Flesh Evidence: a heart-stopping crime thriller

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  ***

  The container seemed cold even though the morning sun had hit the roof. The light entering made Carl lift his head and look but then avert his eyes from the bright light and the silhouetted figure blocking the door.

  “Good morning, Carl. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining and all is well. I’ve brought you this.”

  The tape was removed from Carl’s left wrist and a jar of honey was put into his hand before the strapping on the right wrist was cut.

  “You have five minutes. I shall empty your mess when I return. Eat up, you know you need it!”

  Carl stared at the face looking down at him, the eyes seemed warm and friendly but how could that be?”

  Chapter Ten

  Richard Taylor walked to the end of Woodfield Road turning onto Bilton Lane. The sun was warm and the two Lakeland Terriers pulled on their connecting terrier lead eager to reach the track of the disused railway. At seven in the morning there was already a large estate car unpacking two black Labradors.

  Richard unclipped Bella and then Sky, mother and daughter and they darted along the straight track, noses scenting the ground, docked tails moving like bees’ wings. The walk would take about forty-five minutes with their destination being Nidd Park, then it would be coffee and return. This was the regular Sunday walk come rain or shine.

  The gate to Nidd Hall was always inviting, the tarmac driveway ran snake-like up to the imposing hall. Once the parkland had stretched for two hundred and fifty acres, a private estate belonging to a Bradford wool merchant that he had built on the site of an Elizabethan Manor house. Now the grand park was significantly smaller, comprising just twenty-five acres and the hall was no longer a private residence but a hotel and leisure centre. Progress!

  Richard approached the balustrade bridge where the sweeping driveway crossed the narrow Town Street. He stopped and watched his two dogs disappear down the banking and along to a stone wall. He called them but they disappeared into the thick nettles and under-growth. He leaned on the parapet, one foot on a baluster and watched the moving greenery as the dogs worked unseen. Trees lined both sides of Town Street at this point before culminating in a large copse to the left of the lane. The increased growling and yelping meant that the dogs had probably tracked a rabbit or hedgehog. He opened his rucksack, took out a thermos flask and poured a coffee before again searching for movement in the undergrowth for his dogs. He could hear them but not see them. He loved this brief moment, the warm coffee revitalising his weary limbs.

  Two Lycra-clad cyclists peddled below the bridge. One stopped.

  “Do you have two small, brown dogs?” one yelled up, her wrap-round sunglasses reflecting bright yellow and concealing her eyes.

  Richard nodded.

  “They’re pulling something apart in the siding, just down there. You should keep them on a bloody lead.”

  Richard could see the anger in her face but shook his head wondering why people just don’t mind their own business. He threw the remnants of his coffee away, placed the rucksack over one shoulder and carefully moved down the banking towards the sound of the dogs. The nettles stung his hands and the light dappled the deep green of the thick undergrowth. He knew what he would find; they were terriers for God’s sake. He had separated the dogs from many a bloody quarry but nothing had prepared him for the sight that stared back at him.

  ***

  Cyril turned off Ripley Road. Cones and a parked police vehicle blocked Town Street. If there was ever an incorrect name for a road, then this was it. The narrow lane ran from the main road to the rear of Nidd Hall. Flanked on one side by natural parkland, the other farmland, sentinel-like trees ran on either side, giving way occasionally to the odd stone-built house and cottage. Cyril stopped and lowered the window and smiled at the officer. “How far up?”

  The officer leaned in, “A few hundred yards on the right, Sir.”

  Cyril saw the blue and white cordon and parked a short distance from the turning where the tape belted the trees. He slipped on a pair of blue, protective overshoes and then inhaled deeply from his electronic cigarette, the menthol taste filling his mouth. It was such a beautiful morning and such a delightful spot. Cyril shook his head and looked at Liz. ‘Why here of all places?’ Cyril said but he knew that there was never any logic to this. Liz said nothing.

  The tape had been placed around the parking area and Town Street was now closed to the public. Two police officers watched the periphery of the cordoned area. Cyril showed his ID, the officer logged his and Liz’s details and then noted the time before Cyril slipped under the tape. Liz waited outside the tape; they needed as few people as possible trampling the area until the SOCO team had done its work.

  She sidled up to the officer. “Where’s Richard Taylor?” she asked.

  The young officer pointed up the road. “He’s by the bridge just round the corner. Medics are with him. He’s had quite a shock. They’re looking after the living, nothing for that poor bugger.” He flexed his head as if pointing to the body in the undergrowth. “I’ve Taylor’s initial statement here.” He passed Liz his notebook.

  Cyril leaned over the twisted remains of the body. He knew immediately that it was Tony Thompson, even by just looking through the thick, torn transparent plastic at the naked remains. The body seemed smaller than he had imagined. He lifted his gaze and noticed somebody standing some distance away taking photographs. “Bloody Press!!” he said out loud before shouting, “Liz!”

  Liz turned to see Cyril pointing at the lone figure. She responded immediately by jumping the wall and fence and moved towards the cameraman.

  Cyril looked back at the cocoon-like figure. To the right of the corpse was a jar, the same as the others. He did not touch it but bent down to see if he could read the label. Owing to its position he could only read ‘…Kiss Honey, 2015’. He stood and walked to the officer, careful to retrace his initial pathway.

  “Anything when you arrived?”

  “Mr Taylor was with his dogs, he was shaking and obviously upset. When I checked the body I noted the tracks and prints, so kept away to the left. One thing though, Sir, it seems strange, but there was this sweet smell, appeared to come from inside the bag. Mr Taylor also noticed it on the dogs, like honey, but then there’s a jar dumped by the body. Possibly it could have come from that. I’ve noted it in my initial findings.”

  “I want that kept quiet, understand?” Cyril lifted his eyes to look at the reporter who was now in deep conversation with Liz.

  The officer looked affronted as if the DCI thought him a rookie.

  Cyril, realising his comment had offended, lifted his hand. “Sorry, no matter how many times you see a body, particularly a child’s...” Cyril didn’t finish but smiled embarrassingly. “Anyone else been here that you know of?”

  “Mr Taylor mentioned that two cyclists saw the dogs attacking something in the copse but he believes they thought it was an animal. He didn’t think that they stopped. Apparently gave him the rounds of the kitchen for not having the dogs on a lead.”

  The two vans marked ‘Crime Scene Investigation’ arrived followed by a saloon car, a blue light on the dashboard flashed its intention. Cyril recognised the car and the driver but not the passenger.

  “Cyril, you seem to attract the dead. Should I be flattered or mortified?” Dr Julie Pritchett smiled, remembering their Friday night liaison. She moved to the rear of her car and changed, collecting a small, black case.

  “Do you know Hannah Peters, our new technician?”

  Cyril held up his hand.

  “Do we have a name?”

  Cyril nodded. “Looks like the first missing youth, Tony Thompson. Julie there’s a jar next to the body, when you’ve done what you have to do, can I see it?”

  Julie smiled. “When I’ve done what I have to do, you may.”

  Cyril noted the grammatical correction and smiled.

  “Enjoyed Friday. Thanks again.” She thought she saw Cyril blush slightly.

&nb
sp; The Forensic Team started to move towards the body, placing numbered markers and photographing the full area. Julie followed them in with Hannah acting as her assigned photographer. Cyril removed his gloves and overshoes before walking towards the bridge looking for Richard Taylor.

  As he approached, he could see the man looked unwell. Not a pleasant start to a Sunday for anyone. The medics were clearing away and Richard was perched on the low wall whilst the two dogs, curled at his feet, jumped up as Cyril approached. He showed his ID.

  “You’ve had a nasty shock, Mr Taylor. I’ve organised a car to get you home. I take it you saw no one other that the cyclists?”

  “That’s right, always quiet here on Sunday at this hour. Walk here every Sunday.” He shook his head. “Bloody shock, I can tell you. Looked like a large bagged doll. Took me a while to realise what it was. Is it one of the missing boys?”

  “We’ll have to wait till the scientists do their thing.”

  Cyril continued to question him but soon realised that there was little he could bring to the investigation. Within fifteen minutes his DNA and fingerprints were sampled and he was in a Police car and heading home. At the same time, two liaison officers were heading to break the news to Tony Thompson’s parents.

  Cyril walked back and watched the methodical progress of the Forensic Scene Investigators. Vapour clouded the air by his mouth as he drew on his electronic cigarette, giving the appearance that it was a cold day. Liz approached.

  “I’ve been to every house down the road and requested any CCTV recordings they have. Those cameras facing Town Street might have caught passing vehicles. We’ll move towards Nidd Hall once this has been cleared away. I’ve sent for a list of all those who registered at the hotel over the last five days and those club members who use the facilities. The Leisure Centre check-in and out system is computerised so should be immediate.”

  Cyril nodded as he watched the white-suited figures.

  Julie lifted the tape and walked over to Cyril. She held a plastic bag in one hand.

  “The jar you wanted to see. ‘Bee’s Kiss Honey, 2015’ Label’s a little smudged but it all appears intact. Interesting contents. “

  Cyril took the bag and held it up inspecting the contents. “It’s the same as the others.” He looked more closely at the object trapped within the honey before passing it to Liz.

  “Well Doctor, tell me it’s not what I think it is,” Cyril asked whilst pulling a face that showed a degree of disgust.

  “A tattooed tongue. Definitely removed after death but tattooed before removal. The tattoo reads, Out of…comes lies! And from that, Cyril, one can assume the interpretation is, Out of the mouths of babes…come lies! I’m not a policewoman but even I think you have some nutcase seeking revenge. Whoever did this spent a good deal of time planning, and from where I’m looking, it’s not a spur of the moment abduction. Something else, there’s a strong, sweet smell trapped within the plastic and going by the jar and the general condition of the body, I’d predict that your boy’s eaten nothing but honey since he was taken. Have either of you heard of a Mellified Man?”

  Cyril looked at Liz who simply shook her head.

  Julie collected the bag. “I suggest you look it up. Colin Pearson is your Area Forensic Manager; he’ll have more information for you. I’ll know more once we’ve done an autopsy but it isn’t going to be easy. Can’t give you a time of death yet either. There’s also a slight trace of Hypochlorous Acid.” Julie could interpret Cyril’s look of curiosity. “Stabilised hypochlorous acid solutions are now routinely used in the NHS to prevent microbial infection within hot and cold water systems. They’re great at destroying anything organic and therefore DNA but they need careful handling. It’s also found in water treatment and swimming pool maintenance. It’s basically a disinfectant. We’re being rather cautious with the corpse at this stage, as we don’t yet know what we’re dealing with. Remember, chlorine is a disinfectant and look what that did as a gas in 1915! Maybe that info is a start? As I say, given time, I’ll have more.” She smiled and went back beyond the tape.

  “Julie!” She stopped and turned. “Anything, just give me anything that might give a clue as to where he might have been held. I can do nothing for Tony now, only concentrate on Carl Granger.”

  “Possibly water treatment? Once I’ve identified the chemical I can be more positive. As soon as, Cyril, as soon as.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Cyril typed into Google the term ‘Mellified Man’ and began to read. He then printed the item and dropped a copy on Owen’s desk. He needed a stiff drink but a coffee would have to do. Julie’s words kept running around his head mingling with his recent understanding of the term mellified. He picked up the sheet and read again.

  The subject does not eat food, he only partakes of honey. After a month he only excretes honey (the urine and faeces are entirely honey) and death follows.

  His mind flipped to the mental image of the youth wrapped, almost mummy-like, in the plastic bag. He remembered the smell and the jaundiced complexion. He picked up the phone, “As soon as, yes all the water processing plants in this area, there surely can’t be too many, also swimming pools both private and public. Thanks.”

  Cyril tapped the desk as if either searching for patience or understanding before he stood, collected his jacket and left.

  ***

  For Cyril, Julie’s office was filled with the kind of ornaments that should only be visible to students of medicine. He really cared not to think too much about them. He let his fingers touch a glass jar containing what looked like a small sausage. Julie entered with two mugs of coffee.

  “Sorry Cyril, no cups or saucers. That’s a pickled penis if you’re interested.” She raised an eyebrow and gave him a wicked look. “Ex boyfriend…” she noted Cyril’s look and quickly added, “joke, a funny!”

  Cyril didn’t seem amused.

  “Sorry! The boy, I’ve never seen anything like it and neither from the records has anyone else. It’s a rough attempt at mellification from the evidence. Originally it was a sacrificial offering to help one’s fellow men and there are some, as I’m sure you’ve read, who believe the whole thing to be a load of baloney. Anyway, rather than dumping the wrapped body in some turning area, he should have been submerged in a bath of honey for a century and then broken into minute pieces and sold as a cure all for an exorbitant fee.”

  Cyril immediately thought of Harrogate’s Royal Hall, originally known as the Kursaal, during its Spa town hay-day. It derived the name from the German meaning Cure Hall.

  “Are you OK, Cyril?” Julie leaned forward and put her hand on his knee.

  “Yes, sorry just went off on a mental tangent for a second. So, excuse my ignorance but what’s the cause of death?” Cyril sipped his coffee. It had been a good number of years since he’d been as confused as he was now.

  “He was poisoned. If you take too much of anything, Cyril, it will kill you.” She looked at the electronic cigarette in his top pocket. “Including that.”

  Cyril looked down at his pocket and then lifted his eyebrows.

  “Honey is a desiccant, it sucks the moisture out of tissue and kills microbes. It encourages a slow death close to dehydration but at the same time alters the body’s metabolism, best described as mummifying and therefore it’s impossible to give an accurate time of death. One thing, although it’s a slow death as I’ve mentioned, the lad will have gradually slipped into a coma as various organs closed down and he would have known little of his fate. The area on the forearm where the tattoo was made is clearly visible.”

  Julie stood and turned on the wall screen bringing up photographs of the evidence from the many thumbnail images that regimentally surrounded the screen.

  ‘This one.” She enlarged it. “Shows some previous scarring and healing. You will understand the significance of this in a minute. Note too the bruise marks to the wrist and just below the elbow. The boy was secured for most of the time he was held captive, prob
ably until he was incapacitated. The partial glossectomy, the removal of the tip of the tongue was post death. There was very little bleeding.”

  “And the scars?” Cyril had stood and moved closer to the screen.

  Julie removed a pen drive from a bag and inserted it into the side of the screen. She pressed play. Cyril could see a shadowy figure partially concealing a frightened looking youth. There were no sounds and the room was dull. The camera seemed focused on the youth’s right arm that was strapped to what looked like the chair’s wooden arm. The fine scalpel blade shone as it moved towards the taut flesh. Cyril watched it slice, opening the skin allowing beads to pulse to the surface before rolling round the arm. The hooded head seemed to bow reverently towards the crying youth. When the head lifted he understood fully what had taken place. He was then startled by the sudden sound of a voice.

  “You’re not sweet enough yet my young friend. Maybe it will take another week, maybe a fortnight but we’re in no rush are we? And the only thing you get from rushing is chance-children. That’s my father’s advice you know and yes, I did have parents although I’m sure you might think only a bastard could keep you locked away from the world.”

  The screen went blank.

  “It was in his oesophagus. The severed tattooed tongue and the placement of this small pen-drive in the throat are significant. Before you ask, video and voice analysis is being done at the Jeffreys’ Building as we speak. What I do know is that the recording has been tampered with electronically so you’re not hearing a true voice.”

  “Anything from saliva DNA? Other injuries?”

  Julie shook her head. “Sounds ironical but the body was well cared for, clean and hair brushed. No evidence of sexual interference either. The sealing in the bag was methodical. Had it not been for the dogs it would have been intact. Now this is important. Remember I said that the body had been cleaned, well the initial assumption was correct, Hypochlorous Acid has been used to destroy any contaminating DNA and although it’s a stabilised form it’s unusual. If you recall I said that it was antiviral and antifungal.” Cyril nodded his head, feeling as though he were back at school in a Chemistry lesson. “Well I can assure you it is, it’s amazingly 99.9999% effective against pathogens but it seems totally safe to handle. It’s the stability and safety that make it unique. All we have to do is find out the name of the manufacturer and then there’s the possibility of making a trace. I also believe he was double bagged. Once the body was placed at Nidd Hall, the outer sheath was removed; it would have collected traces from the transport vehicle and therefore removed. Thorough!”