by Steven Dunne
Brook made coffee for everyone and walked over to look at the large map that nearly filled one wall. He stared at the bridge in Borrowash then at the approximate location of Shardlow gravel pit – approximate because many of the flooded pits were not on the map, having been dug out after the map was published.
The land between Derby and the M1 was flat and wet. Broken ground was home to two rivers as well as the many manmade lakes and waterways created by the extraction of building materials – an excellent place to hide the dead.
Brook took a sip of his coffee, again recalling the image of the body from the gravel pit – the swollen face, the pale buttery flesh. But even before the incision in the flank had been located, Brook had known this was the same MO. He knew enough forensics to realise that a body with organs intact should have been bloated from the decomposition gases but this . . . vacant vessel, this receptacle of some mother’s hopes and dreams . . . had been exsanguinated and efficiently gutted like a pig at the abattoir.
‘Penny for them,’ said Noble, at Brook’s shoulder.
‘Stick it in your pension, John. I can’t get a handle on this at all.’
‘I know what you mean. Seems like we’ve only got half a crime here.’
‘Exactly that. We’ve got one dumped body that hasn’t been killed. And now a second that presents as the same MO. So what’s the motive?’
‘Maybe Habib and Petty got it wrong. Maybe McTiernan was forced to drink himself to death. That would make it murder.’
‘It still doesn’t get us a motive.’
‘Some grudge against the less fortunate,’ shrugged Noble. ‘There could be a million reasons. Maybe one of Charlton’s sexually assaulted schoolkids is finally getting even. Or maybe it’s a necrophiliac with a thing for black-toothed vagrants.’ He smiled. ‘Motives aren’t always obvious with a nut job.’
‘Nut job,’ repeated Brook with distaste.
‘Or maybe Habib’s right. Maybe someone’s making haggis with human offal.’
‘And black pudding with the blood,’ added Brook. ‘A psychotic butcher with a taste for human flesh – don’t think I didn’t consider it, John. But if someone has the privacy to do this, and the skills to process body parts so efficiently, they wouldn’t need to risk dumping the bodies where they can be found.’
‘So why dump the bodies at all, you mean?’
‘More questions than answers at this stage.’
‘Maybe our guy likes the adrenalin rush, people knowing what he’s doing. That way he creates a climate of fear. He scares the public and feeds on that.’
Brook shook his head. ‘Who’s going to be scared? No one paid any attention to McTiernan. As Charlton said, this is page eleven stuff.’
‘The second body might change things.’
‘Not if it’s another . . .’ Brook cast around for a suitable word.
‘Tramp,’ offered Noble. ‘Don’t be afraid to use correct vocabulary. Sir.’
Brook smiled at being admonished by his own words. ‘No one will worry about these tramps turning up dead. No one cared about the prostitutes the Yorkshire Ripper slaughtered until he killed that poor shop assistant.’
‘So he’s daring us to care.’
‘Care? John, you’re missing the point. If he didn’t dump the remains we wouldn’t even know they were missing.’
‘So he’s dumping the bodies to draw attention.’
‘To find an audience, yes.’
‘He’s succeeding.’
‘I know,’ said Brook, rubbing his chin. ‘But I don’t think it’s our attention he’s after.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because we don’t understand what he’s doing – but somebody out there does. And that’s who he’s doing this for.’
DS Gadd and DC Cooper walked over to join Brook and Noble. Cooper took a sip of his coffee and shook his head at Noble. ‘Nada. I’ve spoken to Nottingham University Medical School. He’s not theirs. And with a necrotic liver and chronic heart disease, Tommy McTiernan’s physical condition put him near the bottom of every wish-list. There’s very little demand for his body or his organs, even if they obtained consent – not for transplant, nor for research.’
‘Same here,’ said Gadd. ‘Unwanted in life. Unwanted in death.’
‘Somebody wanted him, Jane,’ said Noble. ‘And if we draw a blank on the phones it’s looking more likely that McTiernan’s body hasn’t been stolen and hasn’t been misplaced.’ Noble’s mobile phone began to croak and he moved away to answer it.
‘Then how did our doer find Tommy?’ asked Cooper.
‘How do you find all the Tommys?’ said Brook. ‘You look on the streets.’
‘You think someone’s roaming the city looking for victims and just took him,’ said Cooper.
‘It’s starting to look that way,’ said Brook.
‘Alive?’
‘That would be easier than finding and transporting corpses,’ replied Brook.
‘Unless someone’s tipping him off about fresh bodies. A doctor maybe,’ said Cooper.
‘What’s in it for a doctor?’ asked Gadd.
‘All right, an ambulanceman then,’ retorted Cooper.
‘Same question.’
‘I don’t know, Jane. Money?’
‘No chance,’ replied Gadd. ‘Besides, these tramps usually die in public, in a hostel, on the streets, in shop doorways, so we’d know about them first. Or they die in the back room of some squat and don’t get found for weeks, maybe even months. The Embalmer’s taking them alive. McTiernan was fresh.’
Cooper nodded. ‘I suppose just picking them up and offering them a bed and a meal would be the easiest thing in the world.’
‘And when he’s got them where he wants them, he feeds them as much drink as they want and waits for the inevitable,’ said Gadd.
‘Patient man.’
‘Maybe he’s helping things along,’ replied Brook. ‘It’s hard to say. But if he has all this privacy, once he’s got them, he can do what he likes and he can take his time. Who would miss Tommy – a homeless man with no family? And even if McTiernan has friends on the street, his disappearance wouldn’t be unusual. He’s invisible, even to them.’ Brook paused, deep in thought. ‘That’s the life.’
‘He’d need an awful lot of privacy – and space.’
‘Somewhere remote,’ said Brook, moving back to the map.
‘So how do we catch him, sir? And what do we charge him with? Littering?’
Brook smiled, then looked down at his misshapen sweater and shabby trousers. He turned to each member of his team in turn and looked at their smart casual clothes. ‘Maybe we need a presence on the streets.’
Noble finished speaking on his mobile but continued writing in his notebook. ‘That was Don Crump from the lab. The Forensics paperwork won’t be done until tomorrow but he’s given me the heads-up. The traffic cones are clean – no prints at all, not even legitimate workmen. Also, Tommy had been drinking whisky in industrial quantities.’
‘Blended or malt?’ asked Rob Morton.
‘I didn’t ask,’ replied Noble.
At that moment, the door to the Incident Room opened and Chief Superintendent Charlton walked in holding a polystyrene coffee cup. He was dressed in a light grey suit with a white shirt and dark blue tie. There was silence. Charlton was rarely to be seen on a Sunday. Like a naughty schoolboy, Rob Morton removed a cigarette from behind his ear and put it in his pocket.
‘Morning, everyone. Didn’t mean to interrupt. I was on my way to church but as I didn’t get my paperwork I thought I’d better come and see what was going on. Pretend I’m not here.’ He shuffled towards the back of the room and on his way, the man who wasn’t there caught Brook’s eye for a few seconds. ‘Carry on,’ he beamed at Noble, sitting on a table to listen.
‘Yes, sir. I was just going through some forensics about our floaters,’ he explained to Charlton.
‘I heard the second body wasn’t exactly floating,’
retorted Charlton without expression.
‘No, sir.’ Noble looked back at his notes. ‘The cloth recovered from the Derwent looks like it was worn by McTiernan, probably as some kind of loincloth because the second body wore an identical piece of material. They’re running tests on the Shardlow cloth now. The Derwent cloth is made of Egyptian cotton, nothing unusual about it though it did carry traces of the same make-up used on Tommy’s face, as well as disinfectant, and we know the body was washed before being dumped. There were also minute traces of arsenic. No suggestion that McTiernan was poisoned though. It’s probably from some cream applied to the . . . er, deceased.’
Noble looked at Brook then Charlton before continuing. ‘The stitching in the wound was a shoelace. Also Egyptian cotton . . .’
‘Maybe the killer works at Dunelm Mill,’ said Charlton drily.
‘Sir?’ enquired Noble.
‘It’s a fabric warehouse,’ muttered Gadd, tight-lipped, aware that Charlton’s presence wasn’t a good sign.
‘Every time my wife goes to Dunelm she comes back with more cushions and another bloody duvet cover,’ added Morton, smiling. Gadd elbowed him discreetly in the side.
‘Any news on the murder weapon, Detective Sergeant?’ asked Charlton. Noble didn’t reply. Brook managed a private smile but also kept his eyes on the floor. ‘Oh, hang on. There isn’t one, is there? Because this isn’t a murder inquiry.’ Nobody spoke or looked in Charlton’s direction and the Chief Superintendent let the silence fester for a few moments. ‘Can you all leave the Incident Room for a moment, please? I’d like a word with DI Brook.’
Brook remained motionless as the rest of his team slowly gathered themselves and left in silence. Noble fired an enquiring glance at Brook as he closed the door, but Brook motioned him to leave.
‘What are you doing, Brook?’
‘Conducting an inquiry, sir.’
‘I see. You’ve tied up five detectives on a Sunday just to investigate the death of an indigent who drank himself to death, according to Dr Habib.’ Brook looked up at Charlton finally. ‘Yes, that’s right, Inspector – the post mortem results have come in. In fact, you knew the results when you spoke to me before.’ Charlton glared at Brook, certain of his ground. ‘Didn’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did you see my email about the budget cuts?’
Brook paused. ‘I saw it.’
‘Then I’ll ask you again. What are you doing committing so many resources to this? God alone knows what the overtime bill will be.’
Brook looked Charlton in the eye. Why don’t you ask Him when you get to church? ‘But now we have a second body, sir.’
‘Murdered?’ Brook said nothing. Charlton nodded. ‘You don’t know yet.’ The Chief Superintendent paused, hoping to increase the pressure. ‘I like to run a tight ship, Inspector, but with these swingeing cuts, I need people who are team players, people who play with a straight bat. What I don’t need are cowboys.’
‘You’re right, sir,’ said Brook quickly. ‘I’ve been working too hard. It’s affected my judgement. I’m sorry.’
Charlton was wrong-footed, the wind taken from his sails. His facial expression softened with vindication but inside, the disappointment of an opportunity lost was palpable. ‘Well, I dare say you made the call as you saw fit.’ His features darkened again. ‘But I won’t tolerate being lied to, especially in front of subordinates,’ he continued, with a nod to Noble outside the door.
‘Of course not,’ said Brook, now the model of contrition. ‘That was unforgivable.’ Charlton examined Brook’s face long and hard for any sign of insincerity. ‘Perhaps I should take a few days off, sir. I’ve got plenty of leave owing.’
Charlton continued to stare Brook down, not wanting to be rushed. He couldn’t escape the feeling that in some way he was being outflanked, but he didn’t know how. Eventually he sat back and looked at the table. ‘You don’t like me very much, do you, Brook?’
Brook couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘Sir?’
‘No, don’t bother. I already know. I’m a bean counter, aren’t I? And you’re a force of pure detection, a seeker of justice.’
‘Sir, I don’t—’
Charlton held up a hand. ‘It doesn’t matter, Inspector. That’s my job. I expect to be disliked. If I wasn’t disliked, I wouldn’t be doing my job properly. And if I wasn’t doing it properly, you couldn’t do yours. But you probably don’t accept that, do you?’
Brook remained silent.
‘And though we had a few problems a couple of years ago, I had hoped that we could have moved forward.’
Brook looked down into Charlton’s face, this time with the feeling that he was being outflanked.
‘You see, Brook, I’ll be honest. I can’t do what you do. I can’t find the bad guy who doesn’t want to be found. I don’t have your skills. But by the same token, you can’t do what I do. Clear the decks and sign the cheques, as my old Chief Constable used to say. Someone has to do it.’ He paused. ‘Look, you don’t need to go on leave – and I no longer want you to resign. I made a mistake suggesting it. And one thing I learned from our . . . difference of opinion was – well, I know you have integrity. Briefing the press behind my back . . . you did the wrong thing but for reasons you believed were valid, and I should’ve acknowledged that.’
‘Sir, I—’
‘Forget it. Get your team back in here and finish the briefing. If you think this incident has mileage, I’ll back you. But I want to be kept in the loop. If you withhold information from me again, I’ll bury you.’
Charlton stood with his untouched coffee and stalked away.
‘Chief Superintendent.’ Charlton turned at the door. ‘Thank you,’ said Brook. ‘But I do have something I need to do. Three days’ leave should cover it.’
Charlton nodded and walked out.
Ten
Wednesday 25 May
DI DAMEN BROOK STOOD IN the gutter looking up at the heavens. If he’d been at home, in his cottage garden, he could have picked out odd stars and constellations, but in the neon glare of the city his vision was impaired. He straightened his stiff neck with some discomfort and massaged it with his grubby hand. He’d never take his soft pillow for granted again.
Scratching at his three-day beard, he resumed his weary trudge through the centre of Derby, feeling the earlier rain still squelching in his shoes. As he shuffled through the darkened shopping precincts, he closed his eyes for long periods to relieve the sting of broken sleep on his pupils – broken by the cold, broken by the noise of others snoring or swearing or just gibbering senselessly, broken by a rat on that one occasion he’d tried to spend a night in a squat.
His mobile phone vibrated in a pocket and he fumbled through his different layers to open it, looking around furtively to see he wasn’t being observed. Cheap though the phone was, a tramp talking on a mobile was an incongruous sight as well as an easy target for muggers.
Brook didn’t look at the display. Only Noble had the number. ‘You’re up late. Where were you tonight? You missed our meeting and I missed my burger.’
‘Sorry, sir. I’ve been busy on another case. I’ve also spoken to Dr Habib.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘We got prints from the second body and we’ve got a name. Barry Kirk – originally from Carlisle. He disappeared off the radar ten years ago when his business and marriage failed. There were all the signs that he was living rough since dropping out of sight – various minor convictions around the country, D and D, vagrancy, you know the routine.’
‘And what about cause of death?’
‘Same. Habib says alcohol poisoning but they’ll need to run more tests. Parts of the brain were missing again as well as the organs.’
Brook saw a figure stir to look at him from a nearby doorway and moved further away.
‘And there’s been a development in another of your cases. I need to go over . . .’
Brook saw the man in the doorway looking at him
and switched the phone to his other ear. ‘John, I can’t talk for long. But I’m not coming in for a few hours yet. I got a tip from a new face at Millstone House. Somebody at check-in this afternoon knew McTiernan and it seems Tommy was raving about some squat on Leopold Street.’
‘Official?’
‘No, it’s just a derelict but this guy at the refuge, Mitch, says he can’t wait to get back there tomorrow. It seems there’s someone pretending to be from some agency calling round to drop off bottles of whisky.’
‘Whisky? No agency does that.’
‘Exactly. I’m going to check it out now.’
‘Want some back-up?’
‘That won’t help. Speak soon. Wait, John. What did you have to eat tonight?’
‘Er . . . Chicken Madras, why?’
Brook ran his lower lip under his teeth. ‘Just wanted to know.’
He ended the call and put the phone on silent then squelched up St Peter’s Street, past Waterstone’s and the small clock-tower which showed two o’clock in the morning. The temperature had dropped and the cold hand of night was beginning to grip. Brook pulled his flimsy overcoat up round his neck, burrowed his hands deeper into his too-thin pockets then quickened his walk to get the blood moving. First order of business after he took a bath – get some decent boots, assuming his feet hadn’t already rotted away to stumps. He pulled out a damp handkerchief and sneezed mightily into the cloth. An inquisitive dog popped its head out of a shapeless pile of blankets in a shop doorway and monitored Brook’s laboured progress with a smooth turn of the head.
‘Good dog,’ breathed Brook as he walked on. The dog, placated, yawned and burrowed back down towards the heat of its owner.
Brook ran the back of his hand across his nose. All he needed – living rough with a cold. He came to a decision. He was exhausted. He couldn’t take another night. This would be his last. The previous two had been fruitless – fruitless, that is, if you excluded the insights he’d gained into a life without a home. Three days and two nights on the streets, and so much about the behaviour and condition of the dispossessed had begun to make sense to Brook. The adoption of a flea-bitten abandoned dog, like the one he’d just seen, was more than a play for sympathy from punters with spare change. The animal offered warmth and the kind of unswerving love and loyalty that acted as antidote to the vitriol unleashed by the well-heeled walking by. He’d heard it all.
