by D. S. Butler
Charlotte was busy making notes.
“Did you have a tempestuous relationship?” Mackinnon asked.
“Not really.”
“Were you ever violent?”
“No! I told you. I would never hurt her.”
Noah got to his feet and paced the small area in front of the television.
“I know this is upsetting, but we need to ask these questions.”
Noah shook his head and grunted. His fists were still clenched, and his face was flushed.
“Had Ashley been worried about anything or anyone recently?”
Noah thought for a moment. “No, she was fine. We only broke up because I like to have a drink and go out with my friends a lot. It was my fault. I should have been a better boyfriend.”
“What about health issues?”
“Health? No, she’s always been perfectly healthy.”
“She’s never suffered from depression that you know of?”
“No, I don’t think anyone would say Ashley was depressed. She was always so happy and bubbly. Why do you ask that?”
“It was just something one of her friends said.”
“Who?”
Mackinnon didn’t answer his question. Noah Thorne was an interesting character. It was hard to judge a person’s true nature after they’d received devastating news. Their emotions were all over the place and unpredictable. But from Noah’s reactions, Mackinnon suspected he was hotheaded and quick to temper. Of course, that alone didn’t make him a killer.
“Have you had any visitors to your flat over the past ten days?”
Noah’s upper lip curled in anger. “I don’t like where this questioning is going. I didn’t have Ashley locked up here if that’s what you mean. And as a matter of fact, yes I did have visitors, including Ashley’s own parents. They came here last Tuesday so we could brainstorm ways we could search for Ashley. We made posters…”
Noah’s voice trailed off. He cradled his head in his hands and began to sob.
After work, Mackinnon made his way to his friend Derek’s flat. He usually stayed there overnight while he was working and went back to Chloe and the girls in Oxford when he had a day off. Lately, he’d been staying in London more often, not minding if he was called to cover someone else’s shift. Guilt nagged at him, but he just found it easier. As Sarah, Chloe’s eldest daughter, had been thrown out of college and evicted from the halls of residence, she was now back at home, and the atmosphere was not good. Sarah and Chloe were always at each other’s throats.
Sarah had made it very clear she didn’t like Mackinnon, although to be fair, Sarah wasn’t particularly warm and friendly to anyone. Since she had come home, Mackinnon found it easier to stay in London and keep out of the way. He missed Katy, though. Chloe’s youngest daughter was funny and clever. She’d taken to calling Mackinnon when she needed help with homework. Though it had to be said, he failed to answer most of her questions. He didn’t remember learning half the stuff Katy asked him about when he’d been at school.
Derek’s dog, Molly, greeted Mackinnon enthusiastically at the door. He had never known such a loving dog. He put the takeaway curry down on the floor to make a fuss of her.
“Evening,” Derek said, walking into the hall. “Is that our dinner?”
Mackinnon reached over and handed him the takeaway bag. “It is. I got the usual.”
“Perfect. I’ll plate up.”
Molly followed Mackinnon, wagging her tail, as he put his bag into the spare room. When he walked into the kitchen, Derek pressed a bottle of beer in his hand.
“Now, before you go off on one, the food processors in the sitting room are completely legitimate. A friend of mine bought too many, so I’m selling them on for him.”
With a sigh, Mackinnon took his beer and walked into the sitting room. Stacked against the wall were at least twenty-five boxes containing top of the range food processors. “Where did you get them?”
“I told you. A friend.”
Mackinnon took a sip of his beer and shook his head. “You do recall I’m a police officer?”
Derek smiled. “Of course.” He clinked the neck of his beer bottle against Mackinnon’s. “Let’s eat.”
Mackinnon ate his extra spicy Rogan Josh in front of the TV. Derek had recorded an old American football Super Bowl game. He’d been trying to follow the sport for a while now. But the rules still confused him at times.
“How’s work?” Derek asked, scraping his fork to collect the last mouthful of madras on his plate.
“Interesting. I was acting SIO on a case for all of five minutes today.”
“Does that mean a promotion? Extra money?”
“I wish.”
“You work too hard.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“How are Chloe and the girls doing?”
“Katy is doing great. Still top of her class. Chloe’s having a hard time now that Sarah is at home, though.”
“What happened to make the University throw her out?”
Mackinnon took a sip of his beer. “Stealing.”
Derek dropped his fork on his plate. “What did she steal?”
“Money from a collection apparently. We’re still waiting to hear if she’s going to be criminally charged.”
“Doesn’t she know you’re a police officer?” Derek asked with a smirk.
“Honestly, she doesn’t seem to care. I know she’s young, and she’s Chloe’s daughter, but it’s really hard to get along with her.”
“Sounds like she could have done with a slap or two when she was growing up.”
“People don’t slap their children these days, Derek.”
“I don’t see why not. My mother wasn’t scared of walloping me if I did something wrong, and I turned out okay.”
Mackinnon glanced at the stacked food processors and raised an eyebrow. “Yes, you’re a model citizen.”
Molly looked heartbroken to see that both Mackinnon and Derek had completely emptied their plates.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Mackinnon said as he took their plates out to the kitchen. “Curry is not good for your digestion.” He rubbed his chest and popped a Rennie in his mouth. “It’s not that great for mine either.”
As he washed up the plates, he thought back through the events of the day. Collins had reported a glitch with the CCTV software, which meant there was a delay in getting the footage of their suspect and Ashley on her journey home from work on the day she went missing. The technology was fantastic when it worked. But when things went wrong, it was a disaster. He hoped the bug, whatever was causing it, would be fixed by tomorrow. Despite speaking to Ashley’s parents, her ex-boyfriend and work colleagues, Mackinnon felt they were no closer to understanding what had happened to Ashley in the ten days she’d been missing.
He put the clean plates in the cupboard and then reached into his pocket for his mobile phone to call Chloe. He saw he’d missed a text message from her forty minutes earlier.
Absolutely shattered. Going to bed early. Night x
He put the phone back in his pocket and returned to the sitting room to watch the rest of the old Super Bowl with Derek.
He wasn’t planning to stay up too late. DCI Brookbank had done as promised and arranged for the postmortem to be bumped up the queue. It was scheduled for first thing tomorrow morning, and Mackinnon was planning to attend.
With Molly curled up by his feet, he sipped his beer and kept his focus on the television, trying to put the case out of his mind.
Chapter Eleven
The following morning, Mackinnon was at the mortuary before eight. He sat on the hard plastic seats outside the entrance waiting for the arrival of Dr Duncan Blair.
Within a few minutes, he caught sight of the pathologist striding down the corridor, clutching a takeaway coffee cup in one hand and a leather document case in the other.
“I see your DCI managed to get the postmortem bumped up the queue, Jack,” he said as he came to a stop beside Mackinno
n. “Is it still a priority case?”
Mackinnon nodded. “Absolutely. I’d like to attend the PM if possible.”
“Not a problem. You might want to leave me to get the preliminary stuff out of the way first and then I’ll talk you through what I found. Police officers often get squeamish when the chest saw comes out.”
Mackinnon had no burning desire to witness that part of the postmortem. But he did want to see Ashley’s body as the pathologist ran through his report. “Shall I wait here?”
“You can, or in the hospital cafeteria upstairs. You could get yourself some breakfast.”
Mackinnon took his advice and headed up to the cafeteria. The cooked breakfast smelled surprisingly good, but he held back. He didn’t want heavy, greasy food sitting in his stomach just before he went to a postmortem. Instead, he ordered a black coffee and took a seat at a table by the window. Then he used his phone to check his email.
Collins had sent out an update. Apparently, they were still struggling with the bug and were unable to download and view the CCTV files. It looked like something in the system had been corrupted.
Mackinnon didn’t know much about software and coding, but it didn’t sound good. He hoped the system hadn’t been attacked by a virus.
He would miss the early morning briefing, but could catch up with the briefing notes when he got back to the station.
When he’d finished his coffee, he returned to the mortuary. He sat on the chairs outside again but didn’t have to wait long.
One of the mortuary assistants poked their head through the double doors.
“DS Mackinnon?”
Mackinnon got to his feet. “Yes.”
“Dr Blair is ready for you now.”
As Mackinnon walked through the double doors, the smell of disinfectant and the sickly sweet smell of death washed over him. The floors and walls were pristine, but no matter how clean the place was, the smell of death lingered.
The mortuary assistant led him into a bright sterile room. Dr Blair was standing beside an autopsy table. He turned and waved Mackinnon over.
“Nice breakfast?”
“I decided to give it a miss.”
“Probably wise.” The pathologist smirked.
The naked body of Ashley Burrows lay on the autopsy table. Fluid had been caught by the raised edges of the table. Mackinnon’s stomach rolled and he was glad he hadn’t gone for the bacon and eggs. He’d been to postmortems before, but hadn’t expected the smell to be quite as overpowering this time. The body was relatively fresh, and yet smelled really bad.
He took a step back, still staring down at Ashley’s blotchy skin. “Did you identify a cause of death?”
“Sepsis.”
Mackinnon tore his eyes away from Ashley and looked at the pathologist.
Dr Blair nodded. “She had an infection, probably from these scratches. Bacteria from her skin entered her bloodstream. That’s what killed her.”
Mackinnon had been expecting the cause of death to be trauma. But sepsis? Had it been accidental? But if so, why dump her body?
His gaze travelled back to Ashley and focused on the bruising around her wrists. It looked like she’d been restrained and that made a natural death very unlikely.
“Why didn’t she go to the hospital?” Mackinnon wondered aloud.
“I don’t know. That’s your department. But I did find something interesting. Do you remember I said the bumps on her arms looked like insect bites?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I think I was right, and I think I might know what insect caused them.”
“What?”
“Cimex lectularius.”
Mackinnon looked at him blankly.
“Bedbugs. You see here where the bites appear in relatively straight lines and in groups of three.” He pointed a gloved finger at a trail of red bumps on Ashley’s left arm.
Mackinnon looked closely and then nodded.
“That’s typical of bedbugs. Each bug usually bites three times. Morbidly, some people refer to it as breakfast, lunch and dinner.”
Mackinnon didn’t consider himself particularly squeamish but he fought back a wave of revulsion. “Is that how she caught the infection?”
Dr Blair shrugged. “Possibly, although it’s more likely the infection came as she scratched the bites. She needn’t have died. A simple dose of antibiotics could have stopped the infection in its tracks.”
Mackinnon wondered again why Ashley had been unable to get medical treatment. Whoever was keeping her captive, must have watched her deteriorate and known she needed medical help. He gritted his teeth.
“And the marks on her wrists?”
“As we suspected when we first saw her body, they are ligature marks, caused by plastic cable ties. I believe she was restrained for some time. We need to wait for the toxicology panel to come back, but there are no external indications of drug use.”
“And the bites on her arms,” Mackinnon said, “are they only localised there?”
“Yes, oddly they are only on her forearms. I suppose it could be they were the easiest access points for the bedbugs, but the insects are tiny little things and can creep through gaps in clothing easily.”
“I suppose the bites caused the intense scratching and that led to the infection then,” Mackinnon said, thinking aloud.
“Yes. It’s likely that although she had her wrists bound, they were in front of her body rather than behind, which allowed her to scratch her arms.”
Instinctively, Mackinnon rubbed his own arms. “So it looks like Ashley was held somewhere infested with bedbugs?”
The doctor nodded. “It looks that way.”
There was a squeak from a gurney as another body was wheeled in next door. Over the muffled voices, he heard the sound of the hoses being turned on. He shivered. It was much colder in the mortuary than anywhere else in the hospital, but the shiver had come from a mixture of imagining the insects crawling over Ashley’s skin as well as anger that Ashley had died needlessly.
The results from the postmortem had made the case more complicated. Ashley hadn’t been stabbed or strangled, but whoever had been with her in the last days of her life and prevented her from getting medical treatment was responsible for her death.
He didn’t know much about bedbugs, other than the fact just thinking about them made his skin crawl. That was some research he wasn’t looking forward to.
They finished up talking about a few more aspects of the postmortem, and Mackinnon left the mortuary after Dr Blair promised to get the report to him as soon as possible.
Despite the heat, Mackinnon was glad to get out of the hospital and breathe fresh London air. It was only mid-morning, but already the temperature had reached twenty-five degrees. The perfect temperature for lazing about in the garden at home, but irritating when you needed to work in central London and get about on the underground.
As soon as he started down the steps at the underground entrance, the warm stale air hit him. Removing his jacket, he draped it over his arm, but it didn’t make much difference.
He got on an eastbound train and was pleased to see the carriage was quiet. Taking a seat, between a young Asian man with huge white headphones covering his ears and a middle-aged white woman, who clutched her handbag on her lap, Mackinnon pulled out his phone.
The signal was poor, but he managed to type bedbugs into the Google search engine and tapped on the first link before it disappeared completely.
An image of a bedbug appeared on his phone screen. It was reddish-brown and almost completely flat. The zoomed-in picture was a scary sight. He shuddered.
The younger bugs were a light cream colour. Further down the page was a picture of typical bite marks from a bedbug. As Dr Blair had said, the bites typically occurred in groups of three. The marks appeared to be a close match to those on Ashley’s skin.
As he read further, he screwed up his face in disgust. The statistics were particularly worrying. But then again, not everything o
n the Internet was true. He’d be better off speaking to a real expert. Perhaps someone from pest control at the council.
He felt rather than saw the woman beside him lean a fraction closer. He glanced sideways to see she was staring at his phone. Her eyes were wide. Then she shuffled to the right, moving as far away as possible.
Mackinnon tried not to smile. That would teach her to be nosy.
The train rattled and jerked as it tore along the tunnel. The tinny music from the earphones on the man next to him was irritating. Mackinnon scrolled down the page and then, to his horror, read that bedbugs had been found on public transport. He glanced at the rough material covering the seat beneath him.
Perhaps he should have remained standing.
Chapter Twelve
He stared at the bottle of whiskey in front of him. Morning drinking. How had it come to this? He was supposed to change the world, but Ashley had gone and died on him when she was supposed to be helping him in his fight against the non-believers.
He’d got the antibiotics for her, hadn’t he? If only she’d held on for just a few more hours…
The unopened box of co-amoxiclav, a combination of amoxicillin and clavulanate, sat on the table, mocking him.
He poured two fingers of whiskey into his coffee mug. Everything was against him. It wasn’t fair. Just when he thought he’d found somebody who might help with his plan, everything went terribly wrong.
He took a sip of the whiskey and sniffed. He’d been devastated when he’d found her body. All that chasing around for antibiotics had been pointless.
When he got back, antibiotics clutched in his hand, he’d gone straight up to the loft, and at first he’d assumed she was sleeping. Sleeping was all she ever seemed to do. He leaned down to shake her awake and got the fright of his life when her head flopped towards him. Her eyes were wide open, unseeing and lifeless.
He screwed up his face and took another mouthful of whiskey.
