by M. W. Craven
‘Merry Christmas, Poe,’ she said huskily. She had a smoker’s voice although Poe knew she never touched them. ‘Good grief, you look dreadful.’
‘Estelle,’ he replied. ‘Bit of a cold.’
‘Suit yourself,’ she said. ‘Good to see you again, DI Flynn. What has Cumbria’s answer to C. Auguste Dupin got you into this time?’
‘We were hoping you could tell us, Estelle,’ Flynn replied.
‘This mortuary’s a bit basic compared to mine and you haven’t given me much to go on.’
Poe and Flynn waited.
‘OK, here’s what I can tell you for certain: these are not medical samples as they haven’t been flushed. The blood types prove they are from three different victims and your initial assessment is correct: one finger from each pair was removed ante-mortem, the other post.’
So far Nightingale’s locum pathologist hadn’t messed up.
‘So we do have three murders,’ Flynn said.
‘The facts cannot be disputed,’ Doyle said. ‘It’s up to you to interpret them. I’ll know more when my LC-MS results are back.’
Doyle had used liquid chromatography-mass spectrometry in their last case. Poe didn’t understand the science behind it but he knew it separated and analysed biochemical, organic and inorganic compounds and was considered the Rolls-Royce of chemical analysis. If there were anything in the fingers that wasn’t supposed to be there, the LC-MS would find it.
‘I am also prepared to say that, in my professional opinion, different methods of amputation were used with each victim. One pair of fingers was removed neatly and quickly. The blades were different sizes and didn’t meet so shears were used. Possibly bone snips, possibly rib shears.’
Poe didn’t ask how she knew these things. If she said that’s what had happened, then that was what had happened.
‘The second pair were removed more crudely. There are tiny flecks of blue paint embedded in the wounds. I’ll have them analysed to confirm, but I suspect they are from a hacksaw. Probably a coping saw, as he’d have had to grip each finger with one hand and saw it off with the other. Under the microscope you can clearly see scars on the proximal phalanges, the bones between the knuckle and first finger joint. They were made by the blade’s teeth.’
Poe frowned. That was odd. Why use a saw when you had rib shears?
‘The third pair is the most interesting, though,’ she continued. ‘This is the male pair and he made a right mess of it. I’m almost certain your killer snapped the fingers then used a pair of scissors to cut through the skin and tendons. Blunt blades, judging by the incisions.’
‘And he was alive for the first amputation?’ Poe said.
‘Possibly not conscious, but definitely alive.’
‘No time of death?’
She shook her finger in admonishment. ‘Keep that up and I’ll have to spank you, Poe.’
Doyle never gave a time of death. She said that any pathologist who did was guessing. There were too many variables with liver temperature or lividity. Even insect activity was all smoke and mirrors. Yes, flies do behave in a certain way, but what the forensic entomologists never admit is that flies have to be present to begin with.
‘Anything else?’ he said before Flynn picked up on the being spanked remark.
Doyle walked over to an open laptop. They followed her.
She brought up an image of a finger and pointed towards some scarring.
‘It was underneath the wedding band,’ she explained. ‘At first I thought it was a long-term epidermal surface reaction to gold, but it was too inconsistent. I removed some layers and found this.’
She changed the picture.
Poe leaned in and frowned. ‘What’s that?’
‘She’s had a tattoo removed,’ Doyle said.
The markings were faint but visible. Three scars the size of a grain of rice were separated by two the size of a grain of sugar in a big/small/big/small/big sequence.
‘Care to hazard a guess?’ Doyle said.
‘It’s a date,’ Poe said. ‘And if it was under her wedding ring then it’s almost certainly her wedding date.’
Doyle nodded. ‘I think that too.’
‘And we can’t recover it?’
‘No. It was professionally removed with cosmetic lasers.’
‘But, if she’s had the date removed, why the hell was she still wearing her wedding ring?’ Poe said.
Doyle said nothing.
Chapter 7
Flynn put Nightingale on speakerphone as soon as she had a signal. She updated her on the scar Estelle Doyle had found.
‘That’s helpful, DI Flynn,’ Nightingale said. ‘We can use it as a control filter when we go public.’
‘What do you want us doing?’ Flynn asked.
‘I’m concentrating on finding the bodies. Do you want to go over the first crime scene and see if you can work out how he did it?’
Poe nodded to Flynn. That was exactly where he wanted to start. He thought he knew how the killer had deposited the fingers at the church and he’d been on camera at Fiskin’s Food Hall, but so far no one had figured out how he’d got them into a Secret Santa mug at John Bull Haulage.
Craig Hodgkiss, the man whose Secret Santa present had been swapped, was on police bail. He’d been charged with a public order offence after his initial arrest as the responding officers hadn’t known what else to do with him. He had to report to Durranhill, Carlisle Area’s headquarters building, at 2 p.m. every day, and Poe and Flynn were waiting there for him.
He was led into one of the modern interview suites and they all took a seat.
He was an over-groomed man. Gelled hair and fake tan, bleached teeth and designer stubble.
‘I gather you were the only one in the office to piss yourself?’ Poe said. May as well annoy him straight away. Put him off any script he’d prepared beforehand.
Hodgkiss stiffened. ‘I most certainly did not.’
Useful information, Poe decided. Attacking his ego was clearly the way to go. He’d spoken to Nightingale before they’d started and he concurred with her overall impression of him: he was a dickhead but ultimately harmless.
‘Show him the video, boss,’ Poe said.
Flynn opened the laptop she’d brought in with her. It had a video set up. She pressed play and span it round so Hodgkiss could see.
Barbara’s friend, Tiffany, had taken it. It included the moment Barbara opened her Secret Santa present, but they’d also recorded a prologue.
They were in the work toilets. Tiffany was doing a mock interview with Barbara. She must have been using a selfie stick as they were both on screen.
‘Barbara Willoughby, today’s the big day,’ Tiffany said. ‘The great Craig Hodgkiss has selected you as his woman. In a few minutes he’ll ask you to marry him in the most romantic way possible: a cheap stunt in front of your workmates using your dead grandmother’s eternity ring.’
Barbara nodded. ‘I am indeed truly blessed, Tiffany.’
Tiffany snorted.
‘And will you be receptive to his magnificent gesture?’
‘Well, Tiffany, as you know I’ve given this a great deal of thought and, what with him having cheated on me several times, I was only too happy to acquiesce.’
‘And would you like to record a message for your future husband?’
‘I would, Tiffany.’
‘I’m sure he’ll treasure it. I know I will.’
Barbara composed herself.
‘Craig, being asked to be your wife is the most singular honour in my life so far. I’m struggling to express my feelings so I apologise if this reply is shorter and more direct than I would have preferred. In answer to your upcoming question I would like to say this …’ She paused as both she and Tiffany raised their middle fingers to the camera. Together they shouted: ‘Fuck you, you cheating bastard!’
‘I get the point!’ Hodgkiss snapped.
‘Wait, this is my favourite part,’ Poe said.
Barb
ara continued, ‘Craig, you limp-dicked, weak-willed fuckwit, I’d rather shit in my hands and clap than see your stupid girly face one more time. The clothes you left at mine are at Age Concern, your iPad’s at Barnardo’s and the spare key to your flat I gave to three homeless people this morning. I think they’re there now.’
‘Feeling better?’ Tiffany asked.
‘I’m a whole new woman,’ Barbara replied. She looked at the camera again. ‘Oh, one last thing: if I don’t get my grandmother’s ring back I’m going to the police.’
Flynn pressed pause.
Hodgkiss looked like he was going to be sick.
‘Who-who’s seen this … thing?’
‘Me, my boss here, most of the investigation team,’ Poe said.
‘No one from work?’
Poe shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’m not really up on social media.’
Flynn reclaimed the laptop and opened another tab. Facebook was already set up. The video was on Tiffany’s page. It was called ‘The Rise and Fall of Craig Hodgkiss’. She’d posted it before Barbara had opened her present.
‘You tell me?’ Poe said. ‘What do all those likes and shares and comments mean?’
Hodgkiss burst into tears.
‘She-she-she can’t do that!’
‘She has and it’s not a bell that can be unrung.’
Flynn pressed play again. This time it was footage of the Secret Santa. Tiffany had recorded Barbara opening the present, holding up the mug without looking inside then turning it upside down. The screaming started immediately. Tiffany had followed the fingers to the floor, presumably because she’d thought it would be the ring. She held it for a few seconds before panning across to where Hodgkiss was seated.
He was wide-eyed in shock. His light-coloured jeans darkened at the crotch.
‘I don’t believe it, he’s fucking pissed himself again,’ Tiffany said off-camera.
Flynn paused the video. ‘I think we’ve seen enough.’
‘I understand it was your Secret Santa gift she opened,’ Poe said.
Hodgkiss was staring aghast at the paused screen.
‘Mr Hodgkiss, were you involved in this?’
‘What …? No, of course I wasn’t,’ he replied. ‘Is what those two bitches did legal? If it isn’t, I’m pressing charges.’
‘Grow up,’ Poe said. ‘They were mean to you, that’s all. I suspect it was less than you deserved.’
‘But … they’ve ruined my life. Who’s going to want to have sex with me now?’
Poe slammed his fist on the table. Hodgkiss jumped.
‘Enough!’ he said. ‘You can whine on your own time.’
‘If this wasn’t the gift you intended to give, Mr Hodgkiss, where’s the one you did intend to give?’ Flynn asked. Her tone was more moderate, more measured. Kinder. Just like they’d discussed before they went in. Good cop/bad cop was clichéd but occasionally useful.
‘I-I-I don’t know,’ he replied. His brow furrowed. ‘Actually, where is my mug? It still has Barbara’s engagement ring inside.’
‘The one you stole?’ Poe said.
Hodgkiss nodded then realised what he’d done. ‘It was the only way I could afford a nice one.’
Flynn clicked on a different file on the laptop. This time she showed Hodgkiss some CSI photographs. The first was of the paper the #BSC6 mug had been wrapped in, the four sheets of A4 with the bird design.
‘Did you use bird pictures to wrap Barbara’s mug?’ Flynn asked.
It was an important question and one that had been missed so far. If Hodgkiss had used the same design, then he’d been selected. And, as most mugs came in the same size polystyrene protective boxes, if the killer had known what paper Hodgkiss was going to use, he could have swapped it anywhere and used him as an unwitting mule. He wouldn’t have had to go anywhere near the John Bull Haulage office.
But, if he hadn’t used the same bird design, then the killer would have had to risk entering the John Bull Haulage office in Carlisle. He’d selected Hodgkiss’s mug at random, copied Barbara’s name onto his own label, left his mug under the tree, and left with Hodgkiss’s original.
Hodgkiss shook his head. ‘That’s not my paper.’
‘You’re sure?’ Flynn said.
He nodded. ‘Absolutely. My wrapping paper was from Celebrations on Bank Street. It had snowmen on it.’
So … the killer had been in all three crime scenes.
Chapter 8
Poe and Flynn arranged to meet Barbara Willoughby at her home. She lived in a flat in the centre of Carlisle. Tiffany would join them. Barbara answered the door in her pyjamas, a dressing gown and fluffy slippers. She wore no makeup and her hair was wet and slicked back.
Tiffany arrived shortly after. The two women hugged each other. They’d only worked together for a few months, but they’d been best friends since school.
‘Tough times,’ Poe said when they were seated.
‘Tougher for him,’ Tiffany said.
Poe nodded. ‘No doubt.’
‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘We have.’
‘How’s he doing?’ Barbara asked.
Tiffany said, ‘You’re kidding?’
‘I don’t wish him harm, Tiff. He’s a shallow, shallow man, and his life was shit enough before all of this. I don’t want to come to work one day to find out he’s hanged himself.’
‘Wouldn’t bother me one fuck—’
‘He’ll survive,’ Flynn cut in. ‘The public order offence has been dropped and, unless you do actually report the theft of your grandmother’s ring, his part in this is over.’
‘The jeweller melted it down apparently,’ Barbara said. ‘I’m not pressing charges.’
‘He did tell us the parcel you opened didn’t have the same wrapping paper as he’d used though,’ Flynn said. ‘That means that your Secret Santa gift was probably selected at random. Whoever did this must have broken into your office and swapped Craig’s mug for his own.’
Barbara shook her head. ‘If I didn’t have bad luck I’d have no luck at all.’
Tiffany frowned. ‘I doubt he broke in. The industrial estate has some high-value warehouses and businesses, and security is tight during the night. Dogs, mobile and static guards, the works. I know because we pay a percentage of their fees and I do their invoices.’
Barbara nodded. ‘She’s right.’
‘And, although the office is open eight-till-six, the guys on the wagons don’t keep those hours,’ Tiffany said. ‘The depot is open twenty-four hours a day. Breaking into the office would be next to impossible.’
‘Could someone walk in unnoticed during the day?’ Poe said.
Barbara and Tiffany considered it.
‘Probably,’ Tiffany said. ‘We don’t carry much petty cash and everything else is pretty much logistics for the guys downstairs. Tachograph filing, manifests, sales and the like. Nothing of value so we don’t need strict security during the day.’
‘How would they do it?’
‘They’d have to check in with reception but they wouldn’t be escorted upstairs.’
‘Would a stranger hanging around the Christmas tree be noticed?’ Poe said.
‘Definitely,’ Tiffany said.
He thought about it for a minute. ‘Then he must have hidden in plain sight.’
The Newtown Road Industrial Estate was a five-minute drive from the flat. Rather than making Barbara get dressed, Tiffany said she would take them. CSI had finished with the office.
Tiffany let them in.
‘That leads to the warehouse,’ she said, pointing to a secure metal door. ‘We’re up here.’
She led them upstairs. The admin offices for John Bull Haulage were nondescript. A box-shaped main office had smaller individual rooms at the far end. Tiffany led them to a drab artificial Christmas tree. There was nothing underneath – Nightingale and her team had seized all the unopened presents.
‘Talk me through where everyone was sitting,’ Po
e said.
Tiffany did just that. She asked Poe to be Hodgkiss, Flynn to be Barbara and she played herself. She didn’t have a phone as it had been taken into evidence, so she held a stapler instead. They were seated in a horseshoe shape. She stood and told them what had happened.
‘I kept switching between dickhead’s face and Barbara’s. I wanted to get her telling him to fuck off but I wanted his expression more. I filmed her opening it, his response to her tipping the mug, then I caught the fingers falling out.’
Flynn checked the laptop to make sure the video Tiffany had recorded matched with what she’d told them. It did. Poe sat back down and looked around, searching for anything out of the ordinary.
He saw it immediately.
He also knew everyone else had missed it.
‘What’s that?’ he said, pointing at a chair away from the tree. It was loaded with cheap books and even cheaper toys.
‘Oh, that’s just the book man’s stuff,’ Tiffany replied. ‘Every now and then people come in and leave samples of heavily discounted stuff for us to order.’
Poe knew what she meant. The SCAS office was cursed with the same thing. There was always a table or a chair filled with tat. The modern-day equivalent of the travelling salesman would turn up hawking a load of shit, dump it in a designated place, leave an order form then return a week later to collect the money and leave behind what had been bought.
He removed rubber gloves from his pocket and picked up the order form. There were a couple of names written down. An envelope was stapled to the back. Poe could feel the weight of coins inside.
‘What is it, Poe?’ Flynn asked.
He held it up.
‘What’s wrong with this?’
She frowned. She knew him well enough to know he’d found something. She also knew he’d give her the chance to make the connection.
Tiffany got there first.
‘What type of weird-ass book man has a delivery date after Christmas?’
‘Exactly.’ He shook his head at the audacity of it all. ‘Who is this guy?’ he said.
Nightingale confirmed that the company the book man was from didn’t exist. It looked like he’d bought some books from a bargain bookshop, knocked up an order form and walked into the offices of John Bull Haulage unchallenged. Book men went where they wanted at Christmas. It was possible he’d tried other businesses before he found one with an easily accessible Secret Santa tree with at least one mug-shaped gift underneath.
