Never to Dead to Talk (Detective Inspector Burgess Series)

by Middleton, Deborah

  CHAPTER 17

  Jacintha was in the morgue, seated at her desk in the glassed-in cubicle that served as her office. It provided her some sanctuary from the sights of the morgue, although there was always the pervading smell of formaldehyde and disinfectant. In her profession, it was all part of the job. She was scanning the toxicology report on Robert Flood and found her blood flowing just that much faster. I knew it! She picked up her phone and dialled Burgess’s cell phone. He picked up on the first ring.

  “Buddy, it’s me.” Even to her, her voice sounded excited.

  “Wassup? Are you okay?”

  “Sure. I just wanted to let you know I was right about Mr. Flood’s bruising. I’ve just got back the toxicology report… and we got lucky. There were still traces of insulin. There’s also a lot of Percodan in his system. I am sure he was murdered. A nice overdose of insulin is a perfect way to murder someone, especially if they’re not diabetic. The cerebral edema I found supports the evidence that he must have gone into a hypoglycemic coma. It’s not fatal, if treated within a few hours but I reckon Mrs. Flood took her time to notify us until she was sure he was dead. Insulin breaks down in the body pretty quickly, so it’s quite easy to miss. The Percodan only served as an additional cocktail to finish him off.

  I am convinced there’s no way he could have injected himself with the insulin if he were right-handed. It would have been physically impossible, given where the needle mark was located on his right arm and the angle at which it was administered. It’s normally done subcutaneously, so he would probably have wanted to pinch a fold of skin in order to do it. No, I don’t think he did this to himself.” She paused to draw breath, giving Burgess a chance to interject.

  “Couldn’t a good lawyer argue he then did it with his left hand, which is why it’s poorly administered?”

  Jacintha thought for a moment. “That’s a good point and yes, he could… but why would he do that? If you’re going to do yourself in, you’d want to do it as efficiently and painlessly as possible, wouldn’t you?”

  “Those would be my thoughts. Did you say Percodan was in his system too?”

  “Yes, I have the report right in front of me.”

  “Was there a lot?”

  “Oh yes, well above any reasonable dose. I would say enough for him to have been flying.”

  “Okay, that’s consistent with the Percodan traces in his whisky and the obvious empty bottle of Percodan on the desk. Just one question. Could he have taken all the pills in one slug of whisky?”

  “Very doubtful. He had a lot in his body. Even if they had been crushed and mixed in, I’d say he’d have had to take a few sips of the whisky to get it all into his system.”

  “Well, get this. According to the forensics boys, he only had one set of prints neatly wrapped around the glass. If he had taken a few sips, he would have held it several times, making more than one set of prints.”

  “Buddy, I smell a rat. It looks as if the murderer helped him along by serving him whisky laced with Percodan, wiped the glass clean and then pressed his fingers around it when he was either dead or unconscious. I guess whoever did this wanted to ensure their fingerprints were removed from the whisky glass to make it look like Flood poured it himself. What about the Percodan bottle?”

  “Oh, his fingerprints are all over that. It obviously belonged to him.”

  “I’m beginning to think we have enough evidence to prove he was murdered. The way I’m looking at it, he had a drink with his wife in the study. She must have laced the whisky with Percodan and then injected him with her insulin when he was unconscious.”

  “Yes, the bruising indicates he was alive when he was injected. Maybe the murderer’s hands were shaking so they botched the job?”

  “She botched the job.” Burgess was adamant. “I’m sure it was Mrs. Flood. I just can’t prove it yet. In any event, we’ve got enough to suspect that it’s definitely not suicide. I think, with that, I can get a search warrant for the Flood’s house. Maybe something will turn up there.”

  Jacintha could hear Pamela talking to Burgess in the background.

  “Jaz, let’s continue this conversation tonight. Let me know if anything else comes up. I’ve gotta go.”

  Jacintha could hear the tension in his voice and wondered what the devil had just transpired.

  CHAPTER 18

  Komissar Daniil Khitarov was worried. He had been tasked with locating the whereabouts of the famous film director, Vladimir Alexeev but the man had vanished into thin air. The policeman’s appearance at the celebrity’s office had caused quite a stir. For his part, Khitarov had been intrigued by the showbiz style of the office. Alexeev’s personal assistant looked like something out of a Vogue catalog, dressed in the latest designer suit and shoes but with enough glitter on the Dolce & Gabbana glasses and rocks on her fingers to give her that Russian bling that would turn heads. The lady had said she had no idea where her boss could be and had not seen him for several days. Khitarov knew that she knew that he knew that she was lying. Old habits die hard and most Russians were reluctant to talk to the authorities. He’d wager his modest apartment that she would always keep tabs on the man who paid her salary. Should he haul her in for questioning? Right now, it was lunchtime and he was hungry. First things first; his favorite café was just around the corner and he fancied a bowl of pelmeni - Siberian meat dumplings in a little broth - and perhaps, since he had not eaten much for breakfast, a little meat with some potato salad. He liked the one where they added onions, gherkins, beets and peas dressed in their house vinaigrette. He could feel his mouth beginning to water as he made his way inside. The atmosphere was noisy, smoky and smelled of beer – just the way he liked it.

  Khitarov would have smiled had he known that his quarry, Alexeev, had no appetite at all. In fact, the renowned director now sometimes felt a burning sensation in his stomach whenever he drank his vodka. Was this the beginning of an ulcer? He had always laughed at others who suffered from such things. The company of his monosyllabic neanderthal of a bodyguard was also beginning to grate on him. Try as he could, his brain was frozen when it came to thinking of a plan. What should he do? Somebody was after him and they obviously meant business. He started involuntarily as his cell phone rang, noting a tremor in his hand as he opened it. He was relieved to hear his personal assistant’s voice and listened in silence as she told him of the local police’s visit to his headquarters. He had the growing sensation that the net was beginning to close in, hating the oppressive feeling of helplessness. The police were the least of his worries. What should he do? Think man, think. Who could be looking for you besides the police?

  He sat back in his armchair and contemplated the flames of the fire. Normally, he would have enjoyed this sojourn at his dacha but not this time. His mind was fraught with worry. He listed and re-listed any potential enemies he might have made over the years but could think of no one capable of murder, let alone torture and murder. He needed to find a safe haven; somewhere that was not on the radar screen of any of his friends, business colleagues or, God forbid, unknown enemies. Suddenly, he sat up straight. Why not? He would go to Mallorca and stay at his ex-wife’s villa. Even better, he would offer his yacht to her for a trip somewhere like the Dalmatian Islands and he could then use her home without her being there. She could take their two young boys and then he would have peace and, more importantly, anonymity, in Mallorca. The yacht might also serve as a red herring to anyone trying to find him. Having made up his mind, he crossed over to the bar and poured himself another generous measure of Absolut. A feeling of overwhelming relief flooded through him now that he had come up with a solution, at least temporarily, to his plight. Should he hire a private investigator to find out who was behind the murders in Bermuda? Perhaps it really was a local slaying and he was imagining too much. After all, his house was in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods of the island. Undoubtedly, the rich were always an obvious target for any would-be burglars. Maybe, after all, it had been a
burglary that had gone wrong. Try as he could, however, he simply could not shake the feeling it was much more than a local crime. Taking a long pull on his drink, he leaned his head back against the soft upholstery of his armchair and breathed deeply in an attempt to try and steady the beating of his heart.

  CHAPTER 19

  Burgess’s team was seated in the murder room watching clips from various films earmarked by Skinner. There had been a little snickering at some of the antics of the older men with the girls, as well as exclamations of incredulity, as they identified several prominent men in Bermudian society cavorting in the pool or one of the guest bedrooms. Archie had almost laughed himself silly watching the Minister for Information, belly and genitals bouncing merrily, as he was chased around the pool by a girl in a topless cheerleader’s outfit brandishing a pom-pom.

  “That’s not even original,” he had snorted.

  The spotlight was on Skinner and he found he was enjoying showing everyone how his investigations contributed to the case. The more the viewing went on, the more confident his voice became as he outlined to them all the procedures he had adopted. “I’ve earmarked the most recent films where I’ve been able to identify players. The next one shows Flood handcuffed to the bed and being whipped on the buttocks by two of the girls. I think this one girl might be local.” Skinner pointed with his pencil to a brown-skinned lady. “She looks like she’s a professional, while the other one looks a little young… and she doesn’t say much. I’m not sure just how much English she speaks.”

  “Any idea of what nationality?” Burgess looked across at Skinner.

  “Not really. I think Russian or Eastern European. So far she hasn’t said anything in her own language. I’m just going on her accent, which is pretty thick.”

  “Any other films featuring Flood?” Burgess was curious to know just how deeply involved the lawyer had been.

  “Oh yeah. And in every single one he’s being beaten or humiliated. In one of them, the girl even urinates on him.”

  “Are you serious?” Pamela could not refrain from exclaiming.

  “Oh yes. Apparently, it’s not that unusual for men in high positions to enjoy that.” Skinner was suddenly embarrassed at sounding like such an authority on the subject.

  Archie observed his discomfort and could not resist quipping, “Oh, have some experience in these things then, Skinner?” He chuckled to make it clear he was only teasing.

  Skinner blushed. He was at a loss for words. Burgess, sensing the need to step in and put things back on track, interjected. “Now we know perhaps why he committed suicide. That makes our murder theory a little less believable. I definitely think his death is connected to all of this. What I don’t understand is why the housekeepers were killed. There are still more pieces to this puzzle…”

  “Sir,” Skinner interrupted. “It gets worse. He couldn’t resist glancing over towards Pamela and Burgess noticed the movement.

  “It’s okay, Skinner. We’re all seasoned professionals here and whatever we need to know about this crime is for all of us to hear… and see.”

  “Well, sir, on De Souza’s suggestion, I searched from latest to earliest films. The last film, dated almost a month ago, is very disturbing. I think it’s a snuff movie.”

  There was a collective intake of breath from the assembled group.

  “What makes you think that?” queried De Souza, biting on the end of his pencil. “After all, this guy is in the film business.”

  “Well, let me run it for you and you all tell me if you agree.” He busied himself changing the DVD while the atmosphere in the room immediately shifted from tense to supercharged. Pamela felt a sense of foreboding in the pit of her stomach. Burgess, squeamish by nature, hated the thought of more gratuitous violence taking up space in his mind. He had enough stored there already.

  Pamela bit her lip, Archie tried to appear relaxed, and De Souza chewed on his pencil as the images of the film played out on the screen. Burgess pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He knew he was going to have to look up at some point and therefore braced himself for the scenes to come. As the film progressed, mercifully without the soundtrack, a somber mood overtook them. They watched as the girl allowed the clear plastic bag to be placed over her head during the course of the sex act. They saw the bag inflate and deflate, filming over with her warm breath, her body arching and bucking in seeming ecstasy as they picked up the pace. Then they watched in absolute horror as panic overtook her when the man suddenly and violently pulled the bag tight around her throat and realisation dawned it was no longer a game. She was no match for the strength of her on-screen lover as he became increasingly violent, stretching the plastic over her nose and mouth, so as to eerily outline the profile of her face. Helplessly, they witnessed the fragile hands clawing with diminishing strength at the bag, her body writhing in its final spasms of death. Finally, when it seemed it would never end, they were forced to look into her dead eyes as her killer removed the bag, almost with a flourish and the camera moved in for a close-up. It sickened them all and filled them with a resolve to get the beasts behind this senseless act. The shock lingered in the room, an uninvited guest, as the film ended.

  “You’re right,” said Burgess quietly, finally breaking the silence. “That was no fake. Did you see how long it took? The camera was rolling continuously for several minutes. That young girl never had a chance to take a breath. She was sacrificed for the enjoyment of some obscene perverts.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” echoed Archie quietly. He hesitated. “What kind of person would get off on such a thing… and how the hell do we find who did this?”

  “I have an idea.” Everyone’s eyes looked to De Souza. “I think this girl is buried in the garden of the Russian’s house and the compost has been moved and heaped on top of her grave to hide it.”

  Pamela was incensed. “Oh my God. Will they stop at nothing? Now they even desecrate her further by putting rubbish on her grave, the bastards!” Unshed tears glistened in her eyes. She was trembling with fury and disgust. “We’ve got to get these animals.”

  “Right,” said Burgess. “Pamela, you contact Immigration to see if we have any girls matching her description who have come in during the past six months. Concentrate especially on any who may not have left when they should have. Skinner, you take some still photos over to Vice and see if we can identify any of these girls. De Souza organize a backhoe. Tomorrow we dig up the compost heap.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Burgess was standing, looking out of the kitchen window at Nana’s grapefruit tree, when Jacintha came up behind him. She pressed her pelvis into his back, wrapping her arms around his waist. Burgess loved the feel of her breasts against him and reached behind to cup her buttocks and pull her even closer. Suddenly, she reached up and pulled a sheet of plastic across his face. He could no longer see or breathe. With every intake of breath, the plastic tightened on his face. Jacintha was behaving liked a crazed thing. She had now jumped on his back, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling tightly on the plastic so that it stretched even further over his nose and mouth. He swung his body frantically from side to side in an effort to dislodge her but she clung to him like a huge predatory spider. As he gurgled and gasped, he felt a pain in his left arm as his left side began to shake violently.

  “Buddy, Buddy!” Jacintha was almost screaming, shaking his arm to wake him up. She was unaware that she had dug her fingers into his flesh. Burgess awoke, gasping for air. Jacintha handed him his inhaler. “Buddy, you were having an asthma attack… and another of your dreams?” Her voice trailed off questioningly.

  Burgess allowed the medication to take effect before he could speak. “Yes, only this time, someone was suffocating me with a sheet of plastic.” He did not have the heart to tell her she had been the perpetrator. He knew that would hurt her feelings, even though it was only a dream.

  “Oh my God. All these cases are taking their toll on you… on us.” Suddenly, she burst i
nto tears. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you have me so worried. Don’t you think you should go and talk to the psychiatrist?”

  “It’s okay, Jaz. I only dreamed I was suffocating because of the asthma. Look out the window, it’s raining. You know how I get these attacks when the weather changes. The fact they used plastic in my dream this time is just because we watched that DVD yesterday. It’s still fresh in my mind.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Jacintha still looked unhappy and Burgess pulled her towards him.

  “It’s raining and I can’t breathe well, so why don’t we forget about going for a run and do some indoor sport instead?” He began to kiss her forehead, her lips and then her throat. He felt her body respond and it gladdened him.