The Depths

by Catriona King

  The construction boss set the missives neatly on the desk in front of him, pushing them far enough away that they wouldn’t be contaminated by what he planned to do next. He’d phoned home hours before to explain that he’d be working all night, not unusual if he was trying to finish a job, so he was certain that he wouldn’t be disturbed.

  Before he could change his mind the builder opened a second, locked, drawer, removed a revolver and quickly loaded it, and then the man who hated mess but had got himself into a huge one placed the barrel in his mouth and blew out his brains.

  Chapter Three

  The Labs. Wednesday, 9.30 a.m.

  John Winter was humming to himself as he entered his main dissection room, pleased to be back in his comfort zone. He didn’t mind attending crime scenes; in fact he normally quite enjoyed it, giving him as it did a different perspective on the world generally and an additional one on the crime’s victim which helped him put their last living moments in context.

  But yesterday’s visit to a frozen quarry way out in the country had been both physically uncomfortable and had cost him brownie points at home, causing him to miss his weekly couples counselling appointment with his wife Natalie. They’d been attending the sessions with Doctor Amanda Beresford for months now and he had to admit that they were doing their challenging marriage some good, moving their relationship from outright conflict bordering on possible separation to an entente, that in the bedroom at least, had become decidedly cordiale, although part of him did wonder whether that hadn’t more to do with his newly long hair, waving almost to his collar, and the Balbo beard that Natalie had encouraged him to grow.

  He thought the combination made him look like a musketeer, but he wasn’t knocking the look because the effect on their love life had been astounding; although if hair growth had been all that was needed then he wished he’d known that the year before because it would have saved them over two grand in psychologist’s fees.

  But it was probably a good idea that they were still attending the sessions, because another and potentially even larger family problem looked as if it was about to rear its head; that of their not yet two-year-old daughter Kit, an absolute angel in his eyes. She was cheerful, playful and affectionate, but for her high-achieving mother that didn’t seem to be enough. Natalie was a surgeon and she expected her daughter to equal her achievements in a man’s world if not surpass them, so a nuclear physicist, a professor, perhaps even an astronaut were all on her favoured career list. But they weren’t on his. All he wanted was for Kit to be the same happy, loving, affectionate person at ten, twenty, fifty and eighty-years-old as she was now, and if Natalie’s absurd ambitions threatened that in any way then they were going to have problem number two.

  John had to admit to being surprised by the ferocity of his protectiveness towards their daughter, always imagining that as a man it would have reared mainly or perhaps even only in the event of a perceived physical threat. But the idea that Natalie might ever pressure, harangue, stress or in any way make unhappy their adorable infant was making him want to roar already, and before that happened he wanted Doctor Beresford to deconstruct the problem calmly and logically and then to put his wife firmly back in her box!

  But that would have to wait for next week’s appointment because as he entered the cool dissection room John Winter the professional pushed all personal thoughts to one side. By the time he’d drawn back the sheet covering his patient his mind was only on the man lying in front of him, and the next ninety minutes were a dance of X-raying, dissection, photography and recording, so that by the time it drew to a conclusion he had the man’s definite cause of death diagnosed and taken the samples that would tell the police all they needed to know about their victim’s final day.

  To help even more he decided to carry the evidence the three floors up to the forensic department himself, where he found his partner in criminology, Doctor Des Marsham, polishing a shiny nameplate on his door.

  “Is that new, Des?”

  The forensic scientist turned in surprise at the words, so absorbed that he’d completely missed the pathologist’s clog-heavy footsteps approach.

  “Oh, hello, John. I didn’t hear you coming. Yes, it’s my first nameplate with ‘Head of Government Forensics’ on it. You’ll be getting a new one as well. Government, eh? Sounds important, doesn’t it?”

  As they’d always been the government leads John didn’t quite get the thrill, so as he slipped through the half-open door into the scientist’s office he responded in a droll tone.

  “Be still my beating heart.”

  Before Des could retort the pathologist held up their victim’s X-rays and a plastic bag full of samples by way of explanation for his visit, forcing the forensic scientist to cast one last loving look at his nameplate and then join him inside the room.

  “I was just going to ask you why you were here. Who are those from?”

  The medic set everything down on the desk. “The man found in the quarry in Rownton yesterday. Your on-call CSIs came down to help.”

  Des’ brown eyes widened as he remembered something. “If it’s him then I have something for you to look at too.”

  Just as he reached into his desk drawer to retrieve the item in question the door flew open again, and the room suddenly seemed crowded as the combined bulk that was Liam and Craig forged in.

  “Hold that thought for a minute, Des.” Craig scanned the office. “Where’s your coffee?”

  “I don’t drink it, remember. But I can offer you a nice cup of tea.”

  As his deputy said, “That’ll do”, Craig shook his head and beckoned everyone to follow him, and in less than a minute they were downstairs in John’s office, re-running the drinks conversation with more success.

  Once Craig had a mug of coffee in his hand and had found himself a chair, he gave an apologetic smile.

  “Sorry, Des, but I can’t think without caffeine.”

  An arch, “How did you manage at school?” prompted John to reply.

  “Ah, now that was in the years pre addiction. It was controllable until we went to Queen’s but ever since then he’s been hooked.”

  Bored with the debate about his coffee habit, not his worst it had to be said, Craig moved the conversation on.

  “So what were you two about to discuss upstairs?”

  Des motioned for permission to sit at the pathologist’s computer and withdrew some small X-ray films from his pocket.

  “I’ll show you once John scans in these dental X-rays.”

  A minute later they were logged into the police missing persons’ database and the central repository of dental X-rays and their victim’s information was running against both. Meanwhile Des brought an image file up on the screen.

  “While we’re waiting for those to run, this is the scan of a photograph my CSIs found in your victim’s pocket. Thankfully it was tucked into the small coin pocket inside his jacket, so it was soggy but not completely wrecked.”

  Liam nodded sagely. “Wrecked. A solid technical term that. Trashed is another one.”

  “And both apply to us when we’ve been out on the lash.”

  As the forensic scientist tweaked the image’s contrasts Craig asked the question that he knew he should have asked the CSIs the day before.

  “Did your team find any ID on him, Des? A driving licence or credit cards maybe?”

  The reply was coolly logical. “If they had done I wouldn’t be wasting my time running his dental X-rays, now would I?”

  The retort made the detective smirk. “Fair point. I was teaching my granny how to suck eggs.” He gestured at the computer screen. “So there was nothing but this photo?”

  The scientist shook his head as he continued typing. “Nothing. His wallet was gone.”

  John cut in. “And his watch. There was a tan line where it should have been. They left his wedding ring behind.”

  Liam nudged his boss. “His cards and watch might have been worth something.”

&n
bsp; Craig nodded slowly. “There could have been an element of robbery here, or they might just have been taken as an afterthought.”

  “Or, the killer might have chucked them in the water. We’ll need divers to check.”

  Craig nodded. “Organise that, will you, Liam. Brief them as-”

  He was cut off by Des announcing, “Here we go” and turning the computer around to face them. On it was a blurred image of a small girl, wearing a summer dress, sandals, and a flowery sunhat pushed back from her face.

  There was a stunned silence in the room, which didn’t mean that there was no activity. Thoughts and feelings don’t make a sound.

  Then, because everyone’s perspective in life is shaped by their experiences both detectives shuddered violently and Des Marsham looked sad. In light of the policemen’s reactions he tempered his expression almost immediately with defensiveness.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but she could have been his daughter! That might be why he kept the photo with him.”

  Craig threw him a bone. “You’re right, Des, she could be his daughter. Let’s think positively.”

  John was looking confused. “Sorry, but why do we need to think positively? Does that mean you were thinking something negative about the picture? I mean what could there possibly be...”

  His words tailed off as he realised what had been on the policemen’s minds. “Oh God, you think he was a paedophile!” He felt sick. “I might just have PM-ed a paedophile!”

  They all knew that his horror was irrational because after death we’re all just a bag of bones, but at the same time everyone understood.

  Liam cut in. “Not a paedo for sure, Doc, it could just be our warped minds. I mean any of us could be carrying a photo of our kids when we die and it wouldn’t make us one.” The D.C.I. winced slightly before going on. “But it’s just... because the photo was being hidden... well, it is something we need to chuck into the pot. Considering that he was murdered and all.”

  Craig agreed his deputy’s softening caveat with a nod. He knew he was growing more cynical with age and he also knew that he needed to rein it in, so he might as well start now.

  “Liam’s right, so let’s agree for now that the girl could be our victim’s daughter. How old does she look to everyone?”

  Des offered his opinion first. “Four maybe.”

  Liam shook his head. “Nah, not much older than two there. She’s still a wee bit bow-legged and that starts to straighten out about two.”

  Craig turned from the dad-experts to the anatomist in their midst. “John?”

  “Liam’s half-right. Genu varum, bow-legs, are a normal variant until around two when they should start to straighten. But hers are almost straight, Liam, so I’d say she’s nearer three-years-old.”

  “How old do you think our dead man was?”

  “Forty maybe.” He added hopefully. “So still in the usual age-range to be her dad.”

  “Especially as...” Craig leaned in closer to the computer’s screen as he continued. “I know the photo was underwater for a while but do those colours look strange to anyone? Dull, like old-fashioned pictures.”

  He was thinking of photos he’d had taken as a kid in the late seventies and eighties which, even allowing for the fact that the whole world seemed to have been painted brown and orange at the time, had always seemed to bear an ochre tinge.

  John made a face. “I don’t think it was taken a long time ago if that’s what you mean. I think the colours might look strange to us because it was taken with an actual camera, and we’re used to brighter digital images now. Also, maybe it was already an old photo of the girl so it was faded? A favourite of her when she was young that he just didn’t want to put away. She could be a teenager now for all we know.”

  Craig conceded the points and turned back to the forensic scientist. “Can you see what you can find out from the original? And you said it was in his coin pocket?”

  “Yes and yes.”

  Liam interjected. “Coin pockets are small, so were the edges curled up?”

  “Actually, it was folded in two. I photo-shopped out the crease in its centre.”

  “Folded so it would fit in his coin pocket...”Craig took a sip of coffee as he considered what they had.

  “OK, so... by virtue of the fact our victim was carrying the photo at all, it was obviously important to him. So why risk ruining it by folding it in two? From memory, his jacket looked like most other jackets...” He glanced at his deputy for confirmation and got a nod, “...so there were several larger pockets in which he could have carried it, inside his wallet would have been the usual place, yet he stuffs it into a tiny coin one, damaging it. Not the usual place for a photo, is it? Not unless...” He gave a small smile as he continued, “... not unless you’re afraid that you might lose the contents of your other pockets.”

  Liam smiled. “Because they’re the first place that someone mugging you would search for cash.”

  “Yes. Or look to remove anything that might identify you once they’d killed you.”

  John shook his head. “By that reckoning why not burn off his fingertips and yank out all his teeth?”

  Liam’s eyes widened. “Frick me, Doc! Remind me not to piss you off.”

  The interaction made Craig laugh. “Have you been at the gangster box-sets again, John?”

  The pathologist gave an embarrassed smile. “All right, you’ve caught me. But tell me how I’m wrong? If his attacker really hadn’t wanted our John-Doe identified then surely they would have done the job properly?”

  Craig shrugged. “There could be lots of reasons why they didn’t. Maybe they were in a hurry, or squeamish, or they were amateurs so they didn’t think of it. Or perhaps they just don’t watch as much TV as you.”

  “Funny man.”

  Liam had another suggestion. “More likely they thought our Vic would never be found at the bottom of a quarry pool. Although... why didn’t they, boss? They couldn’t have expected him not to float unless he’d been weighted down. He wasn’t, was he, Docs?”

  The scientists shook their heads simultaneously and a jumble of, “No weights found” and “No marks to indicate it” emerged.

  The debate made Craig sit up straight.

  “That’s actually a good point, Liam.” He turned back to the pathologist. “John, allowing for the fact that we might find metal weights if we trawl the water, or the killer might just have put some handy rocks in our Vic’s pockets that fell out over time, why do you think he hadn’t floated to the top?”

  “The most likely reason is that he got caught on sub-surface vegetation. It looked like there was a lot in there.”

  “Maybe...” Craig turned back to his deputy. “But the killer couldn’t have relied on that, so in the event of our man floating to the surface why didn’t they expect him to be seen?” He answered his own question. “They thought no-one went near the quarry because it was closed. They didn’t reckon on the local kids.”

  “That’s careless, boss.”

  “It’s a pretty isolated area.”

  Liam took out his notepad and scribbled a memo to himself. “I noticed some huts near the old entrance gates so I’ll get those checked out. There could be a guard for the site. But even if there is, they might not be that fussy about doing their rounds and never have checked the pool.”

  Craig frowned as something occurred to him. “Or maybe the guard was in on the killing so he didn’t need to check. He already knew that our Vic was there.”

  The detectives were still debating the point when John returned to the photograph.

  “So you think our John Doe was definitely hiding the girl’s photo, Marc?”

  “What? Oh, yes, hidden would be my choice, unless anyone can think of another reason it might have been folded up in that pocket?”

  There was a shaking of heads as the pathologist went on.

  “OK, so why hide it then? Apart from thinking he might get mugged.”

  Liam voluntee
red an answer. “Maybe he loved her and wanted to keep it close to his heart?”

  Craig shook his head. “Nice idea, but then why destroy it by folding it? John’s right, if he was hiding it we need to find the reason why. Mugging’s one idea and your suggestion that he loved the girl is another. Anything else?”

  As Des moved away from the computer and waved John back to his desk, his expression turned morose.

  “Because he knew he shouldn’t have had it at all and didn’t want it discovered.”

  “Go on.”

  “Because she wasn’t his daughter and you two were right about him being a paedo, in which case I’m glad he’s dead.”

  Liam gave a cheer. “Yeh! A man after my own heart.”

  Craig rolled his eyes. “We’re supposed to be the ones upholding the law. Remember? Although I can’t say that I disagree.”

  He took a sip of coffee and regrouped. “OK, so maybe she was his daughter and he hid it because he wanted to keep it close to his heart or was afraid it would be stolen, or maybe he was a paedophile and he was hiding it because he didn’t want to get caught. In any case, I want to return to whoever killed him and dumped his body for a moment. There’s another reason why he mightn’t have been weighed down-”

  Liam jumped in. “They didn’t care if he was found.”

  “Yes. So why didn’t they care?”

  The D.C.I.’s eyes widened in realisation. “Because whoever killed him doesn’t think the body will ever lead back to them.” His forehead furrowed. “Aw hell, that means our Vic’ll have no connection with his killer.”

  Craig shook his head. “Not so fast. He may not think the body will lead back to him because there’s no connection, or not an obvious one anyway, or he may just be an arrogant bastard who thinks that all cops are thick. It’s clear it’s going to take hard work to work out who this killer is, but then if our jobs were easy we would all get bored.”

  Not everyone looked so sure about that, but Craig ignored any lack of enthusiasm and went on.