The Memory of Trees (Kate Gardener mysteries Book 1)

by Gabriella Messina

  The Memory of Trees

  a Kate Gardener mystery

  Gábriella Messina

  The Memory of Trees

  a Kate Gardener mystery

  Copyright © 2013 by Gábriella Messina

  Additional material Copyright © 2015 by Gábriella Messina

  Based on the teleplay “Yard Work: The Memory of Trees”; Copyright © 2005 by Gábriella Messina

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-1522766964

  This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events, locales or people, living, dead or undead, is purely coincidental.

  For more information, please contact Gabriella Messina at

  gabriella.messina_79@outlook.com

  Also by Gabriella Messina

  Bloodline

  Quicksilver (Coming in 2016)

  Kate Gardener Mysteries

  The Memory of Trees

  De Profundis

  Acquainted with the Night (Coming in 2016)

  We look before and after, And pine for what is not:

  Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught;

  Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

  — Percy Bysshe Shelley, “To a Skylark”

  Prologue

  3 September 2011

  St. Mark’s Gate, Regent’s Park

  Dawn was breaking over the city, the cool light of an autumn sun peeking through the orange leaves and filtering down to the pavement, casting delicate shadows along the path as the jogger passed through the gate and into Regent’s Park. It had rained the night before and the combination of wet ground and fallen leaves were making for a tricky morning run.

  Sebastian Coventry tried to keep his body relaxed as he ran along the Outer Circle towards the Zoo, his trainers pounding the pavement with a rhythmic pad-pad, pad-pad. He enjoyed running when it was cool, the crisp combination of the chill air hitting the beads of sweat on his brow spurring him on even as his muscles began to complain of fatigue. The ache was distracting, but in a good way. It helped him forget for a moment about the investigation. Coventry brushed at the sheen of sweat on his brow, a futile gesture as his entire head was drenched. His shirt was plastered to his slender back, clinging to his shoulder blades and vertebrae. The investigation… Coventry knew it was going to cost him professionally. He could lose his position at the hospital, lose his career, over what that jackass did. Hell, he could go to jail for it, particularly the medication theft. Coventry stumbled, his leg twisting slightly as he slid on the wet leaves on the path. Nothing serious, but just enough to aggravate his right knee, the bad one. He felt the all-to-familiar grinding sensation as the kneecap began to grind against the head of the femur. He slowed his pace as he searched for a good spot to swing around. Cutting the run short was the only option, but he might be able to get a bit more out of it by taking advantage of Gloucester Green. It would require careful running, since the grass would be wet and slippery, but it was scenic and an easy route back to the car park. The key was to find the right spot to cross in.

  Seconds later, Coventry found his opening and veered off to the left. He crossed easily through the trees that served as a fence and picked up the pace as he cleared the greenery. Speeding up was a mistake, though, for as soon as he was clear of the tree roots and bushes, Coventry hit a slippery patch. It was the worst kind of slippery patch, a large swath of clean orange leaves masking slick mud. Coventry hit the patch full-on, and his fall was full-on as well, a full body slam that brought him to the ground on all fours. He felt his knee twinge again, stronger pain this time, and Coventry wondered briefly if he had dislocated it. He attempted to stand but the pain came, sharp and intense, and Coventry fell into the mud again. The knee was gone, no question. Coventry rolled onto his side, preparing to once again push himself up out of the muck. He would need to call for help. He sat up in the muck and pulled his mobile from his pocket. Carefully, he wiped at the front of the screen, a fruitless effort since the mud and wet seemed to be getting everywhere. Then Coventry froze, his eyes fixed on the screen of his mobile, now smeared with… blood. Any concern over his condition quickly dissipated as the realization dawned that he had just stumbled, quite literally, into a crime scene of some sort. Perhaps it’s just an animal, Coventry silently hoped. But, as he turned his head slowly to the right, Coventry found his hopes completely dashed.

  A naked body lay face down some five feet away from him. The figure was tall, athletic and clearly male. The body was spattered with mud, the portions touching the ground almost opaque with it. Dark reddish-brown smears were visible on his back and legs, and Coventry thought that perhaps these were simply more mud until his gaze rested on the small piece of dirty white cloth covering the buttocks. On the light-colored fabric it was easy to see that these rusty stains were blood. More blood. A lot of blood.

  All thoughts of the pain in his knee were gone in an instant. Coventry slipped and scrambled, clutching at the grass as he attempted to gain a foothold and get to his feet. The pain shot through his entire body as he put weight on his knee, but his need to get away was too great. Coventry looked back at the body, his breath catching in his throat as he fought the wave of nausea that washed over him. Retching, he limped through the brush back to Broad Walk and turned toward the nearest park gate, St. Mark’s Gate. He fumbled with his mobile, struggling to see the numbers on the screen so he could dial 999. Tears blurred his vision, but he managed to dial the number. He gasped for breath as he held the phone to his ear, limping toward the gate and the main road beyond. Up ahead was the turn off for St. Mark’s Bridge, a footpath that led over Regent’s Canal.

  And standing there, right by the entrance, was the most beautiful sight Sebastian Coventry had ever seen… a middle-aged police constable. Coventry opened his mouth to call to him, but nothing came out. He gasped again as he stepped onto his bad leg and his knee buckled. The last thing he remembered was seeing the police constable running toward him, and then blackness.

  1

  3 September 2011

  St. Mark’s Gate, Regent’s Park

  A light September breeze had replaced the stillness and dissipated the early morning fog. The London morning was now clear and bright, a sharp contrast to the dark and grim mood of the crime scene in Regent’s Park.

  The police had been busy, sealing off a perimeter around the crime scene itself, and a further perimeter more than fifty feet back from the first lines of police tape, clearly an effort to keep the eager news photographers out of lens range. Add in the familiar white tent covering the actual crime scene and getting that million-pound shot was all but impossible.

  Doctor Diana Monaghan stood beside the entrance to the tent surveying the activity in front of her. She hated to admit it to anyone outside the world of criminal and forensic investigation, but she always felt a bit of a thrill when at a crime scene. She didn’t often get out anymore. Being the Chief Forensic Pathologist with the Forensic Science Service meant that she frequently spent her days chained to her desk in Lambeth rather than out and about. She ran a hand through her sandy hair and raised the steaming cup in her hand to her lips. The white protective suits that were required at crime scenes helped to stave off some of the chill in the air, but the fit was too snug to accommodate a warm coat. The coffee was a welcome refreshment as she stood waiting for the Murder Squad detective
s to arrive.

  She didn’t have to wait for long. A second sip later and the purr of a German engine drew her attention quickly toward Broad Walk and the perimeter established there. A dark blue BMW eased to a stop just on the other side of the police tape. Monaghan smiled and enjoyed another sip of her coffee as two New Scotland Yard detectives stepped out of the car and began the walk toward the crime scene and herself. Hagen and Pierce… This one is going to be fun.

  Detective Superintendent Douglas Hagen had been a part of the Met for nearly thirty years, and of the Murder Squad for nearly as long. He was a good cop, a good boss, and had a reputation for getting information out of even the toughest suspects. Hagen didn’t rule with the fist or the harsh word, though, and his good-nature even in the face of a horrific crime scene such as this was legendary.

  Hagen touched the brown fedora perched on his bald head as he walked by familiar faces among the police constables, saying a kind word there, inquiring after health here. When he reached the secondary perimeter, he saw Monaghan and smiled broadly, waving a hand as he ducked under the line of tape.

  “Good morning, Doctor M. How are we today?”

  “Cold. Busy.” Monaghan raised the cup in her hand. “Would you like some?”

  Hagen shook his head. “No, no, thank you. Trying to cut back.” He touched his stomach. “My stomach isn’t what it used to be. Getting old, you know.”

  Monaghan looked at the middle-aged detective, his broad-shoulders filling his suit coat to bursting. She smiled. “You, Doug? Old? Never.” She turned to look at the younger detective with him.

  Sergeant Richard Pierce. Tall and athletic, he was almost too good-looking. His nearly black hair had just the right sort of wave to it that allowed it to lay perfectly, yet looked incredibly natural all at the same time. He had a strong nose and cheekbones that seemed to go on forever beneath the carefully maintained five o’clock shadow. Monaghan had seen many a young intern go all melty and giggly at the mere mention of his name. She had to acknowledge that Pierce might have sent her into swoons as well, if she hadn’t had her own younger man waiting for her at home every evening. “Good morning, Sergeant Pierce.”

  The younger man briefly detached his brown eyes from the large “phablet” in his hand and shot Monaghan a perfunctory smile. “Good morning, doctor,” he said, his voice smooth and deep, softly accented with the notes of the Emerald Isle. His eyes quickly returned to the screen. Personal interaction was not his forte. His lone minor flaw.

  Monaghan watched Hagen look at his sergeant for a moment, then roll his eyes, his expression clearly amused.

  “Rick?”

  Pierce quickly looked up from the device in his hand and focused his full attention on Hagen. “Sir?’

  “Unplug, Rick. I need your eyes in there.” Hagen gestured to the white tent ahead of them.

  “Right, sir. Sorry.” Pierce quickly turned off his device and slipped it into the pocket of his leather coat. At the same time, he pulled a pair of latex gloves out of the other pocket and pulled them on. He reached in again, pulling out a pair of slip-on shoe covers. He slipped these over his leather brogues, then took a deep breath and disappeared into the tent.

  “Did you hear the rain last night? Torrential! I thought Sel’s roses were going to float away.” Hagen removed his sunglasses, squinting his blue eyes against the glare of the morning sun.

  “We didn’t have any rain, actually.”

  “That’s right, your flat’s in the Docklands.”

  “How is Sel? I haven’t seen her since, let’s see, New Year’s?”

  Hagen chuckled. “Fiery as ever. Keeps me young, she does.” Hagen turned to Pierce as the younger man emerged from the tent. “What do we have so far, Rick?”

  Monaghan watched Pierce’s face as he answered grimly, “Not everything, sir.” She struggled to suppress her smile, silently scolding herself for not giving the sergeant a heads up about what condition the body was in. She took another sip of her coffee before turning toward the expectant Hagen.

  “We haven’t found his genitals.”

  “Pardon?” Hagen looked at Monaghan, then at Pierce, then back to Monaghan. “You haven’t found his what?”

  “Genitals,” replied Monaghan.

  Hagen shifted uncomfortably, swallowed hard, and cleared his throat before speaking. “They are… not…”

  “Not present, yes. Completely gone.”

  Hagen frowned slightly, cleared his throat again. “Any possibility you might have time of death, at least for the body?”

  The hint of a smile played at the corners of Monaghan’s mouth before she replied. “Everything died at the same time, Doug.” She motioned toward the tent. “Not enough blood on the ground to indicate that he died here. Actual crime scene... somewhere else. Based on the liver temperature and lividity, I would put the time of death at about five o’clock this morning, give or take a few hours. I’ll know better once I get him back to the mortuary.” Monaghan waved to the pair of transport orderlies standing outside the perimeter. “We need to get him moved now.”

  Hagen nodded. “Of course.” He and Pierce stepped back together, ducking under the perimeter tape and moving a few feet away as the transport orderlies ducked under the tape, pulling along a cart with a body bag on it.

  “Um, Rick? Have Paul run a search on cases involving...”

  “Castration?”

  “Yes,” Hagen said quickly, as if he hoped that his response would banish the word from the air. The two men watched as the tent flaps lifted back and the transport orderlies wheeled out the cart, now bearing the tagged and bagged body of the victim. “And have Paul check missing persons as well. Until we know who this bloke is, we leave no stone unturned.”

  Pierce quickly took out his “phablet” and stepped a few feet away as he began to speak into it. Hagen watched as they took the body away, his gaze leaving them as they reached the line of vehicles on Broad Walk.

  A lone figure was leaning against one of the Land Rovers, the bold lettering of FSS on its side.

  Hagen squinted as he stared at the man. “Is that…?”

  “Neville Crane? Yes, he’s back.” Hagen glanced at Monaghan as she stepped up beside him. “He did his time in New York and when the supervisory position opened up in Lambeth, he decided to wing his way back here and settle in.” Monaghan chuckled. “I have to say, I rather missed old Neville.”

  Hagen grimaced. “You are a very generous person, Diana.” He watched as Crane struggled to remove something from the camera. “Is his arm in a sling?”

  Monaghan nodded. “He said he fell rollerblading along the Embankment.” They both watched as Crane finally succeeded in removing the SD card from the camera and slid it into his pocket. He pulled out another card and popped it in, closing up the camera by pushing it closed with his chin, then pressing it shut against his thigh. She chuckled. “It’s so ridiculous, it may actually be true.”

  “I’m surprised he’s out. Couldn’t he send someone?”

  Monaghan shook her head. “He has a young woman, an American, starting today. He found her in New York and she has quite the eye, apparently.” She paused as they ducked under crime scene tape and began walking toward the vehicles. “She’s also quite an eyeful.”

  “I’m sure that’s what appealed to him.”

  Monaghan smiled tightly. “I’ve heard her methods are a bit unusual.”

  Hagen sighed. “Well, nothing like a breath of fresh air blowing through, eh?”

  “I’m afraid when it comes to Kathleen Gardener,” Monaghan mused, “it may be more like a hurricane.”

  2

  Kate Gardener ran north along the Outer Circle, each step causing the bun of dark hair on top of her head to become more and more unkempt and loose. Her face was flushed from running so hard. Navigating London wasn’t a whole lot different than knocking around Manhattan. She had spent half the night studying the Tube map, mentally playing out trips around the city, planning which way to go and
what line to take to get to whatever destination. She wanted to be prepared for anything. Then Neville called, told her to meet him at Regent’s Park, and everything proceeded to go wrong.

  Kate could feel her chest tightening and her muscles beginning to ache as she sprinted along. She was in good shape, a good runner, but she hadn’t been prepared to run from one end of Regent’s Park to the other while carrying her messenger bag and her camera bag. Kate glanced at her watch as she ran. Jesus, it didn’t take this long to get across Central Park. I must not be in as good a shape as I thought.

  Finally, police vehicles ahead! Kate felt a wave of relief flow through her, even as her muscles began to hurt. She would definitely need electrolytes… Hopefully Neville had an extra infused water that she could down before she started work. She slowed down as she approached the outer perimeter of crime scene tape. Her slender figure cut easily through the crowd of photographers, reporters and the generally curious gathered there. Kate didn’t slow as a police constable stepped toward her, putting up a staying hand. Quickly, Kate flipped open her jacket, displaying her FSS credentials, then ducked under the tape and jogged on.

  Kate slowed down for the transport orderlies. She watched as they slowly wheeled the cart bearing the bagged body in front of her, continuing on to the FSS transport van.

  “You’re late.” Kate whirled around at the sound of the familiar female voice. She’d met Diana Monaghan yesterday and immediately liked her. The mature woman’s commanding presence and dry humor reminded her a lot of her mom… and herself.

  “Yeah, I know. The subway… Tube… I think I’m still thinking on New York time. Neville . . .?”

  “Waiting by the Land Rover. Kate, this is Detective Superintendent Hagen.” Monaghan gestured toward the fedora-wearing man standing next to her. “Doug, this is Kate Gardener, our new forensic photographer.”