by Scott Hunter
‘Here we are!’ Lockhart arrived, breathless, clutching a scrap of paper. ‘Gruff’s mobile number.’
Moran knew what was coming but it happened too fast to call a warning. Jones made a grab for the paper, tucked the camera into the crook of her arm and legged it down the path.
‘Well, of all the–’ Sandra Lockhart’s mouth was open, her empty hand clutching air.
‘Call him now,’ Charlie told her. ‘And tell him he’s to say nothing until I’ve spoken to him, got that? Quickly!’
Sandra Lockhart’s clattering footsteps were drowned in the racket of Jones’ revving Mini.
Charlie was pale with anger. ‘Damn, damn, damn.’
‘She won’t be the last,’ Moran advised. ‘Don’t let it get to you. Shall we see how forensics are doing? I’ve a feeling they’re going to turn up something interesting.’
As they weaved between the headstones, Moran was struck by the sheer number of plots. Full up. They’d need to open another cemetery. People wouldn’t stop dying, just because there was nowhere for them to go. He felt a sudden breathlessness, paused to lean on his stick. For a moment, it felt as if he were standing in another cemetery, in a quiet corner by a stone wall, a gentle sea breeze fanning his cheeks …
He was aware of Charlie’s hand on his shoulder, her anxious face swimming in and out of focus. ‘Guv? Guv – are you OK?’
Moran took a deep breath. ‘Fine. Absolutely fine.’
She still had hold of his arm. ‘Want to sit in the car for a bit?’
‘I’m not your granddad, Charlie.’ He shook himself free. ‘Don’t fuss. I’m fine. Just a wee bit out of breath.’ He moved on at a brisker pace, forcing Charlie to hurry to catch up.
His heartbeat was gradually slowing, returning to normal. Probably nothing. Just another post-Ireland reaction.
Be that as it may, since his return he’d found his mind returning to the subject of mortality again and again. Something to do with Geileis, probably; her remark that he wasn’t just set in his ways, he was entrenched. She’d sussed him. ‘A new life, Brendan,’ she’d told him, ‘however appealing it might seem on the surface, would be so less satisfying for you without the stress and hard-won successes of your police work.’
And how much time did he have left, after all, to adopt meaningful life changes? The shadows were lengthening, the grains in the hourglass becoming fewer and fewer. He shook the thoughts away. ‘I meant to ask, how’s Tess getting on?’ he called over his shoulder, rather more gruffly than he’d intended. ‘Seems to have made a good recovery,’ he added.
‘She has. Understandably shaky at times, but pretty good. Yep.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
They could hear the click of tools now, and the smell of loamy, freshly-turned earth floated across from the open ground. Winter was still some distance away, but the wind carried a reminder that a darker, colder England was waiting patiently in the wings, just out of sight. Moran swished his stick across a growth of nettles, took the heads off.
‘Anything I need to know?’ Charlie called across the tape.
One of the forensics paused in her task, looked up. ‘Maybe, boss. Graeme?’ She called to a colleague. ‘Can you bring it over?’
Graeme stopped doing what he was doing – bagging something up, Moran couldn’t see – and climbed carefully out of the trench. The coffin lay a few feet away on the turf, unremarkable in itself, a plain wooden box.
‘Here you go.’ Graeme proffered the forensic bag and Charlie took it, held it up.
‘An earring. Hers?’
The female forensic shook her head. ‘Nope. She was wearing five earrings, three in one ear, two in the other. No vacant holes. This was found outside the coffin. It belongs to someone else.’
‘The accomplice?’ Charlie murmured. ‘Get it to the lab asap, please,’ she instructed the forensics officer. ‘Anything else of interest can be sent on later. I want chapter and verse on this right away.’
‘Hello? I say, hello?’
All heads turned as the verger approached, waving her arms excitedly. ‘I can’t get Gruffydd but I’ve sent him a text – I mean, to tell him not to talk to that rude woman.’
‘His mobile was engaged?’ Charlie’s tone was flat, resigned.
‘Yes, but–’
‘Too late – she’ll already be debriefing him for all she’s worth.’
‘Oh. Oh, yes, of course.’ Lockhart’s face fell. For a moment Moran thought she was going to burst into tears.
‘Thanks for trying,’ Charlie said. ‘Not your fault.’
Moran had been examining the earring during this exchange. He held it up. ‘Seen this before?’ he asked Lockhart, whose eyes immediately lit up at the prospect of redemption. She took the packet and peered at its contents.
‘Well, I say. It is unusual, isn’t it?’
And Moran had to agree. It was a standard circlet in shape, but inlaid with some lighter material which, he guessed, could be ivory. A happy find, indeed. What his old boss would have called a big, fat clue. But Lockhart was shaking her head – with much regretful tutting.
‘No, no, I’m sorry. I don’t recognise it. Quite uncommon, though, wouldn’t you say? I mean, for an earring?’
‘The inlay?’ Charlie raised her eyebrows, ‘Yes, I’d say so. I’ve not seen one like it.’
Lockhart seemed pleased. ‘Well, we just have to find the other one, and hope that the murderer is still wearing it when we do!’
‘Murder has yet to be proven, Sandra,’ Moran said kindly. ‘But yes, it does represent something of a lead. It may well help us to find the persons responsible.’
‘Oh good, good. I do hope so.’ Lockhart rubbed her hands. Her face had flushed a little at Moran’s use of her christian name.
‘We’d better let the officers get on,’ Charlie told her. ‘Thanks for your help. We’ll be in touch.’
‘My pleasure. Well then, I’ll be off. Absolutely tons to do. A verger’s work…’
She left the sentence unfinished, and with a broad smile Moran suspected was entirely for his benefit, bustled off to her unfinished and unspecified duties.
On their way back to the station Charlie brought the car to a halt at a red light, turned to Moran. Her eyes twinkled. ‘Made a friend there, guv, I reckon. She’d keep you in fresh underwear, all right.’
‘Don’t.’ Moran grimaced. ‘My nightmares are bad enough already.’
George’s mobile purred. ‘DC George McConnell.’
‘Hi George.’ Charlie’s voice was flat, a little distant. Not like her. ‘How’d you get on? Find the studio guy?’
‘Aye, we had a chat. Not a lot to go on so far except more folk to talk to.’
‘OK. By the way, story’s broken. Front page tabloids tomorrow, you can bet on your mother’s life.’
‘What’s the angle?’
‘Big drama. Mysterious burial, persons unknown. Suicide or murder? Police baffled. What you’d expect, really.’
‘OK. Thanks for the warning, boss.’ He ended the call.
‘Wassup?’ Bola enquired.
‘Press turned up at the cemetery. Boss doesn’t sound too happy.’
‘She ain’t herself at the moment,’ Bola said thoughtfully. ‘You noticed?’
‘Big Brother is watching her, mate. That’s why. She’s not exactly on probation, just under intense scrutiny.’
‘Rather her than me,’ Bola said.
‘You’re under scrutiny the whole time, pal.’ George kept his voice conversational, serious.
‘What? Why? Am I?’
George steered the car into the police car park, enjoying Bola’s discomfiture.
‘Too right. Danger to women, mate. It’s official.’
Bola aimed a punch but George was too quick. He was out of the car and heading for a well-earned coffee, maybe with Tess, if lady luck was on his side.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘A sad day, DI Pepper.’ Dr Moninder Bagri greeted Charlie in a low voice, bringing his pa
lms together in a customary gesture of greeting – or respect – Charlie was never quite sure. Maybe both?
‘Yes. It’s terrible,’ Charlie agreed. ‘So much talent, so young.’
The pathologist motioned for Charlie to walk ahead. The corridor smelt of disinfectant and chemicals, and her nose wrinkled at the all too familiar odours. ‘Yes, all the more tragic,’ Bagri continued as they walked along the corridor towards the autopsy clinic, ‘when a young girl is cut down in the flower of her blooming.’
‘Especially like this.’ Charlie shivered as she thought of the grave, the weight of earth on the coffin.
‘Quite so. Well, we are all prepared. The poor mother and father will want to know the truth as soon as possible, is it not so, even if non-biological parents?’
Bagri had clearly been briefed by the coroner. ‘As do we, Dr Bagri.’
‘They will love her, just the same, I am sure of it.’
‘We’re still trying to contact them, unfortunately.’ Charlie had just checked with Bola to see if there’d been any progress getting hold of the couple, but so far no luck. Neighbours thought they might be on holiday somewhere – West Country, maybe? They’d hear soon enough, though, when the story broke. Not the best way to find out your adopted child was dead. Charlie hoped that contact would be made by the morning.
‘Here we are. Please.’ Dr Bagri extended his hand and Charlie went ahead into the lab. Not her favourite place. A room of gleaming metalwork, polished surfaces, surgical instruments laid carefully alongside the autopsy table by gowned path lab assistants. Charlie suppressed a shiver. The body on the table was covered, but its contours were visible beneath the thin material. Michelle’s final audience was small in comparison to her gigs; although Dr Bagri was a popular teacher and his autopsies were often attended by a group of nervous, foot-shuffling medical students, today it was just the two of them. Or three, if the body counted.
‘Do you have any particular areas of concern, DI Pepper?’ Bagri fastened his gown and pulled on a pair of latex gloves.
‘The missing finger. Anything about that would be helpful. And toxicity levels, whether any substance was administered, that sort of thing. Whatever you can tell us.’
Bagri gave a slight nod. ‘The toxicologist made her examination earlier today. The results should be available soon. And so, let us start with her poor hand.’ He gently turned down the cover to expose Michelle LaCroix’ thin, pale corpse. ‘A moment, isn’t it? We must pay our respects.’
Charlie closed her eyes as the pathologist bowed his head. It was only right. A life, a human life, had been extinguished. Whatever the cause, self-inflicted or by external forces as yet unknown, it was only right to mark her passing. Charlie approved of Bagri’s regular ritual. Trouble was, it tended to affect her unhelpfully just when she was doing her best to keep an emotional distance. She found herself welling up, grateful to be able to keep her eyes firmly shut for a few brief moments.
When she opened them, Bagri had already picked up Michelle’s hand and was peering carefully at the wound. ‘Hm. An interesting possibility is occurring to me.’ He made a quick adjustment to the overhead lamp, swinging it in closer. Charlie leaned in to get a better look.
‘No clotting.’ Bagri held up the dead hand for Charlie’s inspection. ‘And yet my friend Brendan tells me that this poor girl recorded a suicide note, found in the grave, yes?’
‘No clotting means it was cut off after death?’
‘Yes. Little bleeding in and around the wound – her clothing was unstained in the area, I believe. And see the wound’s edges – apposed. No swelling, you see?’ Bagri placed the hand gently onto the pathology table. ‘We can be more sure with chemical analysis, with the serotonin and histamine levels, you see DI Pepper – there is probably no increase. But I am happy to give my opinion right away that this damage is most probably not inflicted ante-mortem, but post.’
‘That’s very helpful, Dr Bagri. Thank you.’
‘And see, a clean cut. Probably a very sharp implement.’
Next Bagri bent and examined the corpse’s eyes, and then the skin of the face and neck. ‘Classical signs of hypoxia.’ He spoke now for the benefit of the recording, as well as for Charlie ‘Minor ocular petechial haemorrhages and on the face and neck also, the marks of cyanosis.’
Charlie stood back, folded her arms. Bagri moved down the body, pausing here and there, moving on, checking every inch of the dead singer’s arms, torso, legs, feet.
‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I can find no further trauma. An old operating scar by the navel – not very expertly stitched, I fear. A student, I am thinking, or a surgeon in very much of a hurry.’
‘OK.’ Charlie ran her eyes up and down the corpse. ‘So, cause of death as we thought?’
‘Asphyxia. Yes. A lack of oxygen.’ Bagri removed his round spectacles and shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘I am truly perturbed by this death. It is a barbaric thing, to subject a human being to such an end.’
‘There’s still the possibility it was her decision, Dr Bagri,’ Charlie said.
‘This, my instincts are saying to me, is very unlikely,’ Dr Bagri replied. ‘But it is your task now, to find the truth. I shall be only too happy to help with further questions.’
‘I’ve got enough to be going on for now. Thanks.’
Bagri summoned one of the technicians, busy with some preparatory task at the far end of the lab. The assistant stopped what he was doing immediately and walked quickly towards them across the polished floor. Charlie was impressed at the respect Bagri obviously commanded.
‘Ah, Jonathan. Will you please show DI Pepper out while I continue with the chest cavity.’
Charlie thanked Bagri again and followed Jonathan to the security door, waited for him to punch in the exit code. She wasn’t sorry to miss the next stage of the post-mortem and she’d learned enough to move things forward. Bagri could always be trusted to send an update if he felt that subsequent findings were relevant to the investigation.
In the main corridor she met a white-coated woman carrying a clipboard and a sheaf of folders. She peered at Charlie.
‘DI Pepper? Oh, great, I’ve caught you. Dr Wendy Cliffe. I have the toxicology report for Michelle LaCroix – Dr Bagri said you wanted it pronto.’
‘Thanks. Quick summary?’
‘Well, she’d been anaesthetised, for sure. Again, I suppose it could have been self-administered – in the sense that she asked someone to sedate her, I mean. But anyway–’ Dr Cliffe retrieved her glasses from her top pocket. ‘Let me see. Traces of Propofol – commonly used for hospital anaesthesia. Milk of amnesia, it’s nicknamed.’ She smiled briefly, like a light flicking on and off. What else? Ah, yes. Traces of Ketamine.’ She removed her glasses and tapped her bottom lip with one of the temple tips. ‘In a confined space, such as she was, a combo like that would have accelerated asphyxia, for sure. I’ve prepared a report in layman’s language.’ She peeled several sheets of A4 from her clipboard and proffered them. ‘All yours.’ The smile reappeared and disappeared as quickly as the first. ‘Good luck. Nasty one, this. I hope you get ‘em.’
‘So do I,’ Charlie told her.
A few minutes later as she eased the car onto the main road she turned Dr Cliffe’s words over in her mind. Ketamine. Propofol. Hospital anaesthesia. Where had that come from? Did LaCroix have friends in the medical profession?
Or enemies?
‘So the finger amputation was definitely post-mortem,’ George gave a low whistle. ‘In which case, why did the accomplice wait until she was dead? If he was after her ring? Otherwise, why cut–?’
‘Why didn’t he just ask her for it before he buried her?’ Another officer interrupted. ‘Save all the hassle. Michelle wasn’t exactly going to need it, was she?’
‘OK, good. Thank you, DC Abel. We don’t know yet if it is a he by the way.’ Charlie swept her hand through her hair. ‘Maybe Michelle didn’t want whoever it was to have it, though? Or maybe he
– or she – didn’t want to ask.’
‘So they just waited a while, then dug her up. Couldn’t get the ring off, so–’ Bola shrugged. ‘Our accomplice did a Gollum.’
A restrained rumble rippled through the room at the image Bola had conjured.
‘All right, all right,’ Charlie waved the noise away. ‘Thank you, DC Odunsi. Your suggestion doesn’t square with Dr Bagri’s findings, I’m afraid. The finger was amputated by a sharp blade, not a set of teeth.’
‘Maybe she was already dead when she was buried,’ someone else suggested – a newcomer to the team. ‘Maybe the suicide recording is just to throw us off the scent.’
‘Very good, DC Tomlinson,’ Charlie wagged her marker pen approvingly and the rookie detective coloured. ‘So the finger could have been removed offsite, as it were.’ She went to the whiteboard, added a further annotation.
Moran had been listening to the exchange from the back of the room. He raised his hand.
‘Guv?’ Charlie tilted her chin up.
‘Perhaps, though,’ Moran spoke up, ‘as DC McConnell pointed out earlier, the accomplice, if there was one, was long gone by the time the finger was removed. George?’
George cleared his throat. ‘OK, if the guy who buried her didn’t remove the finger, assuming he reads the papers, he now knows that someone else did. Ergo, he now also knows that someone saw what he was up to. If I were he, I’d be trying to find the finger-cutter pdq –before we do.’
The room was silent, digesting George’s words.
Charlie nodded. ‘So, maybe somebody else disinterred Ms LaCroix. Someone who had clocked what was going on, and saw an opportunity. So that means–’ She appealed to the room.
Tess Martin raised her hand, forced the words out: ‘It means we have a potential witness to Michelle’s burial.’
Charlie clicked her fingers. ‘Exactly, DC Martin. Exactly.’
‘Incidents? What sort of incidents?’ Sandra Lockhart fiddled with the overly large crucifix which hung on a chain around her neck.
