Contents
Shallow Waters
Made to be Broken
Fighting Monsters
About the Author
Books in the series
Shallow Waters
Rebecca Bradley
Text copyright © 2014 Rebecca Bradley
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover art by Design for Writers
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1
The noise unnerved her as she tried to shift her body in an attempt to ease the pain. Instead, the slight movement caused every bone and fibre of her body to howl out in objection. She could no longer tell where the pain was coming from, but the receptors in her brain kept up their constant transmissions. The shrieking of her nerve endings blended into one mindless assault on her senses. The stench of her own urine was sharp in her nose as it burnt her bruised and bleeding body.
As she shifted, it creaked and rattled again. She froze, the sound reawakening her terror, returning her to the reality of her surroundings. Her eyelids felt heavy and hot, drawn down and protective, but she forced them open. Just to check.
Her body throbbed. Blood crusting on dry and broken skin added to the acrid smell assaulting her nostrils. It tasted bitter and vile in her mouth. The room was unlit, a faint light sneaking under the door at the far side of the room casting shadows, playing with her mind. She could make out shapes in the gloom, furniture she knew was there in the daylight, shape-shifting in the dark. It was quiet. She strained for any sound of someone else in there with her.
She tried to turn her head to check he wasn’t there, watching from the corner. Pain seared through her skull like hot metal rods. She was alone. Slowly, she lowered it back down onto the damp, sticky plastic base and let her eyelids close. The dog cage surrounding her was left behind for the blackness that now enveloped her.
2
Blue and red lights sliced through the night as I approached, the rotations casting eerie signals of death around Nottingham’s city community. I parked in front of a beautiful three-storey terraced town house, which had probably been broken down into several flats by now, the insides a distant remnant of its former glory. This was a contradictory street: old stone buildings on one side, shops and restaurants with run down flats above them on the other. It was as close as I could get. The perimeter cordon and the parked liveried vehicles of the first responders made it difficult to park adjacent to the alley I needed to be in. I climbed out of my Peugeot 308 and locked it. Pocketing the keys, I approached on foot, digging my hands into my coat pockets, shoulders hunched up to my ears in an attempt to keep warm. The end of October brought a definite drop in temperature and I hated the cold. It was bloody freezing here and the wind bit at my face, snapping and sucking the living warmth out of me. As I walked towards the scene I could see the uniformed officers on point duty, preventing the ghoulish section of humanity from entering the area. It disgusted me, the horrors people wanted to see. Looking up above the shops and restaurants in front of me, my breath made a smoky pathway through the dark. Dirty grey nets and floral curtains twitched. Pasty faces of woken residents peered out at the disruption below.
My DS, Aaron Stone, came over, pulling his blue face mask down so it hung around his neck like a second chin. We walked to the Crime Scene van parked next to a flapping blue and white taped police cordon. Aaron updated me.
“The body’s behind the restaurant where the industrial bins are. Girl’s been dumped behind them. Naked. She’s pretty bashed up. One of the workers was taking the rubbish out at the end of his shift. Poor bloke got sucker punched big time when he saw her on the ground. He’s a bit of a mess. Uniform are with him at the ambulance, trying to get some details. Jack’s on his way and Doug’s already here with the other SOCOs.” Though the new phrase for the forensic officers attending the crime scene had been Americanised to CSIs, there were some that hung on to old traditions and called them SOCOs. Aaron was particularly bad at change.
“Thanks, Aaron.” I collected a sterile packaged forensic suit from the back of the van and started to pull it on, wishing I’d worn something warmer. I felt tenser by the minute. The chill in the air was biting at my fingers mercilessly. “Do we have an ETA for Jack?”
“He shouldn’t be far behind you. I know he lives further out, but he drives like a newly qualified teenager with a heavy right foot.” White booties, hooded suit, gloves and mask in place, we headed into the alleyway.
3
Someone had made an attempt to conceal the girl. Her arms were down by her sides and her knees bent up to her chest, jammed between the bricks of the external wall of the restaurant and the huge frigid metal containers. The bin was at an angle to the wall. She was petite and looked to be between fourteen and sixteen years of age. The area was swamped by the light of the erected crime scene lamps and I could see her skin was pale and bruised.
I held myself still, trying to stop the constrictions that pushed at my insides. A bitter taste hit the back of my throat and I swallowed against it. The alley was an occasional home to local vagrants and a piss stop for drunks. The sight of the child, along with the overwhelming stench of urine and refuse, was overpowering.
“Not pretty,” said Aaron.
“No,” I replied.
Doug Howell, one of the crime scene techs, gave a quick nod of acknowledgement in our direction, his face intense as he photographed the tiny framed girl, the scene around him fractured by the camera flash as he worked.
A car door slammed at the end of the alley, an exchange of voices and then Jack Kidner, the Home Office registered forensic pathologist rounded the corner into sight.
“Couldn’t you get me up any earlier, young Hannah?” he shouted as he walked towards me.
“Sorry, Jack, you know how this city is. Runs by its own rules, spits out whatever it chooses, whenever it chooses, regardless of our plans for sleep.”
“By Jove, you did get out the wrong side of bed this morning didn’t you?” The crinkling of laughter lines around his eyes revealed a smile was hidden behind his protective mask.
“Thanks for coming, I appreciate it.” I sidestepped, allowing him to see the child discarded with the rubbish.
“God help us,” he muttered, crouching beside her. A medical bag that looked like it had seen better days dropped to the ground. “Doug, old chap, do stop flashing those blessed lights. I’m going to have an epileptic fit at this rate. Move the lamps in a little so I can see better, then you can flash away again before I move in closer.”
Doug, whose mass of grey hair had given rise to Jack’s descriptive “old chap” phrase, stopped. “It’s fine, I have what I need for starters, she’s all yours. I’ll photograph as you work.”
“Good man.”
Jack stooped down and began his examination. He would take samples, test for any signs of sexual assault, do body taping and take a temperature for time of death. I gave him space and walked the alleyway with Aaron.
“You could get a vehicle down here with ease, even with the bins down the si
des,” I thought aloud. “The darkness would offer cover.” The occasional lamp fitted above some of the buildings’ rear doors gave little in the way of light. Years of grime obscured their faint yellow glow; instead they cast shadows and created darker corners. There were no CCTV cameras down here either, just discarded boxes and crates, smashed up bottles and glasses, and tired, defaced business signs, neglected and forgotten. Aaron looked at me.
“It’s a shit hole,” he said.
“I know, it’s going to be a nightmare of a scene to process.” Everyone was going to work for their money over the next few days. I stopped and rubbed the outer edges of my arms, an attempt to stave off the chills that invaded me, the papery white suit sliding over my jacket. I looked back down the alley. Jack unfurled himself from his crouched position and waved us over.
“What have we got?” I asked as he signed the labels on the swab casings.
“If you look at our girl you can see some lividity. It’s not very pronounced, but I can say she’s been dead longer than thirty minutes. It started on her back, but this isn’t consistent with how she’s laid now, so she was moved after death.” He pushed the signed and sealed swabs into his bag.
“Body dump,” said Aaron.
“That would be my thought. I can’t see that this would be our initial crime scene and, looking at the markings on her, I’d say death did not come quickly.”
“So, time of death?” I asked.
“Oh yes, as I was saying, she isn’t really starting with rigor either. Putting together the facts: it’s four degrees out here, she weighs approximately seventy pounds, is stripped of her clothes, and her core temperature is 34.4 degrees, I would put time of death between two and four and a half hours ago.”
“That would make it between ten p.m. last night and half past midnight today,” I figured. “What time do you want us for the PM?”
“Oh, I don’t know, eleven a.m.? It also gives us time to process her within the scene before removal. Then I can make some sweet caramel coffee to warm back up and get organised. Sound agreeable?”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you then. Thanks, Jack”
Walking out of the alley we left a large team of CSIs preparing to do a fingertip search of the area. Without knowing what is and isn’t relevant, all items would be examined, photographed in situ, logged and seized, including the contents of the rather large industrial waste bins. It would be a long night with several long days ahead for them. Jack stayed with them as the correct removal of the girl from the scene was discussed and organised. I was shattered. Much as I loved my job, I hated nights like these. Nights where I’m dragged from my bed at three a.m. and sent into dark, dirty alleyways. Nights where I had to start a murder investigation of the worst kind: that of a child. From now on, I wouldn’t sleep much. My head would be filled with images, of these things. Sights, sounds and smells together. I’m not just my job. I’m human and this job was a nasty one; it would take some getting through.
4
Phones were ringing off the hook and talk of a sandwich collection was at an almost raucous volume. My defrosting brain cells struggled to break through the noise.
The incident room was busy and space was tight. Coats were thrown over the backs of chairs. As well as the assigned investigating detectives, some uniformed officers had been drafted in to help with the immediate workload that faced us. I clung to the steaming mug of green tea in my hands trying to warm my fingers.
Along with my team, the investigation had the attention of the top brass. Detective Superintendent Catherine Walker, head of the Nottingham City division Major Crimes Unit, had been raised from her bed. She wore her hair in a sleek dark bob, immaculate, no matter what time of day it was. She stood tall and assured and she commanded respect. Next to Walker was my Chief Inspector Anthony Grey. He was a weasel-looking man with a narrow face, balding head and a tall frame. He was so slim any girl would be envious. As far as supervisors go he was amenable and he didn’t interfere with investigations. Grey was more of a paper shuffler.
A media strategy was required, so Claire Betts from the press office was also here. I liked Claire; she was a straight talker and great at getting what she needed from the media without selling her soul. Her talkative and amiable manner hid a shrewd brain that often ran rings around the press who took her at face value. She looked up from the paperwork she was reading and caught my eye. She gave an easy smile. I pushed the corners of my mouth up in response, envious of her energy and enthusiasm.
I felt cramped and rubbed my temples with one hand whilst inhaling the rising tea vapours in an attempt to ease the tension rampaging through my head and neck.
Grey moved to the front of the room and stood quietly. His silence demanded attention. He was about to give his pep talk. Make a show of support for the officers who would work this with little to no sleep for the first few days when evidence grabbing was at its most viable. He would say the usual comments about working hard, having the support of the command team and the jolly “get on with it troops!” pat on the back.
My phone vibrated in my jeans pocket, I pulled it up enough to see the screen. Dad. Conversations with him often went in the same familiar circles and those circles were often about my sister Zoe. Now wasn’t the time for this. I rejected the call and pushed the phone back down.
When the sandwich rumblings died down Grey spoke. “We have a dead child. We need to identify her and return her to her parents. Press attention will be high because of her age. They will be harsh and they will be critical. Keep yourselves sharp.”
No one moved.
“I’ve spoken with Jack Kidner who will hopefully conduct the post-mortem at eleven a.m. this morning. I believe Hannah is to attend that with Sally?” He looked at me. I nodded. Sally, one of the brightest and most dependable detectives on my team, blanched. Difficult to spot with her fair complexion, but I saw it. It was unusual. “Forensics still have the scene and will be there, I imagine, for some time. What do you have, Hannah?”
I put my cup on the desk. I was up.
“We have a lot to do. We need to check our missing persons database and liaise with the National Missing Persons Bureau in case this child is from another county. I want a team to canvas the area for CCTV in local establishments. Take it wide. Detailed house to house inquiries are needed. If people aren’t in when you knock, go back. I saw a lot of people peeping out of windows last night, so it’s possible someone could have seen her being dumped. I want a tip line set up and for Claire to prepare press releases to include the number. Someone knows who this girl is and someone holds information that relates to her death.” I had all ears.
“We need to check what time the restaurant closed and identify and locate all customers who ate there in the run up to closing. Most people pay by card in some way, shape or form nowadays, it’s rare anyone pays with cash, so that should make it an easier task. Someone may have seen something but not realised its importance.” My head throbbed. “The PM this morning will give us more and could help identify her. CSIs will hopefully give us something we can work with.” I looked at my team, Aaron and Sally along with Martin and Ross. It was grim. It always is with a child, but I knew them and they would work their arses off. “Make sure you get some food and hot drinks down you.”
The throbbing from my head hit my stomach with a nauseating roar. My next stop would be the mortuary.
5
Huge suction cups hung from the ceiling in an effort to decrease the odours of the mortuary, but I never liked the place. In the changing room I thought about what we had, or rather, at this point in time, what we didn’t have. We had a dead child; no age, no name, no family. Later today we could have a cause of death. I slipped out of the jeans and trainers I still wore from my early morning call out and shoved them in the allocated locker, pulled on the usual green protective garb and entered the Queen’s Medical Centre mortuary.
The room was all grey metal with white tiles that covered the floor as it sloped to
wards drains. What looked like medieval instruments of torture lay aligned on steel work surfaces along the two walls either side of the entrance doorways. It was large and well lit with several post-mortem tables in the centre. Already laid out on a table, prepared by the mortuary technician, Paul Marchant, was our girl. Paul was standing to the side, talking to Doug, who was here to visually record the post-mortem. Jack had agreed to this. Though the more people he had under his feet, the tetchier he got, he understood the need to do everything we could to identify the child and bring her killer to justice. And the PM being recorded was another of our tools in the investigation. Paul’s persistent smoker’s cough was like a staccato bass underlying the atmosphere of the clinical room.
Jack pushed his way in through the plastic swing doors followed by Sally who still sported the pallor from earlier. She refused to catch my eye as pleasantries were exchanged.
Seeing the girl’s small body under such bright unforgiving light gave a fuller picture of what she had gone through. She was covered in bruises, more vivid than could be seen in the darkness of the alley. She seemed smaller and more vulnerable, and so, so alone.
A short rotund woman came into the room and took dental impressions without making conversation with anyone. Sally made sure to take her name and details, but she had such a stern face, and I wasn’t in the mood for making new friends, so I left her to her business.
Jack completed a body plan diagram with each mark measured and recorded along with an appendix scar. DNA was collected for a profile and fingerprints taken. X-rays had already been done and were examined. Jack peered down his nose at the images on the light box, taking in the visual evidence.
The DI Hannah Robbins Series: Books 1 - 3 (Boxset) (Detective Hannah Robbins Crime Series) Page 1
