Carnal Acts

by Sam Alexander

  Kyle, dressed in a blue jumpsuit and shoes without laces, was cuffed to a cop in the back seat. He couldn’t understand why he and his mates were still locked up. The fucking Albanian was pressing charges and the useless lawyer they’d been assigned said they were in shit because the club’s security cameras had recorded them when they’d gone in with the bats. Fuck. Maybe if he played ball with the cops now, they’d put in a good word for him. They’d been told Hot Rod was OK and would be joining them soon – in Durham Prison, not just the police cells.

  What could he say to get them off the hook? The truth was, Gaz had been going off the rails. He hadn’t showed up at the Grapes as often as he should in the last few weeks. Had he been working for the Albanians? It couldn’t be dope. The first people Gaz would have tried to sell to were him and the boys. So what then? Gaz had always been a lady’s man. He was a handsome fucker and he pulled more or less anyone he fancied. Was that what this was about? Had he been playing the fucking gigolo?

  Kyle shivered, oblivious to the verdant countryside. Maybe that’s why his head and hands had been cut off. Had the jackass been knobbing some Albanian boss man’s woman? Had his head and hands been chopped as a warning? He could see the headbangers doing something like that. They had nailed a couple of local hard men’s hands and feet to the door of an old warehouse to make a point not long ago.

  A surge of vomit almost escaped his mouth.

  ‘Don’t you dare, sunshine,’ the cop growled.

  Kyle Laggan swallowed the foul liquid. If Gaz had been led by his dick, maybe the bastards had cut that off too. He’d have given anything not to be the one to identify his mate now.

  88

  ‘All right,’ Heck said. ‘Pay attention, all of you. What DI Pax is about to say applies to both Corham and rural MCUs.’

  Joni took a deep breath and gave a run-through of the Etherington case, rarely referring to her notes. The post-mortem would begin shortly. Traffic Division had so far found no large dark vehicle in the vicinity, though they were compiling a list of local owners and would be following them up, checking for scrapes or other damage. SOCOs were still on scene, but initial evidence suggested that a single person had clambered down the slope after the victim had been knocked off the road, the size ten and wide-fitting trainer print suggesting a male. The victim’s helmet had either come off in the fall or, more likely, had been removed by the killer; but the only fingerprints on it were Nick Etherington’s. Inspection of the extensive head and facial wounds had revealed fragments of stone, but no bloodstained rock had been found in the area. Further searches in daylight were underway. The likelihood was that the murder weapon had been removed by the killer.

  Joni paused and looked around the faces of her colleagues – all were serious, even the usually relaxed Morrie Sutton and Nathan Gray. ‘Now I come to the issue of phones. First, the victim’s mobile has not been found. According to his grandfather, he always had it with him so the likelihood is the killer took it too.’

  ‘Unless it turns up in the search,’ Pete Rokeby put in.

  Joni nodded. ‘We’ll be contacting his service provider to find out who he was in touch with recently. We’ll also be initiating tracking – apparently it was a recent model iPhone, which increases the chances of it being pinpointed. The second phone that interests us is the one used by the anonymous caller to report the incident – that is to report that a man had been knocked off his bike. It came in at 7.33 p.m.’ She leaned forward and pressed a key on her laptop.

  ‘Police Force of North East England emergency service. What is your name, please?’

  ‘Never mind that, I want to report a hit and run.’

  Joni watched as people’s eyes narrowed and foreheads wrinkled. Not only was the voice neutral, the speaker holding some kind of filter over the device, but it was genuinely creepy. It seemed to be male, but was relatively high-pitched and almost sounded like a digitally produced sound.

  ‘The location, please, caller,’ said the duty officer.

  ‘B5477, bottom of the east slope of High Edge. Guy on a bike was knocked off the road by a large black 4×4.’

  ‘Caller, what is your name? Please stay on the scene until—’ The officer broke off when she realised the call had been terminated.

  ‘Any thoughts?’ ACC Dickie asked.

  ‘Could be the killer,’ Nathan Gray said. ‘Certainly sounds like a psychopath.’

  ‘Why would the killer be alerting us?’ Joni asked.

  Gray shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time a nutter has taken on law enforcement agencies.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t,’ Heck said. ‘But let’s not stray too far from the facts at this time. The caller identified the location of the incident. The victim’s bike is in the lab now and I’m hoping the techies will find traces of paint.’

  ‘No other witnesses, I suppose?’ DI Sutton asked.

  Joni shook her head. ‘Not so far. Obviously we’ll be trying to locate this phone and its user details as well. The caller hadn’t engaged the number withhold facility, which might suggest this is a genuine witness who was flustered.’

  ‘Could it be a woman?’ DC Andrews asked. Her face was puffy. She had stayed with Rosie Etherington until a family liaison officer took over in the early hours.

  ‘Wouldn’t like to meet her in a dark alleyway if she is,’ Nathan Gray said, earning himself sharp looks from the ACC and Joni.

  ‘We’re sending the tape to a linguistics professor at Durham University,’ Heck said. ‘We used him when I was in Newcastle.’

  ‘I reckon it’s a man,’ Morrie Sutton said, ‘but I’m not sure he’s a Brit. He could be speaking like a robot to hide an accent.’

  ‘Good point,’ Joni said, impressed despite her dislike of the DI. ‘Anyway, we’ll need to work out rosters for interviewing the victim’s friends and relatives. Most of the former are at the Abbey School, so the Corham squad will take part.’

  Heck nodded his agreement. Sutton and Gray didn’t look unhappy to be involved in such a high profile case.

  ‘Also,’ Joni continued, ‘there may be a connection between last night’s murder and the incidents at the Burwell Street brothel. The victim was there; some of you may remember he was dressed as a traffic light. He claimed he saw no one he knew apart from his friends, but I’m not convinced he was telling the truth. He may have been killed to stop him revealing who it was.’

  There was silence as people took that in.

  ‘This Nick Etherington,’ said Nathan Gray. ‘He’s related to the general.’

  Ruth Dickie took a step forward. ‘This is where things become problematic. As you all know, Michael Etherington is a big figure in the area, especially now he’s retired and in full-time residence.’ She glanced at Joni. ‘DI Pax tells me she thinks he may be keeping information to himself and intending to act on it. That means it’s even more important that interviews of the victim’s friends are as in-depth as possible, but bear in mind that many are still at school and may be under eighteen. We need to follow protocol to the letter.’

  ‘Especially since their parents are the local great and good,’ Morrie said sourly. He had grown up on a council estate in Gateshead and wasn’t good with the well-off.

  ‘DI Sutton,’ the ACC said, ‘I sincerely hope I won’t receive even a breath of complaint about your or any of your officers’ conduct. Am I clear?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Morrie said meekly.

  ‘Thank you.’ Ruth Dickie glanced at Joni and Heck. ‘From now on I’ll handle relations with Michael Etherington.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘As it happens, I know him socially.’

  Joni didn’t feel particularly reassured by that admission. She saw Pete Rokeby raise his hand and nodded to him.

  ‘We’ve just got confirmation, as far as that’s possible, of the headless man’s identity. A friend recognised the scars on his knees. He’s one Gary Frizzell from Benwell.’ He glanced at Heck. ‘I understand DCI Young at Newcastle MCU is checking his backgroun
d.’

  Joni looked at her boss.

  ‘That’s right. I’ll let you know if there’s any link to our cases,’ Heck said. ‘One other thing. As some of you know, a farmer by the name of Oliver Forrest went missing on the moors yesterday, in the area where the missing Albanian girl Suzana…’ He paused, looking helpless.

  ‘Noli,’ Joni supplied.

  ‘Aye … in the area where she was last presumed to be.’

  ‘More on the headless man,’ Joni said, glancing at her file. ‘Dr Volpert’s report says the victim had a bite on his lower neck, but she’s unable to confirm whether it’s human or animal because of the small amount of remaining tissue.’

  ‘Oh great,’ muttered Morrie Simmons. ‘Cannibalism an’ all.’

  Ruth Dickie ignored that and took a step forward. ‘I’m not ruling out the possibility that the brothel murder, the headless man, the disappearance of the farmer and the killing of Nick Etherington are connected, but we have to concentrate on the latter now.’ She looked back at Heck. ‘Assign some uniformed officers to keep up the searches for the Albanian woman and Mr Forrest, but concentrate on Nick Etherington.’ She moved her eyes across the MCU personnel. ‘He’s the key, I’m convinced of that. DI Pax, after the post-mortem, you and I will interview the dead boy’s mother and his grandfather.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ Heck whispered to Joni.

  She looked unconcerned.

  89

  Ollie Forrest felt the cuffs on his wrists being opened. He opened his eyes and saw a figure whose face was covered in a black balaclava. That person rapidly stepped back and waved a cattle prod at him, before exiting and slamming the door. In the faint light from beneath it, Ollie saw there were things on the table next to the bed. He went through the open door to his right and found a small but fully equipped bathroom. He emptied his bladder and dashed water over his face. Then he drank from the large bottle of water and ate the thick cheese sandwiches that were on the table.

  He lay back and tried to work out what the hell was going on. The side of his head still ached. He remembered the girl on the moor, then wondered what had happened to his quad bike. Had the shithead who’d hit him, most likely the same coward in the balaclava, nicked it? Surely the cops would be looking for him by now. He remembered the call he’d received. They had already been on his land, after the Albanian knife-woman.

  Then Ollie thought of Heck Rutherford. He could rely on him to give the search priority. They’d been at prep and senior school together. Then again, they were very different. He was devoted to playing with himself, while Heck was a choirboy when it came to messing around. He shrugged off advances. There were others, like Ollie, who could tell when something was on offer. He’d never stuck his dick into another boy’s arse, that didn’t interest him, and he didn’t let them do that to him – they didn’t dare because he was strapping lad. At the minor public school they’d attended, things were different. The headmaster, a lecherous old git, had seen advantages in allowing girls into the sixth form. They didn’t need accommodation because they stayed at home and no extra teachers had to be hired. Heck was on a full scholarship. Ollie and he shared a study for the last three years. Heck was a hell of a rugby player, the best school boy number eight in the county, and Ollie was a bullocking hooker. That was about all they had in common. Heck was smart and Ollie wasn’t. Heck seemed to be satisfied with kissing the girls who hovered around him like butterflies in a flower garden. Ollie, already losing his hair and ugly as sin, sniffed out which girls were up for it and got stuck in. Heck had never said anything, but Ollie knew he disapproved.

  Now Heck was a detective chief inspector, though he was lucky to be alive. They didn’t meet often these days, but Ollie had gone to visit him in the Royal Vic after he’d had surgery for the horrible wound he’d taken. It looked like all the blood had been drained from him. Ag had been there, watching over him like a pocket prizefighter. She’d never been keen on Ollie, having seen how he was after he’d sunk a few at parties. He would have had her any time.

  Then he heard footsteps outside the door, the light partially blocked. The key was turned and Balaclava Man came in again, cattle prod directed towards him. The business end hung a few inches above his chest as the fucker clicked the cuffs round his wrists again – Ollie had put them where they needed to be at speed. The guy pulled a balaclava without eyeholes over his head and moved away. A dim light in the passage was all he could see, then it went out.

  In the darkness he sensed someone had come close silently. A whiff of perfume entered his nostrils through the wool and made him sneeze. He heard a sigh of what sounded like disgust. Then, to his amazement, a hand was on his groin, searching for his button and zip, and pulling his trousers and pants down to below his knees. He was hard in seconds. A leg went over him and he felt bare flesh on his outer thighs. He was unable to reach for the woman’s breasts. He had a burst of panic when he thought it might be a man, then he felt himself being guided into a damp cunt.

  The bitch rode him, she rode him hard, and when he came she pushed down on him, grinding against his groin until he gasped. Then she was off him and he felt movements he couldn’t understand. She was still on the bed, he could feel her hair on his legs. What the hell was she doing?

  90

  Heck and Joni were standing behind the glass screen and looking down at the post-mortem that Dr Bertha Volpert and her assistant were carrying out on Nick Etherington.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Heck muttered, as the mortuary assistant ran the electric saw around the skull. The top of the cranium, part of it damaged by the blows from the still unlocated rock, was levered off to expose the brain.

  Joni thought of the boy’s desire to go to Cambridge. All his thoughts, all his knowledge of French, history and maths, all his emotions were gone, leaving only defunct tissue and nerves. The studying, the efforts he’d made on the sports field, the friendships – all wasted. The laughter, the spirit that drove him to construct the traffic light he’d worn on that fateful night, the grief he’d felt for his father, had already dissipated.

  ‘Lady and gentleman,’ came Doctor Volpert’s voice from the loudspeakers. She had come from Germany to study at Newcastle decades ago and married another pathologist. Her pronunciation, syntax and random use of idiom sometimes gave her away. ‘Would you like a running report?’

  Heck nodded.

  ‘Cause of death, multiple and extensive penetrating trauma to the head and face. He would have died of shock, although damage to the brain may have shut his system down sooner. The time I estimated last night – no more than two hours at most before he was found – has, I gather, been further narrowed down by other factors.’

  ‘The anonymous call was received at 7.43 p.m. and the first officers arrived on the scene at 8.01,’ Joni said, into the microphone in front of her.

  The doctor lowered her protective glasses and looked at the file on an adjoining table. ‘I took the first of my temperature readings at 8.45. Do you think this caller without a name reported the incident immediately?’

  ‘No way of telling that, doc,’ Heck replied.

  ‘I’d say he or she didn’t wait long before calling.’ The pathologist moved down the body and stood over the groin. She picked up Nick Etherington’s distended penis. ‘I checked last night – after his grandfather left – and took a fluids sample from inside the prepuce. There’s no question that the victim had indulged in sexual intercourse not long before death.’

  ‘Could you be more specific about the time?’ Joni asked.

  ‘You mean how long before death he had sex?’ She shrugged. ‘A few hours at most. We’re running tests, but I don’t think a prophylactic was worn. The characteristic ring mark at the base of the penis is not evident, though it may have already disappeared.’

  ‘You’ll be taking samples of the stone fragments from his face, of course,’ Heck said.

  Dr Volpert squared her shoulders, not deigning to answer.

  ‘Any other wounds
or injuries?’ he asked.

  ‘Recent ones? A twenty-two-centimetre gash on his left shin, caused, I would hazard, when he went through the branches at the roadside. Lacerations and contusions to both elbows.’ She raised a finger. ‘Note well – this shows that he went down the slope on his front. The killer turned him over before delivering the blows to his face, having first hit him at the base of his skull – there’s a bruise and stone fragments externally. I’m sure I will find a haematoma shortly. That blow would at the very least have seriously disabled the victim. There are several older wounds – scarring to the upper chest, right ankle and left wrist.’

  ‘He was a rugby player,’ Heck put in. ‘A bloody good one at that.’ He’d seen the Abbey School team play several times.

  ‘My friends,’ the doctor said, lowering her voice. ‘You must be careful. The force used to inflict the wounds was massive. I have rarely seen such damage except in motor or industrial accidents. The person who did this is almost undoubtedly male and equally undoubtedly in the grip of intense passion – whether rage, misdirected lust, jealousy, I cannot tell, of course. This poor boy had an implacable enemy, you can be certain of that.’

  Heck and Joni thanked her and walked out of the morgue.

  ‘We need his phone,’ Heck said, ‘especially if he’d been with a member of the opposite sex. They’d have arranged a meeting.’

  Joni nodded. ‘He’s bound to have used social networks. His computer will have to be examined. Right, I’m going to find the ACC and interview the mother and grandfather.’

  Mrs Normal on the front line, Heck thought. How much more trauma did those poor people have to go through?

  91

  Michael Etherington was standing motionless in his grandson’s room. Around him were the bed that Rosie had carefully made up, the desk covered in open textbooks and notepads, and the wardrobe with the door that never stayed shut. Inside he could see the Abbey School blazer and a row of white shirts, while there was a heap of footwear in the corner – black shoes, trainers, rugby and cricket boots, and a pair of running spikes. Nick had been school champion over four hundred metres and at the long jump for the last two years.