Sunday, 22 May
A couple of hours later, Brook trudged out into the corridor and down to the ground floor to buy a vending-machine tea. After feeding coins into the machine, he plucked the too-thin cup from the service-hatch to the sound of raised voices. He wandered towards the duty desk for a better look.
Sergeant Gordon Grey, a close friend of Harry Hendrickson, with two years until retirement, was at the counter, trying to placate a nervous but not unattractive woman of about forty. She had clearly been crying, and was preparing to do so again. Behind her was a short overweight man, sporting a shock of combed-over grey hair and voluminous sideburns, which Brook assumed were a misguided attempt to hide his sagging jowls. He was at least fifteen years older than his female companion and, in addition to his dubious coiffeur, he’d made a pitiful attempt to dress young. The white training shoes and baggy blue tracksuit would have looked ridiculous on a man twenty years his junior.
‘I’ve told you. His bed’s not been slept in and Kyle would never leave without telling me where he’s gone,’ pleaded the woman. ‘You have to believe me.’
‘Mrs. .’
‘. . Kennedy.’
‘Mrs Kennedy, it’s Sunday morning and there’ll be plenty of eighteen year olds waking up in strange beds or on friends’ sofas. I’m sure your son Kyle will turn up soon enough — probably with a limp and a hangover, eh Len?’ Sergeant Grey grinned knowingly at the man with the comb-over, who was affectionately rubbing Mrs Kennedy’s upper arms.
‘Steady on, Gordon,’ said the man identified as Len.
Mrs Kennedy stared at Grey in confusion until the penny dropped. ‘He doesn’t behave like that,’ she replied tersely. ‘You have to do something.’ She tilted her head towards her companion. ‘We should never have gone away.’
The old man leaned into her for comfort. ‘It’s okay, Alice,’ he said. ‘There must be a simple explanation. We’ll find him.’
‘Of course you will,’ said Grey soothingly. ‘He’ll turn up. Have you tried ringing him?’
The man gave Grey a patronising glare but declined to follow up with sarcasm.
‘He hasn’t got his phone with him,’ said Mrs Kennedy. ‘It’s turned off and sitting on his bed. If you have kids, you must know how strange that is.’
‘But if he’s eighteen, he can look after himself.’
‘No, he can’t,’ replied Mrs Kennedy, her face beginning to quiver. She pulled a tissue from her handbag.
‘He’s only just eighteen,’ said Len. ‘And he’s. . the sensitive type, if you know what I mean.’
‘Len!’ snapped the woman. She gathered herself together and addressed the Sergeant. ‘Are you going to take details or not?’
Sergeant Grey reluctantly picked up a pen. ‘When did you last see him?’
‘He was in his bedroom on Friday afternoon before we set off for Wales,’ answered Mrs Kennedy. ‘Later, he was having a few friends round for his birthday and-’
‘Friday afternoon?’ Sergeant Grey’s manner took on a sterner hue.
‘About three,’ she confirmed, unaware of the change in Grey’s demeanour.
Grey spoke slowly for emphasis. ‘So his bed has not been slept in for two nights, after a party.’ He put down the pen to address the man. ‘Look, Len, you know the format. If I take details, they have to be entered on the National Computer and then eventually the National Missing Persons database. Then there’s an automatic risk assessment. That will trigger man hours looking for a young man, a student, who’s not slept in his bed for two nights after a party.’
Poole shrugged and gestured towards Alice behind her back. ‘His mother is worried, Gordon. There must be something you can do.’
Grey sighed heavily. ‘You’re not making this very easy.’ His face lit up for a second. ‘Does he have any serious medical issues? That would justify a report.’
Mrs Kennedy shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Any sign of violence or a struggle at your home?’
‘There’s a sticking plaster in the bin with a little blood on.’
‘How much blood?’
‘About half an inch in the middle.’
Grey chuckled and threw his palms up. ‘Then maybe he grazed his knee. I’m sorry, but I’d have a job to classify Kyle as even low risk.’ He gave the woman a pointed look to ensure she’d got the message. ‘Look — go home. He’s probably there waiting for you to feed him. I’ll notify the local nick and have a word with the hospitals, unofficial like, to keep an eye out for him. If he’s not back after the weekend, give us another ring and we’ll start the process. Fair enough?’
Len nodded his understanding and guided the tight-lipped woman towards the entrance. She turned back suddenly and pulled something from her handbag, unfolded it and placed it on the counter. ‘This was on his bed with his phone.’
Brook had heard enough and was preparing to return to his office when the grey-haired man looked up at him. To his surprise, the man nodded at him.
‘Inspector,’ he said stiffly.
Brook nodded back. ‘Hello,’ he replied, for once remembering to omit the pause for a name he didn’t know. He looked again. He did vaguely recognise the man now but couldn’t place him. After the couple left, Brook sauntered over to the counter.
Sergeant Grey stiffened in the effort to suppress his hostility. ‘Inspector. Didn’t see you there.’
‘Who was that man, Sergeant?’
‘Len Poole? He used to be the Chief Pathologist at the old Derby City Hospital. Before that Pa-’ Grey pulled himself up quickly. ‘Before that Asian guy took over.’
Brook looked into Grey’s eyes and gave him a lingering stare. Finally he said softly, ‘Dr Habib. And he’s Indian.’
Grey pulled a face that said what’s the difference? but managed to keep his reply neutral. ‘That’s him. Len married into decent money and retired early. His wife was a bit of a looker. No accounting for taste, I say. I heard she died a couple of years ago. He seems to have found a replacement though, eh?’ Grey laughed suggestively but Brook didn’t accept the invitation for man talk.
Instead he sipped his tea and raided his memory banks. Len Poole. He could place him now, though he hadn’t known him well. They’d only worked a couple of cases together during Brook’s first months in Derby and before Poole had left his job. He hadn’t been invited to the retirement dinner.
He picked up the small leaflet left by Mrs Kennedy and absent-mindedly wandered off reading it. Grey smiled maliciously at Brook’s back and picked up his pen.
Brook pulled the small A5 leaflet towards him and turned to his computer. It was very simple text on colour and could have been designed and produced on any PC. The few words were in red lettering on a black background.
DEITY
Take Control
Live Forever
Young
Beautiful
Immortal
At the bottom of the page was a website address. Brook typed in the address. The website was closed for refurbishment.
Several hours later Brook put down the phone and looked around the small Incident Room at his colleagues, either cradling phones under their ears or drawing lines through their list. He looked at his own defaced list. Not one disgruntled undertaker arousing suspicion or given the sack. It seemed staff turnover in the industry was very low because of the unique nature of the skills required for their work. Employees were invariably committed to the profession for life. Everyone in the funeral business knew everyone else, and no one Brook had spoken to had experienced the kind of difficulties which might sound alarm bells. From the looks on the faces of his team, they were encountering the same story.
He stepped past the bank of computers and checked there was water in the kettle that Rob Morton had had the foresight to bring in, as well as a jar of instant coffee and two pints of milk. He switched the kettle on and looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven on a bright warm Sunday morning.
Brook made coffee for everyone and walked over to look at the large map that nearly filled one wall. He stared at the bridge in Borrowash then at the approximate location of Shardlow gravel pit — approximate because many of the flooded pits were not on the map, having been dug out after the map was published.
The land between Derby and the M1 was flat and wet. Broken ground was home to two rivers as well as the many manmade lakes and waterways created by the extraction of building materials — an excellent place to hide the dead.
Brook took a sip of his coffee, again recalling the image of the body from the gravel pit — the swollen face, the pale buttery flesh. But even before the incision in the flank had been located, Brook had known this was the same MO. He knew enough forensics to realise that a body with organs intact should have been bloated from the decomposition gases but this. . vacant vessel, this receptacle of some mother’s hopes and dreams. . had been exsanguinated and efficiently gutted like a pig at the abattoir.
‘Penny for them,’ said Noble, at Brook’s shoulder.
‘Stick it in your pension, John. I can’t get a handle on this at all.’
‘I know what you mean. Seems like we’ve only got half a crime here.’
‘Exactly that. We’ve got one dumped body that hasn’t been killed. And now a second that presents as the same MO. So what’s the motive?’
‘Maybe Habib and Petty got it wrong. Maybe McTiernan was forced to drink himself to death. That would make it murder.’
‘It still doesn’t get us a motive.’
‘Some grudge against the less fortunate,’ shrugged Noble. ‘There could be a million reasons. Maybe one of Charlton’s sexually assaulted schoolkids is finally getting even. Or maybe it’s a necrophiliac with a thing for black-toothed vagrants.’ He smiled. ‘Motives aren’t always obvious with a nut job.’
‘Nut job,’ repeated Brook with distaste.
‘Or maybe Habib’s right. Maybe someone’s making haggis with human offal.’
‘And black pudding with the blood,’ added Brook. ‘A psychotic butcher with a taste for human flesh — don’t think I didn’t consider it, John. But if someone has the privacy to do this, and the skills to process body parts so efficiently, they wouldn’t need to risk dumping the bodies where they can be found.’
‘So why dump the bodies at all, you mean?’
‘More questions than answers at this stage.’
‘Maybe our guy likes the adrenalin rush, people knowing what he’s doing. That way he creates a climate of fear. He scares the public and feeds on that.’
Brook shook his head. ‘Who’s going to be scared? No one paid any attention to McTiernan. As Charlton said, this is page eleven stuff.’
‘The second body might change things.’
‘Not if it’s another. .’ Brook cast around for a suitable word.
‘Tramp,’ offered Noble. ‘Don’t be afraid to use correct vocabulary. Sir.’
Brook smiled at being admonished by his own words. ‘No one will worry about these tramps turning up dead. No one cared about the prostitutes the Yorkshire Ripper slaughtered until he killed that poor shop assistant.’
‘So he’s daring us to care.’
‘Care? John, you’re missing the point. If he didn’t dump the remains we wouldn’t even know they were missing.’
‘So he’s dumping the bodies to draw attention.’
‘To find an audience, yes.’
‘He’s succeeding.’
‘I know,’ said Brook, rubbing his chin. ‘But I don’t think it’s our attention he’s after.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because we don’t understand what he’s doing — but somebody out there does. And that’s who he’s doing this for.’
DS Gadd and DC Cooper walked over to join Brook and Noble. Cooper took a sip of his coffee and shook his head at Noble. ‘Nada. I’ve spoken to Nottingham University Medical School. He’s not theirs. And with a necrotic liver and chronic heart disease, Tommy McTiernan’s physical condition put him near the bottom of every wish-list. There’s very little demand for his body or his organs, even if they obtained consent — not for transplant, nor for research.’
‘Same here,’ said Gadd. ‘Unwanted in life. Unwanted in death.’
‘Somebody wanted him, Jane,’ said Noble. ‘And if we draw a blank on the phones it’s looking more likely that McTiernan’s body hasn’t been stolen and hasn’t been misplaced.’ Noble’s mobile phone began to croak and he moved away to answer it.
‘Then how did our doer find Tommy?’ asked Cooper.
‘How do you find all the Tommys?’ said Brook. ‘You look on the streets.’
‘You think someone’s roaming the city looking for victims and just took him,’ said Cooper.
‘It’s starting to look that way,’ said Brook.
‘Alive?’
‘That would be easier than finding and transporting corpses,’ replied Brook.
‘Unless someone’s tipping him off about fresh bodies. A doctor maybe,’ said Cooper.
‘What’s in it for a doctor?’ asked Gadd.
‘All right, an ambulanceman then,’ retorted Cooper.
‘Same question.’
‘I don’t know, Jane. Money?’
‘No chance,’ replied Gadd. ‘Besides, these tramps usually die in public, in a hostel, on the streets, in shop doorways, so we’d know about them first. Or they die in the back room of some squat and don’t get found for weeks, maybe even months. The Embalmer’s taking them alive. McTiernan was fresh.’
Cooper nodded. ‘I suppose just picking them up and offering them a bed and a meal would be the easiest thing in the world.’
‘And when he’s got them where he wants them, he feeds them as much drink as they want and waits for the inevitable,’ said Gadd.
‘Patient man.’
‘Maybe he’s helping things along,’ replied Brook. ‘It’s hard to say. But if he has all this privacy, once he’s got them, he can do what he likes and he can take his time. Who would miss Tommy — a homeless man with no family? And even if McTiernan has friends on the street, his disappearance wouldn’t be unusual. He’s invisible, even to them.’ Brook paused, deep in thought. ‘That’s the life.’
‘He’d need an awful lot of privacy — and space.’
‘Somewhere remote,’ said Brook, moving back to the map.
‘So how do we catch him, sir? And what do we charge him with? Littering?’
Brook smiled, then looked down at his misshapen sweater and shabby trousers. He turned to each member of his team in turn and looked at their smart casual clothes. ‘Maybe we need a presence on the streets.’
Noble finished speaking on his mobile but continued writing in his notebook. ‘That was Don Crump from the lab. The Forensics paperwork won’t be done until tomorrow but he’s given me the heads-up. The traffic cones are clean — no prints at all, not even legitimate workmen. Also, Tommy had been drinking whisky in industrial quantities.’
‘Blended or malt?’ asked Rob Morton.
‘I didn’t ask,’ replied Noble.
At that moment, the door to the Incident Room opened and Chief Superintendent Charlton walked in holding a polystyrene coffee cup. He was dressed in a light grey suit with a white shirt and dark blue tie. There was silence. Charlton was rarely to be seen on a Sunday. Like a naughty schoolboy, Rob Morton removed a cigarette from behind his ear and put it in his pocket.
‘Morning, everyone. Didn’t mean to interrupt. I was on my way to church but as I didn’t get my paperwork I thought I’d better come and see what was going on. Pretend I’m not here.’ He shuffled towards the back of the room and on his way, the man who wasn’t there caught Brook’s eye for a few seconds. ‘Carry on,’ he beamed at Noble, sitting on a table to listen.
‘Yes, sir. I was just going through some forensics about our floaters,’ he explained to Charlton.
‘I heard the second body wasn’t exactly floating,’ retorted Charlton without expression.
‘No, sir.’ Noble looked back at his notes. ‘The cloth recovered from the Derwent looks like it was worn by McTiernan, probably as some kind of loincloth because the second body wore an identical piece of material. They’re running tests on the Shardlow cloth now. The Derwent cloth is made of Egyptian cotton, nothing unusual about it though it did carry traces of the same make-up used on Tommy’s face, as well as disinfectant, and we know the body was washed before being dumped. There were also minute traces of arsenic. No suggestion that McTiernan was poisoned though. It’s probably from some cream applied to the. . er, deceased.’
Noble looked at Brook then Charlton before continuing. ‘The stitching in the wound was a shoelace. Also Egyptian cotton. .’
‘Maybe the killer works at Dunelm Mill,’ said Charlton drily.
‘Sir?’ enquired Noble.
‘It’s a fabric warehouse,’ muttered Gadd, tight-lipped, aware that Charlton’s presence wasn’t a good sign.
‘Every time my wife goes to Dunelm she comes back with more cushions and another bloody duvet cover,’ added Morton, smiling. Gadd elbowed him discreetly in the side.
‘Any news on the murder weapon, Detective Sergeant?’ asked Charlton. Noble didn’t reply. Brook managed a private smile but also kept his eyes on the floor. ‘Oh, hang on. There isn’t one, is there? Because this isn’t a murder inquiry.’ Nobody spoke or looked in Charlton’s direction and the Chief Superintendent let the silence fester for a few moments. ‘Can you all leave the Incident Room for a moment, please? I’d like a word with DI Brook.’
Brook remained motionless as the rest of his team slowly gathered themselves and left in silence. Noble fired an enquiring glance at Brook as he closed the door, but Brook motioned him to leave.
‘What are you doing, Brook?’
‘Conducting an inquiry, sir.’
‘I see. You’ve tied up five detectives on a Sunday just to investigate the death of an indigent who drank himself to death, according to Dr Habib.’ Brook looked up at Charlton finally. ‘Yes, that’s right, Inspector — the post mortem results have come in. In fact, you knew the results when you spoke to me before.’ Charlton glared at Brook, certain of his ground. ‘Didn’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did you see my email about the budget cuts?’
Brook paused. ‘I saw it.’
‘Then I’ll ask you again. What are you doing committing so many resources to this? God alone knows what the overtime bill will be.’
Brook looked Charlton in the eye. Why don’t you ask Him when you get to church? ‘But now we have a second body, sir.’
‘Murdered?’ Brook said nothing. Charlton nodded. ‘You don’t know yet.’ The Chief Superintendent paused, hoping to increase the pressure. ‘I like to run a tight ship, Inspector, but with these swingeing cuts, I need people who are team players, people who play with a straight bat. What I don’t need are cowboys.’
‘You’re right, sir,’ said Brook quickly. ‘I’ve been working too hard. It’s affected my judgement. I’m sorry.’
Charlton was wrong-footed, the wind taken from his sails. His facial expression softened with vindication but inside, the disappointment of an opportunity lost was palpable. ‘Well, I dare say you made the call as you saw fit.’ His features darkened again. ‘But I won’t tolerate being lied to, especially in front of subordinates,’ he continued, with a nod to Noble outside the door.
‘Of course not,’ said Brook, now the model of contrition. ‘That was unforgivable.’ Charlton examined Brook’s face long and hard for any sign of insincerity. ‘Perhaps I should take a few days off, sir. I’ve got plenty of leave owing.’
Charlton continued to stare Brook down, not wanting to be rushed. He couldn’t escape the feeling that in some way he was being outflanked, but he didn’t know how. Eventually he sat back and looked at the table. ‘You don’t like me very much, do you, Brook?’
Brook couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘Sir?’
‘No, don’t bother. I already know. I’m a bean counter, aren’t I? And you’re a force of pure detection, a seeker of justice.’
‘Sir, I don’t-’
Charlton held up a hand. ‘It doesn’t matter, Inspector. That’s my job. I expect to be disliked. If I wasn’t disliked, I wouldn’t be doing my job properly. And if I wasn’t doing it properly, you couldn’t do yours. But you probably don’t accept that, do you?’
Brook remained silent.
‘And though we had a few problems a couple of years ago, I had hoped that we could have moved forward.’
Brook looked down into Charlton’s face, this time with the feeling that he was being outflanked.
‘You see, Brook, I’ll be honest. I can’t do what you do. I can’t find the bad guy who doesn’t want to be found. I don’t have your skills. But by the same token, you can’t do what I do. Clear the decks and sign the cheques, as my old Chief Constable used to say. Someone has to do it.’ He paused. ‘Look, you don’t need to go on leave — and I no longer want you to resign. I made a mistake suggesting it. And one thing I learned from our. . difference of opinion was — well, I know you have integrity. Briefing the press behind my back. . you did the wrong thing but for reasons you believed were valid, and I should’ve acknowledged that.’
‘Sir, I-’
‘Forget it. Get your team back in here and finish the briefing. If you think this incident has mileage, I’ll back you. But I want to be kept in the loop. If you withhold information from me again, I’ll bury you.’
Charlton stood with his untouched coffee and stalked away.
‘Chief Superintendent.’ Charlton turned at the door. ‘Thank you,’ said Brook. ‘But I do have something I need to do. Three days’ leave should cover it.’
Charlton nodded and walked out.