Definitely Dead
Kate Bendelow
Copyright © 2021 Kate Bendelow
The right of Kate Bendelow to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2021 by Bloodhound Books.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Print ISBN 978-1-913942-57-1
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Acknowledgements
A note from the publisher
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To Mum,
This one is for you. With thanks for everything, especially the gift of sarcasm and for always finding sun-cream phalluses funny.
I love you
1
Dead body…
Dead body…
Dead body…
Maya Barton repeated the words like a mantra. Her bowels churned at the thought of the corpse she was about to see. Her clammy hands gripped the steering wheel of the police SOCO van as she manoeuvred her way through the council estate. Normally, the hostile stares from locals would have rankled her, but today she was far too preoccupied to even care.
Maya had arrived for her afternoon shift at 2pm and been asked to make her way over to the crime scene on the Poets Estate. It was notorious for being one of the more dilapidated, deprived areas of the city. Her colleague, Chris Makin, was already in attendance following the report of a sudden death. This was police terminology for an unexpected, unexplained death of someone with no obvious medical issues. In such cases the death would initially be treated as suspicious until the investigation proved otherwise.
The senior crime-scene investigator, Kym Lawson, had assured Maya it would be good experience for her to help with her first body recovery. As much as Maya had been longing for the experience, she was becoming familiar with the adage ‘careful what you wish for’. She was normally level-headed and not easily fazed, but the lack of information and not knowing what to expect was unnerving her.
Her heart was racing, her senses heightened. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her dry mouth. Maya’s trepidation peaked as the tinny voice of the satnav instructed her to turn next left and then she would reach her destination. The dead man’s house.
She arrived at Keats Road, and parked up on a well-worn grass verge. She could see two liveried police vehicles, another SOCO van and two plain cars, which she recognised as belonging to the CID. Maya was aware of being stared at by a pyjama-clad, heavyset woman who lolled over a garden gate, cigarette in hand.
‘What’s happening then? Is the dirty bastard really dead?’ the woman called as Maya stepped out of the van.
‘Sorry, not in a position to say. You’ll be updated in due course,’ Maya replied.
‘I told him I’d seen him eyeing our Toyah and her friends in their school uniform.’ Maya started to walk away but the woman continued undeterred, ‘Toyah saw him playing with himself at the window when they were walking past. Dirty bastard. I reported it, but nothing happened. Waste of time you lot.’ Sneering, she hocked a globule of spit on the pavement.
SOCO, Chris Makin, appeared. He was dressed in a full scene suit with a face mask slung around his neck. Beads of sweat gathered like a garland above his thickset eyebrows. He had the physique of a man with a voracious appetite and this made him appear older than his late forties. He was clearly exerted; puffing and blowing in the summer heat and the added discomfort of having his bulk ensconced in a white scene suit and mask.
‘Come on, Maya, never mind nattering, it’s not a social gathering,’ he snapped impatiently. ‘Get your arse suited up. The post-mortem has already been scheduled so we need to finish up and get him to the mortuary.’ Maya attempted to speak but he cut her off.
‘CID are already underway with house-to-house enquiries. DI Mitton is dealing with a shooting from overnight, so she probably isn’t going to make it. Instead, I’ve got DI Redford showing an interest.’ He shook his head disparagingly before continuing. ‘He’s not bothered enough to come down here and get his lovely Italian leather shoes dirty. Oh no, as usual he and Kym are mithering for an update every bleedin’ minute.’
He swiped a forearm across his sweating forehead. Maya attempted to speak again, but Chris interjected, ‘Do they never stop to think that if I’m all wrapped up in a scene suit, I can’t just get my sodding phone out? I’m sweating like a bastard, missed me lunch and I’ve got a ton of statements to write back at the nick. I don’t need this shit!’
He stomped off before Maya had a chance to respond. Muttering with indignation, she made her way to the back of the van and began to suit up. She slung a mask over her neck and gathered her thick,
corkscrew curls into a topknot before securing it under a hair net. She moved to the driver’s window so she could see her reflection and ensure that any loose strands of hair were carefully tucked away.
She heard the watching woman chortle before she shouted to Maya, ‘Don’t know what you’re preening yourself for, love – you look a right state in that get-up.’
‘Bit rich coming from someone who should have got changed six hours ago. It’s called nightwear for a reason, love.’ Maya stalked towards the crime-scene tape with as much dignity as she could muster on shaking legs, dressed in a paper suit and matching overshoes which scuffed the floor.
The scene was an end terrace. Piles of detritus littered the semi-paved garden. What little greenery there was, had long since gone to seed and a few half-hearted wildflowers cast an optimistic kaleidoscope of colour amongst split bin bags. A myriad of takeaway cartons, vodka bottles and beer cans lay scorching in the heat. The yellow-and-black crime-scene tape was secured to the crumbling gatepost and was being maintained by a bored-looking police officer.
Maya introduced herself and wrote her details into the crime-scene log which the officer was holding. It diarised the attendance of anyone who entered the crime scene, recording who they were, their reasons for attending and confirmation that their fingerprints and DNA were held on file for elimination purposes. She then waited for Chris to finish his hushed phone call so she could receive further instructions.
‘Right, Maya, that was Kym again. She’s only just decided to tell me that this is your first body. Sorry, love, I didn’t know. I thought because you’d come to us from Alder Street you had experience.’
‘I was a volume crime-scene investigator there. I’ve worked on plenty of burglaries and vehicle crime and shadowed at a few cannabis farms, rapes and robberies, but never had a death.’
‘Did they not give you any experience at uni?’
‘I didn’t go. I studied photography and biology for the job. I worked at a car dealership before that, so completely different background.’
‘Sorry, I vaguely remember Kym telling me, now you mention it. Well, you never forget your first body. Feeling okay?’
Maya nodded eagerly, despite the trepidation she felt. Chris continued, ‘We think he’s been in there for a few days and is starting to smell, but to be fair, not as bad as the rest of the house. I’ll do as much of the hands-on stuff as I can, and you take over the photographs. You okay with that?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘Let me know if you’re not. I don’t want you puking or fainting. I’ve put stepping plates down already, so stay on them and don’t move anything for now.’ Chris swiped at his forehead again.
‘Doctor Granger is our pathologist. He’s in the back making some notes and wanting everything done yesterday. He’s a cantankerous old bastard, but if you mind your Ps and Qs and act interested, he’ll tolerate you. Get yourself in. I just need to grab a body sheet and a body bag out of the van.’
The police officer gave Maya an encouraging wink as she adjusted her face mask before ducking under the police tape. As she approached the front door of the property, she understood what Chris meant about the smell. The stench from the heaps of rubbish wasting in the sun were nothing compared to the smell of cigarette smoke, sweat and general grubbiness that engulfed her as she nudged the front door open.
A tatty-looking high-visibility coat was slung over the banister. Years of cigarette smoke had turned the wallpaper into a curious caramel colour and burnished the thickened cobwebs which strung across the cornice. She eyed the dank-looking stairway; the thought of what she would see lying in the bedroom made her shiver, despite the sweltering summer heat. The first door to her right led to what appeared to be some sort of junk room. There was a clapped-out trail bike propped against the door frame, which looked like it was being stripped for parts. As a keen biker, it would normally pique her interest, but today Maya was too preoccupied for it to barely resonate.
Taking deep, calming breaths, she proceeded on trembling legs across the metal stepping plates. She stopped to peer through the second door on the right, which led to a sitting room. It was dimly lit with thick, heavyset curtains pulled across the bay window. Tendrils of sunlight stretched across the ceiling through gaps caused by missing curtain hooks. In the shafts of light dust motes shimmered like glitter. She could make out a maroon couch and a cluttered coffee table with house keys, mobile phone and a wallet nestled against an overflowing ashtray.
The only neat thing in the room was the pile of porn magazines which were proudly stacked on the arm of the couch. There was also an old, boxy-looking TV, which towered on a feeble-looking glass stand, a DVD player and a stash of adult films. Cardboard boxes propped the back wall up; spewing what appeared to be bits of tools and mechanical paraphernalia.
Not wanting to venture further into the room in case she disturbed anything, she continued cautiously up the hall. The door leading to the kitchen was closed. Through the nicotine-stained, mottled glass in the top panel, Maya could vaguely make out the shape of Doctor Granger sitting at the kitchen table. Reluctant to interrupt him, she announced herself with a subtle cough.
‘Hello, Doctor Granger, I’m SOCO Maya Barton.’ She paused long enough to invite a reply before continuing, ‘I’ve come to help Chris with the body recovery.’
Granger didn’t reply and Maya found herself dithering uncertainly at the doorway, wondering whether she was expected to just enter or wait. She was wary of getting on the wrong side of the pathologist after Chris’s warning. She certainly didn’t want to disturb him and interrupt his train of thought; yet at the same time her nerves were making her impatient.
Maya was reluctant to head upstairs and look at the body on her own. She would rather be with Chris or Doctor Granger, because if truth be known, she wasn’t sure how she was going to react once she saw it. She wondered how decomposed it would be and how much it would smell. She desperately hoped she wouldn’t make a show of herself by being sick or panicking.
She had been dispatched to the scene so quickly she hadn’t had time to ask any questions about the body. She didn’t know the condition it was in or the nature of any injuries. Nobody had told her who had found him or even how old he was; although judging from what she had seen of the house so far, he wasn’t young. She had no idea what to expect and the burgeoning anticipation was making her heart race. Maya tapped on the thick glass door panel.
‘Can I come in?’ She knew she sounded terse despite her best efforts.
Irritated by the continued lack of response, Maya manoeuvred herself decisively over a stepping plate and pushed the door open. The kitchen was even more dishevelled than the other rooms and the smell hit her like a slap. The bin was overflowing, and it appeared that rather than emptying it, the occupant had just continued to throw rubbish in its general direction.
The stained work surfaces were barely visible due to the filthy crockery, beer cans and crumpled-up super-strength cider bottles. The sink was overflowing and appeared to have been used as a bin judging by the empty milk bottles and tea bags which were piled on top of dirty crockery and glasses. Plump bluebottles ricocheted off the window, imprisoned behind a mouldy net curtain, the colour of earwax.
Maya gagged at the intense smell of rotting food, sour milk and decay. She had never experienced anything like the squalor that surrounded her. The dirt and debris of the place was astonishing. Mouse droppings peppered the torn linoleum and she shuddered at the sight; she had a phobia of rodents. The FFP3 face mask did nothing to minimise the cloying stench. The smell was so thick she could almost taste it. She found it inconceivable that someone could live like this.
She turned to speak to Doctor Granger, wondering how he could sit so calmly in such a rancid environment. The words caught in her throat, strangled by shock, as she realised that the mottled glass panel had disguised the fact it wasn’t the pathologist sitting at the table after all.
It was the dead man.
2
Maya took a sharp intake of breath as, wide-eyed, she processed the scene. The dead man was hunched forward, his head resting on the table, half his face lying in a pool of congealed blood. The other half of his face revealed a partially open eye, which was staring vacantly in her general direction. His mouth was slightly open and frozen in a gormless expression. A thick string of jellied mucous hung from his nose.
His arms appeared folded on his lap underneath the table. Lividity had caused his skin to turn a greyish-purple colour. Maya knew this occurred once blood stopped circulating around the body, causing it to gravitate to the lowest point. She was surprised at the almost sinister appearance of the staining. To her untrained eye it looked like heavy bruising. Despite her current lack of experience, she was left in no doubt that this man was definitely dead.
Definitely Dead Page 1
