by Chris Simms
‘Anyone see anything?’ Rick asked, looking across at the group.
‘One spotted a man he hadn’t seen before in the lobby. Possibly from India or the Middle East, but the bloke kept his head down.’
Great, thought Jon, sensing the tangled investigation coming their way. ‘And the victim, he doesn’t appear to be British?’
‘No. White Caucasian, though he’s come from somewhere hot. Judging from the state of his skin, he wasn’t using sun cream.’
Jon raised an eyebrow in question.
‘Nasty case of sunburn, remains of a few blisters on his scalp. Must have nodded off on a beach for a good while. Shall I take you up?’
‘Why not?’ Jon replied, thrusting his hands into his pockets: an automatic reaction to the prospect of approaching the crime scene itself.
The sergeant led them into the lobby, where only a single strip light appeared to be working. The concrete walls had recently been painted, but traces of earlier graffiti still showed through.
‘Needless to say,’ the sergeant announced, voice echoing slightly, ‘the lift’s out.’
‘Surprise, surprise,’ Rick murmured. ‘Which floor?’
‘Five,’ the sergeant stated. ‘Guy in the next flat was trying to borrow some matches. Walked into a horror movie instead.’
Reaching for his phone, Jon hung back as the other two men started plodding up the stairs. ‘Carmel, it’s me. How’s it going?’
‘Hang on. Holly, I’m just going into the kitchen, OK?’ A rustling sound as Carmel got up. ‘She’s not saying a thing, Jon. Quiet as a mouse. Hasn’t moved a muscle since you left.’
In the background, he could hear the rise and fall of a song. Kaa, the snake, urging Mowgli to trust in him. ‘Listen, I’ll be back soon. Another hour, tops.’
‘OK, I’ll see if she wants hot chocolate or something.’
‘No, she doesn’t like it. Try her with a bit of cold milk. Thanks, Carmel.’
‘What is it, by the way? A murder?’
Jon smiled. ‘Can’t resist, can you? Give us a break, Carmel. I’ve not even seen the body yet.’
‘Anyone from the Chronicle there?’
‘No.’
‘Other papers?’
‘No. And don’t you dare put a call in, Carmel. It’s dodgy enough that we’re seeing each other without photographers from your paper miraculously turning up at murders within minutes of my arrival.’
‘OK, OK. My lips are sealed.’
‘Cheers.’ He cut the connection, then jogged up the flights of steps. Rick and the sergeant were waiting for him halfway along the corridor of the fifth floor.
‘Down here,’ Moore called out, pointing at a doorway with a ribbon of police tape stretched across it. Someone had opened a window somewhere and cool air washed over Jon’s face as he set off towards the two men. As he neared them, an unpleasant aroma began to hit him.
‘Which one of you two dropped that?’ he asked light-heartedly. ‘Rick, doesn’t smell like one of yours.’
Moore nodded at the open door. ‘Victim shat himself.’
‘Lovely,’ Jon answered, knowing it was a common occurrence in suicides where the chosen method was hanging. The body’s muscles giving out in the last throes of death. He peered into the dingy flat. A couple of arc lamps had been set up at either end of a small sofa, the back of which was facing him. Jon could see the top of a man’s shaved head tilted back against the padded material. A scene-of-crime officer, head to toe in a white over suit, was filming the body on a hand-held camcorder while Dr Milton, dressed identically but a good foot taller than the other man, spoke softly into a dictaphone.
Returning his hands to his pockets, Jon leaned through the doorway to better examine the rest of the room. The walls were blank, shelves empty except for a couple of crumpled magazines and newspapers. Aside from the sofa, he could see only an arm-chair and the corner of what appeared to be a coffee table. No television, or even anything for playing music.
The dictaphone clicked and Richard Milton turned a slightly piercing stare in his direction.
Jon gave a little lift of his chin. ‘Dr Milton. DI Spicer, we met—’
‘How are you, Jon?’
‘Good, thanks,’ he replied, shoulders relaxing. ‘Yourself?’
‘Busy, busy, busy. Been a while since I’ve had one like this, though.’
‘How come?’
‘Slip on an over suit and I’ll show you.’
A few minutes later, Jon was lifting the tape across the door-way then ducking under to step onto the first of three metal foot plates that led to the sofa. As he straightened up, more of the scene was revealed.
He felt his stomach tighten and the paper-like layer of the over suit suddenly seemed to be trapping the heat of his body. Pressing the edges of the face mask tight against his cheeks, he took in a deep breath.
Milton was beckoning eagerly from the other side of the sofa, seemingly oblivious to the smell. ‘As you’ve probably gathered, the victim’s bowels evacuated during the struggle. Also, whatever was looped round his neck ruptured his carotid, quite possibly his jugular, too.’
Jon looked at the fine plumes of red dots which coated the coffee table and carpet beyond. Speckles of blood had even reached the skirting board and lower parts of the wall on the opposite side of the room.
He stepped onto the second footplate, more of the body coming into view. The man’s head was at an unnatural angle, alarm frozen in his bloodshot eyes as they stared at the ceiling. More blood coated his lips and chin, pools of it were gathered in the folds of his T-shirt and jeans. Jon craned his neck. ‘What’s happened to his left ear?’
Milton looked at it for a second. ‘Lost the top half of it, somehow.’
‘In the struggle?’
‘No. It’s an old wound. A good few years, I’d say.’
Jon looked back down at the victim. The section of sofa visible between his outstretched legs had changed from a pale green to a dark, glistening purple.
‘There won’t be much blood left in the body,’ Milton stated, eyes bright with something that looked suspiciously close to excitement. ‘Not with his head hanging half off. Come round my side and you can see the extent of the laceration.’
Jon lowered the zip of the over suit, then tugged at the material to try and circulate some air within it. ‘You’re all right, cheers. I’ll look at the photos later. Any pertinent details I should know, now?’
Milton shrugged. ‘You’re missing out. I’ve not seen one like this before – and I’ve seen some corkers, believe me.’
You have, Jon thought. And your fascination for them never seems to dim. ‘Go on, then. What makes this one special?’
‘Well.’ Milton gazed down at the corpse. ‘The killer approached the victim from behind, just in front of where you’re standing now. He obviously caught the victim unawares to loop a length of something over his head.’
‘Garrotted him?’ Rick asked from the doorway behind.
‘Correct. You’re familiar with the technique?’ Milton asked.
‘Only from films,’ Rick replied. ‘Luca Brasi in The Godfather, wasn’t it?’
‘I believe you’re right,’ Milton mused. ‘My guess is our killer had his arms crossed when he got the wire – or whatever it was – round the victim’s neck. Then he uncrossed his arms and pulled apart, effectively closing the loop. You see the back of the sofa? Those two dents in the top edge? I imagine they were made by the killer’s forearms or wrists.’
Jon looked at the scene-of-crime officer.
‘Don’t worry,’ the man replied. ‘I’ve checked. One hair, already bagged-up.’
‘By crouching down,’ Milton continued. ‘He would have gained extra leverage, pinning the victim in his seat and allowing the exertion of some serious pressure. It would also have had the added advantage of keeping him clear of any arterial spray.’ He cocked his head at the ceiling.
Jon glanced up and saw the fine mist clinging to the
peeling paint above him. He looked back down. The coffee table had been kicked askew during the struggle, scuffs in the cheap-looking carpet where the victim’s legs had thrashed about. ‘He put up a bit of a fight.’
‘Yes,’ Milton replied. ‘But it was game over the moment the garrotte went round his neck. Actually, he got one hand up. Managed to hook the tips of his fingers under it.’ Milton leaned down and lifted a hand. The middle three fingers had been cut through to the bone. ‘He’s wearing a wedding ring,’ the pathologist continued. ‘So there’s a wife – and possibly kids – somewhere.’
‘How long would it have taken him to die?’ Jon asked.
‘The noose would have cut off the supply of blood to his brain, so about ten seconds or so to lose consciousness. Death another twenty seconds to half a minute after that.’ He waggled the victim’s thumb. ‘No sign of rigor in the extremities, yet.’
‘Hour or two ago, then?’ Jon asked.
‘With this heat? He could have been here a while longer than that. I’ll take his rectal temperature as soon as we get him back to the MRI.’
Jon pictured the mess inside the man’s trousers. ‘Rather you than me. What was it, then – wire, you reckon?’
‘Something thin and very strong. Many man-made fibres would be up to the task. Perhaps silk, I’m not sure. Looking at the wound, whatever it was cut through his sternocleidomastoid.’ Milton’s head turned and he ran a finger down the ridge of muscle curving from behind his ear to his collar bone. ‘This one. It’s a tough muscle. Has to be to support the weight of your brain. But, of course, you’re really looking to cut off the supply of oxygen – and the garrotte has done that, all right. It’s also gone through the thyroid cartilage of his larynx like – well, to use a cliché, like a knife through the proverbial butter.’
Looking to his left, Jon could see into the small side kitchen. ‘I don’t suppose,’ Jon said, ‘there’s a cheeseboard in there, the wire for it all covered in blood?’
Milton smiled. ‘The thought had occurred. Nothing, I’m afraid.’
‘Would have been too good to be true,’ Jon murmured, now studying the scene before him, trying to picture the sequence of events that had unfolded in the small, spartan room. Did he manage to creep up on him? Was the victim asleep? Or were they discussing something and the killer sidled round the sofa to catch the victim by surprise? ‘Rick. No sign of a forced entry, I presume?’
‘Nope,’ Rick announced from behind him. ‘Peep hole in the door, too. Unless it was already open, our man has been let in.’
Which suggests a familiarity between killer and victim, Jon thought, tapping a forefinger against his thigh through the lining of his trouser pocket. ‘Doctor, someone was sitting in that arm-chair, judging by the impression on the seat.’
Milton looked to his left. ‘Yes.’
Jon weighed up the length of the small sofa. The victim was seated in the middle. No, Jon thought, trying to place the killer. You wouldn’t squeeze on to it as well. Not if the armchair was free. ‘They’re both in here, probably talking, then our killer gets behind the victim one way or another. Weird dynamics there, don’t you think?’
‘How so?’ Rick asked.
Jon stepped back on to the first footplate. He held a hand towards the armchair, his middle and forefinger walking in the air. ‘Circling round the back of someone. Something like an interview, doing that. One man giving the questions, the other sitting there – looking straight ahead presumably – and providing answers.’
‘Or he was making out that he was getting something,’ Milton remarked. ‘There’s a cabinet just to your left.’
Jon looked behind him. The battered-looking item of furniture in the corner had various letters and forms spread out across the top. Snapping on a pair of latex gloves, he slid a footplate towards the cabinet, stepped onto it and peered down at the assorted pieces of paper. The uppermost was titled IS96. Jon skimmed over the first few lines, seeing it was about being granted temporary leave to stay in the UK. Next to it was a small, purplish-coloured plastic card. Words across the top read Application Registration Card and next to it was a Home Office stamp. He flipped the card over and saw a gold chip embedded in the plastic, identical to the one on his own cash point card. Turning it back over, he examined the front more carefully, seeing a passport-style photo of the dead man alongside the words, Not permitted to work. Last was a name and country of origin. Russia. Jon spoke over his shoulder. ‘Rick, we’ll need to get on to the Border Agency. Find out what the score was with Mr Marat Dubinski here.’
Seven
‘Don’t worry,’ Jon said, lowering himself onto one knee so he could look his daughter in the eye. ‘Carmel doesn’t mind. None of us do, sweetie.’
Holly’s eyes were on the washing machine in the corner of the galley kitchen. Inside, her bed things churned slowly round and round.
‘Your dad’s right, Holly.’ Carmel lifted a dripping bowl and placed it on the draining board. ‘It all washes out. Now, you’ll come back and stay again, won’t you?’
Holly nodded hesitantly, her little suitcase standing on the floor next to a plastic bag containing her still-damp pyjamas. Jon thought about the previous evening. By the time he’d got back to Carmel’s, it was almost half past nine. The Jungle Book had finished a while before and he found the two of them sitting in silence, half a cold, burned pizza on the table in the corner, an abysmal game show limping towards its concluding round, canned laughter filling the flat.
From the way Holly had failed to get up from the sofa, he could tell she was distressed. More and more she dealt with her emotions by simply withdrawing into a shell. Carmel had shot him a concerned glance and nothing he said could reassure Holly that Daddy wasn’t about to disappear back out the door.
Halfway through the night, he’d heard her stifled sobs, and on walking through from Carmel’s bedroom, had discovered his daughter had wet the bed they’d made up for her on the sofa. He’d stripped everything off, realising he’d forgotten to lay the absorbent pad down that Amanda had packed. A damp patch was showing on the suede-like surface of the sofa itself.
Once Holly was enveloped in one of Carmel’s spare nighties, he’d laid some towels down and tried to tuck her back up. But she’d clung to his neck and the high-pitched whining sound coming from her throat made him want to cry. He’d spent the rest of the night cuddled up with her on the sofa, cold air where the duvet didn’t cover his back keeping him awake.
Jon glanced at his watch. He didn’t have to drop her off until lunch; that gave them two more hours together. ‘Shall we go to the park?’
Holly gave a nod and he straightened up, one hand lifting the suitcase and bag, the other searching out his daughter’s fingers.
‘What do you say to Carmel?’
Holly breathed the word, lips hardly moving.
‘That’s all right,’ Carmel smiled, drying her hands on a tea towel. ‘It was lovely having you to stay. See you soon.’
Jon led her out into the corridor, closing the door to Carmel’s flat behind him.
The boiling weather had lasted for a fortnight now and people had become accustomed to spending their weekends outside. He looked at the park’s cafe: packed full. Scrapping his idea for sitting down with a cup of strong coffee, Jon wandered with Holly round the perimeter of a small lake, his daughter shunning all his attempts at small talk. This, Jon thought, is what worries me most. Her silences.
People stood at the water’s edge, adults tearing up slices of bread and handing the pieces to small children. The chunks were then hurled at a flotilla of bored-looking ducks, geese and swans. Jon peered into the murky shallows and saw bloated crusts and crumpled cans coating the bottom. An elderly woman held out a plastic bag and dumped the best part of a loaf into the water, the child in the pushchair at her side idly kicking a foot as the mound of slices slipped slowly below the surface.
As they walked across the yellowing grass to a smaller expanse of water, Jon looked at th
e clusters of motionless sunbathers around them. They were laid on blankets like fatalities, arms and legs akimbo as the sun slowly roasted their flesh.
The lake had a few men and children standing at one end. As they got closer, the hum of little motors grew in strength and he could see that many of the people were holding control consoles in their hands.
Out on the water, an assortment of boats went through their manoeuvres, tiny wakes trailing behind them. The motor of a red speedboat suddenly whined and faint curls of blue were left clinging to the surface as the vessel surged forward.
Jon’s mind drifted back to the crime scene from the evening before. The victim had probably made enemies in his home country. Shagged the wrong woman, stiffed the wrong business associate. That sort of thing went on in Russia all the time, didn’t it? Jon realised he was making assumptions, unfair ones at that. The man could have supported the wrong political party or written an article containing embarrassing information. The murder could be about something a whole lot more serious than some petty grievance or wounded honour.
Voices to his side.
‘It’s not working, Grandad, it’s not.’ A boy of about ten was looking round at the elderly man on the bench just behind him.
‘Bring it here, sonny.’
The boy kicked impatiently at the ground then thrust the controls at the old man.
‘Well, it’s not the batteries. We’ve got power, here.’ He pointed to the glowing red diode in the handset then looked across the boating lake. Out in the middle a miniature yacht drifted aimlessly on the grey water.
‘What will we do?’ the boy asked.
‘Well,’ the grandfather replied slowly. ‘Wait for some wind?’ The boy looked about, forehead wrinkling. ‘There isn’t any.’
‘You’re right, there. How else could we get her back?’
The boy stared at the boat, motionless and forlorn on the flat water. Around it, other vessels buzzed and whirred. ‘You could wade out,’ he eventually announced, face lighting up.
‘Against the rules. Park warden would have our guts for garters.’
The boy’s face fell. Jon had started looking round for an extremely long branch when he heard Holly’s voice.
