by Mari Hannah
Su nodded.
Deep in Kate’s memory something stirred. ‘Was Tim your tutor in Edinburgh?’
‘Taught me everything I know – and some. When a position came up here, he called me, asked if I’d consider coming home to work for him.’
‘Headhunted? I’m impressed.’
‘I said yes immediately. My husband was ready for a new challenge too, so we jumped at the chance.’
‘He’s a Brit?’
‘Canadian. Our paths crossed in Bamburgh. He was heading to Scotland. I was going the other way. My parents live on the estuary at Alnmouth. He claims he fell in love with me. I reckon it was Northumberland that stole his heart. He’s longed for a house on that coastline ever since.’
‘And now you have one?’
‘We’re rooming with my folks at the moment. Never ideal, but we’re waiting for the right property to come onto the market.’
Kate pulled a face. ‘Easier said than done. Once people buy up there, they stay put until the hearse arrives.’
‘As I am finding out.’
Kate’s eyes slid off the medic to the dead boy on the examination table. His body was well developed, more muscular than it seemed when clothed. The kit he was wearing had been carefully removed before her arrival and laid out on a nearby table for recording purposes next to the other clothing found at the scene. Later, each item would be bagged individually and sent for forensic examination.
‘He took quite a beating,’ Su said.
‘Was he healthy, apart from these fresh injuries?’
‘Physically he was in great shape.’ She pointed at Elliott’s head. ‘I’m curious about these marks beneath his bottom lip.’
Kate put on her specs. ‘What am I focusing on exactly?’
‘You probably won’t see them from there. Grab some kit and gloves from the dispenser and take a closer look.’
Kate took off her coat, tied her hair up and put on a paper suit and gloves before approaching the table. Suspended from the ceiling was a large magnifying glass. Su Morrissey pulled it towards her, looked through it and stepped aside, enabling Kate to take her place. The lens was brilliant. Through it, she was able to see instantly what the surgeon was getting at: a row of perfect circular marks at the top of the victim’s chin, below an ugly swollen lip.
‘Knuckle duster?’ It was a guess.
‘Possibly. Whatever it was, it was driven home with maximum effort to cause this amount of damage. He stinks of liniment. Can you throw any light on that?’
‘He’d been wrestling shortly before he died.’
‘I did wonder. The white footless tights were a bit of a giveaway, but it doesn’t pay to assume anything.’
‘Multiple bouts too, I’m afraid. That probably means you’ll find a glut of DNA on his body, from his opponents as well as the offenders who assaulted him, assuming they aren’t one and the same.’
‘Hmm . . .’
Kate raised her head. ‘Problem?’
‘Wrestling explains the marks on his back, but there are none of the defensive wounds to his arms, wrists or hands that I’d expect to see if he’d been in a street fight. I find that odd when he could obviously handle himself, don’t you?’
‘Maybe the injury to his head was the first blow.’
‘That is the obvious conclusion to draw. It wasn’t a tap, that’s for sure. It was violent enough to produce an acute subdural haematoma.’
‘Catastrophic?’
‘Haemorrhaging of the eyes points to strangulation. I need more time before I can offer a conclusive cause of death. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to confer with Tim. This is my first case here and I’m not rushing it.’
‘I understand.’ Kate meant it: many cases hinged on such evidence. ‘You’re the expert,’ she said. ‘The one who has to stand in court and justify an opinion to a High Court Judge. For me, dead is dead, Su. If the cause is murder, that’s all I need to know.’
‘What I can do is narrow down the time for you. He died some time between seven and nine p.m. I’m afraid that’s as close as I can get without a magic wand.’
Not long after the fight but after dark, Kate thought. ‘Thanks for your help – and welcome home. Keep in touch on cause of death – and give my regards to Tim and his family if you see them.’ Ripping off her protective suit, the DCI dumped it in the bin and headed out.
17
Chris Collins’ house was an end-of-terrace cottage on a quiet road off the busy main route through the village of Otterburn. Music was audible through the door when Beth arrived, a Kasabian track on full volume: ‘Where Did All the Love Go’. When there was no response from pressing the bell, she stood beneath his bedroom window and screamed his name at the top of her voice. When that didn’t draw him out, she texted him: I’m outside.
The music was cut, the window opened.
Chris’s head appeared through it. ‘What’s up?’
What’s up? ‘Let me in,’ she yelled.
On the way over there, she’d wondered if he’d heard the awful news. If she was reading him right – and that wasn’t always possible – he hadn’t got a clue. Her father’s words jumped into her head: You might have been tempted to get on that phone of yours. Beth felt angry that he viewed her as indiscreet and thought so little of her. She’d never have blabbed to her mates. Never. She was only telling Chris to warn him. Someone had to.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ she said. ‘Open the door!’
‘Let yourself in.’ He threw down the key.
Retrieving it from the lawn, Beth fumbled it into the lock and entered the house. Dumping her coat on the newel post, she climbed the stairs slowly, wondering how to break the news. Chris was sitting on his bed, a pair of Beats headphones around his neck, a birthday present from his adoring mum, bought with an unexpected injection of cash into her bank account – a winning premium bond she’d had for years.
He looked at her, a question in his eyes: What now?
There had been so much to cry about lately.
Beth choked on her words. ‘It’s Elliott,’ was all she managed.
His face dropped, eyes growing cold. He told her to give it a rest. They had argued about Elliott often. Chris had never been able to understand how close they were. He got riled every time he saw them together. Everyone knew it. How was that going to be viewed by the police?
Despite her best efforts to hold them in, her eyes filled with tears she was powerless to prevent. Pulling a tissue from her pocket, she dried her face and blew her nose. There was something of her dad in Chris. He’d been getting more and more argumentative in recent weeks, going off on one if she so much as mentioned Elliott’s name. But when he saw how distressed she was, an apology tripped off his tongue, as it always did. It lacked any real conviction.
‘Beth, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m just sick of him hanging around us. Every time we turn the corner, he’s there. It’s like we can’t get away from him. I feel invisible when he’s around. I know you’ve been friends for years, but we’ve got better things to talk about now, don’t we?’ He tried for a smile that didn’t come off.
And still Beth couldn’t get the words out.
‘Don’t cry.’ Chris was more angry than upset. ‘You know I hate to see you cry.’
‘He’s dead.’ There, she’d said it . . . finally. ‘Elliott is dead.’
‘Yeah, right!’ Chris dropped his head on one side, a grin replacing the guilt he was feeling for being such a prick over her friendship with Elliott. ‘For a minute there, you had me going—’
‘I’m not joking, Chris. I wish I was.’ More tears sprang from her eyes, making dark patches on her light blue shirt. She was suddenly outside of herself, watching from somewhere on the ceiling, another wave of nausea hitting her. She wanted to sit down, but where? The room was a dump, as usual. Clothing strewn all over the place: on the bed, hung over his computer screen, most of it on the floor. How he could live in such a mess was a mystery to her. She needed order and calm to func
tion. Even the smallest amount of visual chaos stressed her out.
‘Haven’t you seen the TV?’ she asked.
‘It’s broken, I told you.’
‘They found his body at Winter’s Gibbet.’
‘He topped himself?’
‘No – I don’t know. No one does. We have to go to the police.’
Her words hung in the air between them as the news began to sink in. Chris turned his eyes on the TV, an accusatory expression on his face, as if the dusty object had somehow let him down. Blood drained from his cheeks, turning his face the colour of the grey sheets on his rumpled bed. He didn’t move to comfort her. He just sat there while she stood in the doorway, exposed and alone in her grief.
When she could no longer bear to stand, she moved towards him, sweeping an armful of paraphernalia out of the way so she could make a space next to him. She put a hand on his arm. ‘We need to go now, Chris.’
He pulled away, twisting his body to face her, eyes filled with fear. ‘I’m not going to the police, I’ve done nowt wrong—’
‘I know, and I’ll tell them that.’ She didn’t want to rile him further but he had to be told. Somehow she overcame her cowardice and found the strength to say her piece. It took all she had to get the words out. ‘People saw us with Elliott in Elsdon. We can’t hang around waiting for a knock on the door. It’ll look like we have something to hide. Like you said, we’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. We can explain—’
‘I said no!’
‘Why not?’ Beth could see she wasn’t getting through. ‘Well, if you don’t call them, I will.’
‘No. You won’t—’
‘I have to! My dad’s a copper.’
‘And he’ll be looking for a scapegoat.’ His mouth was a thin hard line. He tried to reason with her. ‘Who do you think your dad will look at first, eh? You know what he’s like. He’ll end it, Beth. He’s been waiting for an excuse to break us up. You’ll be handing it to him with bells on. I’ll never see you again. That’s not what you want, is it?’
‘Of course not!’ She stopped weeping and took hold of his hand. ‘We’re not kids, Chris. My dad might try, but he knows deep down he can’t stop us seeing each other, any more than your mum can.’ Beth held his gaze. ‘Don’t try and deny it. She hates my guts—’
‘She’s not as bad as he is. He’s been trying to put you off me from the very beginning.’ His eyes grew cold, the nice Chris fading away, the not so nice Chris taking over again. ‘If you tell him what happened he’ll laugh his cock off. He’ll have us followed. He’s good at that. You said so yourself.’
‘I told you that in confidence! Don’t you ever repeat it!’
Chris backed off. ‘Look, I don’t want to fight.’
‘Me either.’ Beth squeezed his hand. ‘We have to stick together now. Our parents can’t order us around any more. If they do, we can leave. We can go to London or somewhere in the sticks where no one will find us. Anywhere you want.’
His eyes lit up. ‘Let’s go now.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘My mum needs me. You know I can’t leave now. Besides, running away is the worse thing we can do. We have to come clean, tell the police or my dad what happened. Tell them about Gardner and the others—’
‘Oh yeah, that’ll work.’
‘What other choice do we have?’
‘Don’t push me. I can’t think straight if you push me.’ He rubbed a thin film of sweat from his forehead. One knee was moving up and down nervously. He was avoiding a decision Beth knew he’d have to make, sooner or later. She could understand him not trusting her dad but didn’t want to think too hard about why he didn’t trust the police in general. He might tell her something she didn’t want to hear.
‘Go home,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you later. I need time to get my head around this.’
‘We haven’t got time,’ she pleaded. ‘I can’t tell you why, but . . .’ She paused mid-sentence, deciding not to bring her father into it again. It would only aggravate Chris further. He’d dig his heels in and refuse to budge. There was no scenario worse than seeing the two significant males in her life in a rage.
‘Chris, listen to me.’ She took hold of his hand again in the hope that he’d see sense. This time he didn’t pull away. ‘I won’t lie. We could be in serious trouble. We could, but I’m begging you to do the right thing. We have no other choice.’
‘I can’t go to the law—’
‘They’ll understand. I’ll go with you.’
Downstairs, a door slammed shut. Beth stood up, panic rising in her chest as his mother shouted ‘I’m home!’ up the stairs. She was the last person in the world Beth wanted to see. Then it all went silent. Beth imagined her on the floor below, eyes fixed on the newel post, anger mounting when she saw Beth’s coat. She’d be jumping to conclusions – the wrong ones – accusing them of impropriety before she knew the facts. The condemnation didn’t take long to arrive.
‘Chris, have you got Beth up there?’
‘Please,’ Beth begged. ‘We have to go.’
‘I said no.’
‘Hello!’ His mum thundered up the stairs. ‘Chris? You in?’
Beth spat her words out, another rush of courage from somewhere deep inside. ‘You’re gutless, you know that?’
‘You don’t understand—’
‘Yeah, I think I do.’
Chris’s mum entered the room, stopping dead when she saw that they weren’t screwing each other’s brains out. Her expression was a mixture of surprise and indignation. Beth pushed past her and ran down the stairs, slamming the front door behind her. Clear of the house, she texted Chris:
You have an hour. If you don’t get in touch, I’ll make your decision for you.
18
On the way out of the city morgue, Kate was still thinking about the circular marks on the victim’s face when a second text from Fiona Fielding arrived: Speak to me, Kate. I’m lonely. X. The DCI smiled. The earlier message had announced that Fiona was in town: Fancy a meet? Grabbing a bite to eat or even a quick glass of wine? I’m rather hungry. ;)
‘If only that were possible,’ Kate whispered under her breath, a smile spreading over her face. In Fiona Fielding speak, ‘hungry’ had connotations that had nothing to do with food. It meant she wanted sex. This was a woman with a voracious appetite for pleasure and no hang-ups, a free spirit who knew how to enjoy life to the full with whoever she chose at any given moment.
Pocketing the phone as she walked round the corner, and still preoccupied with guilty thoughts of Fiona, Kate almost ran into DS Grant coming the other way. Atkins had sent him there to put pressure on the pathologist for cause of death. He’d luck out. Kate told him so. He didn’t argue, just did an about turn and fell in step, overtaking her as she paused to glance at her watch.
Almost ten.
Grant strode ahead to open the double doors leading to the corridor and stood back to let her pass. Once through the door, Kate stopped to wait for him. He looked worn out. Unsurprising. He’d done the work of two all day, taking none of the credit. She knew the answer to her next question before she’d even asked it.
‘Anyone still in the incident room when you left?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I was last out.’
‘That’s usually me.’ Her smile hid her anger that Atkins was long gone. ‘Listen, Colin, I know it’s late, but it would be nice to grab a moment with you if you have the time. I didn’t get the chance to thank you for your call earlier. To be perfectly honest, I’d like to pick your brains.’
‘Pick away.’
‘I’m hoping you can throw light on an issue that’s been bugging me all day. Fancy a jar before heading home? I assume that’s where you’re going?’
‘Home would be stretching it a bit.’
She didn’t pry. ‘You sure you I won’t be keeping you?’
‘I’m in the accommodation block at HQ.’
‘Oh, that’s grim.’
<
br /> Grant laughed. ‘It’s not a place I’m particularly fond of. I’m flat hunting, or should I say my wife is, via the Internet. She’s still in Essex. I hope she finds one soon. I’m no MasterChef. I’m eating out of cans and it’s doing me no good.’ He patted his midriff.
Kate ran her eyes over him. He looked too young to be in a serious relationship. ‘How long have you been married?’ she asked.
‘Six months.’
‘And before that?’
‘I lived with my mum.’ He pulled a face. ‘At twenty-six, I should probably know better.’
Kate smiled. ‘If my mum was alive, that’s exactly where I’d be.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He’d seen the sadness in her eyes.
She quickly changed the subject. ‘You like Italian food?’
‘Love it.’
‘Then come with me.’
Carluccio’s, on Grey Street in the city centre, was one of her favourite places to eat. They were in time for last orders. Grant looked like he could do with a beer and perhaps a whisky chaser to go with it. He opted for a half, something Hank would never do if a pint were available. They chatted about his decision to move north, Grant telling her that his wife was from the area and had never settled in the south. Now he’d seen more of what the region had to offer, her nostalgia surprised him less than it had before.
After a while, the conversation moved to the case; more specifically to Atkins and his failure to interview the victim’s parents, the very reason she’d waylaid him.
‘Did he give you any clue as to why he delegated such an important job?’ she asked. ‘Not that I think you’re incapable. Quite the opposite. It’s just not ideal. Parents of murder victims deserve to have an SIO giving them the death message and holding their hands.’
Grant hesitated a beat, a forkful of pasta poised mid-air.
He was as wary of her as she was of him. Kate hoped he wasn’t another Matthew Willis, a man who needed to sink a few pints before he’d open up. Not that she blamed the DS for being cagey; loose talk in their profession often had calamitous results.
She waited patiently, her eyes never leaving his. He reminded her of Hank as a young detective; a deep thinker, an officer with professional integrity. He obviously loved his job and took it very seriously. She could see that he was torn between loyalty to his immediate boss and doing the job as they both knew it should be done.
