by Mike Craven
‘Rogers has erected a tent and put footboards down. I’ve had a look but not been in. Other than Matt, the responding officer and the foreman who discovered her, no one else has been near,’ he said.
‘Okay, let’s have a chat with Rogers and see what we can come up with,’ Sowerby said.
Thirty minutes later, and without any further incidents, a recovery plan was agreed.
While the SOCO team were processing the outer cordon, taking photographs and videos of the myriad of tyre and footprints, the uniformed officers from Whitehaven began their fingertip search. Nice bit of laundry for them to do, tonight, Fluke thought as he watched them crawling through the sticky cold mud. Not one of them was smiling, he noticed. But in a command and control structure like the police, not one of them was complaining either. Not openly anyway.
The ladder Towler had used was still there, and after Rogers had been down to video the scene, Sowerby followed Fluke into the hole which was just big enough for the three of them to stand without crowding the body. The temperature seemed to be a couple of degrees cooler at the bottom. Not as cold as a freezer but colder than a fridge, he estimated. It would have taken the body a long time to decompose. The crime scene smelled of wet cloying mud and nothing else.
‘Lucy,’ Sowerby called without looking up to where she was peering in. ‘Keep your hands in your pockets.’
‘I don’t have any,’ she called back down, confused. ‘I’ve got some gloves in the car.’
Sowerby looked at Fluke and grinned. ‘It’s an expression, dear. Means don’t touch anything until you’ve asked Avison. It’s his crime scene, not mine,’ he replied. ‘Now, let’s have a look at your victim,’ he said to Fluke.
Sowerby placed a thermometer beside the golf bag to take the ambient temperature. He’d use it to calculate a time of death when he had the victim’s temperature to compare it to. Fluke knew in the past he’d have used a complicated chart called the Henssge Nomogram but now, like everything else it seemed, it was done electronically. He probably had an app for it.
Sowerby worked methodically taking notes and collecting samples. Fluke watched him but he and Rogers had seen it done enough times for it not to fascinate them anymore. He knew that nothing happening would result in any immediate answers. They were samples for the lab to work on.
He busied himself with looking round the hole. It seemed deeper now that he was at the bottom. Looking up at the skyline, Fluke couldn’t help feeling that he was in a grave.
In a way he was.
After calling out instructions for Rogers to take more samples: hair, mud, swabs and tapings, Sowerby stood and stared at the body.
‘Tough one this, Avison. Can’t do the rectal temperature. I don’t want to take her out the bag here, too much evidence will be lost. Can’t do the intimate swabs either. Sean can do the ones on the head but that’s it. Best we can do is protect the head with a bag to avoid losing anything else. I think we have livor mortis, so she’s probably been dead at least twelve hours. That’s all I’m prepared to say at the minute on time of death. No obvious cause.’
Fluke wasn’t worried. He’d rather have an accurate time of death later than an inaccurate one now.
Sowerby looked at the steep sides of the hole. Fluke could tell what he was thinking. How much evidence would be lost when they removed her?
‘What to do? What to do?’ Sowerby said to himself. ‘It’s your call at the end of the day, Avison. We can risk moving her and get everything this lady still has to tell us, or we could try and do a rudimentary examination down here and almost certainly contaminate things.’
Fluke didn’t hesitate. ‘I want her out, Henry. I’m not leaving her in here any longer than I have to. Give her some dignity back.’
‘Let’s get it done then,’ Sowerby said with an appreciative look. ‘You’ll need to call your chums in Mountain Rescue. We’ll need one of their specialist stretchers.’
The body was recovered without too much damage, although Fluke and Sowerby winced at every bump and scrape as she was manhandled onto the commandeered stretcher and pulled out of her intended grave. It was taken to the vehicle that would transport her to the mortuary. A private company provided that service in Cumbria.
‘I’ll get someone to sit in the van with her on the way back. I’ll follow in my car,’ Fluke said to Sowerby.
‘I’m bringing Lucy into the PM, see what her views are on this. She tells me that if a body dies in the open it only takes ten minutes for flies to lay eggs in the mouth, nose and eyes.’
‘Lovely,’ Fluke said.
‘So, depending on what she finds, it’s possible she can give us an edge on determining where she was killed. Might help with time of death too.’
Fluke turned to look for Lucy but she was heading back to the car she and Sowerby had arrived in. ‘I’ve never worked a case with an entomologist before. I’ve read the manuals and been to the briefings but I’m not sure of their value yet,’ he said.
‘It’s a tricky one, Avison. She’ll be the first to admit that, from a forensic point of view, the UK still lags behind the States and mainland Europe. The science is sound, you understand, no one’s disputing that. The problem is relying on it in court. Too easy for defence teams to muddy the water with their own experts.’
‘Juries here aren’t yet ready to convict someone on the say so of a creepy-crawly?’ Fluke said, only half joking.
‘There’s a bit of that, certainly. She knows all this and accepts the limitations. She was being serious before. She overturned the police view in Lancashire about that suicide. Don’t think they have anyone for it yet, but they will, now they’re looking.’
‘I’m not refusing any help on this one,’ Fluke said.
‘Excellent. Until tomorrow then, I’ve booked the post-mortem suite for ten o’clock.’
Chapter 6
Chambers rang as Fluke was driving back and he pulled over in the nearest lay-by. There was no point in risking a pull for using his mobile at the wheel, gone were the days where you could flash your warrant card and be on your way. Try that and you’d be up in front of professional standards on a corruption charge.
As soon as Fluke pressed ‘receive’, Chambers started talking. He could hear people in the background. Chambers was on a speakerphone and would be playing to an audience.
‘What’s happening, Fluke?’ he barked.
Fluke tried to explain the situation, how he suspected that there was more to the murder than they’d originally thought. He was starting to venture an early theory that it was a professional killing when Chambers cut him off.
‘When you hear hooves, think horses, Fluke, not zebras.’
Fluke winced. It was Chambers’ favourite saying and a standing joke in FMIT. He could imagine the officers within earshot of him cringing with embarrassment. Fluke also knew Chambers was trying to give the impression to those around him that the murder wasn’t worthy of his time, that he was too important for such basic tasks, that it was okay to delegate to one of his minions. Of course, everyone who knew him knew that he was terrified of appearing to be out of his depth. Fluke would’ve bet he knew the body had been professionally disposed of and it would’ve frightened him. There was too much that could go wrong.
‘We don’t know who she is yet, sir,’ Fluke said as if he hadn’t been interrupted. ‘We’ve only just got her out the ground and the PM’s not until tomorrow. It’s possible that—’
‘Okay, Fluke. Keep me updated.’
And with that, he rang off. Fluke stared at the phone for a second before throwing it on the passenger seat and starting the engine again. What Chambers would never understand with good detective work was that sometimes when you heard hooves the best thing to do was think zebras. That’s how difficult cases were closed.
Fluke had never really understood where Chambers’s antagonism had come from. Fluke knew Towler thought he made too much of it, that Chambers was a bit of a prick but harmless. Fluke thought it was b
ecause he was a threat to his authority. Chambers was in a job that was beyond him and knew that Fluke knew. Fluke was at least one rank lower than he should have been. He’d attended and easily passed the required courses but each time there was a chance of promotion, he either said the wrong thing or spoke his mind once to often. It didn’t usually bother him; being an inspector suited him for now, it was the optimum balance between power and responsibility. Senior enough to get things done but not so senior that he was behind a desk all day.
Normally the rudeness of Chambers didn’t trouble him but this time it had preyed on his mind and he was in a bad mood when he pulled up outside Michelle’s house. Three other cars were already in the drive.
Shit.
He’d forgotten about her big dinner party. Something to do with a new job one of her vacuous friends had just started. That was all he needed; an evening of forced conversation, enduring their excruciatingly dull chatter.
Michelle met him at the door, and although she didn’t say anything, he could tell she was annoyed he hadn’t bothered to go home and get changed. He still had building site mud on his suit. She’d have something to say later, of that he was sure. She ushered him into the lounge, turning her head to avoid the offered kiss.
‘Well, Avison has decided to join us at last. We can eat.’
He helped himself to a single malt whiskey, drank it without bothering with ice and poured himself another. He followed everyone into her cramped dining room. Michelle was perched beside a young man in his twenties. They were already giggling together. Michelle whispered something into his ear and he looked up at Fluke before giggling again.
Fluke wondered why he didn’t care.
The only seat left was beside a middle-aged man he hadn’t met before. Parts of his face were losing their fight with gravity. His jowls were uneven. Fluke offered his hand but the man either didn’t see it or chose to ignore it.
Great.
He looked at the table. There was more cutlery than there was going to be courses. He reached for the red wine and settled down to ignore everyone.
An hour later his mood hadn’t improved. The meal was going slowly; so far they’d only had a starter of figs and cured meats. Food he didn’t understand, eaten in the company of people he didn’t like. Fluke had managed to avoid speaking to everyone while at the same time drinking most of the bottle of red wine himself. He wasn’t a big drinker and was feeling drunk.
As everybody else seemed to be engrossed with an anecdote someone else he didn’t know was telling, Fluke thought about the case and what he needed to do next. Clearly identifying the body was going to be a priority. He hoped the prints or DNA Sowerby had taken that afternoon were helpful but he wasn’t counting on it. The post-mortem would be crucial. He didn’t have a cause of, manner of, or time of death yet. He wanted answers to all three the next day.
He became vaguely aware that the table had gone silent and he looked up. Everyone was looking at him.
‘I’m sorry, I must’ve missed that,’ he said apologetically.
Michelle glared at him.
The man beside him, who still hadn’t introduced himself, spoke. ‘I was just saying, Inspector, with all these children being abducted and killed, isn’t it time we brought back hanging?’
‘What children?’ Fluke said blankly.
‘All these children in the news? The ones being murdered.’
Fluke had no idea what he was talking about. ‘I’m sorry, have I missed something? I haven’t seen the news today.’
‘We were talking hypothetically, Inspector,’ he said, rolling his eyes.
‘Who are you again?’
The man held his hand out. ‘Charles. We were just talking about Ian’s new job as a journalist.’
Fluke ignored his hand just as his had been ignored earlier. He put down his drink. ‘I thought someone just said Ian’s new job was selling advertising space with the free paper?’ He could feel Michelle’s stare.
‘It’s still journalism,’ the man sitting beside Michelle said indignantly.
Ian presumably. He decided not to press the matter. ‘No, I don’t,’ he said, turning to Charles.
‘Don’t what,’ Charles asked.
‘No, I don’t think that we should bring back hanging.’
‘You don’t? I bet that’s a first for a policeman. I’m sure if we asked the rest of them they’d agree with me,’ Charles said.
Fluke emptied his glass and poured another. ‘I don’t give a shit,’ he murmured.
‘I’m sorry!’
‘Has there been a recent spate of child killings I’m unaware of?’ he asked.
‘Of course, man. You only have to read the papers. Murderers and rapists everywhere, crime at record levels. It’s being going up since National Service was abolished,’ Charles said.
He was slurring and obviously a fool, and on any other day Fluke would have let it go. ‘No, it isn’t,’ he said coldly. ‘Crime’s at an all-time low.’
‘Nonsense, read a paper, man. Crime’s rampant. Bringing back National Service would be the best thing this government could do.’
‘Why?’
He clearly hadn’t thought his argument through any further than the headlines. ‘Discipline. Give all the scroungers a sense of discipline,’ he said finally and looked at Fluke as if daring him to disagree.
Fluke stared at him. Charles tried to hold his gaze but was no match and he quickly lowered his eyes.
‘Yes, well, you’ve obviously never served. If you had, you’d know the sense of pride you get from wearing a uniform.’
Again, Fluke would normally have let it go but he’d just come back from seeing a dead woman in a hole. His voice dropped. ‘I was a Royal Marines Commando for six years. I did two tours of Northern Ireland and fought in the Gulf War. Remind me what war you fought in, Charlie.’
Michelle, knowing that the quieter he got the angrier he was becoming, decided to step in. ‘I’m sure we can agree to disagree. Can’t we, Avison?’
Fluke paused. He was breathing heavily and gripping his wine glass stem so hard his fingers were white. ‘Fine,’ he said eventually.
‘But surely you agree that child rapists should be hung?’ Ian said, clearly annoyed by Fluke’s dismissal of his new job and oblivious to the mental weather change. ‘In my humble opinion, if they knew they were going to be hung they would think twice.’
In Fluke’s world there was no such thing as a humble opinion. The people who used the expression were never humble and for some reason thought prefacing their stupid statements with it gave it more gravitas. He noticed Ian was also slurring. Was there anyone in the room who wasn’t drunk? ‘Hanged.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s not hung, it’s hanged. And no, I don’t.’
An attractive, short-haired woman, who, to the best of Fluke’s recollection, hadn’t said anything all evening, decided to speak. ‘Can I ask why, Inspector?’ she asked softly.
Fluke couldn’t sense any drunkenness or condescension in her question and calmed down slightly. ‘It’s simple actually. You’ve heard the expression “you may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb”?’
She nodded.
‘It’s the same principle. I don’t want every sex crime turning into a murder because the there’s nothing to be gained by leaving a living witness.’ Fluke wasn’t simply disagreeing for the sake of it, although the mood he was in, he would have. No one sensible in the criminal justice system thought the right-wing approach to crime was a good idea. The people who wanted hanging brought back were either too stupid or too ignorant to understand the subtle nuances of sentencing. Fluke really didn’t want every paedophile and rapist locked up for life. That was what would be risked if the sentence for murder and rape was the same. Tough on crime? The only thing it would be tough on would be the victims.
She said nothing in reply, and Fluke got the feeling she’d already known the answer and she was, in her own way, showing up the fools surr
ounding them.
‘In other words, not having capital punishment saves lives. It’s as simple as that,’ he added.
That seemed to kill the atmosphere, such as it was. The woman raised her glass to him and winked. Fluke noticed she was drinking water.
So, not everyone in the room is drunk.
The rest of the night passed uneventfully, with everyone, including the woman, leaving Fluke alone. By eleven o’clock, he was feeling sober again and had the beginnings of a headache. By half-past eleven it had turned into a full-blown hangover and all he wanted to do was go to bed and get ready for the post-mortem the next day. Michelle had other ideas.
‘We need to talk,’ she said, as soon as the last guest had left.
That was all he needed. Another row about the same thing. He didn’t like her friends and they didn’t like him. Sometimes he thought that Michelle had only tolerated him because it had seemed glamorous to go out with someone who investigated murder for a living. A year into the relationship, though, and she’d realised that there was nothing glamorous about the job or him. He was sure he’d let her down somehow. He just didn’t know how. And worst of all, he didn’t care enough to find out. ‘Can we do this tomorrow? I’ve had a bit of a day.’
She was strangely calm, far calmer than on the previous occasions they’d discussed his lack of social graces. ‘No, Avison, we can’t. I don’t think there should be a tomorrow.’
Fluke said nothing. He knew it had been on the cards. They hadn’t been getting on for a while now. Looking back, he wondered if they ever had. For her, he’d been a talking point among her friends; for him, it had been easier to say yes when she asked him out than think of a reason to say no. If he was honest, he felt relieved. ‘I’ll take the sofa, I’ll be gone by the time you wake up.’
