‘Male, as yet unidentified, late twenties to early thirties, Caucasian, height one hundred and seventy-five centimetres, weight, eighty kilos, good musculature, works out but not a bodybuilder, no callouses on hands so unlikely to be a manual labourer,’ Dr Kilburn muttered into the overhead microphone. ‘Injuries, apart from the obvious trauma to the genitalia, some bruising consistent with being dragged and hit with something long with smooth edges.
‘Like a baseball bat?’ asked Jane.
‘Very possibly, or a rounded fence post. Presence of splinters will give me a better idea,’ replied Jervis not even looking up from the examination. ‘To continue, bruising to the back of the head consistent with being pulled down the steps into the cellar and, Dennis, can we get some shots of this? A sticky substance around the mouth. I’ll swab, but experience tells me that it’s likely to be duct tape.’
Dr Kilburn stepped back to allow the photographer closer and then continued with the examination taking blood and urine samples, and stomach samples once the body cavity was opened. As he had surmised at the scene, the victim’s lungs were full of fluid. He looked at DCI Carlson.
‘I’m going to do some additional tox screens to find out what caused this, but basically you could say he drowned on dry land. Not a nice way to go.’
Between mask and cap, Carlson raised a silver eyebrow and moved his gaze to the body’s pelvis.
‘Good point, Ronnie,’ said Kilburn, ‘As Jane said, he really does look as if he upset someone. Fortunately for me, finding out who is your job. Whoever they were, it’s not a professional. There are some hesitation cuts, see here and here, and although a sharp knife was used with a plain edge they’ve used a sawing motion. Like carving the Sunday joint.’
Carlson, Dennis and the photographer all shuddered.
‘Sorry, gents,’ said Jervis, winking at Jane. ‘If it helps, he was unconscious when it was done. He would have been struggling to breathe for a while beforehand and would have passed out by the time he was cut. If he’d been conscious there’d have been more of a struggle and the cuts would be even messier.’
‘Why not a professional trying to look like an amateur?’ asked Jane. ‘Surely that’s a possibility?’
‘It’s a good point, Jane, but, speaking as a professional I think the training would kick in and a professional would probably have access to better tools, like a scalpel. With that you’d make a nice clean cut and there would be no hesitation marks, because you’d be used to cutting into flesh. I suspect that the perpetrator here is not used to that. Anyway, as I said, that’s your job and not mine, thank goodness.’
‘Thanks, Jervis,’ said Carlson. ‘You’ll mail over the photos of his face and the tox results asap?’
‘Of course,’ replied the doctor, gazing back at his patient.
‘Do you feel sorry for him?’ Jane asked suddenly.
Kilburn lifted his head sharply, ‘Jane, I feel sorry for everyone I meet on this table, regardless what they have done or how they died. Do I feel sorrier for this man because he had his genitalia removed, possibly, but it’s not my job to judge, just to find justice for him.’
‘And that’s our job too,’ said Carlson. ‘Come on, Jane, let’s find out who he is and then we can find out who did this to him. Whether he deserved it or not, that’s not our place to decide.’
‘Okay,’ said Jane. She nodded farewells to Dr Kilburn and Kirsty Russell. Dennis Cartwright had already begun to sew the body back up but he grunted something that could have been goodbye. With one last look at the victim she turned and trudged out of autopsy in the wake of her boss.
2nd April 2018
Gippingford Police HQ
Jane Lacey pushed herself back from the computer screen and rubbed the back of her neck. Experience had taught her that there was no use in looking out the windows for a change of view. The film installed on the outside to reduce solar glare had been placed over the dirt and pigeon mess, trapping the detritus and destroying any chance of a change of scenery. She looked across to the corner of the room as the door opened and the welcome sight of DC Tim Jessop wandered into the office carrying two mugs of coffee, with a packet of biscuits poking out of his jacket pocket. How does he do it? she wondered.
‘Hey you, how’s it going?’ he said, passing her one of the mugs and, pulling the packet from his pocket, he placed the biscuits on her desk.
‘No carrot cake?’ she asked.
‘Not on Easter Monday,’ he laughed, rubbing his hand across the light stubble on his chin. Changing his mind about his generosity, he picked up the packet, opened it and removed about six biscuits. ‘They’d run out at the café so I nipped to the little supermarket on the corner. How are you getting on here?’
‘Still waiting for a fingerprint match, so it doesn’t look like he’s on the bad lads’ list. I’ve not found a missing person report either, which is a bit odd since he’s been dead over a week,’ Jane replied.
‘Lives alone?’ Tim suggested.
‘Could be,’ said Jane, ‘but most of us have commitments Easter weekend. Family and that…’ She stopped, leaving the thought hanging as she remembered this was Tim’s first Easter since his mother died. Looking at him, he did not seem to have noticed her faux pas. Jane wondered how he was coping, but decided not to ask as she saw his hand shaking as he placed his coffee on his own desk.
‘I’m okay,’ he said in reply to the question she’d not asked. ‘I had a nice weekend with Aspen and her parents. They made me very welcome. Not quite the same as being with Mum, but I’m doing okay.’
Jane nodded, not believing a single word of what he’d said. He had been close to his mother, especially after his father left them and he was not going to recover from her death quickly. Thinking about her own loving but overbearing parents, Jane missed his next question.
She frowned at him and he moved closer to repeat his inquiry.
‘I said, can we release a photo of him?’
Jane shook her head. ‘No, no way. Maybe an e-fit later but you wouldn’t want his family to see what’s been done to him. I wish I hadn’t seen it.’
‘That bad?’ asked Tim.
‘Yes, you’ll see the photos later, but it’s the smell,’ she said. ‘I’ve showered a million times since I saw him on Saturday and I still can’t get the stench out of my hair.’ She demonstrated by trying to pull a dark lock closer to her nose, the short bob finished at her jawline so it was no mean feat. ‘I can still smell him,’ she said mournfully.
Tim took a step backwards. ‘I can’t smell a thing,’ he said. ‘Honest.’
Jane half-glared, half-smiled at him and he went to his own desk leaving the biscuits on hers, while she continued rubbing her neck. Tim logged on and started reading the current notes on the case and after a moment, Jane carried on compiling what they knew so far on the location where their victim was found. They would search CCTV locally but, since the row of terraced houses had been long abandoned and allowed to fall into disrepair; there could be no house to house enquiries. The homeless man who had found the body had had to walk some distance to find the garage where he’d called it in. But Jane knew that the location could still tell them something about their victim. How did he get there? Did he arrive with his killer? Did either of them know the scene? Why was that place chosen? Question after question with very few answers so far. Answers that would become clearer once the identity of the man was known, but nothing had been found on him. No wallet, no phone, just some loose change in the pockets of his discarded trousers and a couple of keys, but from the injuries inflicted upon him this was more than a robbery gone wrong. Was it a sexual encounter which had become violent? Jane frowned. She knew that she should not jump to conclusions, she was a well-trained police officer, but she couldn’t help but wonder what had caused someone to kill him in this horrific and brutal way.
4th April 2018
Gippingford Police HQ
‘Good morning, everyone,’ Kirsty Russell called out to the t
roops gathered before her. ‘I just wanted to give you all an update on the forensics so far. Thanks.’ She waited whilst the team of detectives and uniformed officers settled down.
‘Right,’ she began. ‘As most of you know, our male victim was found in an abandoned property on the Frensham road. He was naked, although some of his clothes were found at the scene. I cannot say for certain whether his disrobing was voluntary or coerced, but it was antemortem. No blood stains were found on any of the items.’
‘Had he had sex before he died?’ asked Tim Jessop.
‘Impossible to say, Tim,’ Kirsty replied. ‘Shall we just say that… one of the areas used for that test was not present at the scene. The perineum was covered in the victim’s blood so that area has been difficult to test for anyone else’s DNA at this stage, but we are working on it.’ She waited for the mutterings to quieten down before she continued.
‘The victim’s own DNA will take a couple more days. Orthodontic recognition may also be possible and that has now been logged with the missing persons’ bureau. Fingerprints have been taken – Jane has run those and confirms he is not known to us. Further, other than the victim’s there were no other discernible prints at the scene, but to be honest there are very few people who do not know to use gloves these days. However, as you can see from the photographs taken on site, there was considerable blood splatter and I am therefore confident that this is the primary scene, the killing ground if you prefer. Unfortunately, I have not been able to ascertain any evidence from the scene as to how he got there. No bus tickets or taxi receipts were found in his pockets. His phone was not found at the scene either, but I understand that that’s being looked into?‘ She looked at Carlson who gave a brief affirmative nod.
‘That’s right. The techies are checking it out. They told me that smart phones handshake with Wi-Fi hotspots as they pass by. And since there are so many of these hotspots now, handshakes can be investigated and eliminated. It’s all rocket science to me, but I’ll take what I can get,’ Carlson gave a self-deprecating shrug at Kirsty which she took as a clue to carry on talking.
‘He may not have been found for some time if the tramp hadn’t come across him,’ she said, ‘but of course, that may have been the idea.’ Kirsty left the thought hanging as she sat down near the front of the squad room.
‘Thanks, Kirsty,’ said Carlson. ‘Jane, could you keep on top of the facial reconstruction so that we can put that in the paper? I’ve got the press office breathing down my neck. Tim, you have the joy of coordinating house-to-house and CCTV. Superintendent Tasker has agreed some uniform support so squad cars will be visiting the street every shift to see if there is anyone around. There could be rough sleepers and I’m told that working girls have started to use the area again. I have a case review with him on Monday, so it would be nice to show some progress, hey?’
Chapter Four
3rd August 2015
Complejo Hospitalario de Navarra (CHN),
Pamplona
Lissa Warren was used to waking in different places. It was normal territory in her nomadic life of travel blogger and photographer, but the clinical smells assailing her nostrils told her something was wrong. Very wrong.
She heard her mother’s voice; muffled, distant and distinctive, yet different. ‘Lissa, sweetie. Can you hear me?’ It was unusually thin and wavering, and that was wrong too. Of her parents, Mummy was the strong one. The one who could always be relied upon. The person who always had the answer. Lissa struggled to open her eyes. What was Mum doing here? And, more to the point, where was here?
Lissa heard her mother shouting, ‘Doctor, doctor!’ and the pounding of footsteps on a hard floor, grew louder as they drew closer.
A light flashed across her eyelids and a hand grasped her chin. Lissa tried to scream, but choked on the blockage in her throat; she tried to push herself away, to run but she was held back by something else – wires attached to her arm and she scrabbled to remove them. Unable to free herself, she screamed a long, painful but ultimately silent yell. Raising her hand to remove the blockage in her throat, another’s hand restrained hers. She fought to free herself, feeling panic rising, her breath shortening and her pulsating heart drumming and beating, sending sharp volleys of pain through her body.
She heard Mummy’s voice again. ‘Lissa, calm down, darling. You’re in hospital, you’ve been hurt. These people are trying to help you.’ A hand grasped hers and she could tell from the familiar softness and warmth, that it was her mother’s. As the fingers stroked the back of her hand, Lissa attempted to slow her breathing to the same rhythm. As her breathing slowed, the breathing tube was removed and she swallowed to ease her swollen, bruised throat. She smelt the cold water offered to her and sipped the liquid gratefully.
‘Lo siento. I’m sorry,’ she heard a deep male voice, his English heavily accented. ‘I need to check your responses. Perhaps you would prefer una doctora?’
‘Of course she would, you idiot,’ her mother hissed. ‘After what she’s been through. You stupid man. Go and get a female doctor. Now.’
Privately Lissa smiled and she slowly turned her gaze to see her mother, dark eyes flashing as she protected her wounded kitten. Sandra Warren. Tiger Mum.
The doctor stood, head bowed before her, contrite and embarrassed, blushing as he was shooed away and he fled from the room, his white coat flapping as he ran.
Sandra Warren flopped in the chair and looked at her daughter. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said, fanning herself with a three-day-old British newspaper. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘What’s happened to me?’ Lissa rasped in response, and trying to ignore the pain she elbowed herself onto her side. ‘More water please?’ She sipped the cool draught that her mother held to her mouth, and rested back on the pillows.
Her mother wiped her forehead with a damp cloth and said nothing.
‘Mum? I ache all over. I feel like I’ve been hit by a bulldozer. I don’t remember anything. I’m guessing I’m in Spain but any more than that is a blank.’ Lissa’s throat still burned from the breathing tube, everything was agony, but she needed to understand. ‘How long have I been here? In fact where am I, why, and how did you get here?’
‘That’s a lot of questions,’ replied Sandra, standing up and putting the cup to her daughter’s mouth again. ‘We’re in Pamplona, this is the general hospital and you’ve been in a medically induced coma for a couple of weeks.’
Lissa frowned at her mother. ‘Weeks?’ she said, puzzling over her mother’s words. ‘Okay, but you’ve not said why, nor why you are here.’
‘After you were found and brought here, the nurses saw your SOS bracelet. She thought it sounded like an English name, so the hospital called the British Embassy, who called me.’
‘My bracelet? But I have a purse full of IDs. Bank card, driving licence. Why didn’t they use those?’ Lissa noticed that her mother kept looking away, at the window, the floor, even the ceiling rather than look her in the face. ‘Mum, I know you’re not telling me something. Did I get run over?’ she laughed, instantly regretting it as both her damaged throat and her core muscles objected. She winced and caressed her ribs. ‘Mum, please. Tell me what’s happened?’
Sandra reached over and brushed an imaginary lock of hair from her daughter’s face. ‘I almost wish you had been run over, darling,’ she said. ‘You were found at the back of the old castle. They tell me there’s a room there, well hardly a room, but it’s tucked away and private…’
‘And?’ said Lissa.
‘You’d been beaten up, quite badly.’ Mother held daughter’s hand, hardly able to speak.
‘And?’ repeated Lissa.
‘That’s… that’s where they dragged you. I’m sorry, darling, there’s no easy way to say this…’ Sandra gazed into her daughter’s eyes. ‘I didn’t want to tell you now but the police are on their way. They want to speak to you. You were raped. The police don’t know how many men there were. At least six, maybe more, they t
hink, but they’re not sure. They want your statement now that you’re awake.’ Sandra pulled Lissa’s hand to her mouth covering it with kisses as she sobbed. ‘They want to know what you can remember.’
Lissa pulled her hand away, turning over in the bed, and folded herself into a foetal posture.
‘I can’t remember anything,’ she said, and feeling a wave of nausea she shuffled to the edge of the bed, placing her hand over her mouth. She lay looking at the wall then propped herself up so that a stream of green bile could hit the floor.
Tuesday, 4th August 2015
CHN, Pamplona
Sub-inspector Amaya Etxandi sat waiting for the pallid, young woman in the hospital bed to respond to her boss’s questions. She looked across the room at her senior officer, Inspector Borja Ibarra, shrugged, and beckoned him to the doorway.
‘Perhaps it would be better if I spoke to her alone,’ she whispered to him in Basque, their native language.
From the corner of her eye she saw Lissa staring at them both, clearly recognising the sound of Basque but none of the words.
Inspector Ibarra nodded, ‘Café?’ he said, in Spanish, looking at them both in turn.
Both women nodded. ‘Americano para me, por favor,’ Lissa said.
‘Por supeuesto, of course,’ he replied. He touched his right forefinger to his peaked cap, clicked his heels,
As he strolled away, Amaya sat back in the chair by the bed and pulled it closer. She ran her eyes over the battered face and bruised arms of the woman before her. There were other injuries too that she had read about in the report. The victim, no she told herself, she must stop using that word. This woman had survived a brutal attack. She was now a witness and her head was still wrapped in gauze and lint bandages, covering the worst of the injuries. For many days the witness had been placed in a coma until the swelling came down. It reduced the chances of brain damage, but it also minimised the chances of catching the perpetrators. She took her notebook out of her pocket, opened it, and licked the end of her pencil.
Recompense Page 2
