserved to cut himself a little slack.
‘Christ,’ he muttered through a half-laugh and a shake of the head. The justifications for having a cigarette were kicking in early.
A shout from the river pierced the early morning mist and the two CID officers moved off the adjacent cycle path and closer to the water’s edge. Despite protective overshoes, their socks and trousers were already sopping wet in the heavy dew. A figure wearing waders and a bright yellow safety bib emerged from the gloom and splashed across to Brook and Noble through the boggy earth.
He waved to the two ambulancemen sitting in the warmth of their cab and made the hand signal for the gurney. ‘It’s a body all right,’ said the man. ‘Male Caucasian, fifty to sixty years of age. Been in a couple of days, I’d guess. Got caught on a fallen tree. They’ve got the harness on. They’ll have him out in a few minutes.’
‘Okay. Thanks. .’ Brook hesitated, an expression of panic invading his tired features.
‘Keith,’ finished the man with a sharp look at first Noble, then back at Brook. ‘Keith Pullin. We’ve met several times before at refuse collections.’
‘Of course. Sorry, Keith. It’s late.’ Brook had been caught off-guard, forgetting to take Noble aside and ask for the names he never remembered. He smiled weakly at Pullin but the damage was done and he was already stomping back towards the river.
‘Technically it’s early,’ grinned DS Noble, tossing his cigarette butt into a puddle and pulling out a fresh one.
Brook shrugged then caught the luxuriant scent of Noble, igniting another cigarette. Unable to stand it, he set off towards his car. ‘Give me a shout when they get him out, John.’
Noble watched as Keith Pullin, the portly, forty-year-old Special Constable, walked back over to him, sneering all the while towards DI Brook’s shabby BMW.
‘How’s it going, Tom?’
‘Very funny,’ spat Keith Pullin, without a trace of amusement. ‘Seriously though, how can you stand working with that knob?’
Noble shrugged. ‘He’s not a morning person, Keith.’
‘Fuck off — he’s not an afternoon or an evening person either.’
‘Okay. You got me there,’ admitted Noble. ‘Let’s just say he’s a little distracted.’
‘Why do you always defend him?’
Noble looked unswervingly back at Pullin but said nothing. Failing to get his answer, Pullin grunted and trudged sullenly back to the water’s edge, muttering obscenities all the way.
Noble pulled heavily on his cigarette and sighed. He was used to the barbs aimed at his DI and once he might have joined in, but the longer he’d worked with Brook, the more he felt the need to provide a little balance to offset the abuse that flowed his way.
This little rite was a common occurrence in the field. Brook’s inability to bond with fellow officers and the emergency workers they encountered — some Brook had known for several years — was always a source of mild amusement. But to the dozens working in D Division who’d gone unrecognised by Brook down the years, it remained a cause for deep resentment.
Noble wasn’t sure how much Brook’s time in London had shaped his behaviour towards colleagues, but since his move to the Peak District, Brook’s mind always seemed to be elsewhere — and forgetting people’s names was the most recurrent symptom. Twenty years had passed since Brook had started hunting The Reaper in London, as one of the rising stars of the Met. But according to all reports, the case had broken him, with years of failure taking their toll and finally forcing him from active duty.
His breakdown quickly became public knowledge when Brook transferred to Derby Division, eight years ago. Sergeant Harry Hendrickson, a curmudgeonly old desk jockey in uniform branch, had taken a peek at his file and gleefully reported the facts to anyone who’d listen. And when Noble had drawn the short straw and been assigned to work with Brook, everyone had sympathised with him.
But then The Reaper had struck in Derby, slaughtering two families in their own homes, and Noble had found himself in the eye of the hurricane. At close quarters, Noble was able to observe Brook’s extraordinary skills as a detective, in addition to the toll such a high-profile investigation took on him — especially as The Reaper remained at large.
‘Eight years,’ mumbled Noble, thinking back over their shared history. ‘I deserve a medal.’ He smiled at a memory of his early years working with Brook and his fruitless attempts to get to know him. He’d found out pretty quickly that Brook didn’t do small talk, on or off a case. Unlike most people, Brook never mentioned his past and never spoke about his private life. And just to maintain consistency, he’d never enquired about the lives of his new colleagues in return.
At first, Noble had felt awkward during the silences and would instigate conversation, mentioning something topical from the news or the TV. But he’d quickly learned to expect a blank expression from Brook and soon gave up trying, realising that many of the events that people used as common currency in conversation were completely unknown to Brook. He just wasn’t interested and often didn’t speak at all unless it was required. Even his daily greeting consisted of little more than a nod.
As a consequence, people thought Brook cold and distant, sometimes downright rude, especially those who rarely had a chance to work with him. It didn’t help that Brook wouldn’t attend official functions, didn’t socialise or go to parties, didn’t even go to pubs as far as Noble was aware — not with colleagues, at least — even after a big case had been cracked.
More often than not he’d turn up to work, do his job then just wander off after his shift to his little cottage in Hartington where he . . well, Noble wasn’t sure, even after eight years. He knew Brook liked to read, which probably accounted for his freakish intelligence. He also liked to hike, and Noble had discovered two or three years earlier that most of Brook’s holidays were spent marching around the Peak National Park surrounding his village.
Other aspects of Brook’s life were still as unknown as the day they’d first met. He didn’t seem to have a sex life, certainly not one that involved relationships, though there were rumours he’d had a fling with a WPC a few years back. That, and the fact that Brook was divorced with a twenty-year-old daughter meant he probably wasn’t gay — a conclusion his home furnishings would seem to support.
Not that Noble had ever been to Brook’s cottage: he’d never been invited. But just before his move out to the Peak District, Brook had lived in a grubby rented flat off the Uttoxeter Road in central Derby, and Noble had been forced to call round when Brook had been suspended. To his astonishment, Noble had discovered that his DI was living in the sort of hovel normally associated with squatters or junkies. No garden, no oven, no computer, not even a TV.
And yet, despite an unpromising start to their working relationship, their partnership had begun to flourish and a mutual respect had developed. Unknown to most, Brook generously underplayed his own role in an enquiry, going out of his way to give credit to subordinates for breakthroughs. And, although some colleagues persisted in thinking Brook arrogant, Noble had found the opposite to be true. Brook seemed to have no ego at all. He made absolutely no effort to make himself more popular and didn’t seem to care what people thought of him. Consequently, he was deeply disliked and even hated in some parts of the Division, the more so because he was such a damn good detective.
Further, Noble had discovered that Brook had a dark but undeniable sense of humour, dry and cutting and, what’s more, would actively encourage Noble to make fun of superior officers.
Perhaps the only thing that everyone admired about Brook was the hard moral position he took about police work and how it should be conducted. And if anyone deviated from his position, even his superiors, Brook was quick to take them to task. He had got himself into trouble several times for criticising Chief Superintendent Charlton to his face for his failure to see the value of a line of enquiry or for putting budgetary constraints above the correct course of action on a case.
Noble took a last pull on his cigarette and threw it in the same puddle as the first.
Brook clambered into the driver’s seat, pushing in the cigarette lighter out of habit. He closed his dry eyes to ease the sting of too little sleep and happily lost consciousness almost immediately.
He woke to the sound of Noble tapping on his window and stepped out of the car. Only ten minutes had passed yet he felt refreshed. The sun was higher now and Brook was able to walk across the drying ground, placing his damp feet with more confidence. They walked towards the still scowling Pullin and the other two Scientific Support Officers in their protective clothing, as they worked around the corpse, now laid out on a plastic sheet. Brook and Noble pulled on their protective gloves as they approached the pale cadaver, face up and completely naked.
‘No clothing,’ observed Brook.
‘Unlikely to be an angler then,’ retorted Noble with a wry grin.
‘A missing angler would have been reported,’ said Pullin, missing the joke. ‘This bloke’s been in the water a couple of days, I’d say. Any longer an’ he’d have started to bloat from the body gases. Could be an accident, could be suicide.’
‘Not usual for a suicide to undress,’ answered Brook.
‘Not unknown either,’ snapped back Pullin, ready to take further offence.
‘Anyone looking for clothes along the banks?’
‘We’ve got a couple of people walking upriver. Nothing yet.’
‘Where’s he gone in?’ asked Noble. ‘The bridge?’
‘That’s favourite,’ replied Brook.
‘Any clothes on the bridge?’
‘Not a stitch, Sergeant,’ said Pullin. ‘But if it was a couple of days ago, maybe someone moved them. Still, he must have gone in the water nearby. There’s a weir a quarter mile up there.’ He indicated west with a nod of his head. ‘And the river’s not swollen this spring, so he’s not come downriver from the city centre or he’d have been caught on the barrier.’
‘So he’s definitely gone in between here and the weir,’ nodded Noble, looking round at the bridge.
There was a crackle on Pullin’s radio. He listened for a second then replied, ‘Okay, work your way back. Keep looking.’ He turned to Brook. ‘My people are at the weir. No abandoned fishing gear. No sign of clothing.’
‘He’s not going to travel here naked,’ said Brook. ‘And if he’s a suicide, in my experience, he wouldn’t undress without leaving his clothes where they could be found, maybe with a note in the pocket . .’
‘Goodbye cruel world,’ added Noble.
‘Okay, so maybe not a suicide,’ conceded Pullin.
‘Could be a skinny-dipper,’ offered one of the ambulance crew.
‘A swimmer?’ Brook looked down at the bleached corpse then bent to look at the deceased’s hands. They were open and empty. ‘No, he’s not a swimmer or a suicide for that matter. His hands are wrong.’ He looked back to the bridge.
‘The hands?’ asked Noble.
‘I’ve seen a couple of drownings, John. Even suicides jumping into the water will try and grab hold of something when they go under. They can’t help it. It’s a reflex.’
‘He’s right,’ Pullin said reluctantly. ‘Their hands usually clench tight with the effort to hold on to something. Any-one drowning in a river will have stones or weeds locked in their fists.’
‘And this guy’s hands are open.’ Noble nodded.
‘Is this even a swimming spot?’ asked Brook, darting a look at Pullin.
‘Hell, no. Far too dangerous,’ replied Pullin. ‘The current’s not slow and the bank’s too steep to be sure of getting out. Even kids won’t risk it.’
‘Someone might if they were drunk,’ added Noble.
‘But they’d still be able to struggle and grab on to things in the water,’ said Brook.
‘Maybe he dived off the bridge for a swim and was knocked unconscious,’ ventured Noble. ‘He wouldn’t be struggling then.’
Brook pointed to the cadaver’s wasted left arm. ‘He doesn’t look like any kind of swimmer to me. Not with that physique.’ The torso was almost skeletal and the muscle tone underdeveloped. ‘And look at these needle-marks. This looks like a drug abuser to me. Probably a heavy drinker too.’
‘Right. Face and hands,’ agreed Noble, turning over a pale dead hand. The face was covered with blotches and cracked blood vessels. Several old cuts and abrasions on the hands and knees as well as the face, added to the impression that here was a man who injured himself regularly. They’d both seen the signs before. The extremities of the heavy drinker took the brunt of damage from falls and fights, befitting the lifestyle of those who derived nourishment from a bottle and a needle.
‘Some of these injuries could have occurred in the water though,’ said Noble, indicating other scrapes and grazes.
Brook examined two vertical cuts descending from each nostril of the man’s swollen and bent nose, clearly broken in the past. ‘These wounds below his nose look post mortem, maybe from sharp stones or discarded metal in the river.’ Something caught Brook’s eye. ‘Look at these marks on his neck.’ He leaned in for a better look at two small puncture wounds, one on each side of the windpipe.
‘Maybe we’re looking for a vampire.’ Noble grinned.
Brook glanced up without amusement then turned his attention to the corpse’s various tattoos. They were of poor quality and all in the same washed-out blue. ‘Flower of Scotland,’ Brook read from one.
‘Guess he’s from Scotland,’ observed Noble, with a straight face.
Brook must have been light-headed from lack of sleep because now he smiled though he made sure Noble didn’t see it. ‘Good spot, John,’ he said drily. ‘These tattoos don’t look professional to me.’
‘Prison ink, I’d say,’ replied Noble. ‘Might give us a lead with ID.’
Brook turned over the man’s now bagged right hand after a glance at one of the Support Officers for approval. The knuckles had love tattooed on them, one letter on each knuckle. ‘No doubt he’s got hate on the other hand.’ He stood off his haunches.
‘Why not just tattoo criminal on their foreheads and have done with it?’ said Noble, to a few appreciative chuckles.
Brook looked at Pullin. ‘Couple of days, you say — Keith.’
Keith Pullin was a man who didn’t give his opinion lightly; he gazed at the corpse, rubbing his chin. ‘I reckon,’ he answered finally. ‘There’s no rigor mortis though — which muddies the waters a bit. It all depends whether he died before he went in or not. Given the hands, I’m thinking maybe he was dumped, already dead, in the water. There’s no foam around the nostrils and mouth either, which you’d expect from a drowning.’
Brook knelt again to turn the icy palm back up. Even through the protective plastic, the bagged hand told a story. Like the back of his hand, there were many of the scars from battles with the hard walls and pavements of modern city life.
‘Looks like we can still get prints,’ observed Noble. ‘He’s likely to be in the system for something.’
Brook nodded absentmindedly. He ran his latex fingers through the man’s hair and sniffed his own hand then stroked the cold face with the back of his hand and sniffed again.
‘What is it?’ asked Noble.
Brook touched his fingers on the man’s smoothly shaved cheek. Then he rubbed them together and held them to his nose. ‘I don’t know. I think he’s had something applied to his face.’ He offered his hand to Noble. ‘Can you smell that?’
Noble sniffed then shook his head. ‘Can’t smell a thing — I’m a smoker.’
‘Lucky you.’ Brook had one last sniff. ‘Make-up? Maybe someone’s tried to make our friend look a little more lifelike, cover all the blemishes and broken blood vessels, probably post mortem.’ He dropped his hand and looked at the head of the corpse. ‘And see the hair? Look how well groomed it is — as if it was cut recently.’
‘And the face is shaved as well. Think he’s been tarted up for the coffin?’
Brook glanced across at Noble. ‘Let’s hope it’s that.’ Noble returned a grim smile.
Brook stood up and looked again at the bridge 150 yards away. The road across headed north into Borrowash village. ‘Let’s have a look over the bridge, just to tick it off. Is the Police Surgeon on his way?’
Pullin nodded. ‘Keep your eyes peeled for those clothes,’ he added.
Noble looked up expectantly as Brook turned back to Pullin with the briefest tic of annoyance. But instead of thanking him for a lesson in basic detection, Brook managed to dredge up a strained smile.
‘Good idea, Keith,’ he said, catching Noble’s approving glance. Clearly he was trying to mend fences. Pullin’s demeanour, however, remained sullen. Either he was still annoyed with Brook or had succumbed to the solemnity of standing over a life ended.
‘When we’ve seen the bridge, let’s find a cafe, John. I’m gagging for a cup of tea.’
‘Shouldn’t we wait for the PS?’
‘We’ll be back.’ Brook made to walk away but then turned back. ‘What’s that?’ He knelt to point at something in the dead man’s side. ‘There.’
Everyone gathered to follow Brook’s finger indicating an area almost hidden underneath the body.
‘I don’t know,’ said Pullin, peering closely at it. ‘Looks like a bit of thread or string. Give us a hand,’ he said to a colleague, and they rolled the corpse on to its side. The thread was visible now, the end of half a dozen large overlapping stitches along a five- to six-inch wound. The assembled officers narrowed their eyes to examine them.
‘That looks like a serious wound,’ offered Noble. ‘And very recent.’
‘Have you ever seen a wound with stitches like that?’ asked Brook. He looked around the assembled team, opening the question to all comers.
‘Looks like something you might see on a blanket or a sail,’ said one.
‘Or a tent,’ said Pullin. ‘I’ve never seen anything that loose on a wound of that size. Unless it’s a DIY — maybe he did it himself after a fight or something.’
‘Maybe.’ Brook moved closer to examine the wound. On an impulse he prodded the corpse on the chest. Next he felt along his stomach. ‘Well, well. That should make the post mortem more interesting, though I’m guessing our friend here may be no stranger to the process.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Noble.
At that moment, the two men holding the corpse let it roll back into position and as it settled, watery red liquid, viscera and, strangest of all, what looked like a couple of small leaves gushed noisily from the wound, causing all but Brook to jump away in shock.
‘Shit!’ shouted Noble, forgetting one of only three rules Brook had laid down to him when they started working together. ‘Don’t swear in my presence, John. It betrays a mind that’s not under control. Speak proper English if you know any. Oh, and one more thing, don’t ever call me Guv.’
Brook laid a hand on Noble’s shoulder. ‘Easy, John. We’re not in the Met.’
‘Sorry,’ replied Noble. ‘But you saw that?’
Brook looked at his DS. ‘I saw. And this is no drowning.’ He stood gazing at the bridge and began to walk down the path towards it.
‘Why so sure?’ asked Noble, moving to follow.
Brook turned and smiled back at his DS. ‘Because he hasn’t got any lungs.’
Brook stood on the bridge and looked over each wall in turn, down to the river bank on either side.
‘What are we looking for?’ Noble finally asked.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘But you’re sure the body was dumped from here.’
‘A man with no clothes and no lungs has to be dead before he hits the water. Someone’s transported him to the river and this bridge has to be the easiest spot to dump the body.’
They looked down at the undergrowth on either side of the river for any sign of disturbance but could see nothing. Nor could they spot any clothing or bundles that might contain clothes. The two uniformed officers returning from the weir continued the search at ground level but Brook and Noble were unable to direct them to anything of interest.
Across the fields their colleagues were working around the pale carcass on the plastic sheet, scraping, photographing and bagging head and feet. Another officer was erecting a screen to shield their activities from the occasional early morning jogger and dog walker.
As time wore on, traffic began to increase and cars passed them in rotation on the single track road, depending on the traffic lights either side of the two bridges. On one rotation, Dr Higginbottom, the duty Police Surgeon, drove towards them and slowed down when he saw them. Noble indicated the dirt track which would take the doctor to the scene and he continued on with a wave.
‘Busy road,’ said Noble.
‘During the day,’ replied Brook.
‘But even if it was the middle of the night, assuming our John Doe was dumped from this bridge, someone took a massive gamble on not being seen by a passing car — especially if they were actually parked up on the bridge. I mean, it’s not wide.’
Brook nodded. ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t take that chance but maybe they were desperate.’
‘They?’ enquired Noble.
‘Or he or she. But even a body that light needs lifting.’
‘It’s a low wall,’ observed Noble. ‘One person could do it, I reckon.’
After a further few minutes of unproductive examination, the two detectives continued north towards the second bridge spanning the railway line. A dirt-track drive for a farmhouse set back out of sight from the road had a sign warning trespassers about CCTV cameras. Brook raised an eyebrow at Noble.
‘We’ll check it out.’
‘It’s probably for show, but . .’ Brook shrugged.
Crossing the railway bridge, the first houses of Station Road appeared. Jason Wallis, sole survivor of The Reaper’s attack on the Wallis family several years before, had lived briefly with his aunt further up the road. Brook tried to remember which house.
‘Didn’t young Wallis live on here?’ asked Noble.
‘I believe he did,’ Brook replied, but his mind had already moved on. He looked around, his gaze alighting on a stack of traffic cones on the pavement. ‘You were right, John. It is just one person. And he or she wasn’t desperate at all but very calm and rational.’ Noble looked at Brook, wondering if he was going to explain his reasoning. Instead, Brook walked over to the cones, counted them then looked back down towards the river. ‘This road goes south past Elvaston Castle, right?’
‘Right.’
‘And beyond?’
‘Through Thulston, then on to Shardlow or the A50.’
‘And beyond the A50, the M1,’ Brook remembered. He returned his attention to the cones. ‘Make a note to check with the Highways Agency when they last did any work here. It’s possible that whoever dumped our friend, faked a road closure.’
‘That’s a lot of forethought,’ said Noble.
‘That’s what worries me.’
‘And he’d need more than cones. Maybe a Diversion sign or something.’
Brook nodded. ‘Get DS Gadd and a couple of uniforms over here. We’re going to need a canvass of all the nearby houses as soon as possible before memory fades. See if anyone noticed anything.’
‘Not very likely if it was the middle of the night.’
‘No — but hold that thought, John. It’s time for a cup of tea. There was a cafe at the junction when I came past — might be open now.’ Brook jerked a thumb at the cones and made to set off along Station Road. ‘My treat as you’re guarding the evidence.’ Noble sagged on to a nearby fence and pulled out his cigarettes.
Brook removed the lid from his polystyrene cup and watched the ambulance depart. Dr Higginbottom squelched over from the river bank in his Wellingtons, fastening up his trademark leather bag. He removed his glasses when he stood beside Brook and Noble, and eyed their hot drinks.
‘Well, you were right, Inspector. He doesn’t appear to have any lungs, or indeed any internal organs. I didn’t want to poke around inside or disturb the stitching in case this turns into a murder inquiry . .’
‘Why would there be any doubt, Doctor?’ asked Noble.
Higginbottom smiled. ‘There’s always doubt, until there’s certainty, Sergeant. Now, who said that? I can’t remember. But suffice to say, without a detailed examination, all I can do here is assure you that the subject is deceased and that he died before he went into the river. Keith Pullin seems to be in the right area for how long the body’s been in the water. Between one and three days, very roughly. The body has the right amount of cutis anserina.’
Like most of the medical experts Brook knew, Higgin-bottom liked to confuse his audience with a bit of Latin before explaining in layman’s terms. It was all those years they were forced to study a dead language and it had to be justified with a certain level of showmanship.
‘Which is?’ asked Brook deferentially.
Noble smiled. He was pretty sure Brook already knew.
‘Gooseflesh,’ replied the doctor smugly. ‘At a guess I’d say he died a couple of days before he went in the water, but don’t hold me to it. Do you want that tea, Inspector? I didn’t have time for a drink before I got the call.’ Brook handed his cup to Higginbottom and watched dismayed as the PS removed the lid, drained the contents, then handed the cup back with a contented sigh. ‘But as to murder, it’s impossible to be definite about Cause of Death without an autopsy. It could even be natural causes. One thing, he didn’t drown, even before his lungs were removed. There’s no haemorrhaging of the middle ear and no sign of cadaveric spasm. That’s when-’
‘We know,’ said Brook, dispensing with deference after the theft of his drink.
‘Oh,’ replied a miffed Higginbottom. ‘And do we know the deceased yet?’
‘Not yet,’ said Brook.
‘Well, it shouldn’t be hard to find out,’ continued the doctor. ‘Prison looks likely — he’s had a hard life. I suspect he’d be homeless and he’s a part-time drug abuser — probably alcohol too. His teeth were very rotten, worn down by the acids in alcohol, and there’s evidence of intermittent needle-marks. My guess, he took drugs when he could get them, but not as a matter of course, which probably means he couldn’t afford to buy very often — hence homeless, indigent, delete as applicable.’ He grinned. ‘Contrary to popular opinion, most regular addicts hold down jobs. Thanks for the tea, Inspector. I’ll let you have my report asap.’
Brook winced faintly at the assault on the English language as Higginbottom marched back to his car to remove his Wellingtons. His eyes followed the doctor, then moved to his empty cup, then settled on Noble’s untouched drink. Taking the hint, Noble hastily drained his own cup before it could be sequestered.
Back in his car, Brook didn’t turn towards Borrowash to follow Noble to the A52 and back to Derby. Instead he followed the road south towards open country and the parklands of Elvaston Castle. When the road turned sharply, Brook pulled his car to the kerb and hopped out. He did a quick search of the ground, both on the pavement and the road. In a patch of mud at the side of the road he saw a circular mark that might have been caused by a traffic cone being placed there. He looked back up towards the river bridge but it had been obscured by the bend.
Brook took out his basic mobile phone and switched it on. As usual, there were no messages — only DS Noble had the number. He spent several minutes trying to work out how the phone’s camera worked, then took a rather grainy picture of the mark in the road and, after storing it, turned the phone off again.
He jumped back in the BMW and drove on into the leafy hamlet of Thulston, looking all the while for a stack of road-traffic cones at the side of the road. There were none. Leaving Thulston, he arrived at a T-junction. He looked left then right.
‘So which way did you go from here?’ A car horn sounded behind him so Brook swung right to pick up the ring road back into town.