by Bill Kitson
He disconnected before Clara could indulge in any sarcastic comments.
They were strolling along the river-bank hand in hand, pausing regularly to exchange kisses that grew more intense, more passionate with each one. The evening was warm. The sun had been shining all day. Now it was getting towards sunset, but the rays still shone through the tall trees, dappling the grass. It formed the perfect backdrop for what he’d planned. He was almost eighteen. She was a couple of years younger. He was fairly sure she was over the age of consent. Reasonably sure she was still a virgin. Neither fact worried him too much. He hoped to change the latter within the next couple of hours. Not that he thought of her in those terms. Well, not completely. She meant more to him than that alone. Much more than the other girls he’d been with.
They’d almost reached the place he had in mind, a clearing in the woods. There they’d be able to settle down in some comfort and complete privacy. His thoughts were rudely interrupted by a tug on his hand as she stumbled. She twisted to see what had tripped her. He too glanced down. In a split second, all passion fled. Horror replaced lust. Then she screamed. He pulled her close, shielding her trembling body with his arms. Shielding her from what lay behind them. Unaware that he too was trembling. That he was also on the verge of screaming.
They looked at one another briefly. Then he grabbed her hand, and without a word they began to run. In blind panic, they stumbled over tree roots and tussocks of grass. Oblivious to everything except their mutual, burning desire: desire to escape. To put as much distance as they could from what they’d seen: and to do it as fast as possible.
It was nearly dusk when Clara pulled up. As Nash was fastening his seatbelt, she asked, ‘Still friends?’
‘How do you mean?’ Nash was defensive, suspicious.
‘It’s not every bloke who takes kindly to someone who’s been shagging his sister. Italians take a particularly dim view of that, I’m told. Aren’t you afraid of the Cosa Nostra?’
‘Gino’s perfectly aware of the relationship. He was sympathetic because Leonie’s gone to New York. Anyway, what’s happened?’
‘Couple of teenagers found a body near a clearing in Helm Woods.’
‘What were they doing there?’
‘Dunno, haven’t spoken to them yet. From what the uniform who rang me said, I’d guess they were courting.’
Nash frowned. ‘Clara, how come whenever anybody else does it, you refer to it as courting? When you’re talking about me, it’s always shagging. Where’s the difference?’
Clara repressed a smile. ‘The difference is, you rarely go courting. You’re always too busy shagging.’
‘What do we know about the body?’
‘Just that. That it’s a body. The kids were so scared they ran all the way back to Helmsdale nick. Both of them had mobiles in their pockets. Neither of them thought to use them.’
‘Kids today- it’s surprising they didn’t take photos and post them on YouTube. Man or woman?’
‘No idea. Uniform sent a solitary PC with the boy, for him to show him the spot. He radioed confirmation in. They called me, I called you. Oh, I called Mexican Pete as well. He was sarcastic.’
‘He would be. He’s either making snide remarks about me or trying to make a pass at you. You must be losing your charm.’
‘You know what, Mike, you’re really gallant sometimes. How do you get to be such a smoothie?’
‘Must be all the shagging.’
The car park appeared full when they pulled in. Nash recognized one of the cars. ‘Mexican Pete’s here before us.’
A bored-looking constable hovered at the entrance to the woods. He nodded to the detectives. ‘Follow the path,’ he told them. ‘Where it splits, follow the sign for Kirk Bolton. Have you got a torch?’
Mironova held up her hand. The beam from her torch lit the path more than adequately. As they approached the site, a series of floodlights was switched on. ‘Somebody’s been doing some thinking,’ Nash approved. ‘Bringing a generator with them,’ he added in answer to Mironova’s querying glance.
They ducked under the incident tape and approached a group of officers who were standing about. Nash recognized the sergeant in charge. ‘Jack Binns,’ he pointed out to Clara. ‘That explains the generator. Evening, Jack.’
Binns looked across. ‘Evening, Mike, Clara.’
‘What’s matter, Jack, life in Netherdale too quiet? After a slice of Helmsdale action?’
‘They call it the short straw. You know how it is. Anything happens out of hours, there’s never enough personnel in Helmsdale to handle an incident, so they have to pull in reinforcements.’ He paused and added slyly, ‘Despite what Creepy and DCC King think.’
Nash winced and changed the subject. ‘What have we got?’
‘Unidentified male, late forties I’d estimate. Wound to the throat, looks like it was slit; blood everywhere. Body was found by a young couple. Reckon they were going shagging, until she tripped over the corpse. That cooled their ardour.’
‘Tut-tut, Jack. You mustn’t refer to it as shagging. It’s only shagging when I do it. Anyone else; it’s courting.’
‘Well, his plans to give her a good courting, took a bit of a blow.’
‘I’ll speak to him later. Let’s see what Mexican Pete has to tell us.’ Nash paused, ‘When you say unidentified, does that mean you’ve not checked the body?’
Binns shook his head. ‘More than my life’s worth. Daren’t even fart near a body until forensics have finished.’
‘That must be a problem for you,’ Nash agreed.
Ramirez looked up as they approached. ‘I wondered how long it would be before you appeared,’ he told Nash. ‘What kept you? You’re usually first on the scene, sniffing around like a half-starved vulture. You must be losing your touch. It’s certainly not for lack of practice.’
‘Maybe I’m getting old,’ Nash commented. ‘What can you tell us?’
‘Male, mid to late forties. Overweight and out of condition. Sedentary job at a guess, certainly not a manual worker. Dead twenty-four to thirty-six hours. I’ll tell you more when I’ve done the calculations.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘Asphyxiation caused by strangulation. Not manual, though. I’ll need to examine the corpse more closely.’
‘What about the blood?’ Nash gestured to the grass surrounding the victim’s head that was stained dark. Clara followed his gaze. She could see movement. Hundreds of ants were scurrying to and fro in the patch of dried blood. The first of a queue of diners, waiting to feast on the body. She shuddered and turned away. ‘Binns reckoned he’d been knifed?’
‘Sergeant Binns should come on one of my pathology courses. There’s no single entry point as you’d find from a knife wound. At a guess I’d say he was garrotted. But I’ll know better after I’ve examined the corpse under a decent light.’
‘Any ID?’
‘I’ve checked the pockets I can reach – nothing in them. The others will have to wait until the forensic work’s been done.’
Nash studied the body. ‘Pity he’s laid face down. No chance of recognition. Thanks, Professor. I’ll keep in touch.’
‘I feared you’d say that,’ Ramirez mocked him. ‘You could always get Mironova to do the liaison work.’
‘I would do,’ Nash told him gravely, ‘but she gets overcome by your hot-blooded Latin ardour and she’s frightened she’d betray her latent passion.’
Nash signalled to Mironova to follow him and detailed Binns to ensure the frightened teenager was taken back to Helmsdale station. They paused for a quick word with him. ‘Sergeant Mironova will take statements from you and your girlfriend there.’ Nash smiled and added, ‘After that you can go home. This evening’s been a bit of an ordeal for you. Not quite what you were hoping for.’ The youngster blushed.
‘We can’t do much more here,’ Nash told Binns, ‘not until daylight anyway. Leave somebody to make sure the site’s secure. In the morning we’ll organize a f
ingertip search of the area. By then we might have a clue as to the weapon.’
When they reached the car park, Nash paused. ‘What is it, Mike?’ Clara knew from experience his thoughts were elsewhere.
‘How did he get here?’
‘The dead man?’
Nash nodded. ‘Mexican Pete said he wasn’t the type to take much exercise. Besides which he wasn’t dressed for walking. His shoes were certainly unsuitable. That means he was given a lift, or there’s a vehicle parked somewhere.’
‘And that would give us his identity.’
‘If he had a vehicle, why isn’t it here?’ Nash gestured round the car park. ‘This place rarely gets crowded except at weekends. Why not use the car park?’
‘Maybe he did get a lift, which would mean he knew his killer.’
Nash sighed. ‘We don’t have sufficient facts to work with. All we can do is speculate. We’ll have to leave it until morning. I’ll let Tom know what’s happened, you get those statements done. We’ll make a start as soon as it gets light. I’ll ask Tom for extra bodies to help with the area search.’ He paused and thought for a moment. ‘On second thoughts, it would be a waste both of us being tied up supervising. I’ll come here; you stay in the office and try to get some more info out of Mexican Pete. Do me a favour, though. On your way in tomorrow, call and get me a coffee from Ready Breaks in the Market Place. Drop it off as you’re passing.’
‘I thought you didn’t like their coffee. Last one you had you complained it was too bitter.’
‘Yes, I reckon they got the recipe from you. Put an extra sugar in it and give it a good stir. I’ll try and put up with it.’
Chapter fifteen
Nash marshalled the officers for the search. They’d been working almost an hour when Mironova arrived. ‘How are they getting on?’ She gestured to the team.
‘A collection of sweet wrappers and assorted junk. It’s all been bagged but I doubt it’ll throw up anything useful.’
‘Okay, I’ll chase up the perverted pathologist.’
‘Making a pass at you isn’t perverted. It shows good taste.’
‘I call it perverted when somebody makes a pass at you whilst they’re holding a human thigh bone in one hand.’
Nash smiled. ‘You might have a point. When did that happen?’
‘When I was on the forensics refresher course.’
Nash shook his head and laughed. ‘I’d like you to pop back at lunchtime with fresh supplies for the troops.’ Nash scrabbled in his pocket. ‘I’ve got a list of what everyone wants.’ He pulled out a piece of paper. ‘Add a sandwich for me, and more coffee, please.’
The morning’s search brought nothing, and Nash was beginning to think there would be little point continuing through the afternoon. Mironova returned shortly before 1 p.m. bearing two large carriers. Nash called a halt and the officers crowded round to collect their food. As Nash ate his sandwich, Clara relayed her conversation with Ramirez. ‘Mexican Pete said there was nothing in the victim’s pockets. I asked him about the weapon. He’s confirmed the man was garrotted. He suggests the weapon was some form of thin wire. Thin and flexible, but extremely strong.’
‘Piano wire,’ Nash suggested.
‘What made you think of that?’
‘I don’t rightly know. Maybe the fact I’ve just reread the file on the Stacey Fletcher murder. Remember, she was garrotted with piano wire. The difference is the wire was left by her body. This time the killer took the weapon with him. Or so we believe. Unless our men find something.’
‘Trying to find a short length of fine wire in these woods?’ Mironova gestured at the high banks of bramble and briar. ‘A needle in a haystack would be easier.’
‘Maybe, but if the wire’s stained with the victim’s blood we might have a chance. I’ll get the dogs in. See if they can find anything. But that’ll have to wait until the forensics boys are finished.’
Mironova was about to depart when a constable came panting towards them, his face pink with exertion. He looked too young to be in uniform. ‘What’s matter?’ Nash asked, checking himself from adding ‘son’.
‘I’ve found a car, sir.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘It was parked along a farm track at the edge of the wood. I saw it through a gap in the trees.’
‘You’d better show us.’ Nash gestured to Mironova.
‘I think it’s been here a while,’ the constable offered as they walked along the track.
‘What makes you say that?’ The question was delivered in a mildly enquiring tone.
‘There are pine needles all over the roof,’ the constable stammered nervously.
‘It’s been a bit breezy. Couldn’t they have dropped off this morning?’
‘I don’t think so. There’s quite a lot. Also, I felt the bonnet and the radiator grille. They’re both cold.’
‘That’s observant,’ Nash approved.
They surveyed the vehicle. The car would have been all but invisible from the road. Was that deliberate? Had the owner parked here to avoid detection? Was it the killer’s car, or the victim’s? Perhaps a stolen car that had been dumped? Or was there a perfectly innocent explanation? Nash couldn’t think of one. ‘Check the number plate with DVLA,’ he told Clara.
She had the answer within five minutes. ‘The car’s registered to a John Thomas Tucker, a local man.’ She glanced at Nash; saw the surprise on his face. ‘You know him?’
‘Yes, and so do you.’ Nash waited for comprehension to dawn. ‘JT Tucker?’ he prompted. ‘Reporter for the Netherdale Gazette.’
‘Good Lord, yes. What’s his car doing here?’
‘At a guess I’d say Tucker’s a prime candidate for our victim. Unfortunately, he was laid face down. If I’d got a look at him, I’d have identified him. Get onto our randy pathologist. Ask him to send a picture message of the victim’s face.’
They waited quarter of an hour for it to come through. Nash needed only one glance. ‘That’s Tucker,’ he confirmed.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I saw him last Sunday, when I collected Vickers. He was trying to get an interview. Vickers told him he’d talk to him once he got back to Helmsdale.’
Clara thought for a moment. ‘Mexican Pete said Tucker had been dead twenty-four to thirty-six hours. That would make time of death sometime on Tuesday. Wasn’t that when Vickers went walkabout?’
Nash nodded.
‘And,’ Clara continued, ‘you said when Vickers returned he was dishevelled and his clothing was stained and muddy. Just like you’d be if you’d been in woodland like this. What were the stains, blood? Tucker was killed the same way as Stacey Fletcher. If we find the weapon it might even prove to be piano wire, just the same as Stacey’s. Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘It may be. I hope it is coincidence. But it’s certainly worth asking Vickers for a detailed explanation of his movements on Tuesday. It won’t do any harm to have forensics check the clothing he was wearing either.’
‘Let’s just hope Vickers isn’t too domesticated. It won’t help if he stuck them straight into the washing machine.’
Nash winced. ‘Don’t even think about it. In fact...’ Nash was about to continue, but tailed off into silence. Clara glanced at her boss. He was wearing the faraway expression she knew well: ‘thinking, do not disturb’. She waited patiently.
Nash looked round. ‘Follow me,’ he told Clara. ‘You stay here,’ he instructed the constable. As they walked back along the path leading to the clearing he said, ‘I should have realized earlier.’ They emerged from the shadow of the trees, blinking for a second in the sunshine. ‘Tell me what you see.’
Clara frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Doesn’t anything strike you about this place?’
She looked again. ‘Sorry, Mike. What am I supposed to be looking for?’
‘Doesn’t this bit of woodland seem familiar? Doesn’t it remind you of anything?’
She
obviously hadn’t made the connection. ‘Think back to the photos in the Stacey Fletcher file. This is the same place. Add fifteen years’ growth to the trees but it’s definitely where the girl was murdered.’
‘Good God, Mike! That means...’
‘It means we’re going to have to stretch coincidence a long way. Two murders in the same spot, using possibly identical weapons and both victims connected to Gary Vickers. A man who hasn’t got an alibi for either crime. That might be one coincidence too many. But let’s not jump the gun.’
‘We ought to question Vickers straightaway.’
‘Hold your horses. We’ll get round to him in a while. Remember I’ve got grave doubts about his conviction for Stacey Fletcher’s murder anyway.’
‘So if Vickers didn’t kill Stacey?’
‘Then it’s highly unlikely that he killed Tucker.’
‘So what do we do now?’
‘I want to look inside that car.’ They retraced their steps to the edge of the wood. ‘Do we have anyone in the search party who’ll be able to get in it easily?’
The young constable was listening. ‘There’s one of the guys from traffic. He’s a dab hand at that sort of thing.’ They looked at him enquiringly. He blushed slightly. ‘He helped me when I’d locked myself out of my car.’
‘I’d better not ask where he acquired that know-how. Fetch him, will you.’ Nash watched the officer walk back along the track. ‘Bright young man,’ he observed quietly. ‘Might be worth making a note of his name.’
Clara nodded agreement. ‘Will it be in order to search the car? Wouldn’t we be better waiting on the SOCOs to finish with it?’
‘I’ll take the risk. From what I can see there’s not much danger of contaminating evidence.’
Mironova peered through the car window. The interior was a mess. Used sandwich cartons, empty crisp packets and chocolate wrappers jostled against water and Coke bottles and old copies of newspapers. ‘I guess you’re right. He’d hardly win awards for tidiness. What are we looking for?’
Nash shrugged. ‘Anything relevant.’
The constable returned with another officer who was carrying what looked like a tyre lever. ‘Can you open the driver’s door?’ Nash asked.
