Nobeca

by Lloyd Nesling

  For a few minutes he lay still, trying to gather his thoughts. All he remembered was calling out for the dog, then nothing. Shifting his body slightly to ease the pain, he gingerly prodded his arms and ribs. His right leg stuck out at an unnatural angle, otherwise nothing else appeared to be broken. He felt around the ground until he touched a mess of sticky fluid and fur. With a sharp gasp he drew his hand away. It was the dog. She had cushioned his fall, but there was something else.

  Peering into the gloom he made out a bundle of some sort. He pulled at the fabric. In a nanosecond he saw the glassy, dead eyes staring at him, the mouth pulled back across the teeth of the corpse in a hideous death grin. He heard a high-pitched scream; a scream that went on and on. When it finally stopped, he realised that the terrifying scream was his own.

  Eyes wild with horror, he pressed himself against the slimy shaft wall. Suddenly, shouting; tramping feet; the frantic barking of a dog; a face hovering high above him. By the time the emergency services arrived he was hysterical; muttering incoherently like a madman.

  Dangling precariously, a paramedic lowered himself into the shaft, swaying slightly until his feet touched solid ground.

  “It’s okay mate, we’ll get you out in no time,” he said reassuringly.

  Expertly, he strapped the man onto a stretcher, secured his head and slowly winched him to the surface. The paramedic hovered over his patient checking his vital signs.

  “There’s a body down there and it’s not very pretty,” he said, turning to the policeman at his side.

  Inspector Juliff shone his torch into the cavernous hole. A shapeless mound lay sprawled at the bottom. He sighed wearily and ran his hand over his head. He was completely bald except for a tuft of ginger hair that looked as though it had been stuck on near his hairline. Shrewd brown eyes stared from his jowly face like currants embedded in a bun.

  About fifty yards away, a group of curious people huddled in whispered conversation.

  “What’s the story, Inspector?” shouted a man wielding a camera.

  Juliff ignored him. “Keep the press away. We don’t want the papers getting hold of it until we’ve established the cause of death. The pathologist and CID are on their way.”

  Grey-white mist was already wrapping its fingers around shadowy trees silhouetted against a backdrop of murky light; snaking through gnarled trunks, clawing at sodden branches. People walking their dogs stopped to stare at the fluttering blue and white police tape cordoning off the shaft. A black van, doors flung wide, waited a few feet away. White-suited scene-of-crime officers hovered nearby as the body was brought to the surface. Intermittent flashes of light came from somewhere near the line of trees.

  “Get over there, Constable. Confiscate those cameras if you have to,” growled Juliff. “All right, Pete, you can get your pictures now.”

  After a couple of preliminary shots Juliff untied the rope securing the blanket. The police photographer moved round the body capturing images of the corpse from various angles.

  “That’s it, it’s all yours Doc,” he said. A slim, fair-haired woman stepped forward and squatted beside the corpse.

  “Dr Barnett!”

  The pathologist’s head jerked around at the sound of the familiar voice. Detective Chief Inspector Ben Wallace trudged towards her.

  “What have we got?” he asked, in his usual peremptory manner.

  “Male, thirty to forty years old. He’s been dead for quite some time. No knife or gunshot wounds. Except for the smashed-up face and fingers there are a few bruises. I can’t tell you any more at this stage, not until I’ve carried out a post mortem,” she said getting to her feet. “I should have something to tell you by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Wallace replied grimly.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Shropshire, England

  Wallace hated this part of his job. He didn’t have a very strong stomach at the best of times. The stink of disinfectant hit his nostrils as he opened the door to the mortuary. Whenever he came down here the smell seemed to cling to his clothing for days afterwards.

  He poked his head round the door, his eyes travelling over the tiled walls, stainless steel sinks and the drain in the floor. A still shape lay under a green sheet on a gurney. A technician, writing at a metal worktop, swivelled round in his chair as the door swung open. Dr Barnett pulled down her surgical mask and looked at Wallace, noting his waxen face. Tossing him a pair of rubber gloves she smiled inwardly, relishing his discomfort.

  “You’re not going to like this one, Ben. It’s very strange. There’s some evidence of sedative drugs; mainly benzodiazepines. Judging by the shape of these marks I’d say he was also battered with a rounded object, perhaps a large stone. His fingertips have been partially burned away as well. What I can tell you is that he was suffocated before the injuries were inflicted. Also, his right kidney has been removed fairly recently. I’ll know more when we get the toxicology reports.”

  “Whoever killed him had a very strong motive for not wanting him to be identified. The SOCOs couldn’t find anything at all that would identify him,” Wallace added.

  Dr Barnett handed him a plastic evidence bag containing the filthy sheet in which the body had been wrapped.

  “Just there, in the corner. Chemicals from constant cleaning have almost obliterated it, but I’m certain it’s a hospital number. It’s used to identify bedding for auditing purposes.”

  “Jo, you’re a gem, a real little gem! We should be able to trace this to the hospital it came from fairly quickly.”

  “I’ll let you know if I find anything … ”

  She didn’t have time to finish the sentence. He was already pushing his way through the strip plastic doors.

  By the time he arrived at the incident room, set up in the local community hall, it was a hive of activity. At the far end a technician was busy fiddling with a computer set up close to an electronic whiteboard. Cables and boxes of equipment littered the tables.

  “Get forensics on to this straight away,” he ordered, shoving the evidence bag at his sergeant. “The pathologist found a hospital number on the sheet. It shouldn’t be too difficult to trace. Butler, get hold of the police artist. The victim’s face was badly smashed up, but he may be able to come up with a rough likeness.”

  He sighed audibly; there was so little evidence to go on. They were a long way from even establishing a motive for the killing. His eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep. He hadn’t had a chance to rest after conducting the arson case before this had dropped in his lap. Wearily, he shuffled into his overcoat and headed for the door.

  “There’s nothing we can do until tomorrow morning, Butler,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “Go home. Get some sleep. You’re going to need it.”

  Butler kicked a box aside as he barged through the throng of bodies in the incident room early the next morning. He pushed a piece of A4 paper at his DCI. Wallace grabbed it and examined it closely.

  “Dr Barnett was right. It’s a laundry mark.”

  This was all they had to go on. No wallet, clothes tags, absolutely nothing! Wallace drummed the desk impatiently. He wasn’t looking forward to trekking round the hospitals.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Salop Royal Infirmary

  The young woman manning reception at Salop Royal Infirmary completely ignored them when they approached the desk. Her eyes flicked from the keyboard to the computer screen and back again.

  “I’d like to speak to the hospital manager,” Wallace said, producing his ID card.

  Perfunctorily, she dialled an extension number. “His secretary says Mr Jessop is about to go into a meeting. You’ll have to make an appointment.”

  Wallace grabbed the telephone. This is Detective Chief Inspector Wallace, Borton CID. Tell him I want to see him now.”

  Mrs Crowley, the secretary, ushered them into the manager’s office with a curt nod. Jessop introduced himself in a silky drawl. He motioned them to the
comfortable chairs facing his desk.

  “We’re investigating a murder,” Wallace said. “The body was found wrapped in a sheet.” He showed him the photocopy of the laundry mark. “We’re trying to establish whether it came from a local hospital.”

  “Mrs Crowley, ask the housekeeping supervisor to come up please, straight away.”

  A few minutes later she ushered in a grey-haired woman, an anxious expression clouding her face. She looked from one man to the other as though expecting bad news.

  “It’s all right, Mrs Glover, nothing to be alarmed about,” Jessop assured her.

  “This is Detective Chief Inspector Wallace and Detective Sergeant Butler. They are carrying out an investigation.” He picked up the photocopy and handed it to her. “Can you identify this laundry mark?”

  “All the hospitals in the area use the same one,” Mrs Glover replied. “Unfortunately, linen is sent out to private contractors for cleaning.” She shot the manager a tart glance. “It could be sent back to any of the hospitals. These days we can only keep track of quantities.” She squinted at the faded number then shook her head. “All I can tell you is that it is one used by the trust.”

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “Thank you, Mr Jessop,” Wallace said rising to leave. “We may be in touch again.”

  Back in the car Butler said, “Not much luck there.”

  A strand of blond hair fell across his forehead as he engaged the car into drive mode. He was a square-jawed, brawny man. Only his broken nose stopped him from being classically handsome. The result of too many tackles on the rugby field. In a curious way it enhanced his masculine appeal.

  “At least we know it’s a hospital sheet. That gives us a lead.”

  It was late afternoon when they pulled up outside a country pub. They found a table in a bay window and settled down with their drinks. Butler tucked into his steak and ale pie while Wallace prodded at his pasta. They had been on the road most of the day. Every hospital, including the private sector, told the same story about their laundry facilities. They had nothing more to go on than they had yesterday.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Police HQ, Shropshire

  Wallace barged into the incident room, his face grim. A uniformed constable quickly gathered up some papers and headed for the door, studiously avoiding looking at the DCI. In the middle of the room a knot of detectives huddled together laughing over a lewd joke. Wallace glowered at them malevolently. Everybody scuttled back to their work areas. They knew better than to get in his way.

  “Butler!” he snarled at his DS. “I want everybody in the briefing room in five minutes!”

  A red flush bloomed around Wallace’s collar. Gradually, it crept up his neck mottling his face with raspberry-red blotches. The case was three weeks old. Other than establishing the sheet was hospital property they had made no further progress. He was still smarting from his meeting with his Chief Superintendent that morning. Nicknamed ‘Crew Cut Charlie’, his gelled hair stuck up like a rough brush.

  “What have you got so far?” Charles Payne had asked crisply. “I’ve got the press on my back. I want results, Wallace.”

  “We’re overstretched as it is. I’ve still got officers on the arson case.”

  “This must take priority now. Put every man on it until you make some progress. Is that clear?”

  Wallace gritted his teeth as he rose to leave. Carefully, he closed the door behind him, resisting the temptation to slam it off its hinges.

  Detectives were waiting in the briefing room looking slightly apprehensive.

  “I’ve had the Chief Super on my back this morning. I want the whole crime scene area searched again, another complete fingertip search. There must be something we’ve missed.”

  A loose-limbed detective constable, his backside parked on a desk, groaned and rolled his eyes.

  “Have you got a problem with that, Baker?” Wallace snarled, his eyes bulging with anger.

  DC Baker slid off the desk into a chair behind his colleagues. He was already in the governor’s bad books after gaffing in the burglary case.

  Wallace stared at the photographs on the evidence board showing various shots of the corpse on its back and front. What was he missing? He looked closer at a blow-up of the battered face. Broken nose, shattered cheekbones and smashed forehead.

  Based mainly on guesswork, the police artist had struggled to produce a sketchy likeness for the press. It had been handed over to a forensic sculptor to reconstruct the face, but that would take time. Bending closer he examined the picture of the back of the head. Something flitted into his mind and out again before he could grasp it.

  The telephone jangled in the background. Butler snatched it, listened intently and slammed it back into its cradle.

  “Sir! They’ve found another body, on the riverbank near Atcham, half naked.”

  “The same killer,” Baker interjected.

  “We don’t know that yet!” Wallace snapped. “Haven’t you learned anything since you’ve been in CID. Never assume!”

  He stormed out, his face bright red. Pressing his fingers to his temples he took a deep breath. The blood pounding in his temples made him feel slightly nauseous. DS Butler followed him out, fervently hoping the victim was a suicide. Wallace whirled round angrily and glared at him. He looked as though he was about to chew him up and spit him out. Suddenly, his shoulders slumped. Butler was a good detective; intelligent, efficient and a promotion looming. He wondered how much longer he could keep him on the team.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Bayston Hill, Shropshire

  Wallace threw off his jacket, slumped into his favourite chair, and stared out at the rain lashing against the French doors. A low, moaning wind rattled through the trees sending shrivelled leaves sailing across the lawn. Twilight had descended prematurely, closing in: a living, breathing thing threatening to suffocate him. He always hated this time of year; the sense of decay and the wet mush of leaves underfoot. Not even the vibrant autumn colours lifted his spirits.

  Maggie, his on-off girlfriend of four years, handed him his usual single malt whisky and water. She was cabin crew on the British Airways transatlantic run. Between his job and her flying they rarely had any quality time together. She stormed into the kitchen to salvage his dried-up dinner, muttering about heart attacks and idiots. By the time she returned he was fast asleep.

  From somewhere far away a telephone shrilled. Wallace started out of his chair, momentarily disoriented. Knuckling his eyes he staggered to the coffee table and snapped his mobile open. It was Butler.

  “Matt Valens from the Shropshire Herald buzzed me a few minutes ago. Apparently, he went to a Fleet Street retirement bash in London over the weekend. According to a pal working on the Devon Courier, a naked body was washed up on the beach, not far from Portsmouth, a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Somebody probably fell overboard off a cross-channel ferry.”

  “But listen to this. The face and hands had been mutilated.”

  “Why didn’t we see anything in the press?”

  “That’s the thing, sir. After the police surgeon examined the body it was taken away. The SOCOs just packed up in the middle of their investigations. Not another word was heard about the incident. Matt decided to go down and do some digging. The body never arrived at the mortuary. It smells to high heaven.” He chuckled. “Sorry about the pun, sir.”

  “Get on to Hampshire CID. See what you can find out and tell Valens if he does any more digging around I want to know about it.”

  It’s hundreds of miles away, Wallace mused, tapping his bottom lip. There couldn’t be a connection with the body found in Shropshire. Could it be a copycat killing? What if Baker was right about the body on the riverbank? His bowels churned uncomfortably. Slumping into an oversized armchair, he knocked back the remainder of his whisky and closed his eyes. He wasn’t looking forward to another post mortem.

  CHAPTER T
WENTY

  Police HQ, Shropshire

  Wallace stomped up the stairs to the Chief Superintendent’s office and knocked on the partially-open door. In the outer office a grey-haired woman bent over a pile of papers on her desk. Giving him a withering glance over the top of her half-moon glasses, she tapped lightly on the inner door.

  “Sir, Detective Chief Inspector Wallace.”

  Miss Clancy smiled sweetly, closing the door discreetly behind her. Chief Superintendent Payne leaned back into the comfortable leather chair.

  “I assume you’ve made some progress on the Borton Wood murder.” Failing to disguise his exasperation he shuffled uneasily. “Our resources are not inexhaustible, Wallace.”

  Wallace hesitated before speaking, alert to the Superintendent’s mood.

  “Matt Valens claims a naked body washed up on the beach not far from Portsmouth. The face had been carved up. It’s a bit odd.”

  “That’s outside our jurisdiction!” Payne spluttered angrily.

  “Apparently, after the pathologist’s initial examination, the SOCOs and the fingerprint boys moved in. Less than an hour later, they were called off before they had barely started their investigations. Valens’s mate on the Devon Courier started digging around. Even more curious, he slipped a backhander to one of the mortuary staff. There was no record of any body being delivered.”

  Payne chewed on his bottom lip. “Yes, very curious indeed.”

  “All the local police could tell us was that the body was taken away in an undertaker’s van.”

  “I admit it’s strange, but it could be just a coincidence or a copycat. The Borton Wood murder has been prominent in the national press. On the other hand the body may have been dropped overboard from a cross-channel ferry. It’s a very crowded sea route. Tankers, container ships, private boats; it could have been dropped from any one of them.”

  “I’d like to check with Interpol, sir. See if there have been similar cases recently.”