Born in a Burial Gown

by Mike Craven

  The ladder that Dunn had used was still leaning against the side of the hole. There had been some damage to the scene, probably during his scramble back out when he realised what he’d just uncovered, but Fluke could live with that. Rarely was a crime scene undisturbed. The most difficult ones to manage were when the victim was still alive at the point of discovery. Then, all hell would break loose, as whichever service was first on the scene tried to preserve life. In their efforts to keep the victim alive, firefighters, paramedics and police officers ignored what detectives arriving later would need to investigate.

  He leaned over and looked down. Rogers passed him a torch to cut through shadows as dark as freshly poured Guinness.

  The black golf bag was partially buried at the bottom of the hole and the zip had been opened about eighteen inches. It was enough to reveal the head of an obviously dead woman. Her skin was grey and frostbitten and cracking. An icy sheen clung to her, the warmth of life banished. Her mouth was open and her lips were shrinking back across the teeth in an eerie grimace. Towler was right; it was no mannequin. Fluke never ceased to be surprised at how quickly the body lost its healthy pink colour once death has occurred. It was a matter of minutes.

  Some of her hair had been caught in the zip, twisting her head to the side and Fluke thought his torch picked up the sparkle of a diamond earring. Even from three yards away, they looked expensive. Too expensive to leave. That ruled out a robbery. It also ruled out a domestic. They looked too easy to identify, and why leave them? They could be turned into cash. Despite what TV shows portrayed, the police didn’t have legions of fences they could call on to find stolen goods. If you want to turn small items into cash it was easily done with little risk. But even a little risk seemed too much for whoever did this. Fluke felt uneasy.

  It was hard to tell, but he didn’t think she was a very young woman. Mid-thirties would be his guess. Like Towler, Fluke could see no obvious cause of death but he knew he was only looking at a face and an ear in a dark hole in torchlight. Things would become clearer during the post-mortem. He swung the torch round the bottom of the hole. He could see a shovel, probably the one Dunn had used to search for the body. There was nothing else. He couldn’t smell any putrefaction, only wet mud. If she’d been put in the hole during the early hours of the morning then Fluke was willing to bet that she’d been killed no later than the day before. The pathologist would give him a time of death as well as the cause.

  Fluke saw no reason to get into the hole to take a closer look. It would only add confusion to the crime scene. Patience was a discipline, and after six months in hospital, it was one he possessed in abundance. The first thing he needed to do was make sure that there were no errors made in the collection of evidence, and that meant taking the time to do it properly. Together, he and the pathologist would decide how to recover the body without disturbing anything important. He’d seen enough.

  He left the tent and handed the torch back to Rogers.

  ‘What time’s the pathologist getting here?’ Fluke asked. Sometimes the body could be recovered without one, but it was a complex deposition site. He presumed someone had called for one.

  ‘Should be within the hour, Henry Sowerby’s coming up from Preston,’ Rogers replied. ‘I took one look and knew we’d need him at the scene. Sergeant Towler informed the coroner.’

  ‘Good.’ Fluke liked Sowerby. The pathologist was extremely professional, had a good forensic brain and was as bad tempered as they came. He’d watched him reduce senior investigating officers to quivering wrecks when he felt that good forensic practices weren’t being followed. Fluke had always got on well enough with him though, and he knew the bad temper was on behalf of the victims rather than any antagonism towards the police. Once an SIO had been chewed out by Sowerby for a forensic error, they never repeated it. They learnt their lesson quickly.

  Fluke would wait for him, and together they would decide how to recover the body. They would agree what evidence needed to be gathered before they moved her and what could be gathered at the mortuary. Although technically Fluke would have the final say at the crime scene, it was a brave SIO who went against the advice of the pathologist, an even braver one who went against the advice of Sowerby. Fluke much preferred to reach a consensus. He knew there were genuine reasons why SIOs sometimes had to against a pathologist’s advice, he’d done it himself on rare occasions. Sometimes the need to move quickly overrode the need to collect evidence in ideal conditions. But there was no rush here. Nothing was going to change in the next hour.

  Fluke turned to Rogers. ‘Who’s been in the inner cordon?’

  ‘Which one?’ he asked, smiling slyly.

  ‘The first one,’ Fluke replied. He didn’t return the smile. It was one thing chewing out someone for an error but Holland was still a senior officer. He might be a total dickhead but he still had to be able to command his officers. In any case, Holland was going to have to provide some officer resource to do some of the grunt work. House-to-house, crime scene security, search teams and anything else Fluke needed.

  ‘Dunn, the responding officer, Sergeant Towler and myself. And now you. Only Dunn has set foot on the bottom. Sergeant Towler climbed down to confirm it was a body but didn’t get off the ladder,’ Rogers replied. ‘And he used a different ladder in case Dunn ever becomes a suspect.’

  Fluke nodded. There was no way Dunn was the killer. Committing a murder would have got in the way of his schedule. ‘I’ll go and have a look at the office now, then your lot can process it.’

  ‘Matt,’ Fluke said, turning to Towler. ‘Can you ask Jo to go back to HQ and set up an incident room. The robbery team have the big one so we’ll just have to make do.’

  Jo Skelton was the oldest member of FMIT, a veteran of murder investigations going back twenty years, and Fluke sometimes thought she was the most valuable. She was certainly the only one he trusted to actually do the essential admin tasks; to set up databases and cross-reference intelligence without getting bored and making mistakes. She wasn’t flash enough for Chambers though, which just showed what a pinhead he was.

  ‘Will do,’ Towler said, taking out his phone.

  ‘And once she’s done that, I want her checking mispers, any female between twenty and fifty. Tell her to start with Cumbria but to do a national search if she comes up blank.’

  ‘If she’s been in the ground less than a day, Ave, nobody may have noticed she’s missing yet.’ Towler said.

  ‘I know. Do it anyway,’ Fluke snapped. He knew Towler was right, but the only way it was going to be solved was by getting an ID. He wasn’t going to wait a week until someone started missing her.

  ‘But wouldn’t it make more—’

  ‘Look, if we don’t get someone then we’ll keep doing it until we do. For all we know, she’s been kept in a freezer for six months and there’s a family out there who reported her missing five months and twenty-nine days ago.’

  Towler looked like he was going to say something but obviously thought better of it.

  ‘Get Alan Vaughn to act as liaison between us and uniform. Go and introduce him to Don Holland and let him know we’re grateful for all the help he’s going to offer. He won’t like it but he has no choice. His lot will probably have to do a fingertip search of the site for a weapon. Doubt we’ll find one but I don’t want a kid finding something after we’ve gone. Get West CID to do the house-to-house enquiries. That’ll do for now. I’ll look at the office while I’m waiting for Henry.’

  Towler walked off without saying anything. Fluke watched him go. They were friends, and had been since they were kids. Fluke was godfather to Towler’s daughter, but sometimes Towler’s attitude to the more serious cases annoyed him. He was able to look at everything dispassionately, to stop thinking about them as soon as he left work. Fluke, on the other hand, lived and breathed every case. The bigger ones consumed him. He knew Towler’s approach was by far the healthiest but it still annoyed him.

  Fluke knew that Sowerby
was thorough, but could be slow when it was a complex scene. He guessed it would be at least three hours before the body could be recovered and another hour to the mortuary, which would have to be the Cumberland Infirmary in Carlisle as it was the only hospital in Cumbria that could cope with forensic examinations. Fluke would accompany it, which suited him as he could go and see how much trouble he was in after his earlier stunt. The post-mortem would take about four hours so wouldn’t be until the next day. With luck, he wouldn’t be late for Michelle. He didn’t want another row.

  Chapter 4

  To avoid any cross-contamination, Fluke changed into a new forensic suit to examine the office. Rogers opened the door for him and followed him in with a video camera and portable forensic kit.

  Fluke had a quick look round. He hadn’t noticed the type of lock but knew the door hadn’t been forced. The windows were all secure and there was no reason for them ever to be open in winter. Either someone had a key or Dunn was lying about the note.

  He didn’t really know what the insides of Portakabins were supposed to look like but he imagined they were all similar to the one he was in; hardwearing carpet, heaters, a small sink, a computer, plastic chairs and the obligatory kettle. Site plans and Dunn’s precious schedules adorned the wall. Nothing remarkable. There was no toilet but he’d seen a couple of portaloos outside. It wasn’t a place to relax in, but a functional office for people whose primary business was conducted outdoors.

  ‘The note was found here,’ Rogers said, pointing at the kettle area.

  There was a small table with ingrained coffee stains. A packet of sugar, instant coffee and an unopened bottle of full-fat milk sat alongside the cheap plastic kettle. Fluke couldn’t see a fridge so assumed Dunn brought milk in every day. It hadn’t been opened and Fluke guessed Dunn had checked the claims made in the note before he’d made himself a brew. He’d check the statement later.

  Towler, having finished his call to Jo Skelton, walked in. There was no need for Fluke to apologise for his earlier outburst but he shrugged to indicate that he’d been in the wrong. Towler grinned. He was irrepressible. Fluke let him have a look round.

  ‘Key?’ Towler said.

  ‘That’s my guess,’ Fluke replied. Criminals much preferred walking into a building rather than breaking in. Breaking in left a forensic transfer. It couldn’t be helped. Footprints, fibres, hand and fingerprints. Even earprints. He’d heard recently that criminals had a new saying, ‘walk in, walk out’, referring to the fact that with no forensic evidence, the chances of a conviction in court were slim.

  Towler said, ‘According to Dunn’s statement, he’s still got them all, over on the keyboard by the door. He’s waiting to issue them when the site goes live. I’ll check with the company and find out how many sets they sent. My bet is that there’ll be one missing. If it was stolen straightaway, Dunn might not have noticed.’

  Fluke nodded, and Towler disappeared to make another phone call. He continued looking and soon saw what he was searching for. What he’d expected to find.

  He called Rogers over and pointed to the top of the bin under the sink. The can of Coke was half-buried in the debris of everyday life on the site; crisp packets, paper towels and damp teabags. ‘Photograph that can for me, please?’

  He waited a minute while Rogers got the camera fired up and recorded what was needed. It was ripped in half.

  Although he had rubber gloves on, Fluke took a pen out of his pocket and picked the can up through the drinking hole. Detectives all over the world had the bad habit of using pens to pick up evidence, and Fluke was no exception. He had the sneaky suspicion they all watched the same TV shows. It wasn’t the bit he wanted but it would still have prints on it.

  ‘So where’s the other half,’ he said to himself. He carefully removed more rubbish until he found it. It was photographed in situ before he removed it.

  He turned it over and saw the brown residue on the concave base.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Rogers. ‘Heroin?’

  Fluke nodded. ‘Better than a spoon. Disposable. Can’t be arrested for carrying a can of pop.’

  ‘You knew there’d be a can?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not a can. But I was expecting evidence of drug use. You’d be amazed at the places addicts call home.’

  Rogers put both pieces in separate evidence bags and sealed them.

  Fluke searched the rest of the office but found nothing obvious. SOCO would spend days going through it with a fine toothcomb and gather any trace evidence. It was time to let them get to work. Fluke thanked Rogers and joined Towler who was standing outside.

  ‘So we have a heroin addict who has a key to this place somehow. Shoots up last night and sees something he knew he shouldn’t have. He does his civic duty and leaves a note. Doesn’t hang around and make our lives easier, but we can’t have everything,’ he said, after Fluke had brought him up to date.

  ‘That’s my take.’

  ‘You think he was alone?’ Towler asked.

  ‘You ever seen a shooting house? They’re a mess, an absolute mess. Nope, this was one person. He’s probably been here every night for a week or so, prime site like this. Out the way, warm, no chance of getting his drugs taxed by some of the thugs round here. I’d bet he’s been cleaning up after himself, taking his rubbish away with him, no one’s any the wiser. Last night must’ve shaken him. He panics, forgets his routine and puts the can in the bin. If there were two halves of a can of Coke in the bin every morning, Dunn would’ve clicked straight away. He’s the only one in here and everything in the bin should have been his.’

  ‘No way his prints aren’t everywhere then,’ Towler said.

  ‘Everywhere,’ Fluke agreed. ‘But these offices aren’t new. They go from site to site. It’ll have hundreds of prints. We’ll take them all, obviously, but we’ll process the can and the note first. That’s how we get him. Or her.’

  He was an equal opportunities police officer when it came to drug addicts.

  Someone shouted for Fluke and he turned to look. It had come from the outer cordon.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The pathologist’s here.’

  Chapter 5

  Even from a distance, Henry Sowerby was a striking man. If you hadn’t met him and were asked to guess what he did for a living, Fluke suspected a disproportionate amount would tick the ‘mad scientist’ box. Apart from Towler, he was a foot taller than everyone else and was balding in a way few men do. Rather than receding, it looked more like the dome of his head had forced its way through his hair like a mountain peak rising above the clouds. He always wore a three-piece tweed suit and carried his equipment in a battered leather case.

  Appearances were deceptive though. He was an internationally renowned pathologist. It was only his love of the Lake District and its fells that kept him from taking up a teaching position at any university hospital in the world. He had the sharpest mind of anyone Fluke had met.

  He was waiting at the outer cordon, a young woman with him.

  His daughter? Fluke knew both of his children had grown up and fled the nest but that was all he knew.

  ‘Detective Inspector,’ he hailed, as Fluke approached. Others called out your name, some greeted you, but Sowerby hailed you. The only man Fluke had ever met who did.

  ‘Long time, Avison. Glad to see you’re back. You had us all a bit worried for a while,’ he said.

  They shook hands firmly, their mutual respect evident.

  ‘So what do we have here?’ Sowerby asked.

  Fluke ignored the question. ‘Two of you today, Henry?’

  ‘Ah sorry, old boy, where are my manners? Avison, may I introduce Lucy Cheesebrough? Lucy’s doing her PhD in forensic entomology and is seconded to our beloved north-west office for part of her field work.’

  Fluke shook the hand she offered. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and appeared small next to Sowerby. She had curly hair, a serious face and wore round glasses. He guessed her pale complexion meant she probably
did more labwork than fieldwork. Still, she gave him a smile, and he saw nothing to suggest she wasn’t genuinely friendly.

  ‘I want permission for her to observe me working,’ Sowerby said.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. People learnt by doing things so Fluke was always helpful to students when he could be. He’d never met an entomologist before, never mind a forensic one. He didn’t think the victim had been dead long enough for helpful insect activity but it didn’t harm to have another discipline looking.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Lucy,’ he said. ‘How many crime scenes have you been to?’

  ‘This is my second. I went to a suicide in Blackburn two months ago,’ she said.

  ‘Not technically a crime scene, sweetheart,’ Towler said, smirking.

  ‘It was by the time I’d finished,’ she replied, looking at Towler without flinching. ‘I told the police in Lancashire that the body had been dead at least two days before they thought it had been. Convinced the coroner to do a post-mortem and Henry confirmed it.’

  ‘That she did,’ Sowerby said. ‘Anything to add there, Sergeant?’

  Towler was trying to not catch anyone’s eye. ‘Yeah well, good then,’ he mumbled.

  Go, Lucy. Fluke liked her already.

  ‘As much fun as it is watching Sergeant Towler squirm, can you tell me what’s happened here, Avison?’ Sowerby asked.

  ‘Sorry,’ Fluke said, with an eye on Towler, who could behave unpredictably when he’d made a tit of himself. ‘We’ve got a body in a bag in a hole. We think the drop was witnessed by a heroin addict. Matt spoke to the coroner after checking it was actually human.’

  ‘Good man,’ Sowerby said.

  Fluke knew he wasn’t joking either. He’d heard the story, they all had, about a new SIO in Cheshire who had called Sowerby out in the early hours during the Easter holidays to a corpse that turned out to be a decomposed pig. The public dressing down he’d received was legendary. Fluke met him from time-to-time at the occasional conference and he’d turned into a good SIO. But later in the bar, all anyone ever did was offer to buy him pork scratchings. One of Towler’s phrases had seemed apt at the time: ‘If you want sympathy, it’s in the dictionary between syphilis and shit’.