Flesh Evidence: a heart-stopping crime thriller

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  “If she couldn’t tell Sam and Pam were the same person, how did some parent identify him from a brief encounter in Manchester?”

  “Unless it wasn’t a brief encounter,” Cyril said, recovering his composure and wiping up the wine. “Boyfriend? Another man who wants to be a woman. One who has a high-powered job and a family? Meets with like-minded people on the third Saturday every month when he’s supposed to be at work? Who knows? You have the names of the two boys who wouldn’t retract?”

  “Running a check as we sit here.” Liz looked at Cyril and could almost interpret his thought processes. “Thanks Cyril for the meal and the ear.”

  “It’s nothing. Got me out of the gym. You do know what that means?” It was a rhetorical question because he was going to tell her whether she knew or not. “We have at the moment, one, possibly two dead fourteen year olds, same age as the boys who destroyed Samuel and his teaching career. We’ve clues that suggest that the kidnappings are retaliation for something that occurred in the past. We’ve evidence to suggest that the person committing the crimes has a sound knowledge of chemistry and we have someone with a connection to Harrogate. Most importantly, Liz, we have someone who believes that they’re unconquered by it all, that they’ve risen above it all and their life is now on an even keel. Believe me, that’s the worrying part because we don’t know what else of which he or she is capable.”

  “As far as Pamela is concerned, that’s only circumstantial and it’s wafer thin. All we can do now is talk to her. I need to confront her. If she’s been living in Ilkley for the last few months, then that could put her out of the frame. I’m seeing her again and I have a lot more questions in my armoury than before. I also want more details on the chap her mother lived with. What we should remember is that this is all lovely and cosy. It all points in one direction and in my short career that’s not the way this usually works.”

  Cyril’s phone rang. “Bennett.” He listened. “Contents? Please get someone to bring me round details and photographs and make sure the jar’s couriered to Forensics immediately. Yes, here and as soon as.”

  He looked at Liz who felt suddenly uncomfortable. She shivered a little. “I need a strong coffee and recommend you do too. We’ve another jar and this one looks genuine.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The last rays of the September day’s sun were almost horizontal, making progress to the west blindingly difficult. Pedalling hard with his head down and straining against the incline of Penny Pot Lane, Christopher was not only knackered, he was late. He’d promised to be home twenty minutes ago but the ride had taken longer than he had anticipated; it was a school day too.

  Ever since the Tour de France had streaked through Yorkshire he’d been hooked. He’d even added his old bike, once he’d daubed it with yellow gloss paint, to the many that were enthusiastically displayed along the Tour route. Christmas brought a new carbon racing cycle; it also brought brightly coloured lycra matching that worn by his hero, Sir Bradley Wiggins. His aunt added a pair of yellow, reflective glasses and then there was a top of the range helmet. Even with the best cycling gear, he was finding the hill unusually difficult until he realised that the rear tyre was slowly deflating. He swore. It would be another half an hour at least now. His mum would be frantic.

  He pulled into the edge of the road. He’d ring her and then repair the puncture. He slowed more quickly than he had anticipated; his shoe didn’t unclip from the pedal as fast as it should have and to make matters worse, he was craning his head to look at the flat tyre; consequently, he fell sideways onto the road. It was more embarrassing than painful but he felt his phone, held in a pouch on the back of his jacket, crash against the tarmac. He wrestled to unclip the other toe before scurrying from under the bike. It’s only flat at the bottom. He could hear his friend’s jest the last time this had happened and it brought a smile to his face. He took no notice of the white van travelling in the opposite direction but the driver instinctively touched the brakes momentarily after seeing the bicycle fall sideways towards the centre of the road. She carried on a short distance before pulling up. The driver looked into the side mirror and watched the silhouetted cyclist move his cycle off the road and onto a dirt track before disappearing from view.

  Christopher pushed the bike up the gravelled incline away from the road; he was safe here, not that there was a lot of traffic. He checked his watch determined to test how long it would take to strip and replace the inner tube.

  The van reversed into a farm driveway, the driver checked for traffic before heading back up the lane into the blinding low light. The trees to either side hid the small turnings that sat at right angles to the road and as the driver approached the track where the cyclist was, she slowed before turning. There was a slight incline and the van accelerated, the wheels spinning on the loose gravel. For Christopher, he was taken unawares and turned to see the van approach; he simply stared as the front of the van hit his precious bike before colliding with his legs, the impact bowling him over. The driver was braking hard causing the van to slide to a halt. The cycle quickly became trapped under the front of the vehicle, its own front wheel spinning in slow protest.

  “I’m so very sorry, I lost a bit of control. I didn’t expect you here. I thought you’d be off the track. I saw you fall off and wondered if you needed help. Are you hurt?”

  Christopher sat up and looked at the stranger’s smile. “I think I’m fine.” He ran his hands down his legs. “No my shorts are torn and just look at my bike! Look at my bike!” He pulled out his mobile phone from the pocket at the back of his jacket. His eyes looked at the stranger. “The glass on my phone’s broken too but I think I did that when I fell in the road.” He tried to dial home but there was nothing.

  “Where do you live? I’ll take you home and sort out the damage with your parents or we can get you an ambulance and I can take your bike home. It’s up to you. I’m so very sorry.”

  Christopher looked at the blood on his grazed knees; he looked at his phone and then his bike. He peered into the face of the woman staring at him. “Could you take me home, please? I feel a little dizzy and I’m already late.

  The driver helped Christopher into the van and loaded the bicycle into the back. “Where to, young man?”

  “I live in Darley, do you know it?”

  The driver simply smiled. “Put on your seat belt otherwise we’re going nowhere. How old are you, Christopher?”

  ***

  Cyril looked at the photographs attached to the new whiteboard that sat on an easel in his room. He knew the meaning of the tattooed flesh immediately. He also ascertained from the DNA tests that it had been removed from Carl’s body post mortem. He was pretty sure that he could predict the exact day that they would discover his corpse. He simply stared at the evidence and the clues stared back. This time there was nothing hidden, it was, as the good Dr Macauley had identified from the poem, in plain sight.

  From the once strong, now comes the sweetness

  Cyril read it out loud.

  “That’s nearly the same, Sir, as what’s written on the Lyle’s Golden Syrup tin. Read it this morning as I was eating my porridge. ‘Out of the strong came forth sweetness’. It’s printed under a sleeping lion. Fancy you now mentioning something so similar. Spooky that.”

  “Do you know where it’s from? By the way the lion is definitely not sleeping, Owen.”

  “Trick question? Well seeing it’s getting late, yes, I know where it’s from, I’ve just told you, the syrup tin.”

  Cyril refused to be drawn; he could almost see the smirk on Owen’s lips. “It’s from Samson’s Riddle, a biblical narrative where Samson sets a riddle for the thirty Philistine wedding guests to solve.

  ‘Out of the one who eats came something to eat

  Out of the strong came something sweet’.”

  He paused for a moment and looked at them.

  “You know the story?” Cyril asked in all seriousness but neither Liz nor Owen answered.
“No? I’m going to give you a condensed version and I want you to jot down any words you might think are relevant to the case.”

  Liz brought Owen a pad and pencil and they sat at Cyril’s desk.

  “Firstly the story is from Judges 14:14.” They both scribbled. “The riddle is based upon a private experience. He killed the lion on his journey and on returning he saw bees had made a hive in the carcass.” He looked at Owen and smiled. “The lion was definitely not sleeping. So he asked the thirty Philistine men at his wedding feast, he was marrying a Philistine bride, what the riddle meant.” Cyril tapped the riddle written on the board. “If they solved this they would receive thirty pieces of clothing and if not, they would pay him the same. The wedding feast would last the usual seven days and that is the time Samson gave them to solve the riddle. On the fourth day they were no closer to an answer so they threatened Samson’s bride with violence and ridicule if she didn’t tell them. She didn’t know the answer, but fearing the threats, she begged Samson to tell only her, suggesting that he didn’t love her if he kept a secret from her. Each day she begged and each day she wept when he refused. He eventually relented on the seventh day and she then told the Philistines who were members her own family. They came to Samson. ‘What is sweeter than honey? What is stronger than a lion? As you can guess, Samson was furious and left his new wife as she had deceived him and returned to his own family. Afterwards he killed thirty Philistines and gave their clothing in payment of the lost wager.”

  Liz and Owen looked at what each had written and started to look for similarities. Cyril watched. There was a knock on the door and they all turned to see Stuart Park.

  “We’ve another missing youth. Should have been home at six, mother waited until now.”

  Cyril checked his watch, shook it at looked again. “That’s only an hour.”

  ***

  The white van turned down past Menwith Hill listening station after a short drive and indicated to turn right onto Main Street.

  “It’s that house on the left, the one with the lights on top of the gate-posts.” Christopher smiled, and waited for the van to slow. He looked up the drive and saw the front door open and his mother run down towards the van.

  Christopher opened the van door and walked towards her, his head lowered. He was expecting her to shout but she just hugged him. The driver went to the rear of the van and retrieved the bike and his helmet.

  “I was so worried, what’s happened to you?” His mother ran her hands down his legs feeling the torn material and seeing the blood.

  “I didn’t unclip my toe from the pedal and fell into the road. I had a puncture. This kind lady brought me home. I’ve broken my phone too.”

  His father was already down by the van and was collecting the damaged bicycle.

  “Thanks very much, a good Samaritan?” He smiled at her. “I’m Christopher’s dad. And you?”

  “I’m Rory’s mum.” She smiled, hoping that he would see the joke. It took a few moments and then he laughed.

  “Sorry, Matthew, Matthew Birks.”

  “Penny Rogers. I saw Christopher fall off his bike on Penny Pot Lane so I returned to help him, although far from helping I nearly ran your young man over. That’s why the bike’s worse than it should be.”

  “Don’t worry about that, I’m just so grateful he’s safe. What with the two missing youngsters…”

  As he spoke a police car, its blue lights flashing, pulled up behind the van.

  “Shit, we should have told the police he’s safe. Excuse me please, Penny.”

  Matthew, looking a little red faced, handed her back the cycle and went towards the two officers. Within fifteen minutes a call had gone into the station and both the van and the police car were heading towards Harrogate.

  ***

  Cyril, Liz and Owen returned to his office; each carried a coffee. Owen hated false alarms.

  “So what did you glean from the story?”

  “Judges the word could be relevant, who judges? 14:14… two boys both fourteen years old and this riddle appears after the second child has been murdered.” Owen was the first to comment but then Liz, who in Cyril’s mind was the deeper thinker, had picked up on the term ‘private experience’.

  “If a riddle is set using purely private experiences then it becomes almost impossible to solve.” Cyril could hear Julie’s words and he smiled inwardly. “It can only be interpreted, that’s all. It made me think of the numbers we encountered on the first set of jars, they meant something to the writer. It was contrived and private but meant bugger all to anyone else, to quote Owen here. You had to know that they were relevant to a location. Had someone given that clue and had someone betrayed the killer and handed us the jars in sequence then maybe we’d have discovered the meaning and we would have been waiting at the co-ordinates for him to arrive. The only way Samson’s riddle was resolved was by betrayal, threat and treason. So was our kidnapper and killer a Samson? Has someone so close to him betrayed him and for that he has, like Samson, taken revenge?”

  “There’s the reference again to honey,” Owen chipped in. “’Out of the strong”. Does this mean that at one time the boys, the fourteen-year-old boys held all the aces, they were the stronger, they were in fact bullies but in the end they were sweet, they had been changed. Is that the reason for this honey business? What about the term Philistine? We used it at school a lot. Is it suggested here as a derogatory term for the police?”

  Cyril raised an eyebrow at Owen’s vocabulary, he was impressed, “And the seven days? What of that?” Cyril looked at them both after noting down their comments on the whiteboard.

  Neither spoke. Liz looked down at her notes. “He doesn’t hope to kill thirty does he, Sir? Or does he plan on bringing the walls of the temple down on himself in an act of self-sacrifice?”

  Cyril looked at Liz. She had known the story all along but had said nothing to save exposure of Owen’s biblical ignorance. He smiled at Liz and shook his head before turning to look at Owen. Owen pulled a face like children pose when confronted with a difficult question and determined to appear engaged.

  “Don’t strain yourself, Owen as it’s conjecture. Could it mean that the body will turn up in seven days or will it be the eighth, as Samson delivered the dead men’s clothes on the eighth?”

  Cyril looked at his watch, turned and wrote the date 21st September on the board. “If anyone wants a wager?” He paused but neither spoke. “Think I just heard the bell. It’s home time for you good people.”

  Owen looked at Liz and mouthed the letters P…U…B. She nodded in agreement. It had been a strange day.

  As they left his office Cyril called. “Owen, farm visit tomorrow, early at 7:30 here. Bring your wellington boots. Liz, when do you see Pamela again?”

  “Monday, Sir. Tomorrow I’m visiting her house near Harrogate…just a feeling.”

  ***

  A light autumnal mist loitered around the agricultural buildings at the upper end of the drive. There was a seasonal chill to the morning. Owen stood to the left of the farm driveway, his tall, bulky frame leaning against the low, stone wall. He stared at his mobile phone. Wearing a tired blue, waxed cotton jacket, dark trousers tucked into incredibly clean wellington boots, he neither looked like a farmer nor a police officer. Cyril looked him up and down.

  “Very smart, Owen,” he said as a cloud of vapour was exhaled from his nostrils. A syrup of sarcasm dripped from his shallow smile. “Those are cleaner than your shoes.” He pointed to the boots with his electronic cigarette.

  “Didn’t want to let the side down Sir, hours they took, bloody hours. Hands will never be the same again. More than can be said for yours, Sir. We must be morphing into each other.” His gaze didn’t shift from the small screen.

  “Touché, Owen.”

  Owen smiled.

  Three uniformed officers had arrived at the same time and were looking towards the buildings. A van transporting a police dog pulled onto the grass. Cyril strolled down
and spoke with the officer who remained in the van. All that was missing was the landowner. Cyril noticed Mrs Young looking through the raised net curtains of the bungalow and his heart sank. When she saw Cyril look towards her, she waved. Cyril nodded but averted his eyes quickly, relieved to see a Range Rover turn into the driveway. It came to an abrupt halt trapping the dog handler in his van. Cyril waved the driver to pull forwards.

  A tall man climbed out. He was in his mid sixties, smartly dressed; a checked, flat cap added to his farming credentials. Cyril noticed the two dogs in the back of the vehicle.

  Turning his collar up, the farmer announced his arrival and annoyance at being called to attend a meeting on his own property.

  “Who’s Bennett?” His manner was as direct as a Yorkshire man could be for ten minutes to eight in the morning.

  “I’m DCI Cyril Bennett and you are?”

  “Let’s cut the crap, Bennett, I’ve a farm to run. You know who I am, you bloody well ordered me here, remember? Now then, what is it that interests you about my private property? It’s probably that nosy bitch over there, grumbling and bloody moaning again, no doubt. It’s a working bloody farm not Emmerdale. She expects all year spring lambs and bloody daffodils.” He turned his head and looked towards the bungalow, his action resulting in a sudden fall in the net curtain.

  After an explanation and threats that a warrant could be easily be obtained, the farmer reluctantly followed Cyril and Owen who in turn followed the Police dog and handler, at some distance, towards the dilapidated buildings.

  “I’m surprised, Sir, that your farms were not inspected earlier.”

  The farmer just grunted.

  “The dog is using the scent of something we are trying to trace so if what we are searching for is here or has been here recently, he’ll find it. Are all the containers unlocked?”

  “They all hold stuff we use on the farm so they’re locked. The keys are here.” He tapped the pocket of his coat.