NEVER CAME HOME an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won't see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 2)

by Gretta Mulrooney

  ‘Have you talked to her recently?’

  ‘Not since she told me that she’d rented a flat by the harbour.’

  ‘You planning to go and see her there?’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’

  He struggled to understand her family dynamics. He came from a close clan who bombarded him with emails and photos. His mother sent him boxes of home-baked, sticky cakes: doughnuts, milk candies and angel wings. Rikka was now in New Zealand and communicated rarely. She’d always been clamlike, mysteriously going her own way, and never revealed anything about what she was doing. And with Rik, you didn’t ask. Then, after years away, Mutsi had drifted into town from another failed affair in Finland, and seemed to expect that she and Siv would regenerate a mother-daughter bond, like in a Hollywood tearjerker. In her dreams.

  Bartel cupped his beard and tugged on the end. He had thick, strong fingers, the skin chapped from working outdoors and in all weathers. ‘I’m considering buying a house, a little terraced one. Somewhere around Poets’ Piece. Time to put roots down properly.’

  She was pleased. ‘Despite all the current political firestorms? I read that the Polish government is encouraging its citizens to return to the fold.’

  He shrugged. ‘Going back would seem like defeat. I’ve always been one to front things out. I’ve been here almost ten years now and I like it. Business is good, everyone getting their roof mended or house extended because they can’t afford to move, and it makes them feel secure. When the world’s full of stormy winds, make sure your roof tiles are tight and snug. Would you come to some viewings with me?’

  ‘Of course. Weekend’s best.’ Siv’s phone rang and she saw it was the station. She stood and moved away to take the call from her sergeant, Ali Carlin.

  Bartel went back to his rod and opened his little camping stool. The only times Siv heard him speak Polish were at Polska and when he leaned towards the water and murmured to the fish, ‘Chodź do mnie, moje cuda’ — Come to me, my lovelies.

  She finished speaking, and glanced regretfully at the river and the box of sandwiches they hadn’t yet eaten. ‘Sorry, Bartel. I have to go. A body’s been found. You’ll have to picnic alone.’

  He shook his head. His earrings flashed sparks of gold. ‘On your day off! That’s too bad!’

  ‘Dead people are a bit annoying like that. They spoil a sunny morning.’

  Chapter 2

  DS Ali Carlin was waiting for her at Orford End, chatting to two uniformed constables and turning his head to blow wisps of smoke away from them. He’d have things under control, all the basics sorted. He was a sound, reliable man and she was grateful to have him by her. But like Polly, his wife, she wished he’d give up the twenty-a-day habit. She saw him stub out his cigarette and hitch up his black jeans, engaged in their never-ending struggle to find his waistline.

  The cul-de-sac was derelict and abandoned, with huge dandelions and thistles pushing up through the rutted, cracked tarmac. A couple of empty lager cans and chip wrappings skittered in the breeze. It reminded her of one of those deserted towns in a western, and she half expected to see tumbleweed and Clint Eastwood in a poncho. Steiner & Sons was an unlovely, single-storey brick building with peeling window frames. A splintered wooden sign, red leaching to pale pink, drooped over the metal doors that were shielded by a police cordon. She saw a skip near the doors and a grey van with the logo L. Haddon, General Building on the side.

  ‘Hi, guv, hope you weren’t enjoying yourself too much.’ Ali came over. He had a loose, quick walk, surprisingly agile for such a bulky man.

  ‘I was watching Bartel fish at the river.’

  ‘Grand day for it. Steve’s inside with his crew and Dr Anand’s on his way.’

  Good. Rey Anand was her preferred pathologist, unshowy, skilful and direct. ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘Two of the guys in the van. There were four of them here from the building company.’

  ‘What were they doing here?’

  ‘The place is being demolished, and new—’ Ali stopped as a train thundered nearby and then raised his voice. ‘New houses are going up here, so they came to clear the place out. The two guys in the front, Ivor Bass and Grant Haddon, went to move the fridge in the kitchen. That’s when they found the body, tied to the back. It’s been here a while, according to Steve, and it’s mummified. The older guy’s taking it in his stride, but Grant Haddon is just nineteen and he’s pretty shaken. It wouldn’t be a good start to anyone’s day.’

  She saw the two men in the front of the van. One had his head bent low, earbuds in, and the one in the driver’s seat, an older man with sparse grey hair, was smoking. He’d wound his window down, his elbow propped on the frame as he flicked a curl of ash out into the bright, clear air. She saw Ali’s nostrils quiver. He’d be longing for another of the Gitanes in his pocket. He started to salivate if he was in sight of fags or sweets.

  ‘Have you seen the body?’

  ‘Aye, just a quick wee check. It’s a terrible sight, hanging there.’

  ‘Bass and Haddon need to go to the station and wait until we can speak to them. Ask Haddon if he wants to see a doctor and make sure he’s okay. The other two can go for now. Let’s go inside.’

  Ali gave one of the uniform constables the order. Then she and Ali donned protective gear and went through into the huge, rectangular space with its peeling, stained walls, rambling damp patches and perilous bulges in the ceiling. As soon as they stepped in, the air was chilly and dank.

  ‘We could probably do with hard hats,’ Siv joked, eyeing the pitted ceiling and chunks of plaster on the floor.

  Ali grimaced. ‘This place gives me the willies. Reminds me of businesses back home in Derry that were bombed and left because the insurance wouldn’t pay out.’

  Steve Wooton, the crime-scene manager had spotted them. ‘In here, in the kitchen,’ he called.

  ‘Hi, Steve.’ Siv’s tone was cool. There was an unspoken antipathy between them. She didn’t care for his self-importance — he was one of those small, chippy men who liked to flex his muscles. But he was adept at his job, even if he had to make snide remarks at every opportunity.

  ‘I’d say this is a female,’ he said, pointing at the filthy fridge-freezer. ‘Small mercies — there’s no smell from the body because it’s been there a while and is part-mummified. Careful of the pool of vomit, though. Mr Haddon threw up when he saw the fridge’s hidden secret. It’s dim in here and there’s no power supply, so we’ve put up a spotlight.’

  Siv wrinkled her nose at the sour smell of sick. The spotlight had the unfortunate effect of making the dingy kitchen resemble the set of a low-budget horror film. She glanced around at the ancient, dirt-encrusted appliances: the tall, wide fridge-freezer, a narrow gas cooker spattered with years of grease and food spills, and a grey cylindrical water heater above a stained ceramic sink, once white, now a tobacco colour. It was full of rubbish. There was one tiny window facing the back of the building with a grimy, torn calico curtain dangling down. Someone had written CLEAN ME on a filthy pane. She could almost taste the dust and dirt.

  She approached the trussed body and felt overwhelming pity and anger. It was tied to the back grille of the fridge with thin rope, face forward. The arms had been bound with hands flat against the thighs. Thin leathery flaps of skin adhered to the skeleton beneath, and dried wisps of hair clung to the skull. Strips of yellowing material hung from one of the shoulders, with another band visible under the rope that encased the legs below the knee. Siv caught her breath. It was a shocking sight. Any murder was a desecration, but this killer had been particularly demeaning, hanging the victim up as if they were a carcass.

  ‘I’d say that’s remnants of a dress, and our corpse has long hair,’ Steve said. ‘Unless it’s a long-haired male who liked wearing women’s clothing, I reckon we have a female.’

  Siv and Ali stood on either side of the corpse. The desiccated neck was circled by a band of pale blue cord.

  ‘You’re
probably right, but let’s wait for Rey Anand to confirm the sex. Those might be strands of some kind of cord or nylon twisted around the neck. Seems like this person was strangled and then tied on here.’

  ‘I’d agree strangulation,’ Steve said. ‘You can see the cord round her neck is different to the rope she’s been tied up with.’

  ‘The killer could have brought their own, but I wonder . . . A removal company — there’s probably a lot of cord and rope in here somewhere.’ Ali gazed around. ‘God-awful, minging place to die. I suppose the mummification happened because it’s cool and shady in here.’

  ‘Any idea how long this premises has been empty?’ Siv glanced at Ali, then Steve, who shrugged.

  ‘That guy Bass said at least five years, probably longer,’ Ali said. He was repulsed and mesmerised by the corpse. He’d seen dead bodies and bones, but never anything like this half-human thing that could have come from a case in a museum. He glanced at Siv. As usual, she was giving nothing away.

  ‘Any sign of identification?’ she asked.

  ‘Haven’t seen anything yet,’ Steve told them. ‘No phone or bag. No rings or jewellery that I can see from a visual search.’

  The floor and windowpane vibrated as another train rattled by.

  ‘It’s as if we’re on top of the station,’ Siv said.

  Ali pointed. ‘The railway’s just over the back there, in a culvert. There’s a path near here that takes you to the station in minutes.’

  ‘I wish the new homeowners joy.’ Siv turned back to Steve. ‘We’ll let Dr Anand do his thing in here. We’ll go around the rest of the building and then check up on missing persons. What other rooms are there?’

  ‘That brick outbuilding has a revolting toilet and bits of chair legs and such — general junk. There’s a grotty office on the other side. We’ve finished in there for now if you want to see it.’

  Ali followed Siv out. They glanced into the outbuilding with its cobwebbed toilet and broken furniture. It stood beside a small patch of garden filled with more junk and an incongruous tall apple tree that was still laden with fruit. Bruised and rotting apples lay around the base, among the weeds and nettles.

  Ali nudged an apple with his foot. ‘They’re Grenadiers. They make a great crumble.’

  Nothing dampened Ali’s appetite. He could have been one of those Parisians who made a day out of sitting by the guillotine with a picnic. They carried on to the office, a small, square room, just as desolate but a little brighter with a larger window facing south. The graffiti sprayed in dark blue on the wall facing them declared, The Moving Finger writes, and having writ, moves on. Below it, someone had selected bright yellow to spray an anatomically detailed, bright yellow penis: Suck on this, Moving Finger!

  ‘This is old school.’ Ali pressed a key on the Olivetti typewriter, dislodging fine dust. He picked up a bottle of correction fluid, shook it and replaced it.

  Siv opened the filing cabinets and the desk drawers. Several of them stuck and she had to wrench at them. ‘All empty, except for some sheets of carbon paper.’

  ‘This is interesting. A mucky wee love nest?’ Ali gestured at the pale blue single mattress lying behind the desk and wedged against the wall. Rubbish framed it: crisp packets, lager cans, condom wrappers, chocolate and biscuit papers, empty cigarette and chewing-gum packs, a couple of wine bottles and fast food cartons. The mattress was grimy and the quilting stained, with cigarette burns exposing the fabric beneath.

  Siv knelt by it and examined the material and the grubby label with the make, RestEasy. ‘It’s had plenty of use. It’s a grim place for romance but I suppose if you’re short of a venue . . . Although it’s damaged, this mattress isn’t that old. Let’s make sure Steve checks the age and whether there are local outlets still selling it. God knows how many people have been in and out of here over the years. The forensics will be a nightmare.’

  Ali sniffed at his arm. ‘I’m sure I can smell vomit.’

  Siv was glad that she was wearing old jeans and a sweatshirt under her protective gear. ‘It’s just in your nose. Light up once we’re outside, that’ll cure you.’

  ‘Have you ever seen a body like that one before? Like something that kids would make for Halloween, to sit beside a pumpkin. Those wisps of hair . . .’

  ‘Yeah, I agree. From a distance, you could imagine it’s papier mâché. I haven’t dealt with a mummified corpse before. It’s as if it’s caught in an anteroom of death. I’ll be glad when whoever it belongs to can hold a funeral.’

  ‘Assuming it belongs to anyone.’

  ‘Yes, there is that. Anyway, we’re nowhere near establishing identity yet. Whoever murdered and secured the victim to that fridge knew that this place was deserted, and was likely to be for some time. They chose well.’

  Ali scratched his scribble of a beard. Like his hair, it was peppered with premature grey. ‘I suppose it was easier than digging a grave. No shovel needed, just enough strength to shift the fridge and support the body. Maybe it was a drug deal gone wrong, or a row between junkies or street people. Who else would be in here?’

  ‘No point in getting ahead of the facts. Let’s go back to the station. I’m going to call in at home on the way to get changed.’

  * * *

  Ali walked back to the kitchen. This was one of the most depressing places he’d been in for a long time. He steeled himself for the reek of vomit. It was a smell that had always made him gag and he hated getting sick. He’d heard people say they were better once they’d thrown up, but it made him nauseous for days.

  ‘Can you not clear the boke up?’ he asked Steve.

  ‘If that’s one of your quaint Derry expressions for “vomit” — no, not until Rey Anand’s been.’

  ‘Oh, aye, right. Just checking in about the mattress. We need to find out how old it is and whether it’s available locally.’

  ‘Of course.’ Steve waved his notebook under Ali’s nose. ‘I’ve got the details and a sample so we can try to establish exactly that information. I suppose DI Drummond worried I might be slacking?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Ali said. ‘Just making sure.’

  ‘How are you finding her to work with? She’s not overfriendly, is she? Pale as a ghost some days, and about as approachable. A smart suit doesn’t mean a smart mover.’

  Ali took in Steve’s shiny complexion and narrow eyes. The guy was a sneaky wee gobshite, and he agreed with DC Patrick Hill’s assessment that Steve was the kind of man who’d have been a bully at school — the sort who slyly cornered a victim when no one else was around. ‘The guv’s fair and she gets results. She’s okay by me.’

  ‘Mortimer doesn’t like her. He wanted Tommy Castles for the job.’

  ‘Really? I’d no idea,’ Ali lied. ‘All water under the bridge now, anyway.’

  ‘We’ll see. Time will tell. Tommy would have been a good fit for the team. He’s snappy, on the ball, and I’ve heard that he’s not too happy with his new job and wouldn’t mind coming back this way. The DI’s on another planet sometimes, in a different orbit.’

  Ali was fed up with Steve’s jibes. ‘You do know that her husband was killed last year?’

  Steve half closed his eyes. ‘I heard on the grapevine that something had happened to her in London. I wasn’t aware she’d been widowed.’

  ‘Well, she was. A lorry knocked her husband off his bike. Maybe your orbit would be out of kilter if your Mrs was killed, wee man. I’m not sure you’d deal with it as well as the guv does. Now, I see Dr Anand arriving, so I’ll leave you to it.’

  Before he left, Ali nipped back to the garden and picked some apples, stuffing them in his pockets. He loved a crumble and Polly made a great one, even if she did insist on adding ground almonds and reducing the sugar.

  * * *

  Siv was hungry when she arrived at the station so she made a detour to Gusto, the Italian delicatessen just round the corner and ordered a chicken salad panini and coffee. As usual, the windows were steamed up and the aromas o
f garlic and herbs made her mouth water. They made fresh breads throughout the day: focaccia, pane di casa and ciabatta, laced with olive oil and rosemary. If there were a heaven, it would smell like this. If ever the flat above the shop became vacant, she might move in, have a dumb waiter installed, and order all her meals from downstairs.

  ‘You’re in here so often, you should buy into the business.’ The woman behind the counter laughed. ‘The panini’s a good choice, I just baked it myself.’

  Polly, Ali’s wife, would have made him a packed lunch full of healthy foods that he would eat as if he was doing a penance. He was diabetic, and struggled to balance his sugary cravings with the illness. Siv bought him a pot of plain yoghurt with berries, and a small bag of cantucci biscuits to share with Patrick, grabbed her goodies and headed to her office.

  DC Patrick Hill — generally called Hat-trick in the station because he once caught three burglars in three weeks — was at his desk, straw-blond hair sticking up in gelled spikes, working simultaneously on a PC and his phone. He held up his phone to her as she came over and she read the screen.

  @DCBerminsterPolice. Three men arrested & charged with dealing heroin after a lengthy & complex investigation. Big shout out to members of the public who gave us vital information. It’s good to work together. We always need your support.