Touch (DI Charlotte Savage)

by Mark Sennen

  Mrs Forester was right, her grandson had talent. But that didn’t square with what the manager of Tamar Yacht Fitters had told DS Riley. Savage looked at the pictures again. They were a world away from a sordid video of a girl shoving a beer bottle up between her legs.

  ‘Password protected, ma’am.’ Calter interrupted Savage’s thoughts. ‘I’ve tried the usual tricks but I can’t get in. Have to take it to the lads in hi-tech crimes.’

  ‘Right.’ Savage was browsing through some CDs on a tall rack. Nirvana, Stone Roses, Radiohead, REM. Pretty standard fare for a kid who was a teenager a dozen or more years ago.

  ‘What kind of twenty something year old has a Chelsea duvet spread?’ Calter asked. ‘And all those stickers? They are the kind of thing an adolescent would have, not a young man.’

  ‘You’re a profiler now, are you? Chelsea bedspread equals criminal behaviour?’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ Calter giggled. ‘A bit odd though.’

  ‘I agree.’

  Maybe David Forester hadn’t grown much beyond a teen until something had changed him. Savage looked at some of the football stickers again. Stuck on the wardrobe was an entire set of the 2006 Premiership winning team. From the smiling faces of Lampard, Cole and Drogba to hard-core pornography, drug dealing and violence. In just a few short years.

  Chapter 12

  Derriford Hospital, Plymouth. Wednesday 27th October. 5.25 pm

  The post-mortem on Kelly Donal had been scheduled for twelve thirty and DS Riley had been booked to attend. Savage said she would be along later. If being late had been her intention, missing the whole affair had not. Now that seemed possible because they got stuck in a jam on the A38 not long after they left St Budeaux.

  On the dual-carriageway heading east cars sat nose-to-tail and according to their police radio the cause was a major RTC up ahead. Half a dozen ambulances and two fire engines blocked the road creating traffic chaos and leaving a good proportion of Plymouth in total gridlock. At one point even the air ambulance buzzed overhead to land somewhere out of sight, its distinctive blue and red livery striking against the tomb grey sky.

  After thirty minutes Calter got bored and said she would walk out of the queue and back to the station. Savage could do nothing but wait, and after another hour the traffic dissolved away and she drove the remaining couple of miles to Derriford Hospital. She struggled to find a space for the car despite the acres of parking that surrounded the ugly, brutal looking complex. Notwithstanding the hospital’s primary purpose, it was no place to be born, be ill or to die. For post-mortems the ambience could not have been better.

  Doctor Andrew Nesbit was perfect for PMs too. His straightforward and methodical manner gave him a detachment that at times like these Savage envied. She didn’t think anybody enjoyed eviscerating the dead, but if anyone did it was Nesbit. Savage put her gown and mask on in the anteroom and went into the lab proper where the pathologist hunkered over a stainless steel gurney, his long arms working the corpse like a mantis playing with a fly.

  ‘Ah, Charlotte, your DS left a while ago but you are welcome to stay for this one if you like.’ Nesbit looked up from the cadaver, an old man with severe facial injuries, body gone a sort of yellowish-white, the veins and bones visible through the translucent skin.

  ‘Did this man fall into the gutter in a drunken stupor or did he get waylaid and set about by a group of bored youths? Twenty years ago I’d have said the former, these days the latter explanation seems more likely. What do you think?’

  ‘You tell me, Doc, I thought that was your job.’ Savage moved closer to the dead man. Seventy or so and looking like age would have caught up with him sometime soon anyway had the tarmac not intervened first.

  ‘Not a pleasant way to die.’ Nesbit bent down again and using a pair of tweezers extracted a piece of grit from the man’s discoloured cheek. ‘Lying in the roadway having a cerebral haemorrhage while the good folk of Plymouth go about their business unaware you are anything other than another homeless statistic sleeping off a drunken binge. Whether an accident or foul play, either way his death was not a glorious ending.’

  ‘I don’t suppose such a thing exists for any of your patients.’

  ‘Or for any of us. There are good ways and bad ways but only one exit.’

  ‘If you added a line about “many path’s to the Lord’s feet” you’d be a passable preacher.’

  ‘As you know, Charlotte, I’m of an entirely scientific bent. As far as I am aware the only journey this man can make is one involving the breakdown of his biological components into their constituent molecules. Of souls I know nothing.’

  That was Nesbit through and through. He had once joked to Savage that the inscription on his gravestone would be ‘Observation, Hypothesis, Prediction, Experiment, Results, Conclusion.’ He dealt with cold bodies and cold facts with no place for emotion. Savage thought Nesbit’s approach admirable because it prevented the niggling little thoughts from burgeoning into nightmares. It washed away the doubt, the fear and the uncertainty from death in the same way his assistants would hose the blood from the dissection table after an autopsy. Only sterile, gleaming, stainless steel remained, a shining truth developed from scientific reasoning rather than from a figure on the cross. It left no room for tears and perhaps that was the point. Savage didn’t care much for religion either, but she knew such detachment wouldn’t work for her and already the emotion was rising within.

  ‘You’ve got some results on the girl?’

  Nesbit sighed, paused, and with a theatrical flourish worthy of a RSC veteran he turned and dropped the piece of grit into a stainless steel kidney dish on a side bench. The bowl rang out a clear note that sounded quite haunting. Nesbit let the note ring for a second or so and touched the bowl to bring an end to the unknown man’s elegy. He put the tweezers down with a further flourish and turned to Savage.

  ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘Now, I found no sign of trauma causing death, externally or internally. You might be surprised to hear that, given the cut on the stomach we noticed at the scene, more of which later. I also discovered something quite fascinating, intriguing possibly.’ Nesbit moved over to another body, this one covered with a green cloth.

  Savage went over to join him, hoping he wouldn’t need to lift the sheet, although she knew he would do so anyway.

  ‘Now, let’s see.’ Nesbit pulled back the cloth and revealed the girl’s naked body. He picked up a clipboard and read aloud. ‘Kelly Donal, eighteen. Height one hundred and–’

  Savage winced, not at the doctor’s words, rather at the sight of the body. Kelly didn’t look so beautiful now, not with the rough, Y shaped scar running along her shoulders, down her chest and across her stomach. Nesbit’s assistant had sewn her up well enough, but the work wasn’t going to win any needlepoint prizes.

  ‘–point three kilograms. All in all a healthy young woman with no abnormalities and no worries.’ Nesbit cleared his throat. ‘Apart from being dead, of course.’

  ‘Time of death?’

  ‘Patience, Charlotte, patience.’ Nesbit scanned his clipboard again. ‘First, the cut we noted on the abdomen. Remember?’

  ‘I think you said the wound hadn’t bled.’

  ‘Yes. No blood because the incision happened post-mortem.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Of course. The wound would have bled profusely had she been alive at the time. Even if the blood had been cleaned up externally, internally there would have been significant haemorrhaging.’

  ‘Your guess at the weapon?’

  ‘I deal in evidence not conjecture, as you well know, Charlotte.’ Nesbit bent his head and peered over the top of his glasses at Savage; a scolding glance, but a smile forming too. ‘However, I noted a small exit wound on the girl’s lower back meaning the instrument was pushed all the way through the girl’s body. Thus the evidence points to a thin, sharp blade approximately twenty centimetres long. ‘

  ‘Kitchen knife?’


  ‘Quite possibly, but I wouldn’t call the knife a weapon since the cut was made after she died.’ Nesbit flipped a page over on his clipboard and adjusted his glasses. ‘Now, you asked about the time of death?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, remember the core body temperature readings I took at the scene were not much use? The body was colder than the ambient air.’

  ‘Yes, I think we thought she might have been outside in the frosty weather.’

  ‘Right. Well I found some blowfly larvae up in the nasal cavity. I am no expert in the area, but I believe they are at the stage of development called first instars.’

  ‘I am guessing from my limited knowledge she hadn’t been dead long then.’

  ‘I don’t know. The maggots themselves are dead.’

  ‘You’ve lost me, Andrew.’ Savage was struggling to understand. ‘The maggots are dead?’

  ‘Yes, correct. It is possible the frost killed them, but I don’t think so. We will need to get some accurate weather data and I will contact a forensic entomologist to determine if my theory is possible.’

  ‘What theory?’ Savage was becoming exasperated and she wondered for a moment if Nesbit might be playing a game with her.

  ‘My hypothesis is Kelly Donal was frozen.’

  ‘What?’ Savage stared at Nesbit. ‘By the frosty nights?’

  ‘No, no. Not cold enough to kill the larvae. She was deep frozen. That would explain why they are dead and also the reason for the odd, puffy constituency and appearance to the skin, as well as the low core temperature I observed.’

  ‘Deep frozen? Like a pack of oven chips?’

  ‘Wouldn’t touch them myself, but yes.’

  ‘So we can’t know when she was killed?’

  Nesbit seemed to ignore her and instead walked over to the lab bench at the side of the room. He pointed to a large glass jar and Savage tried to suppress a heave in her stomach at the sight of the grey lump within.

  ‘Kelly Donal’s brain,’ Nesbit said. ‘Before I return the brain to the skull cavity I will take some sections for analysis. I believe the cell structure will have been altered by the freezing process although I don’t think a method exists to tell us how long the body has been frozen. However, I have a couple of ideas that need a bit of work. I’ll get back to you on them.’

  Nesbit returned to the body and bent forward and sniffed the torso, gesturing at Savage to do the same.

  ‘I found no other outward signs of insect infestation because the body has been washed at some point, you can smell the soap.’

  Savage moved to the body and bent over. The girl’s left breast was a few inches away from her face and for a moment Savage found herself looking at the body through the killer’s eyes. Those curves, the flat, toned stomach leading to an enticing triangle of pubic hair, the smooth thighs and shapely calves. What man would pass up the opportunity to be close to such perfection? To kiss the body all over, to caress the skin, to wonder at the beauty and finally to penetrate it, afterwards holding the flesh close in the exhaustion of post-orgasmic bliss.

  ‘Charlotte?’

  Savage snapped back into the awkwardness of reality, aware of Nesbit’s stare.

  ‘Yes, I think you are right. Soap.’

  ‘Now then, toxicology. I’ve dispatched some blood and hair to the lab to ascertain if there is any evidence of drugs or poisoning. There are some needle marks on her right and left arms, so she was a user, but my initial judgement is we won’t find anything in that arena responsible for her death. I believe she died of hypothermia.’

  ‘Exposure?’

  ‘Not in the sense of being outside. The freezing I talked about a moment ago? That was what killed her.’

  ‘She was frozen to death?’

  ‘I can’t say the manner of her death will bring any comfort to the family, but there are worse ways to go.’

  ‘But deep frozen...’

  ‘Yes, she would have been shut in a freezer. Alive. If you remember at the scene I showed you the lividity in the buttocks and thighs and concluded she had been in a sitting position.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Savage sometimes got claustrophobic in an aeroplane or if she was wedged under her sports car fixing something, but being shut in a small box and left to die was a horror of a different order of magnitude.

  ‘I am not finished yet, I’m afraid.’

  She had hoped they were nearing the end, but Nesbit looked so pleased with himself she didn’t voice her feelings.

  ‘A few more interesting points. The last of which I don’t think you are going to like.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘First, I found a few black hairs, obviously not from the girl. They’ve gone for analysis. Second, the stomach and intestine contents are of interest. The girl liked fruit.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Here.’ Nesbit went to the bench again. Next to the jar containing Kelly’s brain was a smaller container. ‘Apples, pears, bananas, apricots, grapes. The girl ate nothing else for at least a couple of days before her death.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I am not saying anything, Charlotte. Merely pointing out the facts.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Nesbit paused and sighed. ‘This is the bit I don’t think that you are going to like.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Now look at this.’ Nesbit took a fresh pair of forceps and pointed down between the girl’s thighs. He teased her pubic hairs apart. ‘There!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Labia majora. Can you spot the marks?’ He pointed with his forceps and now Savage could see some little pin pricks in the skin, a row on each side.

  ‘She was sewn up. Rather crudely I should say. I took some photos before I removed the thread and you will note the stitches are all different sizes, not a skilful job at all.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Savage muttered under her breath. ‘That’s pretty sick.’

  ‘Disturbing, certainly. As to whether the person who did this is sick, well, psychology is not my field of expertise.’

  ‘It’s not mine either, but let’s agree it is not something you or I would consider doing.’

  ‘No, probably not.’ Nesbit smiled before continuing. ‘There is also evidence of sexual activity, lubricant, and a large quantity of semen.’

  ‘More than one man?’

  ‘We will know after the lab have done their bit. She had intercourse multiple times though.’

  ‘Did the sex happen while she was alive or after she was dead?’

  ‘I can’t tell, although she was sewn up after she was dead.’

  ‘Well, I’m not surprised, I mean, we–’

  ‘Oh, there’s more I am afraid, Charlotte.’ Nesbit went over to a lab bench and picked up a polygrip bag. ‘I discovered this rolled up and inserted vaginally into the girl, after she was unconscious I would say. It was pushed up deep in the canal, possibly by the man’s penis.’

  Savage moved closer to see what he had in his hand and Nesbit gave her the bag. It contained a piece of curled up paper. The outside was plain white and on the inside was a picture, but the ink had run forming a whirl of colour similar to a toddler’s drawing.

  ‘Yes, I couldn’t tell what it was at first either. Gently flatten the paper and you’ll understand.’

  Savage did so and a chill spread from her stomach, seeping up through her chest and then running down her arms to her fingertips. Although the ink had discoloured the paper she could now make out an image. Her fingers began to tingle and a dizzy sensation washed over her.

  ‘Jesus Christ! It’s–’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Nesbit spoke with a soft tone and took the bag from her shaking hand. ‘I’ve already had a few copies made so you can take one with you when you go.’

  Nesbit’s voice disappeared behind a rumble and her ears filled with a noise like the sound the winter storm waves made when they crashed onto the beach below her house and turned the pebbles over and over on themselves. It w
as a roaring, hissing, grinding sound of pure power, of chaotic elemental forces trying to tear at the foundations of the earth and destroy the fragile fabric of life. Not a one-off assault that would destroy it in a day, but an ongoing war of attrition persisting over years and decades and centuries. Slowly, but oh-so-surely it succeeded. Every person who ever breathed turned into someone else’s memories, those memories into footnotes in a history book, the book itself into a crumbling artefact whose own decay told the whole story of human existence.

  ‘Charlotte?’ Nesbit handed her the autopsy papers and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. ‘I know this doesn’t seem to make any sense right now, but you’ll get him, I’m sure you will.’

  Savage nodded an acceptance to Nesbit, muttered some words of thanks and turned and walked out of the lab, up the stairs and through the maze of corridors. She wandered, lost in her thoughts, everything else a blur: figures in long, white coats, nurses in blue uniforms, patients grey with despair, colour in a black and white world. Birth and illness and death. The story started here and for most the end came here too. For some, like Kelly, it ended on a slab of cold stainless steel with your organs in a jar, bodily fluids flushed down the drain and your name in a headline in a newspaper.

  And then Savage thought of Clarissa, her daughter. A picnic on Dartmoor by a roadside stream and the twins playing on their bikes. The sound of a car coming fast, the ding-ding of the little bell on Clarissa’s bike and the nauseating crunch of the smash. Hit and run. Ambulance. Hospital. Her daughter’s blank face white, framed with the vivid, contrasting red of her hair, Savage’s hair. And Savage noticing Clarissa’s eyes, lids taped shut. In some odd way that had hurt the most, realising Clarissa would never see her again, never have the comfort of knowing her mother was at her bedside. But the doctors said even if her eyes had been open she wouldn’t have recognised anyone. She was gone, only the machines keeping her alive. Then it was decision time. The most difficult of Savage’s life. Once made, electrodes had been detached, tubes pulled out, a last rasp of air escaping from Clarissa’s lungs. The words from the nurse as delicate as an angel’s whisper.