* * *
Eddie was on his hands and knees looking at the disturbance. It was long smooth grass here, pitted intermittently by patches of bare earth. No chance of decent footwear marks, but there were drag marks running across the natural nap of the grass. And there, in the centre of a four- or five-foot area of tussled grass and raked earth, was something very interesting for Eddie. A red stain.
That’s when everything fell into place, and he knew what had happened.
He placed a marker by it, took several distance shots and then closed in, adding a scale before taking close-up shots of it. The sky was darkening further, and Eddie reached into his new kit box for a swab.
* * *
Even in a scene suit that fitted where it touched, she was beautiful. Petite.
Eddie sighed, and made himself think of the job as he approached the crest of the embankment and looked downhill towards her. To his right was the remnant of a dry-stone wall that separated the grazing land beyond from the dangers of running water. The wall was part demolished, scattered stones being slowly swallowed by a thick tongue of moss – except for one which lay a few yards to the side of the tree he now stood near. Its mossy side was down when it should have been up; it had dented the earth, scattered a little soil, rolled and shed some moss.
Eddie looked up at the tree. It complicated his views of what happened here somewhat, but the theory still held together nicely.
And there was that feeling again. The same one he’d had in the church that day about a week ago; the one where he could almost feel someone watching him. Back then it had been Ros, but she was busy right now. He turned but couldn’t see any of the coppers looking his way. He shuddered, and returned his attention to the tree, allowing himself one glance at Ros.
Ah, the feeling was correct again. She’d stopped being busy it seemed, and she was looking at him. Of course, when he turned to face her, she looked away.
* * *
“Live by the sword, die by the sword,” she whispered. Blake Crosby was a hateful man by all accounts; and the accounts MCU had on him were plentiful. Ros had read them all, as well as soaking up the briefing before coming here. He was a rapist, though never convicted. Indeed the last person who was brave enough to come forward and accuse him of rape, said it happened right here too. This must have been a favourite spot for him. Some people have no imagination, she thought. And then she remembered how that case had gone tits-up – the semen sample he’d left behind had vanished and the judge threw the case out. Incredible. Utterly unbelievable too; the victim must have been distraught when he walked away free. The briefing also said he was a gun-runner and drug supplier; he was involved in prostitution, money laundering, identity theft, and protection rackets, as was the whole Crosby family, headed by the father, Slade. They were Leeds’s answer to the Mafia. He was scum.
She was glad he was dead, but worried too because dear old Slade wouldn’t let the death of his son pass without making waves. He’d make a damned tsunami.
* * *
“Talking to yourself again?” Eddie edged towards her down the banking and crouched beside her.
“Gangland killing,” she said.
“That’s your formulated conclusion? Why?”
“He’s been shot in the back. Wallet’s still in his back pocket so it isn’t robbery, car’s still there too.”
Eddie reached across the body and patted the top of its head. His fingers sank into the skull and he could feel edges of bone beneath fingertips that came away red with blood. “Okay,” he said, “this is what I’ve got. Contact-smeared blood over there by marker four; drag marks through the grass leading to it. He’s got massive depressed fractures to the top of his skull and there’s a rock up there that’s out of place. Still gangland?”
“He’s been shot in the back.”
“Post mortem. No blood.”
“So what do you think happened?”
He stared at her, less than a foot away. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot; I’ll tell you what happened. I think you got me this job because of some residue of loyalty or friendship from two years ago. And I think you’re pissed off with me because I somehow didn’t work out you were still alive and come running.”
“I’m pissed off at you because you wind Jeffery up; I acted as guarantor for you and you’ve gone out of your way to protect your reputation as an arsehole.”
“Since when did you care about Jeffery being pissed off?”
“It’s a good office; it has a good atmosphere. I don’t want that destroying.”
“You’re lying.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“You were annoyed with me or even angry with me when you tracked me down to the church. And you still were when you were in my lounge asking me to take the job. It has nothing to do with Jeffery. And it certainly has nothing to do with the sodding office – you know I’m not a people person.”
“Let’s bag him up, get the hell out of here,” Ros stood and Eddie grabbed her wrist. She winced.
He let go. “Sorry,” he stared at her, confused, “I don’t know my own strength.”
“I sprained it yesterday on the stupid van door.”
“Well, I am sorry. I mean—”
“I said it’s okay.”
Eddie stood, pulled his mask down again. “You alright, Ros? I mean is something bothering you?”
“Tell me about your theory, if it’s not a gangland killing.”
Eddie breathed in deeply, and then sighed it all the way out. He knew she was suffering; he knew something was bothering her and it had nothing to do with his spoiling the office atmosphere or upsetting dear old Jeffery. “Okay,” he said, “follow me.”
They scrambled up the banking again and Eddie came to a halt beside the large oak tree. “So far as I can tell, it all starts here.” He bent down, pointed across the crown of the embankment towards marker four. “See the marks through the grass. There are two distinct marks as though one person has been dragged; and the grass was pulled that way, away from us, so that’s how this person arrived at marker four. At marker four there is a site of disturbance the size of a person lying down.” He looked at Ros; she was squinting towards the marker. “In the centre of the disturbance is a small patch of contact-smeared blood.”
“It’s started to rain, have you swabbed it?”
Eddie sighed again. “The next thing I noticed is this rock. It’s been disturbed, it’s rolled, which is pretty unusual for a square rock I think. I wouldn’t mind betting there is a hair or two caught in it.”
“Okay.”
“Look up. What do you see?”
Ros craned her neck and followed the trunk up to the first bough, then the second. “Ah,” she said, “more blood.”
Eddie nodded. “It explains the fractured skull and the dislodged rock. And I bet you a pound to a pinch of shit, the blood at marker four is the same as the blood up the tree.”
“Okay, but it doesn’t explain the hole in his back.”
“One car. No discernible tyre tracks. Whoever was here came with him,” Eddie nodded at the corpse. “They arrived in the same car. And he’s dressed to impress.”
“There may have been more than one passenger. He might have been killed by two people.”
“It was only a theory, Ros. Best I can come up with.”
“You saying the killer is a woman?”
“Not exactly, but most likely. I don’t know his sexual orientation. But I am saying the killer was frightened.”
Ros looked away.
“She shot him with his own damned gun after she remodelled his skull. Trajectory rods’ll confirm that.”
“He raped her, didn’t he?”
Eddie nodded. “I think so. Unless she killed him because she was extremely disappointed by his performance.”
“Not funny, Eddie.”
“No, that was a bit callous. Sorry.”
Ros turned to him, and she seemed to be studying his eyes.
; “What?” he asked.
“Nothing. Don’t think I ever heard you say sorry and mean it before.”
He had. He was utterly sure of it. In fact, he had apologised less than ten minutes ago when he grabbed her injured wrist. And no doubt he’d said it a thousand times before. Women seemed to have a peculiar knack of forgetting when it was to their advantage. He stared back, trying to see into her eyes also, trying to see what all this hostility was about. He couldn’t get in, couldn’t see clearly; it was as though the doors were open but the fly screens were firmly in place.
“Did I run over some kid’s puppy on my way into work?”
“Okay, so what’s next with him?”
“Are you changing the subject?”
“What’s next?”
“Ah, right. Although it was very subtle, that was definitely a change of subject.”
She stared at him.
“What’s next. Right. Fibre tape the branch, swab the blood. Take the rock; see if we can find hair or skin on it matching our victim. Bag his hands and head, tape exposed flesh and then bag him up and bugger off in time for tea and biscuits.”
“I’ll start on the body. You can climb the tree.”
Eddie saw some movement over Ros’s shoulder. It was Jeffery, his bobbing bald head coming into view up by the summit. He saw them and waved.
“You go,” said Eddie, “I’m not good friends with him right now.”
“You shock me.”
“It’s true.”
“Don’t you want to explain your theory?”
Eddie turned away, “I’d rather work scenes. You tell him; say it was your idea if you want.”
* * *
“Well? Is it him?” Jeffery looked tense, almost bordering on flustered. The walk from the outer cordon hadn’t helped him, by the look of his red cheeks.
“Think so, yeah.” Ros nodded.
“He got any ID on him?”
“Wallet in his back pocket, though we’ve not looked yet.”
“Okay, Westmoreland is eager to have his identity confirmed. Pull the wallet, bag the driving licence etc into clear bags, then bag the wallet up, hand them all to DI Taylor. He’s your exhibits man on this. Then I want you to tape his hands, swab them if you see fit, and then take his elims—”
“What?”
“I know. Westmoreland is very eager.”
“We’ve never had to do elims—”
“Please,” Jeffery said, “for me. Then Taylor will take them to the fingerprint bureau: they’re expecting them.”
“And the body?”
Jeffery shrugged, “Finish soon as you can and get the body removers in. I have James and Duffy on standby for the PM while you two finish up here.” His eyes drifted past Ros to the tree. “How’s he getting on?”
She nodded, “Okay.”
“No problems with him?”
“He’s fine, Jeffery, really.”
Jeffery took a long breath in, nodded, “Okay, we’ll see though; I just hope Westmoreland knows what she’s doing.”
“I have a theory. About Crosby.”
“Go on.”
“He was raping someone. That’s why he was here. And when he finished, he went back to the car for his gun. While he was away, the victim took a rock, climbed a tree.”
Jeffery smiled, “All seems very far-fetched, Ros.”
“When Crosby returns, she throws the rock, it smashes his skull, and then she takes his gun and shoots him.”
“Did you get that off Midsomer Murders?”
“It’s how the evidence is pointing.”
“Okay, well, I look forward to your report.” He turned, ready to walk away, “Hurry up with the elims and the ID, will you?”
“Righto,” Ros began walking away.
“Oh, Ros?”
She turned, walked back. “Yeah?”
“The theory sounds good, well done.” Jeffery smiled at her.
She knew he’d been running the management stuff through his head again, making sure he motivated his staff and proffered praise aplenty. She almost laughed. “Thank you. But it’s Eddie’s theory.”
Jeffery stopped smiling. “Really. Well ask him how he’s so sure the rape victim knew Crosby would walk right up to the tree she was hiding in.” He nodded at her, almost smiled and then walked away.
Ros re-joined Eddie. “Just a thought,” she said, as she approached. “How could she be sure Crosby would walk right up to this tree?”
“How’s Morse?”
“Huh? Oh, Jeffery’s happy with your theory.”
“I bet he was, till he found out it was mine and not yours.” He looked up at her, “I’m guessing that’s about the time he asked you that question.”
“Okay, smart-arse, how could she be sure he’d approach this tree?”
“She was wearing a white cotton skirt or dress; one of those floaty summer things.”
Ros shook her head, confused. “I’m lost.”
“She wedged it against the tree using that stick. The wind blows from the top of the hill downwards, and it wafted the skirt out so he’d see it from over there by marker four, which is where he’d left her when he went to get the gun. You can just imagine the bastard creeping up here with a smile on his face and his gun at the ready.”
Ros squinted at him. “Really thought this through, haven’t you?”
“Not really. It’s there, plain as day; white fibres caught in the bark, more on the end of the stick.”
“I’ll make a start on him.”
— Three —
Ros put on fresh gloves and knelt by the cool body of Blake Crosby. Certainly from behind, he looked like Blake Crosby, same build, short black hair, and half sovereign rings on his left hand.
She reached into his trouser pocket and came out with a black leather wallet.
“It’s still illegal to rob the dead,” Eddie shouted from by the tree.
She ignored him, opened the wallet and took out the driving licence. “Blake Crosby.” The name was repeated on three credit cards. There was over £200 cash inside, and most intriguingly, there was a folded slip of paper, well worn, the edges feathered, the sloping handwriting faded, almost worn away. It had three words written on it: “Black by Rose”.
Ros photographed it, slipped it carefully into an exhibit bag and sealed it. She dropped it into a large brown sack and repeated the process with the wallet and its other contents. She found his mobile phone in his other pocket. It had seven missed calls from Dad and Ty. She bagged it too; it would no doubt provide good intelligence.
Crosby was face down in the dirt. And Ros needed him face up so that she could do the tapings from his hands easily, but turning him over would allow body fluids to seep out and ruin any evidence in the gunshot wound in his back. She wanted his shirt as an exhibit, but she couldn’t begin to undress him for fear of losing trace evidence, so her only option was to cut out a six-inch square of cloth around the hole. She began by photographing the hole with a scale alongside, and then took a pair of sterile scissors and removed a piece of shirt roughly the size of a hand.
She looked up the bank and saw, unsurprisingly, Eddie sitting up in the tree, camera dangling from its strap around his neck. He was looking at her, legs swinging to and fro as though he’d just finished a picnic. His face was blank though, the mask pulled down to his neck again, and she could see he was miles away.
She smiled at him, but there was no response.
Ros went back to her own work.
Now she had the wound facing her. A neat hole no wider than the nail of her little finger, ringed with a thin smear of black, like a kid had traced it with a soft charcoal pencil. Gunshot residue. And it was quite intense, which meant the weapon was close when fired. After close-up photography of the wound, Ros put on fresh gloves, took out the swabs from a GSR kit and removed the black residue.
Once the GSR swabs were sealed inside a bag, Ros turned the body over and photographed it. She noted how the shirt wasn’t tucked in
at the front as it had been at the back; and the zip on his trousers was undone, as was the leather belt – it added strength to Eddie’s theory. And his shoes were still neatly polished except for a little contact dirt in the stitching, so she knew if anyone had been dragged towards marker four, it hadn’t been Blake.
The flies were growing in number and in curiosity; their bravery was also increasing, and with it, Ros’s temper grew correspondingly shorter. Even the soft perpetual music of the stream nearby couldn’t calm her down. The worst was the flies seemed attracted to her own sweat, and after being wafted away from the corpse, would try and alight on her forehead or neck.
In Ros’s experience, the hands of a corpse were often frozen into fists, which made it the devil’s own job to powder ridge detail, but Blake Crosby had hit the ground palms out and that’s where he’d stayed through the developing process of rigor. He lay now face up, pale creases among the lividity in his face, dirt stuck to his cheek, insects scurrying away from the light. Hands face up, fingers straight out; he looked like a man in a glass coffin, trying to keep the lid from crushing him. Ros almost, but not quite, smiled at the thought.
* * *
She couldn’t know for sure whether Blake Crosby was right- or left-handed. And since she thought it might be wise to know if he’d handled a firearm recently, it would be a good idea to swab for gunshot residues in the web of his thumbs and along the edge of the index fingers before swabbing the rest of each hand for contact DNA.
She remembered Jeffery asking for tapings of his hands too, but after all the swabbing, and after being crushed by his own body weight for several hours she thought it unlikely to produce much in the way of results. But still, she had to show willing.
Once all the swabbing was complete, Ros changed gloves again, got herself as comfortable as she could and prepared the tapings kit. And that’s when her phone rang.
— Four —
Eddie had photographed the rock, taken the embedded hairs from it, and even seized it. He didn’t yet know how thorough MCU were, and so he thought he’d better err on the side of caution. And then he set to gathering the white fibres from the trunk of the oak after recording their height from the ground, and photographing them, and gathered the white fibres too from the twig nearby. The twig was smooth, its young bark was shiny, and half way along its three-foot length were bits of ridge detail in blood, very very faint, but still, it was every scene examiner’s dream to find them.
Black by Rose Page 10
