Flesh Evidence: a heart-stopping crime thriller

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  “And are we glad it did! Your mother was right. Please write it on this acetate and thank your mother for me when you see her.”

  Brian looked up as he was writing. “She’s dead.”

  Cyril blushed a little before placing a hand on Brian’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he whispered.

  Cyril slipped the sheet onto a projector and the poem came up on the screen. Cyril ringed the three words. He then underlined the last line.

  “Invictus has come back to haunt us yet again, ladies and gentlemen! Owen what do you know about poetry, you surely studied it at school?”

  “All, hey nonny, nonny and daffodils, Sir. Bloody hated it at school and I’m not too keen now, especially when you see it linked to cases like this. There’s one thing though.” Owen moved to the front. “Look, references to a tomb, and a dungeon. Are we looking in the wrong place? Aren’t they placed underground? So should we be looking for cellars, drains, old water type tanks, bunkers?”

  “Reference too to a bee maybe, Sir? ‘clenched hand still burning with the sting.’” someone added.

  Cyril took a deep breath, put his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes. Was this swift discovery the chink in the conqueror’s armour that they so desperately needed? The butterflies bounced in his stomach.

  “I want that poem analyzed, all the meanings and possible nuances, I want to know about the poet, anything that might just put us a little way ahead of this clever bastard.”

  Owen looked at Cyril. Cyril knew just what Owen was thinking and he nodded. “Check the tunnel, lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice but I want it checking and I want it doing immediately.”

  Owen simply pointed to an officer, “Get onto the council, go with them and do a full search of the Brunswick Tunnel, I want to know immediately you’ve done a thorough sweep.”

  “And Owen, the only other bunker I know of is that on Grove Road but it was converted into classrooms some time back. Check anyway. Also get someone to contact Yorkshire Water, we need a list of obsolete water storage tanks within a thirty mile radius of Harrogate town centre.” Cyril paused. “Stuart?”

  “Nothing so far from the search of known containers, there’s hundreds, apart from the discovery of a mini cannabis farm. Six arrests so far so it hasn’t been wasted resources. Spoiled someone’s day that did. From all accounts it had been going some time. Another two days should see them all cleared.”

  Cyril smiled. “Well done!”

  “Sir, it may be nothing.” All eyes turned to Liz. “I’ve spoken to Pamela Shepherd, the woman who was assisting one of the vendors at The Stray Fair. She’s at present toing and froing between Harrogate and Ilkley, she’s caring for her aunt. I carried out a full background check and all seems fine…. except she used to be a boy, well actually, she officially still is male.”

  A number of faces that had been looking elsewhere suddenly looked at her.

  “I’m aware that that fact in itself should have nothing to do with anything, how he or she sees herself has nothing to do with the police and it certainly doesn’t make them any more or any less guilty in the eyes of the law. However, call it thinking out loud, intuition… I suppose we’ve all experienced niggling doubt when speaking to witnesses, but there was something.”

  “Talk to her again and again, Liz. Talk until you’re happy. And Liz, a full report on when he became a she and how that, if at all, has had an effect on her life.” Liz looked down and unfolded the page containing the doodles. Cyril was right; she really needed to interview Pamela Shepherd face to face.

  Chapter Fourteen

  July, 1982

  If ever there was a defining moment then this was it. It came out of the blue. The day had been beautiful, the sky bluer than a robin’s eggs. Jose had wrestled the garden into a semblance of order, the borders were full of flowers and the lawn, although not perfect was as good as it could be considering it was the playground of a child and a dog. The paddling pool sat, an oasis of water in the centre. Samuel and two children from the neighbourhood splashed, shrieked and laughed, interspersed with the occasional tears.

  She could hear Ian in the garage, the doors ajar to allow air to penetrate. He was tinkering with a Triumph Spitfire that seemed to contain more holes than an MOT would allow.

  “It’s a filigree,” he would protest. “Just needs some TLC!”

  The degree of TLC seemed to take up most of his spare time and money. This in turn continued to bring friction to their relationship. He’d given up trying to influence his son to interact in more manly activities, he’d resigned himself to the hope that this would come in time.

  Jose glanced from the kitchen window, the two youngsters in the pool were being watched by Jane, the elder sister of the girl with Samuel. She turned to concentrate on the sandwiches she was preparing for lunch. She called Ian who appeared at the door wiping the oil from his hands.

  “I’m famished!” he smiled.

  “Sit, and I’ll get the kids in.”

  Jose leaned out of the door and noticed that Jane had dried them and they were getting dressed. She could see that Jane was a little flustered but simply waved.

  “On our way, Mrs Dixon. Just a minute”

  Jose sat next to Ian. “Well, will it be ready before winter comes?”

  Ian just raised his shoulders. “Needs a little more work…”

  He didn’t finish the sentence; he simply stared as the children entered the kitchen.

  Mary, Jane’s sister, entered first smiling. It took a moment for Jose to comprehend the scene but it eventually dawned, she was wearing Samuel’s clothes. Samuel came next, wearing Mary’s clothes, followed by Jane.

  “I’m sorry,” Jane insisted. “He just wouldn’t do anything else.”

  Samuel moved closer to his mother. “I don’t want to be a boy anymore. I want to wear dresses, I want to be a girl and be made of sugar and spice.”

  He turned as if showing off his dress. “I look lovely, don’t I, Mummy?”

  Ian said nothing for a moment. It was as if the penny was falling but hitting every obstacle before it came to rest releasing his senses.

  “Take them off! Take them off now!” he yelled at his son.

  Samuel stopped; his head dropped. He lifted his wet eyes to look at his father and mouthed the word ‘no’.

  “What did you say young man?” By this time Ian was on his feet, his voice filled the room. “What did you say to Daddy?”

  Sam screamed, “No.” He turned and ran into the garden.

  Mary and Jane clung to each other, Mary was already in tears and Jane was close.

  “Go to the garage, Ian. Go now. I’ll deal with this.”

  It was a moment in time that would never be forgotten; it would mark a significant crossroads. Two people were about to embark on a pathway that seemed less trodden whilst another would struggle to make sense of his failure.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cyril leaned across the bed and found comforting, naked, warmth. He lifted his knees and smiled as they ‘docked’ perfectly with Julie’s.

  “I love this morning moment,” he whispered in her ear.

  Her hand moved round and held his outer thigh. She simply made a contented ‘mmmmm’ sound as if she were about to say, ‘me too.’

  The sun shone straight needles of clear white light from the narrow gaps in the Venetian blinds, penetrating the soporific gloom. He could hear the clock tick; time too seemed to be affected by the morning moment and it seemed loud and alive, another body far off in the room.

  He slipped his feet out of bed and sat briefly to steady himself. “Would the lady of the house like tea and toast or does she have to be somewhere?”

  “Mmmmm, please.” The word please seemed to go on for ever. She rolled over into the warm, vacated space tucking the pillow round her face, her nose enjoying the lingering smell of Cyril’s aftershave.

  Cyril simply smiled as he headed for the kitchen.

  Within ten minutes he returned. Plac
ing the tray carefully on the bed he adjusted the pillows to give Julie some support.

  “I didn’t expect you to call last night.” Julie caught the molten butter on the plate as it dripped from the edge of the warm toast.

  “I’m struggling or I’m getting too old for this,” Cyril confessed. His voice seemed to carry a heavy weight.

  “What? Too old for sex or do the workings of the female anatomy cause you a degree of confusion?”

  Cyril’s face cracked into a smile. “Funny, very funny as usual. Nope, I hope I can manage sex to your satisfaction and yes the female form still does project certain questions to which I constantly strive to find practical answers.” He paused, his expression taking on a more serious demeanour. “I’m talking about the two kidnapped kids and the fact that we really don’t have anything. We’ve enquiries and leads all over the place but nothing to show apart from a white board of confusion. How can it be so hard to find someone who according to the psych wants to be found?”

  “Have you looked under your nose?” Julie wiped her mouth. “That was divine…company wasn’t too shabby either!” She giggled before giving Cyril a peck on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  Cyril didn’t respond to her answer but what she said found a mark. He recalled many cases where he had felt as though he couldn’t see the wood for the trees, only to discover that the answers lay away from the woods.

  “You’ve followed up on all of the water treatment plants, both active and closed and the swimming pools? Goodness, with Harrogate once being a world famous spa town you’re not short on springs, spas and watering holes. What about those spas that have been closed for years, those connected to hotels? Are they still checked on a regular basis?”

  “We’ve checked, trust me. The only reason that there’s a connection to water treatment is your discovery that the body was cleansed with a substance that killed DNA traces, hydroch…” Cyril didn’t finish.

  “Hypochlorus Acid. Yes, but as I said, there was something special about this one. We’re still looking into it. Nothing to date but I’ve someone checking the patent office to see if it’s been registered recently. It’s got to be new to the industry but there’s a chance it hasn’t reached the market yet, maybe still under test.”

  “So, how would our boy get hold of such a chemical?” Cyril moved from the bed towards the window and twisted the plastic handle to open the blinds. He looked at The Stray. People were already out walking.

  Julie was quick to answer. “How could he get hold of polluted, banned honey? Could work in the industry. Look Cyril, he’s clever, but not that clever. It’s easy to make up obscure puzzles, to link concepts and ideas. Take the labels, Christ, who’d have guessed that they were co-ordinates made up from numbers derived from the positional letters of the alphabet? Yes, maybe someone who doesn’t have a life or a job who can sit down all day in a cardigan whilst chewing a pencil and work these things out. Once you know the answer, it sounds simple but it could have been anything. Cyril, he wants you to feel inadequate, he’s making you kick yourself for not solving the puzzle. He wants you to feel as though he’s beaten you. That’s what he’s doing, he’s making you look where he isn’t and he’s making you try too hard. When things get tough, and they do, too often these days, I always think of the scene in one of the Indiana Jones movies, can’t remember which one. You remember it, the one where the guy comes out dressed from head to toe in black and swivels a bloody big sword in a menacing dance of death. People stand back in awe, afraid of his skills. What does Jones do? He takes out a gun and drops him. He doesn’t get drawn into a fight. So much for fancy skills, when push comes to pull, they mean nothing - and the references to honey?” Julie paused ensuring she had Cyril’s full attention. “A morning with Google could have given all of those links. But for me, call it women’s intuition, there’s something in it but it’s not too deep. Now the poems, Invictus and The Dungeoned Anarchist, that’s where I’d be looking for motive. You’ve no doubt got some clever fellow looking into the nuances of every word, of every line, I imagine.”

  Cyril turned back to look at Julie who lay on her side, the duvet tucked below her chin. Vapour from his electronic cigarette drifted around his head giving the appearance of a halo. He simply nodded with a degree of uncertainty. She smiled.

  “That’s my boy. Trust me, the answers are there for us to find, you’ll see my clever, handsome man and we’ll find them. Now come back to bed and investigate the finer points of pleasing a woman. You’ll get this anatomy exam right if it kills me!” She pulled the duvet over her head and giggled. Cyril thought about asking her a question on transgender but then selfishly thought that this might not be the best moment

  ***

  Carl’s eyes focussed on the far wall of the space. His buttocks were tender and he tried to shift his weight to alleviate the discomfort, it worked but only briefly. He was sure that the wounds were open and weeping, but there was numbness. He couldn’t differentiate between wet and cold. He tried to lift his weight on his elbows for a moment but these too were now sore. An aching weakness streamed through every limb. In the dark, his eyes strained to focus again on the far wall, it was the same picture that had stared back at him since his arrival and it was Tony. He knew that he had disappeared but that was all he knew. Maybe he was here, maybe trapped, maybe in another room. He closed his eyes, the familiar wave of nausea crept through his stomach. He could taste the sickly sweetness of the honey. Even when the tears came he could smell them. The knotted cloth around his mouth felt choking. He longed to breathe fresh air, to lick his lips and drink cold water. His eyes felt heavy. He stared at the lines that tracked along his left arm.

  The sound of the lock and the moving bolts made Carl sit up straight. He knew what was about to happen and he closed his eyes to protect them from the sudden flood of light that would painfully crack open the darkness.

  “How’s my boy? You’ll be all sweetness and light today, Carl? All innocent? You know I bring with one hand and take with the other.” The scalpel slit the binding tape on Carl’s wrists and elbows. “Do remember not to upset me when I remove this.”

  Hands untied the cloth from Carl’s mouth and he sucked air greedily. One hand pushed between his legs and retrieved a bucket. Its contents smelled sweet. A plastic jar of honey was placed in his left hand and Carl quickly retrieved the spoon and began to eat. He looked at the face that watched his. He was so confused. How could someone smile all the time and yet be so evil?

  “Four minutes Carl, that’s all.”

  The figure moved away leaving the door open and the sunlight streaming in. He could feel its warmth; he could hear the birds singing. For a moment he thought he could hear the sound of an aircraft. He craned his head listening for clues as to its make; he was sure it was a Tucano, probably out on a training flight. For a brief moment he was away from this hellhole, he was up with the pilot remembering his flight. The views of the Yorkshire Dales folded out below in all their beauty. For the first time in what had seemed an age, he smiled. The figure returned. His smile disappeared.

  Carl’s arms were just about to be taped again.

  “Please, I’m so sore.”

  A hand pulled Carl to his feet and turned him round. The marks on Carl’s buttocks from the edge of the commode seat were red and in places open. The figure moved towards a shelf and returned with a small, black pump-action spray. Carl felt the immediate effect. The sting from the fine fluid made him call out. He then felt a gloved hand rub a sticky substance on the wound.

  “The honey will heal it or prevent it from worsening. Not long now. Looking at your eyes I know you will not be here long.”

  Carl’s heart leapt. Was he letting him go?

  Once the tape was returned, the scalpel blade ran gently down the arm for about three centimetres. Small ruby globules appeared. Carl watched as his captor leaned over and licked the blood away.

  “You are getting sweeter by the day. It’ll be soon now, very soon.” />
  A blanket was wrapped around his body and Carl knew what was coming next. His head dropped as the door swung closed. He was again wrapped in the darkness.

  ***

  The taxi pulled up outside the Methodist Chapel, Hampsthwaite. The passenger paid the driver and watched the car pull away. Gravel crunched under his feet as he walked down the drive. He couldn’t fail to notice the weeds that broke through the rough surface giving a feeling of neglect. It appeared to him that this was a building and not a home. It was in total contrast to the properties on either side. His attention was then drawn to the damaged garage door that still gaped partially open. He’d fix that, he thought to himself. The same idea came to him every time he noticed it but then this driveway was paved with good intentions. He noticed the blinds twitch on the front window of the house next door, another occurrence that happened each rare time he came in or left. He instinctively raised a hand to demonstrate that he had seen the movement. He dipped his hand into his pocket and retrieved a key. He could hear the dog behind the door and he whispered a few words before opening the door. There was no bark. The dog knew the footsteps and the confirming whisper.

  John Melville appeared at his door and then he cautiously leaned round the porch looking across at his neighbour’s closing door. He simply smiled.

  ***

  Liz read the report she had compiled on Pamela and made notes. Pamela Shepherd had apparently been a boy until starting school. There didn’t seem to be a specific date for this. His birth certificate showed the child to be registered as Samuel Dixon, born to parents Jose and Ian Dixon. Parents separated when Samuel was six. Jose never remarried and was supported by her only sister. Samuel was renamed Pamela Samantha Dixon but then the family reverted to Jose’s maiden name of Shepherd. Apparently Pamela left school when she was fourteen and was taught at home. Liz checked her qualifications, she had done well in all exams with credible A level results. She enrolled at University College Salford whilst still living at home from ’94 until ’98. Studied Chemistry and PGCE before teaching part time in Clearmount Private School, Eccleston, Lancashire under the name Samuel Dixon, using the name Pamela when at home or with friends. No police convictions, no driving offences. Liz noted that Pamela had started an application in August, 2004 for a Gender Recognition Certificate in order to be seen to be legally female in the eyes of the law, but, she had failed to provide all of the necessary details and therefore this was pending. She checked through the details one more time just to ensure that she had missed nothing and closed the file. She was going to pay Pamela a visit.