IMPURITY

by Ray Clark

  “I don’t like your tone.”

  “The feeling’s mutual. And you are?”

  “Olive Bradshaw. The landlady.”

  Gardener glanced around, now that he could actually see. The peeling paper exposed walls covered in green mould, streaked with black lines. An offensive smell of mildew permeated the passage.

  Horrified at the degradation, he asked, “You actually charge people money to live like this?”

  She was about to speak when she saw the young constable wandering back in from the yard.

  The PC’s complexion was pale, his expression grave. His uniform bore an orange stain across the front from the brick wall Gardener had bent him over.

  “I suppose he’s just vomited all over my steps.”

  “No,” said Gardener. “I managed to save you from that. Though I shouldn’t think it would make much difference.” Before giving her the chance to reply, he faced the constable. “Have you finished?”

  “I think so.”

  Gardener turned to the landlady. “Where do you live?”

  She pointed to the room in the corner of the ground floor.

  “Well, get yourself back in there and stop walking all over our crime scene.”

  He addressed the constable. “Go with her and take a statement. When you’ve finished, stand by the front door and see that she doesn’t leave.”

  “I knew something like this was bound to happen,” continued Olive Bradshaw. “I only went to bingo. I had heard the commotion before I went out, never thought I’d come back to this. Who’s going to pay for it to be cleaned? That’s what I want to know.”

  Gardener ignored her and continued up the stairs.

  Chapter Three

  On the way up, Gardener passed a girl cradling a crying child. She threw out a venomous jibe, which he ignored.

  The top landing was about eight feet square. The threadbare carpet must have been original, as its colour was hard to distinguish. He noticed a cupboard door in the wall to his right.

  To his left, another ashen-faced constable with watering eyes barred entry into the room behind him.

  Filtering out was a strong, overpowering odour Gardener couldn’t place. It smelled of blocked drains and rotten garbage.

  “What is that smell?”

  The PC pointed to the room.

  “Is there a body in there?”

  “If that’s what you can call it.”

  “What would you call it?”

  He hesitated before offering. “A mess!”

  “Who found it?”

  “The landlady. About half an hour ago. Maybe a bit longer, sir.”

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Benson, sir. Paul Benson.”

  Benson had curly ginger hair with brown eyes. His smooth voice and pleasant manner indicated he was either a little shy or he felt intimidated in the presence of a senior officer. His face bore the scars of teenage acne. Gardener estimated his age as early twenties. Benson appeared to be standing up well, considering what he’d apparently seen.

  “Take me through what happened.”

  “The desk sergeant took a call. The landlady was complaining about an offensive smell.

  He asked her if that was all and she said no. She wouldn’t go into detail but she couldn’t open the door, and she needed us, quickly.”

  “So, you came straight away?”

  “Yes, sir. We could smell it as soon as we entered the premises. Me and Rick Johnson. He’s the one you probably passed by on the way in, being sick.”

  “We met briefly.”

  “Anyway, we came up here. The landlady was still trying to push this door open.” He pointed to the room behind him. “I persuaded her not to go in. She gave us grief, but did as I asked.”

  “Have you been in the room?”

  “No, sir. Just poked my head round the gap in the door from where she started to open it.”

  “I’m still here,” shouted the girl on the stairs. “About time you all fucked off and let us get some sleep.”

  Gardener glanced over the banister at her glaring up at them.

  He addressed the constable while still staring at the girl. “Go down to her flat, take a statement. Don’t let her mess you around. I don’t care how late it is. Keep her in there.”

  Paul Benson nodded and did as he was asked.

  Gardener turned to the apartment door. The lock was intact, no damage to the woodwork.

  As he pushed on it, he felt resistance. He pressed harder, sliding his head through the gap to see inside. His eyes went wide with horror as the door opened.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Chapter Four

  As Benson approached the girl with her baby, standing before the doorway to her flat, she glared at him in disgust.

  “How many more of you lot are there? I’m trying to get me fuckin’ kid to sleep. People been paradin’ through here all night. Don’t care for how much noise you make.”

  Benson studied the girl, startled at her appearance. He figured she was no more than seventeen. Her long black hair sat matted and unwashed upon her head. She sported a purple bruise under her left eye, uneven teeth, and puncture marks on her arms. She wore scruffy faded denims and a ripped black T-shirt. Appalled by her unkempt appearance and rancid odour, Benson took an involuntary step back.

  “I need to take a statement from you, miss.”

  “You’ll be lucky,” she replied. “Seen what time it is?”

  “Look, it won’t take long. What’s your name?”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t give me any grief. The boss man up there’s in no mood for games.”

  “Really? Who does he think he is, Dirty Harry? What’s that fucking hat all about?” she mocked.

  Gardener’s voice from the landing above stopped her in her tracks.

  “Are you going to get that statement, Benson, or do I have to spend all night in this human cesspool?”

  Benson opened his mouth to reply when Gardener spoke again, much louder.

  “You can tell her if she doesn’t cooperate, I’ll nick her for obstruction and have her down the station so fast, she’ll think her feet have been spit-roasted.”

  The girl’s expression changed. “Nicki Carter,” she said sullenly. “Has anyone told him about police harassment?”

  “Have you been here all night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Give me five minutes and a statement and I’ll leave you in peace.”

  Chapter Five

  The flat bore all the characteristics of the rest of the building: shitty carpets, warped wood, peeling wallpaper. No doubt the room smelled under normal circumstances, but he doubted it could compete with the decayed remains on the carpet.

  The corpse had somehow disintegrated inside the clothing. A bubbling brown mess remained, which leaked across the floor. It was basically a skin sack hugging a skeletal frame. The brown gunge was still secreting its way through the clothing. Gardener’s brain worked overtime trying to assess the cause of such a rapid deterioration.

  A few things came to mind. Acid, paint stripper, or possibly even a poison of some kind. The most prominent question by far, though, was whether or not it was something contagious.

  One floor below, there was a young baby to consider. The child would be far more susceptible than any adult. He sighed. Two solid weeks without a break or a partner, and now a riddle the size of the Dead Sea Scrolls. He had no choice. He would have to return to the front door, stop anyone else from entering the building. The crime scene had probably been contaminated already. He needed to make a call.

  There were two distinct directorates within the Crime and Response service – each with its own bronze, silver and gold command structure. Response had already worked. The uniforms had attended. Gardener was Crime, and bronze. His Detective Chief Inspector, based in the control room, was silver. They were twenty-four seven.

  Gardener called DCI Briggs and declared a Hazchem incident.

&nbs
p; Within thirty minutes, the boys in the suits arrived and cordoned off the house. They distributed paper overgarments for everyone at the scene. They collected stepping plates and clear tenting from the van, and began the process of sealing the building up.

  Gardener felt completely helpless. The whole process was now on a go-slow. He wouldn’t be allowed near the crime scene until it had been cleared. Lord only knew what time that would be.

  Chapter Six

  Outside, Gardener studied a group of people whispering to each other across the street.

  He wondered if any of them had seen anything. He seriously doubted it. No one ever did.

  He sighed and peered down the street. To an outsider, Rawston appeared as a reassuring scene of frost-covered, two-up-two-down, back-to-back terraced houses set against the background of a thriving textile industry. Reminiscent of an Ealing Studio’s B-movie, the close-knit community would spend the night indoors huddled around the fire, wrapping presents for their broods of children safely tucked up in bed, surrounded by the mouth-watering aroma of chestnuts roasting in the grate.

  To him, the maze of buildings concealed a new breed, representing the filthiest scum the city offered. The enterprising drug pusher, attempting to build his empire by adding more clients to an ever-growing list of depraved addicts who’d stop at nothing for the next fix. Then came the perverts, the child molesters, and porn kings trading black market videos, magazines, and DVDs in an effort to satisfy an insatiable appetite.

  Merry Christmas, Stewart, thought Gardener.

  Chapter Seven

  Staring at the rundown building, Gardener wondered what the hell was going on.

  “Bout ya?” said Detective Sergeant Sean Reilly, poking his shoulder.

  Startled, Gardener nearly jumped out of his skin. “Jesus, Sean.” He relaxed a little. “I’m sorry. I was miles away.”

  “So I noticed.”

  “How’s it going?” Gardener shook his partner’s hand.

  Reilly couldn’t have timed things any better. Gardener needed to bounce ideas around.

  He always found his partner’s solid frame a measure of his personality, someone he could rely on in a crisis. The Ulsterman stood six feet six, his mouse-coloured hair long overdue for a trim. His probing brown eyes told you he wouldn’t believe a word you said until you exhaustively convinced him you were telling the truth. They were a complement to his hard-and-fast interrogating techniques. He worked well with Gardener, allowing them to use the hard-man, soft-man approach to their advantage. He wore, as usual, a brown leather bomber jacket and jeans.

  “Well enough,” said Reilly. “Not sure I can say the same about you.”

  “Have Laura and Feargal come back with you?”

  “They’re staying another week, what with it being nearly Christmas. I don’t blame them. I wish I could have stayed.”

  Gardener respected Reilly for two things. A family man, Reilly enjoyed an excellent relationship with his wife and son. After Sarah’s death, it had been Sean Reilly who knocked him back into shape, forcing him to return to work. Gardener felt indebted to his colleague. That aside, he was also excellent at his job.

  “I’m pleased you didn’t,” said Gardener.

  “Why don’t I like the sound of this?” Reilly glanced around.

  “It’s a major problem. We can’t go in.” Gardener pointed to the door behind him.

  The rest of Gardener’s team had arrived. He gathered together Detective Constables Colin Sharp, Frank Thornton, and Bob Anderson. They were accompanied by a young woman Police Constable by the name of Robinson, and a number of operational support officers he’d never seen before.

  “Thanks for coming out. I don’t intend to keep anyone longer than necessary. Briefly, a call came in around half past ten. The landlady found one of her tenants dead. Two PCs arrived before me to secure the scene. The deceased is male. He hasn’t been shot, stabbed, strangled, kicked to death or had his life taken by any other means known to man. What I found were decayed remains on the carpet. You wouldn’t think it was human from the condition. Somehow the body disintegrated inside the clothing.”

  “When you say disintegrated…?” prompted Thornton.

  “Just that, Frank. It’s a sack of skin holding the skeletal frame together. The brown gunge was still oozing its way through the clothing when I last saw it.”

  “Any idea what caused it?” asked Reilly.

  “No,” said Gardener. “Which is why I’ve had to call Silver and declare a Hazchem incident.”

  “That’s all we need,” moaned Anderson. “Judging by the smell that’s wafting through that front door, I’d say he’s been there for days. Doesn’t look like that adds up, though, with the expression on your face.”

  “The landlady went to bingo at half past six. Apparently, he was fine then. Four hours later, he was spread out all over the floor.”

  “Christ,” said Reilly.

  “You all know well enough that criminals have little consideration for anyone but themselves, least of all us,” Gardener said to the group. “It’s cold, it’s late, and the people I’ve spoken to have even less respect for us than for the victim. Let’s do what we have to, fast.”

  Shivering a little, Gardener blew into his hands. “We’re in Rawston, so most of the community will still be awake. If there are no lights on, don’t knock people up. We can always call back in the morning. I want you to split up and do a house-to-house. You know the drill. You know what we’re looking for. Keep it brief. If you pick up on anything, make notes, and we’ll come back in daylight. The two PCs are in the house taking statements from the residents.”

  Gardener turned to his sergeant. “Sean, you and I will search the deceased’s flat once Hazchem give us the all-clear.”

  He turned to the group. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Eight

  Gardener glanced at his watch as the Home Office pathologist, Doctor George Fitzgerald, came out the front door carrying his medical bag and still wearing a scene suit and mask. His watch read five o’clock.

  Gardener approached him. “Can you tell us anything?”

  Fitz removed his mask, drew in some fresh air. “Not really, but you’ll be pleased to know Hazchem doesn’t think it’s contagious. From what I’ve seen, it looks like all the proteins have broken down. There’s nothing left. Nothing I can use to start my investigation.”

  “Don’t suppose you know what might have caused it?”

  “Not without further tests. Who found him?”

  “The landlady. A woman named Olive Bradshaw.”

  “What time?”

  “About half past ten. Claims she went to bingo around half past six, came back, and this had happened.”

  Fitz shook his head. “You can’t do this to a body in a few hours.”

  Gardener stared up at the heavens. “Somebody has.”

  Fitz checked his watch. “Kevin Swan will be down shortly. His team is just finishing up. They’re going to transport what’s left to the mortuary. He’s declared the scene safe, so you should be able to move things forward.”

  “At least that’s something.”

  Fitz left.

  An hour passed before the senior Hazchem officer gave Gardener the green light.

  He’d been there six and a half hours, and hadn’t moved a muscle.

  He and Reilly donned scene suits and climbed up to the top storey. A stepping plate had been used for every stair. A few more on the landing led into the room. The building had been reduced to a deathly quiet.

  Once inside, the Irishman held his nose. “Jesus!”

  “If you think that’s bad, wait till you see the victim.”

  Gardener studied the flat. On the floor behind the door sat a brown stain where the remains had been. Woodchip wallpaper, magnolia in colour and dirty, decorated the walls. The filthy nets and curtains and windows combined with the threadbare carpet created a general atmosphere of depression. Along one wall sat a stained and discoloured brown
Dralon settee, which had seen better days. The springs threatened to poke through the cushions. A similar seat backed up to another wall, facing an old pre-digital TV. In the corner of a makeshift kitchen, pots and pans were stacked high, caked with stale food. Next to them lay a pile of discarded takeaway foils.

  The bedroom stood equally as offensive. The paper had peeled and slid down the wall.

  Filth caked the carpet, making it sticky. The unmade bed stank with the odour of stale sweat mixed with God knows what else. No curtains covered the window, but who was likely to see in when you were on the top storey?

  The pair of them left the bedroom.

  “Doesn’t look like he’s cleaned up in years,” Gardener said. “I really don’t want to spend any more time in here than I have to. We still need to sort through the witness statements. Let’s crack on.”

  After an extensive search, the pair came up with nothing more than a few pornographic magazines and DVDs, most of them Dutch and German. Gardener kept them for the incident room exhibit store back at the station.

  Chapter Nine

  Gardener and Reilly returned to the station after eight. Most of the team were already processing information. Despite it being early, the building showed signs of activity. Phones rang constantly, keeping everyone busy. A handful of officers watched a small TV in the canteen, and a radio played in a tearoom close to Gardener’s office.

  Paul Benson and Rick Johnson appeared, coffees in hand. Gardener waved them to his office, where he found Reilly, also with a coffee and a half-eaten doughnut. He sat with his chair tilted back and his legs stretched across the top of his desk.

  Detective Constable Colin Sharp stood in front of him, a thirty-something dedicated professional with a dark complexion, a deep, resonant voice, and premature balding. Sharp had obviously said something funny because Reilly’s infectious cackle reverberated around the room.

  “Here’s the boss now,” said Reilly, his feet still on his desk. “Would you care for a coffee?”