by M A Comley
After the meeting, Lorne grabbed a coffee from the vending machine en route to taking refuge in her office.
“Make mine a coffee, milk, two sugars,” Pete said, creeping up behind her.
“Sugar is bad for the waistline, Pete. I’m cutting you back to one sugar, no arguments.” Placing the coins in the slot, she hit the white coffee button, bent down to retrieve the steaming cup and handed it to her disgruntled partner.
He followed her to her office. “Sorry, boss. I’m having trouble working somethin’ out.”
“What’s that, chunky?”
“How is cutting my sugar intake down gonna benefit my waistline, when you’ve already thrust a full-English down my neck this morning?”
“That was purely medicinal. It’s a well-known fact a greasy fry-up is the best cure for a hangover,” she said, smirking.
“One rule for one, and one for another. I ain’t ever gonna win an argument with you, am I?”
“Nope. I’ve only got your best interests at heart.”
After their drink, Pete helped Lorne with some paperwork. An hour later, a knock on the door disturbed them.
Tracy poked her head in. “I’ve got the constable outside who you wanted to see, ma’am.”
“What’s his name?” Lorne mouthed to the younger woman.
“P.C. Bulmer, ma’am,” Tracy whispered back.
“Show him in, Tracy, and good work by the way.” Lorne smiled as Tracy thrust the door open wide and stood back to let the young constable past her.
“Ma’am. You wanted to see me?” The constable, in his early twenties, looked worried.
“Indeed I did. I’d invite you to sit down, but I’m afraid my partner here’s got the only available seat.”
“That’s okay, ma’am, I prefer to stand.”
“P.C. Bulmer, how long have you been with the force?”
The young officer proudly thrust his shoulders back and chest out. “I’m just beginning my second year, ma’am.”
“Are you enjoying your role as a police constable?”
“Why yes, ma’am, most definitely, ma’am.” He appeared more relaxed.
“I have a few hypothetical scenarios to put to you, if you don’t mind. It’ll give me an insight into the type of training you’ve been getting.”
“Fire away, ma’am.”
“You’re on the beat, in the middle of town, at one o’clock in the morning. Suddenly you see a rowdy group of youngsters attacking innocent bystanders, what would you do?”
“I’d call for backup via the walkie-talkie, ma’am. Arrange for a paddy wagon to come and aid me at the scene. If I was by myself, I wouldn’t approach the crowd until backup arrived. But if I was with a colleague, then I would try and calm things down the best I could.” He brimmed with confidence.
“Excellent, excellent, Bulmer. Okay, what would you do if you saw a young lady being sexually assaulted and her attacker took off as soon as he spotted you?”
“Ah, now that’s a bit more difficult. Obviously the girl would need urgent attention and shouldn’t be left alone. On the other hand, if her attacker is close by, should I leave her and chase after him?”
He pondered for a moment before Lorne urged him for an answer. “So?”
“Right, I’d call for immediate backup, giving them details of where to find the girl, ask the girl if she was okay and run after the assailant straight away. Once I caught him, I’d return to the scene and wait for assistance.”
Lorne and Pete glanced at each other but showed no emotion. Then Pete said, “So the girl’s lying there, bleeding, feeling ashamed and demoralised, and you, first of all, leave her alone, vulnerable to another attack. Then, once you’ve caught the suspect, you bring him back—presumably cuffed, you forgot to mention that part—and hold him there in the same vicinity as his victim until you receive backup. Which could take anything up to twenty minutes to arrive.”
“Oh, I see what you mean. Maybe I would just stay with the victim and call for backup, wait for them to arrive before giving chase.” Bulmer nodded, approving his revised answer.
“So, when does the ambulance arrive at the scene to aid the girl?” Lorne asked mischievously.
“I suppose I forgot that part.” Bulmer coloured up with embarrassment.
“The trouble with policing, Bulmer, is that what we do at the scene is crucial. We don’t get second chances. Last scenario, a burglary has been committed, the window is broken, and there is a pool of blood on the floor. What would be your initial course of action?”
“I’d ensure nothing was moved, question the proprietor about what they thought had been taken. Let the station know what was going on, and possibly call in the forensic team.”
“Good. Why do we call forensics in? What can they do that we can’t?”
“Well, they can analyse the blood for DNA and dust everywhere for fingerprints to help ascertain who the burglar might have been. If he or she has a previous record, their fingerprints would be on the register.” Bulmer smiled again.
“Supposing there is blood at the scene but no proof that a window has been broken, what then?”
“I don’t understand, ma’am.”
“No shit, Sherlock. Does the scenario sound familiar at all to you, Bulmer?” Pete piped up, bored.
“Should it?” Bulmer forgot the protocol when speaking to a superior officer.
“’Should it, sir,’ to you, sonny!” Pete corrected the bemused constable.
“Sorry. Should it, sir?”
“Let’s cast our minds back to Saturday, 16th September, shall we?” Lorne watched the constable frown as he searched his mind. “Mr. Wilkinson placed a 999 call to say that his allotment shed had been broken into.”
“Yes, ma’am. I remember the case.”
“There was blood at the scene. Had a window been broken?”
The penny finally dropped. “No, ma’am. As far as I can remember, the window wasn’t broken.”
“So where the hell did the blood come from? I presume you asked Mr. Wilkinson if it belonged to him?”
The constable’s hand nervously swept over his face and then ran through his hair. “I neglected to ask, ma’am.”
“No, you simply logged it as a regular burglary and told the old man to clean it up. It takes professionals like DS Childs and myself to come along and solve your crimes for you. I’m reporting you to your superior officer, and I’ll be recommending you recap your basic training before being let loose on the general public again.”
“I’m truly sorry, ma’am.”
“That may be, but for your information, Bulmer, we suspect the allotment shed was used to store the body that was discovered in the forest a few days ago. Now get out of my bloody sight.”
“Yes, ma’am…Thank you, ma’am. Once again, I’m very sorry, ma’am.”
“Get this cretin out of here, Pete.”
“Come on, son. Let’s go.” He led the dejected constable out of the room.
Lorne picked up a file lying in front of her and smashed it back down on her desk, venting her anger. Incompetence on the job pissed her off. She couldn’t believe Bulmer had been let out unsupervised on the streets. What the hell was going on? She made a note on her pad to bring it to the chief’s attention—she didn’t have time to chase up crap like that.
Her dad would have a field day when she told him of Bulmer’s incompetence. As an ex-copper, it infuriated him when he heard about police cock-ups through the media. The unfortunate Soham murders were a prime example. He knew as soon as Ian Huntley spoke to ITV news that he was the murderer. He even rang a few of his old colleagues who were still on the force to tell them, but no one cared enough to chase it up. In the old days, her father had told her, a lot of crimes were solved by a copper’s nose. True coppers could smell out a criminal at a hundred yards. What had changed since her father’s time on the force? Why are coppers nowadays so incompetent? Was too much emphasis being put on employing university graduates with little or
no common sense, or was it a case of the criminals getting smarter?
It was nearing nine when she rang Arnaud to see if Kim Charlton’s body was ready for post-mortem.
“I was about to ring you, Inspector. Will you come alone?”
His question momentarily floored her. She cleared her throat. “No, my partner will be attending the post-mortem with me.”
She had intended to send Pete home early, but Arnaud’s question changed her mind. She shuddered at the thought of being alone with Arnaud in his creepy workplace.
“I’ll have his seat waiting for him, nearest the door as usual,” he said and laughed.
Feeling uncomfortable, Lorne ended the conversation promptly, telling him they’d be with him in half an hour.
She tidied her desk, picked up her car keys, and dismissed the team for the night. Pete pushed through the swing doors at the top of the stairs and walked towards her.
“Fancy going on a little trip?”
“Not if it means spending time with a stiff,” Pete groaned as his stomach rumbled.
“We’ll pick up some chips on the way.”
“You’re joking, right? There’s no way I could handle a post-mortem after stuffing my face. I’d rather starve.”
“So be it. Don’t blame me if you pass out in there. The doc would love that.”
“You’re always on about my weight anyway. Maybe I’ll be a few pounds lighter in the morning.”
“Whatever,” Lorne shouted back over her shoulder as they took the stairs down to the car.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
They arrived at the mortuary suited and booted.
“Ah, Inspector. Come. Stand beside me.” He pointed to the floor, barely a foot away from him.
Pete remained by the door in his usual place. Lorne suspected he’d forgotten his hunger the minute he’d laid eyes on the dead body lying on the table.
Lorne relaxed as the post-mortem got underway and Arnaud focused on cutting up Kim Charlton’s body.
Before he made the Y-incision, the pathologist pointed out all visible injuries the girl had suffered: At least ten bite marks were visible on her neck, thighs, and breasts. The right nipple was missing and had not been recovered at the scene. Had the killer kept it as a trophy? Her face was bruised and bloody after receiving ten to twelve blows from a blunt object. Her jaw was broken, and her right cheekbone was smashed to pieces.
As Arnaud removed the garden fork from the victim’s vagina, he described her appalling wounds into the recorder alongside him: “The deceased’s vaginal vault shows signs of penetration caused by a round-ended cylindrical object—the garden fork handle—and was inserted with a moderate degree of force. The lack of visible bruising in relation to the injury suggests that it happened after death.”
The doctor shook his head in disbelief, then continued, “There is a second vaginal injury, consisting of a red abrasion on the vaginal vault. This injury was caused by the insertion of a different hard object. The latter injury looks as though it occurred during forceful intercourse.”
He raised his gaze to Lorne before saying, “The bruising on both arms and hands are typical defence wounds. Here, there is a three-inch wound to the chest. I will know more about this once the torso is opened up.”
Arnaud took swabs from every orifice before making the first cut of the Y-shaped incision. The cuts began behind both ears and descended at a forty-five-degree angle along the neck. The two cuts met at the top of the chest and ran vertically as one down to the pelvis. He turned on the recorder again and said, “I am pulling back the skin over the skull and it is here that I notice bruising to the left occipital area. The brain is swollen where it has been hit with a blunt object.”
The plastic door slapped shut. They both looked round. Pete had exited the room.
“It never ceases to amaze me, Inspector, why you bring him with you. He has yet to complete a full post-mortem, whereas you—well, what can I say?” he said, eyeing her with admiration.
Lorne blushed. Is he flirting with me? Or is it my weary imagination working overtime? “Let’s just say I have a stomach for the gruesome things in life, and, well…Pete just has a stomach.” She chortled, but she glanced back at the door, praying for Pete to return.
“Ah, so you do possess a sense of humour, after all. I was beginning to wonder.”
“It’s extremely difficult to remain buoyant all the time in my job—as with yours, I should imagine. Anyway, as long as my hubby appreciates my sense of humour, surely that’s all that matters.” She hoped casually dropping her husband into the conversation would make Arnaud think twice about coming on to her.
Appearing to receive her warning, Arnaud resumed with the examination. Further investigations to the chest wound showed that a sharp object, probably a knife, had entered the pericardium at the front of the heart, and he suspected this injury had proven to be fatal.
Lorne and the doctor left Bones sewing up the body. Pete was seated in the corridor, his head buried between his oversized thighs. The pair walked past him and into the changing room.
“We found out today that the shed where Kim Charlton was found had been broken into a couple of weeks ago. The owner found a patch of blood inside and called the police. Unfortunately, a very junior officer attended the crime and didn’t think to call in forensics. Is there any chance you can take another look at the shed for me?”
“Has the blood been wiped up?”
“Afraid so. Can you do anything?”
“Leave it with me, Inspector. I’ll go down there tomorrow and see if the Luminol shows up anything. Even if there’s no blood to see with the naked eye, we will find it. I trust you dealt with your incompetent colleague?” Arnaud asked as they stepped out into the hallway.
“He won’t make the same mistake twice, I can assure you.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a cup of cocoa waiting for me at home. I’ll be in touch, Inspector, and I hope you feel better soon, Sergeant.” He chuckled, opened the door to his office, and disappeared inside.
“He can be such a smarmy shit.” Pete didn’t bother to hide how much he disliked the doctor.
“Come on. Let’s get home and get some sleep. Do you want to crash at my place? Otherwise, I’ll have to drive all the way back to the station to pick up your car.”
“Two nights on the trot sleeping at your gaff? People will talk.” Pete laughed and winked at her.
“Only if you tell them. Yes or no, Pete?”
“Why not? Any chance of a bite to eat when we get there?”
“Will an omelette do?”
“Sounds good to me. I can honestly say you spoil me rotten at times, boss.”
“Hmm…You don’t deserve it after wimping out on me in there.”
“Afraid to be left alone with the doc, were ya?”
“Don’t be so ridiculous. That’s not what I meant at all, and you know it. Besides, Bones was there, remember? Get in the car, chunky.”
Pete’s eyes rose heavenwards as she called him the nickname she’d recently bestowed upon him—not because of his weight. No, she’d chosen the nickname because he’d suddenly acquired a penchant for Kit Kats, the chunky variety.
The next morning, the pair left Lorne’s house in differing moods. Pete was grumpy and moving around as though he had aches in places he never knew existed after spending the last two nights on her uncomfortable sofa. And Lorne was in one of her ‘tread carefully around me’ moods. She and Tom had been arguing till three AM about her taking him for granted.
The atmosphere at breakfast had been colder than a freezer. Lorne and Tom had exchanged hateful glances across the breakfast bar.
The weather did nothing to brighten their moods. A torrential downpour had followed them all the way to work.
Pete eyed the darkening sky. “You got an umbrella in the boot?”
“Yeah, but I doubt you’ll appreciate the colour.”
“It’s girly pink, is it?
”
“Yup. Actually, it’s polka dot pink, a present from Charlie at Christmas. Apparently it’s the ‘in’ thing. I’ll drop you as close to the station as I can, okay?”
Disgruntled about her decision, he mumbled something incoherent under his breath. Whenever he stayed over, she always insisted—to prevent unnecessary rumours flying around the station—they should never arrive at work in the same car first thing in the morning.
“Jump out at the next set of lights.”
“You’re kidding! Shit, that’s miles away from the station.”
“It’s a few hundred yards. The jog will do you good. Now, shoo,” she said, as the lights changed to red.
Lorne drove past him a few seconds later and blasted the horn as he battled against the gale-force wind and rain. She glanced in her rear-view mirror and smiled when he gave her a V-sign. He already looked as if he’d swum twenty lengths at the local baths in his overcoat. She braced herself for a tongue-lashing when he arrived at work.
She bought two cups of coffee from the machine and checked through her post while she waited for him to arrive.
A few minutes later, she cringed when she saw her drenched partner zigzag his way between the desks.
“Forget to take your car home last night, Pete?” Mitch teased.
“No!”
“Did you spend the night with a nice bird, Pete?”
“No! What gives you that idea?”
“You’re wearing the same clothes you had on yesterday—and, come to think of it, the day before that—plus your car was parked in the car park all night.” Mitch tapped the side of his nose.
Pete grunted and cast a few looks around as he wrestled his way out of his soaking wet trench coat.
Lorne suppressed a smile when he entered her office. His hair—what was left of it—was plastered to his face and he left a trail of water on the carpet behind him.
“Morning, Pete—”
“Don’t you dare make any quips about it being a lovely day,” he warned her, sitting in the chair opposite.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. What’ve you got there?” she asked, referring to the package in his hand.
