'We'll be there soon, Charlie,' Hank's deep voice surged over the radio and resonated in the confines of the car. The warmth of his dulcet tones contrasted sharply with his angular features.
Charlie nodded hesitantly. There was nothing else to say. His second family in as many months. This time, he promised himself, he wouldn't let himself care. If he never unpacked his bag then he couldn't be abandoned. It's only a temporary home, he told himself.
Just like last one had been.
***
Morton had abandoned the junior detectives to finish the initial search in favour of a bacon sandwich in the warmth of his car. In between mouthfuls, he thumbed the push-to-talk button on his radio and hailed Tina.
'How's it looking, Detective Inspector Vaughn?' Morton's voice crackled over the encrypted radio.
'I've got a wallet, three plasters and a single trainer. Nothing to suggest a connection between those and our victim. We've still got a huge amount of ground to cover. The rain isn't helping. Any chance the departmental budget could stretch to a round of decent coffees and a bite to eat? There's a bakery around the corner.'
'There's no chance of you getting that expense claim through. Send Ayala out for a round of drinks, and I'll reimburse you when he gets back.' Morton would be out of pocket, but it was a cheap price to pay for the morale boost it would engender, and it would repay Tina for the early morning coffee round.
'Sure,' Tina's tone lifted, the smile in her voice self-evident.
'The search team have got another dozen acres to cover, so we'll aim to break for the day when it gets dark at around four o'clock. We'll have uniforms secure the area immediately around the crime scene, and resume at dawn tomorrow.'
'What time is sunrise?' Tina asked.
'08:05. See you in half an hour, and make sure Ayala doesn't forget my sweetener.'
Morton sighed inwardly. Ayala was bound to forget again.
***
With a flick of his wrist, Hank Williams killed the motor, and then adjusted his rear-view mirror to survey the boy in the backseat.
'Charlie, we're here.'
Charlie stepped out into Cleaver Square for the first time. From the green in the centre, it was impossible to see the main road that they'd just pulled in from, which gave the square an isolated feel. There were grandiose townhouses running up and down both sides of the green, but Charlie's destination, Number 36B, was a handsome house even when judged against its neighbours.
'Come on, Charlie, don't be shy.' Hank unloaded Charlie's meagre possessions from the boot. All Charlie had in the world was a simple leather case and a rucksack, both of which Hank carried easily in one oversized hand. Charlie continued to stare at the house, wondering if there would be other children with him.
Without a second warning, Hank scooped Charlie up over his shoulder in a fireman's lift, and bundled him out of the car. A dozen giant strides later, Hank set Charlie down on the doorstep, and knocked on the heavy oak door with his bare knuckles three times in quick succession. Footsteps echoed inside the house, and before Charlie could count to ten he heard a series of locks clicking as they were unlocked. He froze as the door swung inwards, a deer in headlights. A larger-than-life woman appeared in the doorway. She was much taller than Charlie, and wider still. Charlie's first impression was that of a stern matron.
'Hello. I'm Mrs Lattimer, and you must be Charlie.' Mrs Lattimer ran a hand over her plaited hair as she spoke. She was smiling, but it was a superficial kind of smile that didn't reach her beady black eyes.
'Hello,' Charlie squeaked.
'Mrs Lattimer, I'm Hank Williams. I don't think we've met before. I've got the usual paperwork for you to sign; may I step inside please?'
'By all means. Let's sort this paperwork out, and then I'll give Charlie the grand tour.' She spoke with an affected middle-class accent, but the way she failed to enunciate the letter t was classic cockney.
Mrs Lattimer led the pair down a narrow corridor. The walls were covered in embroidered wallpaper which gave the passage a tactile feel, but the pink floral decor was more reminiscent of an old-fashioned tea shop than a family home. The first door they passed was slightly ajar, and Charlie could smell smoke inside as if someone was sat in front of an old-fashioned wood fire. He paused to snatch a glance inside, where a man of about Mrs Lattimer's age sat in a wing-backed leather chair reading a newspaper.
They carried on further, past a spiral staircase, and Charlie began to realise just how big the house was. The steps led down as well as up. Number 36B had a basement. As they finally reached the back of the house the pink wallpaper gave way to a plain coat of blue paint, and Charlie found himself in a Victorian style walk-through larder where enormous packages of rice, pasta and other staples lined the shelves.
Seeing Charlie stare around the larder, Mrs Lattimer chirped up, 'You can never be too careful, dear. You'll never know what you might need. Just last November, we got snowed in for the better part of a month.'
At the back of the larder, partially hidden behind a mishmash of storage boxes, a doorway led through to a large country-style kitchen complete with AGA stove and a huge oak dining table that could easily seat a dozen people. What really drew Charlie's attention wasn't the room itself, but the way the floor appeared to disappear at the back with only a handrail visible. Out of curiosity, Charlie tiptoed towards the rail. The glass roof carried on several feet further, but the kitchen floor did not.
There was one more door to go through at the back of the larder.
'Mrs Lattimer...' Charlie pointed at the empty space.
'Oh, don't worry, dear, it's a light well. Without it, the basement would be dark and full of mould.'
Charlie gripped the guardrail tightly, locking his thumb around the bar for safety, and then carefully leant over the railing. He peered down at a glass and PVC roof set at ground level so that rain ran off into a gutter. Beneath the glass, he could see a number of toys, and a top-heavy bookshelf loaded with leather bound books as well as the occasional knick-knack.
Charlie was wondering who the toys belonged to when Hank's baritone voice brought him back to the conversation, 'Thank you, Mrs Lattimer, we're all done. Goodbye, Charlie!'
Hank snatched up the signed papers, and retreated. It was clear he was intending to let himself out. His footsteps faded out of earshot, and Charlie heard the heavy front door shut with a thud.
Mrs Lattimer's tone changed immediately, 'Listen up, you little toe rag. This is my house, and you live by my rules. No running. No swearing. No shouting. You cause me any trouble, I'll hand you straight back to Children's Services.
'Chores are to be done daily. Each morning you'll get up at six. Mr Lattimer and I rise at seven thirty. I expect breakfast to be on the table by then, and the house to be spotless. I will not be driving you to school, so you'll need to be gone by eight. Do you understand me?'
Charlie edged towards the kitchen doorway. His instincts said to run, but he had nowhere to run to.
'Do you understand?' she repeated, leaning over him.
Without uttering a word, Charlie nodded meekly.
CHAPTER 3: DISSECTION
A lingering sweetness hit Morton the moment he stepped out of the elevator, and onto the floor that housed the morgue. It was part of the New Scotland Yard complex but felt a million miles away from the hustle and bustle of the workspace Morton used every day. It was so quiet that Morton could hear every footstep he took echoing on the laminate floor.
As Morton headed for Autopsy Room #3 he passed simple paintings hung on the fastidiously clean walls. They were obviously intended to lighten the mood, but to Morton's eyes the primary colours seemed almost mocking, as if the dead had no right to the dignity of a sombre death. When Morton reached the shuttered steel double doors, built to comfortably accommodate the width of a gurney, he could see the coroner inside. Dr Larry Chiswick seemed almost vampiric in appearance. Even in sunshine he looked pallid, as if he might be joining his charges any day, but in
the harsh fluorescent lighting of the morgue the effect was exaggerated.
Without knocking, Morton opened the left-hand side of the door and stepped foot into Dr Chiswick's domain.
The room was devoid of the cheerful pictures in the corridor. Instead, the coroner's tools were arrayed over every visible surface. Racks and shelves housed saws, brushes and all manner of tools. There were no seats, so Morton had to clear a patch of workbench before he parked himself on it.
Morton tapped his fingers on the bench as he waited for the coroner to notice his presence. Larry was infamous for making detectives wait. Morton shrugged; the body wasn't going anywhere. As he waited, his gaze fixed upon the sheet covering the body he was there to see. It had been removed from the body bag and cleaned up by the diener. Scraps of clothing had been bagged, ready to be sent for particulate analysis. Vials, which appeared at first glance to be empty, were arranged in neat columns nearby. Straining to see from the other side of the room, Morton read the small labels which identified various trace particles found on the body. Samples had been taken from underneath the victim's fingernails, between his toes and from his hair.
After a few minutes of Dr Chiswick's pointedly ignoring his visitor, Morton rose from the workbench and strode towards the body. In one clean motion, Morton teased the sheet downwards towards the sternum, revealing the upper half of the corpse. At the opposite end, feet poked out from under the sheet. The toe tag read Joe Bloggs #0113/103, denoting an anonymous corpse. The torso was virtually gone. Slivers of grey-white skin were pulled taut across what remained of the skull, but vast chunks of flesh were missing.
'The body is male, almost certainly Caucasian. Approximately five foot two, but that's subject to the usual margin of error,' Doctor Larry Chiswick broke the silence, forced to interact with his guest. Morton moved to offer a handshake, but the coroner shook his head. The slightest touch would necessitate cleaning his hands again to avoid contaminating the evidence.
'Epiphyses are not yet closed, and there are only minimal signs of accelerated bone maturation. I'd say he was twelve or thirteen years old. Possibly a little younger.'
'It's a kid?' David struggled to choke out the words as bile rose up in his throat.
'Yes, which makes this odd.' Larry held up the plastic evidence bag Morton had collected from Robert Lyons.
The bag held the gentlemen's watch which Lyons had removed from the body. The coroner had cleaned it up, and Morton could now see that it was gold, with a black face. Morton took the bag, and held it up to the light for a closer look.
'Keppler Oechslan?' He read aloud the name engraved in gold just inside the rim.
'It's Swiss. A tourbillon design from the early eighties if I'm not very much mistaken. My father had one just like it.'
'High end?'
'Probably worth more than my annual bonus.' They exchanged wry smiles at the in-joke. The department hadn't paid a bonus in years.
'It's not something a pre-teen should be wearing, and rules out robbery right off the bat. Looks like there's something on the back. Can you put that under the microscope for me?' Morton handed the watch back to the coroner. Each autopsy room was equipped with a large digital microscope and attendant monitor.
With a deft movement of his thumb and forefinger, the doctor flattened the evidence bag either side of the watch, negating the need to remove it from the protective plastic. Sliding it under the lens, he flicked the power on, and fiddled with the focus ring. The back plate of the watch sprung to life on the monitor, and snapped into focus.
'E M something something 1 something J 1 9 7 something then a few more digits underneath which are much too small and faded to read even when magnified,' Larry said.
'An acid wash might bring out the detail – get it over to forensics. They're used to recovering serial numbers from guns so this should be dead easy. You got anything else for me, Larry?'
'I'll send particulates for trace, and I've already logged the victim's fingerprints in the database. I couldn't get a complete set, but it should be enough to find a match if there's one to be found. I also found entomological evidence, but that's got to be sent for an outside consultation, and that'll have to come out of your budget.'
Morton grimaced. He'd have to sweet-talk the Superintendent for the money. He'd cross that bridge if the fingerprints and trace analysis came up blank.
'Pooling suggests this was a body dump. Blood settled on the left-hand side of the body, so he was lying on his side shortly after death. Crime scene photos indicate he was buried face down.'
'When did he die?'
'I can't be certain of the post-mortem interval. We've had plenty of sub-zero days this winter, and the body won't have decomposed at a consistent rate.'
'Give me a ballpark estimate.'
'I'd hazard a guess at weeks rather than days or months, but the forensic evidence gives us a very wide timeframe. Weather records and the insect activity might help narrow that down.'
'Cause of death?'
'Nothing obvious. No broken bones, no scrapes, nicks or other ante-mortem damage. One minor cut consistent with a spade, post-mortem. There's not much tissue left to work with. What little remains has not been subjected to any physical damage that I can discern. There are no signs of gunshot damage and no nicks to the skeleton, so we can probably rule out a stabbing. The killer could have got lucky, or used a more passive method to kill the kid. Assuming it was a murder.'
'I doubt it was an accident. You said yourself the body was dumped.'
'Stranger things have happened,' said Larry.
Silence hung in the air and Morton arched his left eyebrow in disbelief. Even the possibility of an accident was disingenuous at best and an affront to the victim at worst.
'Is poison a possibility?' said Morton.
'I'll get a sample tested for toxicology, but with so little tissue left I can't give you anything certain. For now, the legal cause of death is undetermined.'
CHAPTER 4: BOURNEMOUTH BOUND
For only the second time in his career, Morton found himself reading a magazine while on duty. Like the first time, Morton was waiting for his Community Liaison Officer. He knew all the case details down to the GPS co-ordinates each item of evidence had been collected at, but he still carried a copy of everything in a folder to provide to Tracey McDowell. Sod's Law said that if he'd left it all back at the station then Tracey would have demanded it before she carried out his search.
Since the last police restructure, probably the tenth in as many years, responsibility for the missing children database had been shunted over to the Serious Organised Crime Agency. They were too busy dealing with drugs, gangs and other headline-worthy work, so they farmed it out to another organisation.
Unfortunately, the Child Exploitation and Online Protection Agency ran on their own time. The hands on the cheap school-style plastic clock on the waiting room wall above Morton's head ticked along at a snail's pace.
After what seemed like an eternity of thumbing through fishing articles, and learning only that trout rarely surface to eat, Morton was permitted into McDowell's office. It wasn't as nicely decorated as his own office, nor was her desk adorned with the personal knick-knacks he had accumulated over the years, but for a middle management jobsworth it was pretty impressive.
'Good morning, Mr Morton. Please, take a seat,' said Tracey McDowell. McDowell stood behind her desk with her hands resting on the back of her leather chair. She obviously had no intention of sitting down.
Morton bristled at not being addressed by rank. He was in her office, and she wanted him to know it. Morton ignored her offer of a chair.
'Miss McDowell, let's cut to the chase. I've got a body in the morgue, and I need to identify it. Fingerprints and DNA have yielded nothing. I need to search the missing children database.'
'As you wish. Give me the basic details.'
'Our victim is male. Approximately five feet two inches. White. Early puberty, so he could be anything from ten to th
irteen years old.'
'OK. The search won't take too long. Assuming we're searching just London, there are usually only about fifty kids missing at any given time. Do you know how long he's been gone?'
'Weeks. The body was dumped before the recent icy snap, but not much before. Otherwise he'd probably have been found sooner.'
'OK...' McDowell leant over her laptop as she spoke, trying to type without sitting down. In hindsight, she might have realised that it wasn't the best move to make while wearing a low-cut top.
'There are no missing males in London of that age and height.' Tracey turned the screen towards Morton so that he could see for himself.
'Can you try a wider geographical search?' Morton demanded.
'This is just the national database, but yes, I can extend the geographical parameters to include all of the UK. If you want to go international, then you'll need to talk to Interpol.'
'National is fine. He was found in central London. Someone must be missing him.'
This time, the search took a few moments longer. Tracey shook her head. 'Still nothing.'
'What if you widen the search parameters?'
'I've got a twelve-year-old missing in Bradford. White, four foot ten.'
Morton scanned the parameters from the autopsy report. 'Too short.'
'The only other missing child I've got is a fifteen-year-old, five foot two, white. Went missing approx six weeks ago.'
'Sounds plausible. Our Joe Bloggs could be a very late developer. He's definitely short enough. You got a name?'
'Rick Houton. American family, live down in Bournemouth.'
'Road trip.' Morton's crow's feet became pronounced as he suppressed a smile.
***
The Houton family home was a four-hour round trip from Westminster. With the other leads being handled by Detectives Vaughn and Ayala, Morton was free to take a leisurely drive. He could simply have requested a local officer collect a DNA sample and courier it up to London, but this got him out of the office and gave him the opportunity to size up the Houtons as possible suspects.
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