by Paul Finch
‘Anything?’ she asked.
‘Vet’s not finished yet.’
She nodded, as they plodded down the slope together.
‘Did you find a petrol can or anything?’ she asked, referring to the last order she’d given him before setting off earlier.
‘Nothing in the vicinity that might have been used to transport or deliver any kind of accelerant.’
She made no reply.
‘So … is the show on the road?’ he asked.
‘Not yet. I managed to speak to DSU Nehwal. Like Stan, she wasn’t impressed. Says she’ll see what the vet says before she can even think about sparing us a couple of examiners.’
‘She shouldn’t be long now.’ Peabody nodded at the tent. ‘Been in there ages.’
‘Yeah, but she’s not going to write her report up immediately as she comes out, is she?’
‘Probably not,’ Peabody sighed. ‘She’ll want her shower and her tea, and then to snuggle up in bed and get a full night’s sleep.’
‘Which reminds me – before I go, there’s a torch for you in the storage locker under my seat. I also went to the canteen. There’s a packet of sandwiches and a flask of coffee too.’
‘Very kind,’ he grunted. ‘But I prefer tea.’
‘Tough. We can’t have you falling asleep.’
‘I’m not bloody likely to out here.’
‘I dunno …’ They’d now waded through trash until reaching the crime-scene tape, where they halted. Lucy nodded at one of the old chairs the vagrants had been using. By the look of it, Peabody had set it up for himself a little closer to the pit, until the reek had overpowered him. ‘Looks like you were already getting comfy.’
He didn’t even dignify that with a response. ‘And what are you going to be doing all night while I’m suffocating in the stink of this place?’
‘You’re not going to be here all night,’ she said. ‘I’ve spoken to the duty officer. You’ve got uniform relief at three.’
‘Oh.’ He was genuinely and pleasantly surprised. ‘Okay, cheers.’
‘And to answer your question, I’ll probably be on the move till three as well. To start with, I’ve got to interview Sister Cassie, who told me she’d spend tonight in “Old Fred’s crib”. I think I know where that is.’
‘You really think there’s a connection?’ he said. ‘I mean, just because of a van?’
‘One part of me hopes there is, Malcolm. Because that would mean we’re closer to getting an answer. The other part of me hopes there isn’t.’
‘Why?’
Before she could reply, the vet emerged from the forensics tent. As Lucy’s light was already on, she turned her own torch off and removed her mask. She was a youngish woman with collar-length brown hair, rather pretty, though at present her face was set in a scowl.
‘That’s just about the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen!’ Her accent was cut-glass, her tone almost accusing, as though the officers themselves were to blame. ‘Who on earth is responsible for a horror show like that?’
‘Trust me,’ Lucy said, ‘we’re as eager to find out as you are.’
‘Is this some kind of ritual, or something?’
‘Do you see anything to indicate that?’ Lucy asked.
‘I don’t know … all these animals have been brutally killed, and in various ways.’
‘So they weren’t killed by other dogs?’ Peabody asked.
The vet glanced disdainfully at him. ‘I’ve never heard of canines committing strangulation before, or cutting throats …’
‘What my colleague means is: could these animals have been badly injured in dog-fighting?’ Lucy cut in. ‘And maybe put to death afterwards?’
‘None of those poor creatures were fighting-dogs. I couldn’t establish all the breeds, but there are thirteen bodies down there in total, all ages, and most of them, if not all, were once probably household pets. They could have been used as bait, I suppose, but I didn’t see any obvious indication. No, I’m sorry to say that the perpetrators of these crimes are very human.’
‘You said some of them were despatched by strangulation?’ Lucy said.
‘Four of them, yes. I’d hazard a guess that the ligature in each case was the same, or at least the same type of implement. A thin cord … something like a wire.’ She grimaced. ‘One of them, a French bulldog, had had its spine severed with a heavy, sharp-bladed instrument. An axe or cleaver, or a big knife. I’ll be honest, I can’t for the life of me work out what was going on here.’
‘I assume they were all burned afterwards?’ Lucy said.
‘Yes.’ The vet glanced back at the tent. ‘This is a deposition site. I imagine they were cluttering up someone’s garage or outside shed for a while, until the decision was made to get rid of them altogether. The smell probably became a problem. By the looks of it, whoever’s responsible used insufficient petrol. Most likely it was rain that put the fire out again. In addition, of course, flames don’t eat their way downward. Instead of throwing these remains into a hole, whoever did it should have built them into a bonfire.’
‘How recently do you think this happened?’ Lucy asked.
‘I’m not an expert, but none of these animals died more recently than a couple of weeks ago, I’d say. You’ll want something on paper, I’m assuming?’
‘And as soon as possible, if that’s okay.’
‘Tomorrow morning?’
‘That’d be great. Just email it through, if you don’t mind.’ Lucy handed over her card.
The vet pocketed it before squatting down and packing the rest of her equipment into a hold-all. Having done her job, she now seemed eager to be off. She zipped the bag closed and trudged away, nodding once, curtly, as she passed them.
‘You’ll be okay out here?’ Lucy asked, at they stared again at the darkened tent.
‘Gonna have to be,’ Peabody replied.
‘Got juice in your radio?’
‘Should have enough to get me through till three, yeah.’
‘Any real problems, call me? Doesn’t matter what time it is.’
Peabody still looked disgruntled. ‘I’ll be fine. Like you say … I can use the overtime.’
‘One thing, officers,’ a voice behind them called. They turned. The vet was halfway up the slope but had clearly had an afterthought. She walked back down a few yards. ‘I’m not sure when it was that CID began investigating animal deaths. But I’m glad the police are taking this seriously.’
Lucy shrugged. ‘Animal cruelty’s an issue we always take seriously.’
The vet smiled politely. ‘I’m sure, yes … but the main thing is, I’m an animal-lover, as you’d probably expect. But even I’m in a position where I must express hope that this thing, whatever it is, ends with the animals.’
‘I’m not following,’ Lucy said.
‘DC Clayburn … whoever’s responsible for this, I think it’s a safe bet that they’re not even close to being in their right mind.’
Chapter 24
Even by her usual standards, Sister Cassie realised that she’d walked some significant distances today, but thankfully she’d been able to acquire her medicine and take it just before sunset, adequately rejuvenating herself for the nightly round.
After that, she could sleep. Though she still had that policewoman to speak to.
She abruptly checked herself as she bypassed the row of taxis on Bakerfield Lane.
She ought not to think of Lucy Clayburn as ‘that policewoman’. She was a hard-working young woman, who maybe was a little intense, but was also personable and pleasant, and much less officious than the norm, and seemed to be completely at home in a job which, in Cassie’s youth, had been exclusively occupied by rough, gruff men.
Of course, that didn’t make it any the less inconvenient that Lucy wanted to speak to her; it would mean that she’d be disturbed late on, probably woken up from that deep, dreamless slumber her medicine eventually dropped her into.
Some thirty yards on, sh
e halted beside a figure huddled under newspapers in a shop doorway. She crouched and began conversing with him, digging into her satchel to bring out her tatty, dog-eared prayerbook. His name was Albert, and he was a rail-thin young Irishman. The first time she’d encountered him, it had been later than this and quieter, and he’d jerked upward in fright, only smiling through his sores and his fuzz of beard when she’d come right up alongside him. He’d told her that she’d made an ‘eerie spectacle for an unprepared fellow’, her cloaked, cowled form ‘gliding like a spirit’. She’d assured him she was no such thing as she’d squatted down and tried to make him comfortable, and he’d believed her, asking only that she pray with him. She’d been happy to oblige then, and every night since. She did so now, saying with him first the Hail Mary, which both of them knew by heart, and then leaning close with prayerbook open, so they could read together and aloud that part of the Liber Hymnorum known as St Patrick’s Breastplate.
Content that both of them were now protected against the wickedness of others, she perambulated on, eighty yards or so, before stopping at another recess, where two more shapes sat under blankets amid a detritus of beercans and other trash. They were grizzled, brutish-looking older men, neither of whom she knew, though she had met them several times before. Despite this, they were glad to see her, going through their usual routine of asking for whisky and cigarettes, but gratefully accepting her gifts of biscuits and bottles of clean water, and allowing her to tuck them in.
‘Stupid fucking bitch!’ a shrill voice called from a passing vehicle. ‘Givin’ ’em all a crafty wank? Making life easier for parasites!’
She ignored the abuse, as she always did, refastening her satchel as she cut across the road and took a side-passage. This brought her through to Hildegard Way, normally a quieter thoroughfare, though on this occasion she was almost run down by a green transit van, which came screeching around the corner as though in a frantic chase and had to swerve to avoid her. It pulled up some twenty yards further along, as if the driver was about to leap out and berate her. Sister Cassie girded herself for yet more nastiness. But that didn’t happen. The van simply pulled away again, now much more slowly.
She crossed to the other side of the road and headed down a side-street.
This was Laidlaw Green, a much narrower avenue running behind the backs of shops. Yet more dark, huddled shapes, blurred under rags and filthy, improvised sheets, were dotted along it. One by one, the ex-nun interacted with them all, sometimes crouching and doling out from her satchel, sometimes kneeling as though to pray or at least offer what gentle words she could.
It was late, and, feeling the first hints of drowsiness from her medicine, she knew that the need for rest and sleep would soon become overpowering. So she pressed on down the length of the Green, the farthest end of which was dominated by the derelict outlines of the mills and warehouses of St Clement’s.
She crossed Adolphus Road, diverting left onto an avenue lined with boarded-up terraced houses, and at the end entering a mini-labyrinth of streets which no longer led anywhere, their properties long demolished, leaving a mosaic of interconnected, weed-covered lots. One of these long-forgotten byways was Canning Crescent, which was still cobbled, as if it hadn’t been used since the days of clog irons and cartwheels.
Directly ahead now stood the colossal double blot on the skyline that was the twin outlines of Griggs Warehouse and Penrose Mill. The closer Sister Cassie drew, the more immense the aged structures seemed, and the more broken and desolate the occasional smaller buildings on either side of her. The only light now came from the upright patterns of windows denoting distant tower blocks.
Any normal person might be frightened in this district, especially at night, but the ex-nun was a familiar fixture here. The denizens of this wretched place didn’t just know her personally, they knew that she carried nothing of value.
And of course, even if that wasn’t the case, she’d said her protection prayer.
Just ahead, the road curved past a section of warehouse wall whose upper portion, having burned and collapsed, had created a slope of thorn-covered rubble. A footpath had been beaten through this, allowing access to the skeletally moonlit interior, and to Old Fred’s crib.
For all that she was confident in her safety, thoughts about Fred stirred a momentary unease in Sister Cassie. This was the place where he’d been abducted.
Forty yards on, just before Canning Crescent curved, there were two other thoroughfares. The one on the right was no more than a ginnel, a footway veering off between gutted outbuildings. That was the route she had taken the night he’d been attacked. On the left, some fifty yards from the sloped footpath to the warehouse’s interior, was the concrete ramp leading down into the subterranean section of the building, from which the dark-blue van must have emerged. That said, there was nothing down there now. Nothing she could see, except shadow.
At which moment a cat-like whimpering caught her attention.
Sister Cassie halted, surprised, but knowing instinctively that it wasn’t a cat.
She pivoted around, scanning the moonlit ruins. And immediately spotted the source of the sound.
A figure sat against the wall midway between the underground entrance and the sloping path up to Fred’s crib. It was huddled underneath a carpet, which had been folded into a cone, so that it covered everything except the face.
The ex-nun was thirty or so yards away but could already make out that it was a young girl, perhaps no more than a teenager. Her blonde head lolled as if she was half-insensible, but she was crying loudly. Sister Cassie started hurriedly towards her, already unfastening her satchel. She thought she had a few bits of plasters in there, and maybe even a squeeze of antiseptic ointment left in that old tube she’d found. And she’d need them, because even from two dozen yards off, the youngster’s features were visibly puffy and blotched.
She’d been badly beaten.
‘My dear child,’ the ex-nun said, shrugging her satchel from her shoulder and hunkering down.
When she tore the old carpet away, it was stiff with dirt and age, and hordes of woodlice cascaded off it. Used as she was to these woebegone backstreets, Sister Cassie shuddered with revulsion at that and threw it away gingerly, making as little contact with it as she could. As she did, she failed to notice the look of pain and misery on the battered face beneath split into a grin that was more like a feral scowl.
Chapter 25
Lucy heard the scream loud and clear.
She was less than a hundred yards away. Not overly familiar with the road layout in what remained of the St Clement’s ward, she’d stopped at a junction of unmarked lanes and sat astride her parked bike as she used the sat-nav on her mobile to locate Canning Crescent.
Now she no longer needed it.
She rode the derelict roadway slowly, standing on her footpegs, visor raised as she scanned the verges.
A scream at night could mean anything, from someone being attacked to kids engaged in horseplay. But in this district the latter seemed unlikely. It demanded an immediate but cautious response. She was alert and ready, therefore, when, not far ahead, a pair of headlamps sprang to life and came rocketing towards her.
As she veered out of the way, skidding on the mossy cobblestones, a green transit van flickered by. She swung around, almost turning sideways as she slid to a thirty-yard halt, bewildered by the sight of one of its two back doors swinging open. It swerved out of view, not giving her a chance to clock its registration mark. But if this was who she thought it was, the VRM would likely be useless – just another fake plate. With its rear doors unsecured, it seemed unlikely the vehicle would be carrying a prisoner, or any other illicit cargo, but even so, the only thing to do now was pursue it, flag it down and perform a stop-and-search – if she hadn’t already lost track of it, because it had had a hell of a start.
At which point Lucy heard a second scream.
Not as shrill or as shocking as the first, but muffled, as if it had come fro
m indoors. What was more, it had sounded from somewhere nearby.
Her gaze roved up the dilapidated frontage of the massive building lowering over her. Griggs Warehouse. Given the state of its current occupants, that sound didn’t necessarily mean that someone was being attacked. Of course, she wouldn’t be any kind of police officer if she didn’t investigate it.
She rode on towards the foot of the slope where the path beat its way up to what she’d thought of previously as ‘the arcade’. At which point, she heard another scream, this one even more muffled, but distinctly the sound of someone in grave distress.
Lucy braked and looked left, and saw again that entrance to the warehouse’s undercroft, or whatever it was, where the suspect van had apparently emerged when Fred Holborn was abducted. She veered towards it, accelerating as a fourth scream sounded, slowing down again as she spied a couple of items on the floor that she recognised: a brown leather satchel with a shoulder-strap that had snapped, its contents scattered, and a heap of ragged black material, which looked suspiciously like a nun’s cloak.
Lucy throttled forward, hitting the top of the ramp at 35mph and hurtling down it forty yards or so, her headlamp spearing through the darkness, flooding over a mound of white, dusty rubble lying across her path. At some point in the past, a concrete pillar had toppled across the foot of the ramp, bringing down a mass of masonry, which now formed a barrier impassable to a four-wheeled vehicle.
But not to a bike.
She slowed again, but the rubble wasn’t steep and was loosely compacted, which gave her an easier tread. She wove her way up it, arriving on the top and braking hard.
The glare of her light now revealed a much larger cellar than she’d expected, an unloading area of some sort. It was fifty by sixty yards, and almost entirely concrete, much of it cracked or water-stained, the many pillars holding up its ceiling scrawled with incomprehensible graffiti. There was plenty more evidence that folk had been sleeping down here; she saw blackened braziers, stained mattresses, food cartons, but the only two people present were in the very centre of the underground space, engaged in what looked at first like a violent dance.
