by Rob Ashman
‘I am going to piss off and cool down while you make this place look like a professional incident room. Now, I know this is our first proper day on the case and we may as well get off on the right foot. My style is always to promote discussion and encourage challenge – ask Duncan, he will tell you.’ Tavener flinched when she mentioned his name. ‘So, in the spirit of starting as we mean to go on, does anyone have anything to fucking say?’
The room was so quiet you could hear one of the post-its falling off the wall and hitting the carpet. Kray scanned the room. Seven faces looked back at her with their mouths slightly open. She turned on her heels and walked out.
Tavener breathed a sigh of relief – it could have been a lot worse. All eyes were on him. ‘Do as she says.’
The room was filled with the sound of chairs being scraped against the floor in a mad rush to get to work. Files and paper were relocated and desk surfaces cleared of rubbish. The bins filled up with unwanted material and the printers were kept busy, creating proper documents to replace the scribbled notes. Photographs were straightened and white boards cleaned of their previous content.
Every now and again, somebody would shout out, ‘This okay?’ The comment was aimed at Tavener, who would nod his approval. He didn’t much relish his new-found position as head of QA – it meant anything out of sorts would be down to him.
As the last sheaf of unwanted paper went into the confidential waste bin, the door flew open and in walked Kray, positively buzzing from her double espresso and three bites of a cinnamon swirl. She had conceded when she was sitting in the canteen that the ferocity of her outburst could be down to her missing breakfast – again.
She stood at the front as the last of the team took their seats.
‘That’s better. I don’t expect to have to do that again, understood?’ The faces nodded. ‘Let’s make a start.’ She walked over to the incident board. ‘I do not intend to go over all the information most of which you already know. Suffice as to say, John Archibald Graham, fifty-four years of age, was found murdered at his house at eight-fifteen yesterday morning by the cleaner. His cause of death was exsanguination. It would appear from the initial findings from the post-mortem that being tortured did not kill him.
‘He was electrocuted with electrodes placed on each temple.’ She pointed to a high-resolution photograph showing the circular burn marks. ‘And his jugular vein and carotid artery were severed on the right side of his neck.
‘Now to the stuff you don’t know.’ She opened up a file. ‘The carpet was covered in three things – the victim’s blood, urine and water. It would appear that the killer dowsed the body in water. The flesh was then scrubbed with a tool that left ridges in the dermis.’ She passed around four photographs taken from the file each one a close up of the shredded flesh. ‘At this stage, we are not sure of the precise order in which these actions took place, we are awaiting further results to come out of the Forensics Lab which might shed further light on it. I’m expecting a call from them anytime now.’
‘Now comes the weird part. The killer left a blood smear high up on the banister. It is unlikely he made that mark while standing on the floor. It’s more likely that he was standing on the stairs at the time.
‘The killer poured the water over the victim’s body while stood in this position. We are safe to make this assumption because if he was standing in front of the victim, we would find shoe marks in the blood. Which, of course, we don’t have. Secondly, the killer stood on the stairs so he could do this…’
Kray passed around another photograph showing the victim’s right foot.
‘We missed it when we were at the house because the vic was wearing socks. One sock was trapped underneath the leather strap binding his ankle, the other sock was over the top of the strap. The killer did this then climbed over the banister dropping down to the floor on the other side avoiding the blood. He must have had blood residue on his hand from when he severed the victim’s neck and not noticed. When he climbed over the stairs, he left a trace.’
The photograph made its way around the room and was handed to Tavener. He stood up and pinned it to the incident board. It showed the victim’s right foot resting on the mortuary slab. The second toe was missing.
11
The smell of rotten meat almost made Kray gag. The odour was not strong, but it triggered a response deep in her psyche that catapulted her back to a time when she was stood over the feted corpse of a young woman. Her flesh dissolving into soup. Her body being devoured by fly larvae.
She stopped in her tracks, feeling that, at any moment, her morning coffee was about to make an appearance. Swallowing hard, Kray shook her head.
I was here yesterday, for fuck sake, and I was fine.
Kray bent forward at the waist as if to catch her breath.
‘You okay?’ The soft voice behind her caught her off guard.
‘Oh, err, yes. Sorry, I had a twinge of indigestion,’ she lied.
She tilted her head to gaze up at the voice. Then, drew herself up to the full extent of her impressive five feet four inches.
‘I get that after eating curry,’ said the tall man, wearing a fitted waistcoat and matching suit trousers. ‘Doesn’t stop me eating it though. Whenever I’ve drank enough beer and fall out of the pub, my body craves it. How does that happen?’
Kray stared up at him, he looked like he had just stepped off the set of a doctors and nurses TV soap opera. His blond hair was swept across his forehead while his eyes sparkled below the fringe. There was something familiar about him.
‘I don’t know, that never happens to me.’
‘You don’t eat curry?’
‘No, I never know when I’ve drank enough beer.’
He laughed. ‘No, seriously, are you okay?’
‘Yes, I’m fine now, thank you.’ The nausea had subsided. Kray walked away, embarrassed that she had made a show of herself in front of him. After six strides, her phone buzzed in her pocket.
‘Hey, Duncan,’ she answered and watched as a pert arse covered in fitted trousers walked past her. The man glanced back.
Shit! Did he catch me looking? What the hell is wrong with you, woman?
‘Sorry, Duncan, can you start that again.’ Kray was more than a little distracted.
‘I said, Quade is looking for you. I wanted to give you a heads up.’
‘Okay, thanks for that. I’ve had a missed call from her but she didn’t leave a message.’ The neat looking backside made its way down the corridor and disappeared around the corner.
‘Maybe give her a call?’ he said.
‘I missed her call because I didn’t answer the bloody thing. I’m busy right now.’
‘I think she wants to see you when you get back.’
‘Yeah, okay. Thanks for letting me know.’ Kray hung up. It was good to have Tavener watching out for her.
Kray pushed her way through a set of double doors pulling a hairnet over her head as she went. She leaned her back against the wall to put on overshoes and overalls. The next door was labelled Mortuary. Inside was clean and fresh, the forced air-con making sure the occupants didn’t go home at the end of the day smelling of preservative fluid and dead people. A man was hunched over a computer with his back to her.
‘Excuse me I’m looking for Dr Christopher Millican.’
‘That’s me.’ The man turned, sweeping his blond fringe across his forehead. His eyes twinkled. ‘We meet again, and please call me Chris.’ He came over with his hand out stretched.
Kray could feel her face burning pink. ‘Hi, I’m Acting DCI Roz Kray. You must be the new Home Office pathologist.’ She shook his hand. It was soft and warm.
‘Interim, for now. They have yet to appoint a permanent replacement for Aldridge after he parted company in such a hurry.’
Parted company? Kray thought. That’s one way of putting it. Sacking the bastard for stealing Suprane to supply to a serial killer and murdering his drug dealer is the way I’d put it.
‘Thanks for coming, I sent you an email because I’ve concluded my findings on the victim, John Graham.’
‘What have you got?’
‘Two things. The first is the removal of the toe.’ He clicked the mouse and a blow-up photograph filled the screen. ‘This is an image of the cut site. Can you see how the skin either side is bevelled over towards the bone?’
‘And you think what?’
‘The toe was removed using a hand tool with two jaws hinged at one end.’
‘Like a pair of secateurs?’
‘No, a pair of secateurs has one cutting blade and a blunt edge against which the cut is made. This had two cutting edges, each one bevelled.’
‘Like…’ Kray paused, trying to think of a hand tool to match the description.
‘Like these.’ Millican produced a set of wire cutters, the type used to cut through electrical cable. ‘There are others on the market that do the same thing but this gives you some idea of what you’re looking for.’
Kray opened and closed the jaws and watched the blades bite together.
‘Also, if you see here,’ Millican pointed at the screen, ‘this part of the skin is puckered outwards which is consistent with the cutting edges slicing off the toe and forcing the skin to distort at the end.’ Kray nodded her head. ‘The wound site would suggest this was done when the blood had drained from the body.’
She nodded again. ‘Any idea how the victim was incapacitated?’
‘No, nothing. I tested for traces of drugs in the blood and they came back negative. There are no defensive wounds to suggest a struggle and no blow to the head.’
‘What about a Taser or stun gun?’
‘That’s a possibility. Both of those usually leaves burn marks on the victim, but with so much skin damage, I couldn’t find anything.’
‘Okay, what else?’
‘That leads me onto the second thing,’ he said, straightening up from the screen. ‘I think I’ve worked out the precise sequence of events.’
‘Go on.’
‘There were signs of capillary damage on both temples, which means that the victim was electrocuted first. There is also a carbon residue from the skin burning underneath the electrodes. Next, the killer severed the carotid artery and jugular vein and the victim quickly bled to death.’
‘And the blood stains on the balustrade suggests he was definitely alive at this stage?’
‘Correct. It was only after John Graham was drained of blood that the killer turned his attentions to the body. I believe the killer poured boiling water over the victim, which made the skin blister. Then, he used a scouring implement to scrub the body. This removed hair and large areas of skin.’
‘What makes you think this wasn’t done before he had his neck slashed?’
‘Because the wounds are not bloodied. Take a look.’ He flicked the mouse again and a different gory image hit the screen. ‘See here, the top layer of skin has been lifted away, and you can see the striations in the lower dermis. But they are white, not red. This would indicate that there was no blood present. It was soaking into the carpet by this time.’
‘So, let me get this straight. The killer continues to torture a man who is already dead?’
‘Yup, that’s what the evidence tells me. The water must have been very hot to cause this amount of damage.’
‘How come?’
‘A person can receive second and third degree burns if they come into contact with water at a temperature of around fifty to sixty degrees Celsius. But at that temperature the severity of the burn depends upon the length of time the skin is in contact with the water. In our case, the killer dowses the victim which would suggest the contact time with the skin is a matter of seconds before it runs off him onto the floor. Therefore, to do this…’ Millican pointed at the screen, ‘the water must have been pretty close to boiling.’
‘So, after he scalded the body, he scrubbed it clean to remove further forensic evidence?’
‘I’m not sure that’s the reason,’ he said.
‘If a killer goes to that much trouble they normally use some type of bleach, wouldn’t you say?’
‘That is certainly a more effective way of destroying forensic evidence. Maybe that was not the killer’s intention.’
Kray’s gaze flitted between Millican and the image on the screen and back again. His smile was familiar. Kray smiled back. Suddenly, she was flushed with embarrassment and felt the need to say something – anything!
‘Our killer tortures his victim first, kills him by draining his blood onto the floor, then pours boiling water over the body and scrubs it clean. But not from the point of view of destroying any forensic evidence,’ Kray repeated herself for no apparent reason, forcing her gaze onto the screen.
What the hell am I doing? Get a grip.
‘My guess is he’s following a ritual, like the steps in a process, and that’s where the internet comes into play.’ Millican sat at the computer and types into the search bar. ‘If you type in the sequence of injuries and scroll past the medical advice, you get this…’
He pushed his chair away from the terminal for Kray to get a better look. She moved in and read the search results. She took the mouse and clicked the fifth one down. Kray pulled away and stared at Millican.
‘Pigs?’
12
My work is done for the day. That’s the benefit of being on early shift, I get to knock off at two o’clock. I’m in my car watching the house. She works from home most days, going into the office only when she has to. I can see her sitting in the bay window tapping away on her laptop. Her black thick-rimmed glasses swamp her face and this week her pixy-cut hair is the colour of sun flowers. I wonder what vitriolic lies she’s writing this time.
Whenever I watch police dramas the stakeout is always portrayed as a time for dramatic revelations, a time to eat burgers and drink coffee while making notes and putting life into perspective. Times, people, locations, motives – they make it appear so exciting. The truth of the matter is, it is boring the bollocks off me. But I know it is an important part of what comes next. I need to be prepared and if that means sitting in my car, watching her type away in her bay window, so be it.
My hands feel cold and the tips of my fingers are numb. I wring my hands in my lap to get the circulation going, but it doesn’t work. The problem is, when my mind isn’t occupied, it becomes filled with the storm clouds of my past. My mind wanders into a dark corner. The screensaver kicks in.
It may have been a miss-timed peck on the cheek that resulted in Sadie kissing Mr Larger-Than-Life on the lips. But when she darted her tongue into his mouth, she tasted the high life and wanted more. More than I could give her, that’s for sure.
I chose not to mention the kiss, putting it down to a belly full of fizz and a head full of excitement. How wrong I was. In the weeks that followed, she made it pretty obvious what she wanted, and it sure as hell wasn’t me.
Their affair started slow, at first. She would go missing for a couple of hours while popping to the shops and nights out with her girlfriends became more frequent. I stayed in with the kids, but even when I protested by going down the pub, I would come home to find them at a neighbour’s house while she was playing around.
She always had a plausible excuse, a good reason for her being out of the house. Then, one day, it was as though an ‘I don’t give a fuck’ switch clicked inside her head, and her affair gained a momentum that was frightening.
I arrived home early from work one day to find his car parked up the road, and his cock parked up my wife. I confronted them. It wasn’t difficult; they were both lying naked in bed. My fucking bed. They didn’t flinch when I caught them.
‘We heard you arrive,’ she said when I burst into the room. They both tipped their heads back and laughed. He got out of bed to pull on his boxer shorts, his dick still swinging.
&nb
sp; ‘I guess you two have things to discuss,’ he said.
‘I don’t,’ she said, smoothing her hand across the sheets where he had laid minutes before. He dressed and left.
‘See you, Kevin,’ he said on his way down the stairs.
‘See you, Kevin,’ she mimicked.
‘I’ll… I’ll…’ I ran over to the bed and raised my fist. She laughed.
‘What, Kevin, what will you do? Is this you being more dynamic?’
I skulked away and kicked the bedroom door.
‘Poor Kevin,’ she said, singing the words at me. ‘Gonna take it out on the nasty door, are we?’
Then, I remember saying the most stupid thing I’ve ever said in my life. ‘Your mother wouldn’t like it.’ To which she replied, ‘Yeah, well, my mother isn’t getting it.’
The next day, I was out on my arse with my clothes and belongings piled into black bin bags. As I stood on in the front porch, I could hear her talking on the phone in the lounge.
‘That’s fine, babe. Looks like he’s just leaving.’
I slammed the front door. The children were watching me from the window. I waved. Can you believe that, with everything going on? I waved at them. They waved back like I was off to London for the day. My humiliation was complete.
The fling with Mr Fuckbunny proved to be just that – a fling. It fizzled out after a few weeks when his head was turned by someone else’s wife. I heard on the grapevine that it was over and saw my chance at a reconciliation. But the damage had been done. She no longer wanted to be married to a loser; she was only interested in winners. They proved to be a pair well suited, because no sooner was he up to his bollocks in someone new, she was bucking like a mule on the cock of a chap from the gym.
For the next couple of months I developed a rage so fierce, it ground me to a stand-still. I was unable to function, unable to carry out the most menial of tasks. I didn’t feed myself, my clothes were dirty and I stank. I got myself a shitty cockroach ridden bedsit but preferred to spend my time walking the streets, scaring the people I met. I became the person you crossed the road to avoid. I was the man people pointed at and whispered. I was the one who was moved on by the police.
