Death on the Coast

by Bernie Steadman

  ‘Right, I’d better get back in there. See you later.’ He slipped the phone into his pocket, took a breath of relatively fresh air, and went back inside.

  A technician was taking scrapings from under the victim’s fingernails. The scrapings were red, like rust, as they dropped into a bag. Fox tweezed out several undamaged hairs from the victim’s head and placed them in a bag. ‘The main torso is relatively undamaged. The fire would not have burned hot enough or long enough to destroy the body, if indeed that was the aim.’

  ‘But he could have been in there for five hours,’ said Dan. ‘Why isn’t he more burnt?’

  ‘It’s fat that burns, not bone, DCI Hellier. A skinny, under-nourished one like this would have hardly any fat on him. The burning clothes would do the initial damage, but once they’ve burnt off, and the skin has gone, it would take a long time to destroy the bone.’ He shrugged. ‘I hope he was properly unconscious before he went in, poor soul.’

  ‘Could you make a guess at his age, Doctor?’ Dan moved closer to the slab.

  Fox looked at him over the rims of his glasses. He harrumphed briefly then gave in. ‘The victim appears to be a male in middle-age, although it is hard to be sure as alcoholism ages the body quickly.’ He waggled his fingers, making an estimate. ‘Judging by his physical state and his teeth, I’d say mid-to-late forties. Is that a good enough guess for ye?’

  ‘Great, thanks. Any other distinguishing features?’

  Fox pursed his lips. ‘You know how we identified that dead woman in June, through the tattoo ink on her ankle? Well, there are similar marks on this victim, but they are all over the bits of skin left on his back and arms. I’d hazard a “guess”,’ he made air quotes around the word, ‘that our victim was in the armed forces. Possibly the navy.’

  ‘That’s useful. Thanks very much, Doctor Fox, that’ll give us something to go on while we wait for the DNA results.’ Dan nodded at the doctor and left. Ben would bring along any evidence they could use, and, with a bit of luck, he could get the Plymouth lab to start on the DNA analysis sooner rather than later.

  He cut across the grass to the car park and took the On Police Business sign out of his car. It was always a toss-up whether or not to use it, but the car park prices were extortionate at the hospital, and, now that he was in charge of several budgets, he was economising.

  9

  DCs Lizzie Singh and Adam Foster stood outside the imposing frontage of Swallow House, the hostel for the homeless in Exmouth. Lizzie jotted down the latest intel on the victim as DCI Hellier dictated it down the phone. ‘Male, about fifty, beard, thin, possible tattoos,’ she said to Foster, ‘PM verbal, not verified.’

  ‘Better than nothing,’ he said, and leaned on the bell. He could hear it ringing inside the building but nobody came to the door.

  Lizzie turned the handle. The door opened so she went in. ‘Hello? Anybody here?’ She led Foster down a long corridor, towards the sound of a radio coming from the rear of the building. Lizzie stuck her head around the door; the woman at the sink gave a little yelp and held up her washing-up brush. ‘Hello, no need to be alarmed, we’re police,’ she said. She found her warrant card and held it out.

  The woman, all of five-foot-three, with dark, curly hair escaping from a flowery headband, puffed out a held breath. ‘Right. Jane Poole, I’m the hostel manager, day shift. Thought the front door was locked. We usually lock it once they’re all out for the day.’ She put down the brush, wiped her hands on her jeans and rested against the sink. ‘Who’s in trouble now?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a bit difficult,’ Lizzie said. ‘Early yesterday morning the body of a man we believe to be homeless was discovered inside a fire on Exmouth beach.’

  Jane Poole screwed up her face. ‘Oh, no, that’s a nasty way to go.’

  ‘We have reason to believe that the man concerned may have been based locally; were any of your regulars missing last night or the night before?’

  Poole tucked a stray curl under her headband while she thought. ‘Not our regulars, I don’t think. We have a dozen or more who we’ve successfully taken off the streets this summer, and they all came home before I left for the day, but if he was a habitual rough sleeper, we may simply not know about him.’

  Foster sidled further into the kitchen. ‘This is a really nice room,’ he said. ‘Airy.’

  ‘Thanks. What did you expect? Fagin’s den? This is home to our clients until we can move them on to somewhere more permanent. But it’s a home without the chaos they usually come from.’ She picked up the soapy brush and eyed the pile of cereal bowls next to the sink. ‘Look, I’d like to help, but we haven’t missed anyone. If that’s all, could you see yourselves out?’ Poole smiled at Lizzie and went back to washing up.

  Outside, on the quiet, broad road, Lizzie thrust her hands into her pockets. ‘Come on, Lee Marvin, let’s see if there are any likely lads in town.’

  ‘Lizzie, why is everybody calling me Lee Marvin? Sergeant Bennett started it after my little run in with the knife, and I don’t know who Lee Marvin is, and, well, should I be really pissed off that this is becoming my nickname, or pleased?’

  Lizzie tried to hide her grin. ‘Tell you what, Adam, look him up on Google – I think you’ll understand once you hear him sing. Come on.’

  Exmouth town centre was quiet. The schools had gone back after half-term break and there were no skateboarders clogging up the town square. There were, however, three men sitting on a bench, sharing a bottle and smoking roll-ups. Lizzie headed straight for them across the recently paved and updated square, which would now, she thought, be more properly called a circle. Foster trailed in her wake, attempting to discover where his nickname originated by squinting at his phone.

  She stopped a metre away from the bench and scanned the faces. Two of them studied the ends of their cigarettes. The cider bottle had disappeared, probably under a coat; she could smell alcohol and an undefinable sweet smell. The one on the left was hideous but at least he was watching her through his one good eye. She smiled at him. His dog, a square, squat thing with a triangular head and big shoulders, growled at her. She buried her hands in her pockets.

  ‘What do you want, girly?’ he asked, pleasantly.

  Lizzie checked behind her for Foster. He was oblivious, head stuck in his phone. She wished she’d brought a local PCSO with her, but she hadn’t, so she pulled out her warrant card. ‘That’ll be Detective Constable Singh to you. Speak to me like that again and you won’t be spending the rest of the day on that bench.’

  The man squinted at her under his eyebrow. His single eye looked her up and down. The other side of his head was crumpled, as if he had been struck a terrible blow and the skull had never been repaired. He raised a long, filthy nail and scratched at the empty eye socket. ‘Should’ve said, darlin’. What's a bloke to think when a girl comes up to him dead bold?’ He sniggered. ‘Wants to know how much, dun’ he?’ He collapsed into snuffling giggles and pulled hard on his roll-up, making his thin face cadaverous.

  From behind Lizzie came the unmistakable tones of Lee Marvin singing something about a star. Furious, she swung round to face Foster. ‘Turn that bloody music off now, Adam, or I’ll …’

  Foster stared at her, grin fading fast. ‘What? It’s funny! Do I really sound like this?’

  ‘Now.’

  He put away his phone and strode up to the bench, pushing his face into neutral. ‘Need any help here?’ he asked, his damaged vocal chords adding useful gravitas to his youthful voice.

  Before Lizzie could respond, the middle one of the three, an older man, swiped out a wiry arm and pinned one-eye to the back of the bench. ‘Now, now, Spike, that’s no way to speak to the officer.’ He smiled mildly at Lizzie. ‘He didn't mean no offence, miss. It’s just that he’s a tosser. What can we do for you?’

  Lizzie controlled her anger. Ugly Spike was clearly off his face. Charging him for his behaviour seemed a bit pointless, although tempting. She took a breath and focused on the m
iddle guy. ‘Have any of your friends gone missing in the last day or two? Bloke about fifty, grey beard?’

  One-eyed Spike lurched to his feet and clucked at his dog. Lizzie stepped back. ‘Need a slash,’ he muttered, and staggered off towards the public toilets.

  The middle man watched him go, then turned back to Lizzie. ‘Probably better if he’s not here, miss. Likes the craic a bit too much, if you get my meaning?’ He raised a hand and tugged at his beard, ginger shot through with grey. ‘We all get a bit beardy after a while on the road, but it could be Moose you’re talking about. He was here Saturday, but I haven’t seen him since Sunday afternoon.’ He nudged the dozing figure next to him. ‘Dimp, wake up. D’you reckon it’s Moose that has gone missin’?’

  Dimp opened an eye, registered the strangers, and closed it again. ‘Dunno,’ he said.

  Foster rolled his eyes and put his hands on his hips. ‘We’re not talking about someone having gone missing,’ he said. ‘The guy we’re talking about is dead, burnt to death in a bonfire on Monday night. Any useful information would be very helpful.’

  He leaned down into Dimp’s face, and recoiled at the stench. ‘Whoa, been hitting the cider early, haven’t you, mate? You’d better hand me the bottle, it’s illegal to drink on the street.’ He held out his hand then heard a clearing of the throat from behind him. He looked round. ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, he’s a bit keen,’ Lizzie said to the older man. She didn’t add, ‘and a tosser’. She edged Foster out of the way. ‘What’s your name?’

  The man smiled with a mouth surprisingly full of teeth. ‘Paddy will do. Has someone really been burned to death out there?’ He stared hard at Lizzie, no sign of drunkenness in his manner.

  ‘Yes, it’s true. Do you know anything about this “Moose” person? His background? Family? Where he came from?’

  Paddy shook his head slowly and stared off towards the war memorial in the middle of the square. ‘Burnt to death, you say? That’s bad.’ He looked up at her. ‘He was in the Marines, so I hear, but nothing else comes to mind.’

  ‘Okay, thanks for that.’ She handed him a card. ‘Here are my contact details. Will you call me if you can think of anything else?’

  Paddy squinted at the card. ‘Doubt anything else will occur, but I’ll keep it in here.’ He opened the front of his coat and put it in an inside pocket.

  Foster stood in front of Dimp. ‘Give me the bottle, or I’m taking you in for drinking on the street,’ he said.

  Paddy nudged the younger man. ‘Give it. Don’t be a tosser.’

  With reluctance, Dimp handed over the bottle, a sneer on his face.

  Lizzie grabbed Foster’s arm. Ugly Spike was on his way back with the nasty-looking dog. ‘Come on, DC Foster, we haven’t got time to hang around here all day. Thanks, gentlemen,’ she said, and strode off across the square, leaving Foster with the only option of following her. He emptied the bottle of cider, still almost full, down the nearest drain, and threw the empty bottle into a bin, ignoring the jeers coming from the bench.

  Lizzie kept walking until she reached the pool car and had calmed down a bit. Adam was such a bloody irritant. She’d been mentoring him for months, but he never learned when to shut up. He was just the sort of copper that got them all a bad rep. Sticking his nose in, interfering. Pain in the backside. She rounded on him.

  ‘How are you going to build people’s trust in us if you go after every petty misdemeanour like you’re the bloody pope?’

  Foster leaned back against the car, a half-smile on his face. ‘Keep your hair on, Lizzie, I was just doing my lawful duty.’

  ‘No! No, you weren’t. What you were doing was focusing on the side issue, not the major issue, and that’s what gets me mad. Obviously, I saw him stash the bottle away, I could smell the cider on him, but that wasn’t what we were there for, was it? We’ve got a cooperative bloke, Paddy, and you hassling his mates won’t keep him that way.’ She blew air through pursed lips. ‘Adam, they’ll just go and buy another bottle. Leave that stuff to the local force. We’ve got bigger things to think about, like murder. We’re the murder squad.’ She searched his face for understanding, but saw little. Only resentment. Lizzie banged her head on the roof of the car. ‘Give me strength,’ she muttered, and turned back to him. ‘So, what have we got to go on?’

  Foster looked away. ‘Moose, possibly ex-marines,’ he said.

  ‘And what do we have, less than three miles away up the coast?’

  His mood lifted. ‘Marine Commando base. Let’s go.’ He pulled open the car door and threw himself inside.

  ‘Yes, let’s go,’ she said, sliding in next to him. ‘Back to the station where I’ll get on the phone and speak to someone.’ She shook her head. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Marvin, but you won’t get to play with the marines today. They’re not the sort of places where you just drop in.’

  ‘You’re just having a go at me because Spike had a go at you,’ muttered Foster, arms folded tightly across his chest.

  10

  The white of the overhead fluorescent lights bleached the faces looking up at him around the table. Dan sipped his coffee and waited for the current roll of thunder to pass over. Rain threw itself in bucketloads at the windows. The thunder rolled round again, followed by a flash of lightning. Appropriate weather for the bombshell he was about to drop. He shuffled through his notebook, found the right page, and glanced at the clock. He’d like a reasonable finish time, but it wasn’t looking likely. ‘Sam?’ he shouted into the post-thunder quiet.

  ‘Coming, boss. Just got the CCTV stuff.’ Sam pushed his chair back, struggled to his feet and brought a memory stick with him.

  Sergeants Bennett and Larcombe sat back in their chairs, chatting to Lizzie Singh and the civilian researcher, Paula Tippett. Foster seems to be on his own, thought Dan. He hasn’t gelled with the team yet, isn’t relaxed. Must chat to Sally about him.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s crack on. I have some bad news.’ He swivelled around and clicked towards the TV screen. Four photos in full colour filled the screen.

  ‘Are they what I think they are?’ murmured Bill Larcombe.

  ‘If you think they’re stills from the fire, you’d be on the money. Have a good look, I haven’t had a chance since I got in this afternoon. They’re from two short videos taken at the scene.’

  ‘Who told us about them?’ asked Lizzie.

  ‘Social media surveillance team. They were just on the lookout for trends, new stuff, the usual nightshift trawl. Got the shock of their lives when they realised what they’d got. They were on the phone as soon as I got back from the PM. These were taken from Instagram. They were posted around 5pm yesterday afternoon.’

  There was silence as the team studied the images. Only he and the flowerpot men had seen the body after it had been retrieved from the fire, and none of them had seen it burning.

  ‘Good God, who’d do that to another human being?’ asked Sally.

  ‘Sickos, that’s for sure,’ answered Larcombe.

  ‘Okay, let’s focus. Picture three shows faces round one part of the fire. Sam, any way we can enhance these images to get a clearer view?’

  Sam squinted. ‘I might be able to, but if they’ve already been photo-shopped, I’m not sure how much use I can be. I can get them to the lab in Bristol, though. They’re the experts.’

  ‘Do it. Anything else anyone can add?’ There was no reply.

  ‘Right, there’s more.’ He clicked again and brought up a lurid website home page. ‘I guess because they had nothing better to do, the team then found this for us too. I might owe them a large drink.’ The screen showed a shadowy black image of a woman’s figure being consumed in fire. Above, in words dripping with flames, was the title: ‘Fire Goddess – find the way to purify your soul’.

  Foster coughed out in disbelief. ‘That’s it? It’s going to be this easy? All we have to do is find the website owner and we’ve got them, boss.’

  Lizzie pulled a face at hi
m. ‘He would never have figured that out for himself, Adam. Thank God we’ve got you to state the bleedin’ obvious.’

  Foster subsided, cheeks burning.

  ‘Never mind, Marvin,’ muttered Bennett, patting him on the hand.

  ‘The surveillance team have been on it half the night, but the track-back is old and convoluted and encrypted. They can’t find the host, as yet. We’re awaiting an update. Sam, I need you on the website provider search with them soon as: who’s hosting this site, and can we have the details?

  ‘In the meantime, what else have we got? Lizzie, what did you and Adam find out?’

  Lizzie waved at Adam. He got up and wrote the name Moose, followed by ex-marine – with a question mark – on the incident board, and stood, pen poised.

  ‘We had a nice chat to a guy called Paddy in Exmouth,’ Lizzie said, ‘who said Moose was a marine, so I called the commander at Lympstone training centre, a Colonel Mike Allport, and asked about anyone dismissed for drinking on the job in the last few years. Turns out it’s remarkably common in marines who have seen active service, and he’s happy to help. He’s got his secretary trawling the court martials and dishonourable discharges for the last ten years for us.’

  Adam wrote the name of the colonel on the board and waited.

  ‘So, the victim wasn’t staying in the hostel in Exmouth?’ asked Bill Larcombe.

  ‘No,’ said Lizzie, ‘but it was a good lead, Sarge, thanks. I … we’ve made a good contact there.’

  ‘That’s good work, you two,’ said Dan. ‘Soon as we get DNA through, we should be able to identify him if he’s been discharged. Sam?’

  Knowles got up, plugged the memory stick into the side of the whiteboard, and brought up a section of video that covered the centre of Exmouth town on the night of 31 October. ‘It’s poor quality, but I got this.’ He pressed the forward button and grey images crossed the screen from right to left. Many of them in Halloween costumes. Sam concentrated for a couple of seconds then paused the picture. There was a group of three people walking with purpose across the square. They were clearly not drunk, nor were they joking or messing about.