Payback

by R. C. Bridgestock

  ‘Ricky-Lee!’ called Charley. ‘I want you at the post-mortem as Exhibits Officer.’ Annie turned and took the briefest moment of satisfaction from seeing DC Lewis’s skin pale significantly under his recently acquired sunbed glow.

  ‘Mike, you’re my deputy,’ she informed Detective Sergeant Blake.

  Charley’s mind was busy establishing the foundations for the investigation as DC Wilkie Connor passed by her. ‘How did you fare with the guy with the Merc? I noticed it gone from the yard.’

  ‘Bailed.’

  ‘What do we know about him?’

  ‘Seems straightforward enough. Runs a successful computer solutions business in Manchester. Mercedes dealership confirmed this morning that he bought the car from them, et cetera, et cetera.’ Wilkie shrugged his shoulders. ‘Still no idea why the car was flagged up in the first place – may just have been a computer glitch.’

  Charley gave a half-hearted laugh. ‘A bit ironic considering his line of work. Why was he arrested in the first place?’

  ‘For some unknown reason, he gave a false date of birth and address at the roadside.’

  ‘I bet he wasn’t best pleased to have to spend the night in the cells, then.’

  ‘His wife was even less suited. He’d told her he was three hundred miles away in London.’

  Charley’s eyebrows rose. ‘Just out of interest, what did you say he was called?’

  Wilkie looked puzzled. ‘I don’t believe I did.’

  Charley waited expectantly, her face pinched.

  ‘Ripley. Robert Ripley,’ said Wilkie.

  Charley’s eyes dilated. ‘The Robert Ripley from the Believe It Or Not! empire’s success might be owed to the fact that he mixed lies that couldn’t be verified with an enormous dose of audacity. Our Robert Ripley might find combining lying with risk-taking leads to his downfall.’

  Wilkie looked bemused, but still he nodded his head in agreement.

  Charley hastily turned and walked in the direction of her office. Colliding with the door frame, she stumbled into the room. She turned to see Annie’s mouth open wide; her mouth a perfect circle.

  ‘Close your mouth, Glover, before you catch a fly! And fetch me a large map of the area where the body was found, together with the corpse’s photograph, so that we’ve got something visual for the team to see pinned up in the incident room.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Annie gave her a mock salute and hurried away, a bladder of a face looking fit for bursting.

  Charley felt a tug of a smile on her lips. Her secret was safe.

  News of the major incident was outed; both in-house communication and the media saw to that. The Chinese whispers ensued and the story soon became distorted, the most popular variant being that the woman who’d been found was a celebrity. The sooner an official press release was put out, the better, thought Charley.

  The setting up of the incident room began to breathe life into the investigation. Computer terminals lit up one by one and display boards were wheeled into place. Visual aids were exhibited – all to the sound of tapping on keyboards, akin to the noise hungry woodpeckers make in search of insects in the trunk of a tree.

  Inside the incident room, Sergeant Mike Blake was being given a demonstration of Ellen Tate’s organisational skills; ensuring that the investigation hit the ground running was paramount at this stage. His face was ashen and he looked a little shell-shocked, but his immature features were contradicted by the intelligence of his vivid chestnut eyes, which gazed at Tattie with disturbing fixity, giving the impression that he was reserving judgement until she had concluded. Charley spoke to them briefly, then left them to it. Mike was obviously a man with a purpose: not to be distracted from the task given to him, nor to be dominated by Tattie.

  As Charley left the room, she collided with Divisional Commander Brian Roper, almost knocking the officer, senior both in age and rank, to the ground. The muscular, ruddy complexioned six-footer was not the image of the man she had carried with her for the past four years. Roper’s greying hairline had receded dramatically. He had grown a beard which was speckled with copious amounts of white hair, and it severely aged him. To her astonishment she saw he had taken to wearing large, round, thick, dark-framed glasses. Upon seeing her, the fine lines that wrinkled at his eye corners sank almost immediately into a rigid, drawn expression: the police officer’s mask Charley knew so well.

  At first, he appeared forgiving of Charley’s blunder, but not with the grace that she would have expected from someone she had known for such a long time. She was immediately aware that the natural prowess he had possessed had deserted him since their last encounter. What she saw before her now was a shadow of the man who’d, at one time, been her mentor: the man she would have expected to help her when she needed guidance, not to add to her angst. So, the rumour squad had been correct. His selfish, self-serving lifestyle had got the better of him, and taken its toll on both his body and mind. Roper’s brash disposition dropped from his face at her knowing stare, and his yellowing eyes smiled at her somewhat patronisingly.

  That was more like it.

  ‘Girl found dead in a graveyard, Inspector?’ he said with a raised eyebrow. ‘Bet you envisaged an easy life when you were promoted back here from the city, didn’t you? You’ve got me to thank for that, by the way.’

  ‘Thank?’ she murmured, with a frown and a tilt of the head.

  He gave a little nod, and a smirk, and lowered his voice as if conspiring, as the tap, tap of heels could be heard coming down the stairs towards them. ‘But you do realise that won’t be the case, don’t you?’ Roper glared at her over the top of his spectacles. ‘I got your message. But don’t worry, I’ll catch up with you for a little chat sooner or later.’ With the flap of a dismissive hand in front of Charley’s face, he spoke out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Put this one to bed quickly, there’s a good girl. Murder enquiries are such a drain on resources. For God’s sake, even if you do solve it, let’s face it, it’s only one crime for the stats.’

  Charley felt herself seething inside as she watched him disappear down the corridor, trailing behind him the simpering young woman who appeared to hang on to his every word. He was a disgrace to the uniform; a weak-willed man who liked nothing more than getting his own way, feeding his addiction by using the easiest trick in the book: an abundance of arse-kissing of the hierarchy, even if it involved putting a colleague’s career – or wellbeing – on the line.

  She berated herself for her youthful errors, when she’d mistakenly believed he’d been someone to look up to, to confide in: the big man he’d wanted her to think he was. In truth, he was nothing more than a dinosaur, a philanderer, a womaniser, a skirt-chaser, a bully, a liar and a cheat. He had no integrity and certainly deserved no respect; neither from her nor anyone else.

  In fact, Charley saw that there was something to be pitied about Roper’s continual craving for attention and approval. She recalled his loutishness, which she now saw retrospectively as arrogance. It had been aimed at the officers under his command back then, in his bid for control. She narrowed her eyes. How could she have been so naïve as to trust him?

  She remembered the way the officers back then would wrangle over a contested, timely result, just to gain his support for promotion. Of course she knew now that he was no hero, simply the lout grown older, albeit somewhat tamed by necessity owing to the increasing diversity in the police regime and the shifting nature of police work, which ensured that such anomalies would be eradicated for ever. Police leaders had to reflect the changing needs of society within their own jurisdiction; and by God she would help make that happen here if it was the last thing she did. She would not be silenced. Ethics, integrity, discretion and the social work elements of policing would be met and taught and implemented in every area of policing under her. There would be no more nepotism, whether that was by familial relations or any other group or society, secret or not. She would do her absolute utmost to ensure positive changes came about, no matter wh
at the cost.

  Charley could see the colossal power that his rank gave him, which he obviously enjoyed, but wondered whether over time this had somehow manifested into a self-adoration where he clearly considered himself to be better than anyone else; a demi-god, no less. She had suffered dreadfully at the hands of people like him. Performance target syndrome had drastically altered the way policing was delivered, but, for Charley, the crime of murder was still the ultimate test for a detective. She was aware more than most of just how much it impacted not only the victim’s family and friends, but also the community as a whole. It might be ‘only one crime’ to add to the performance figures for the chief, but it was much more than that for her.

  She was faced with a jigsaw with no picture to work from, no corner pieces and no straight edges – and with a massive amount of plain blue sky. It was a puzzle that she vowed she would solve.

  With no cause of death yet confirmed, Charley refused the press conference requested by the Force press office. ‘But we could use the information for the evening news broadcast,’ pleaded Connie, the young press officer.

  ‘We don’t know the exact cause of death; we don’t know the identity of the deceased and the search of the scene is still ongoing.’

  She saw Connie’s face fall.

  ‘Look, once the post-mortem has taken place I might have a better understanding of what we’re dealing with and then I’ll be more than happy to do the press conference.’

  ‘OK. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning? The media can use the lunch-time news to release the story if they wish.’

  Charley quickly responded to her sweet smile. ‘Ten o’clock tomorrow morning it is.’

  Using the breathing space she’d been afforded, Charley immediately picked up the phone. The Force HQ Logistics department agreed to second three detective sergeants and nine detectives to the enquiry to complement the contingent of DS Mike Blake, DC Wilkie Connor, DC Annie Glover and DC Ricky-Lee Lewis already under her command.

  Charley yawned. She looked up at the clock on the wall above the office door before heading out. She had precisely three quarters of an hour to get to the mortuary before the post-mortem began. The journey was less than eight miles, but, in rush-hour traffic through the town, she was more than aware of the possibility of delays.

  She had a blue flashing light on her car dashboard and was in no doubt that if she was stopped, a traffic cop would tell her she was in contravention of the Road Vehicles Lighting Regulations 1989 and take great delight in quoting the relevant section of the Road Traffic act to her verbatim. She patted the forbidden object affectionately.

  ‘Sometimes you just have to be practical,’ she said, her eyes brightening and a rebellious smile spreading across her lips.

  Chapter 5

  The mortuary building had an abandoned look about it, as though reflecting the empty vessels kept within. There were weather cracks in the doors, weeds growing out of unattended gutters and patches of peeling paint in the corridors. It was as cold and uninviting inside as it was out.

  The mortuary assistant was brewing up. Knitting needles were firmly lodged under her arm from which soft, baby pink wool bulged. Eerily, there was the tinkling of a music box, with soothing lullabies playing in the background.

  ‘You must think me mad,’ Margery said with the briefest of smiles at Charley, ‘but at least it’s something I can do for the wee bairns; I can’t bear to see a baby buried naked.’ She shuddered suddenly. ‘Ooh, my old mama would have said a goose had walked over my grave.’

  Charley smiled back as she took a pot of tea from Margery’s aged hands. ‘And mine too.’

  There was a tin on the side marked ‘Tea Fund’. Charley dug deep into her pockets and pulled out a few pound coins. She dropped them in the box. Ricky-Lee saw what she did and came to stand beside her. She saw him gingerly checking his wallet as she moved away. There was no noise to suggest any money had been put in the tin by her detective, and she felt a little ashamed.

  ‘Marge…’ Ricky-Lee gushed instead. ‘You’re looking very lovely today. Could it be a new hairstyle?’

  Charley sat down facing the pair and watched him putting heaps of sugar into his mug, and then accepting a home-made ginger biscuit. Catching Margery’s eye, she shook her head, her lips forming a tight line. Marge smiled at her, a twinkle in her eye as she put the biscuit tub back into the mortuary fridge with the ‘samples’.

  Charley allowed herself the briefest of chuckles.

  Shortly before five, Charley’s nominated officers were sitting by her side awaiting the arrival of Professor Matthew Whitehead. The pathologist was a tall, slim man with thick, white, wiry hair and wearing half-moon, rimless glasses. He was a smart individual, infamous for his colourful bow ties and white, lace-up pumps. He spoke quietly and precisely; clearly and with great authority.

  Charley showed the Professor the photographs of the body in situ, and informed him of the details of its discovery. They discussed the lack of identification and the police appeal to find a name for the deceased.

  Having drained their mugs, it was time for those joining the pathologist and the dead body to put on their protective coveralls. Charley familiarised herself with the mortuary whilst she waited. A quick peek inside pleased her; it had been brought into the twenty-first century since her last visit. In her estimation, for too long the focus of funds had been on the experience of illness and dying rather than what happened after death. Margery followed Charley’s eyes as they wandered towards the new refrigerators. ‘Health and safety a priority, I guess,’ said Charley.

  Margery was standing at the sink. She nodded in agreement and proceeded to dry her hands with a paper towel.

  ‘And the rest of the building?’

  ‘The rest is listed; phase two.’ The smile left her lips and she looked to the ceiling. ‘Only him upstairs knows when that’ll be though.’

  Charley retreated to the viewing room with its all-seeing window, seating and speaker system which would allow the SIO to interact with the Professor as he carried out his role. It was the first time she had witnessed a post-mortem this way. No more did she have to stand at the pathologist’s side. ‘Have those mortuary tables got bigger?’ she asked no one in particular.

  ‘I think they have,’ said Wilkie. ‘Probably something to do with the growing obesity epidemic.’

  Charley nodded silently.

  The body lay rigid on the slab. The forensic pathologist had adopted the sombre air of the dissecting room. His actions and spoken words would be recorded as he worked; the information to be formulated into his report at a later stage. The exhibits officer Ricky-Lee and the CSI Neal Rylatt, also hovered around the dead body till they found suitable places to stand. All became still and all eyes were on the Professor as he stood quietly and observed. There wasn’t a word said, or an apparent breath taken, during those few seconds.

  ‘Well, Inspector,’ Professor Whitehead said, eventually. The boom of his voice echoed around the viewing room and for a moment the loudness startled Charley. The Professor’s eyes peered over his face mask and his eyes found hers. ‘Please tell me there is no Santa inside the Christmas tree netting.’ There was humour in his tone and, at once, the atmosphere began to feel more relaxed. Very slowly, he moved around the table and, as he did, narrated aloud precisely what he was seeing for the voice recorder.

  Charley was immediately impressed by his thorough, cautious approach, not unlike her own at a crime scene.

  ‘The body has been hung by its feet; the rope is still attached at the ankles. There is, as described by the police, netting covering the torso, very similar to that used for tree transportation. The deceased’s eyes are bulging and tongue protruding. I can see an injury to the right side of the head. There’s a bulge in the mouth, which may well be swelling, and we appear to have an inch-wide strip of her hair cut cleanly from her head. In addition, I can see that the boots appear to be on the wrong feet…’

  Professor Whitehead stopped, his
body appearing to stiffen. When he looked up at Charley, his eyebrows were raised, his eyes wide. His stare made her feel uneasy. He hesitated, his face serious. ‘Inspector, this is not the body of a woman. It’s a male.’

  Click! Click! Click!

  She was guessing that Neal Rylatt, as experienced a CSI officer as he was, was as surprised as the rest of those round the table at the discovery of the gender of the corpse, but always the consummate professional, he carried on snapping away regardless.

  With gloved hands, the Professor proceeded to remove the netting from the torso, rolling it down as carefully as he could towards the feet. Charley took a moment to breathe, to ground herself, transfixed as she was. She remained standing, touching the window in front of her with tentative fingertips, and steeled herself for what was yet to come. She realised that she found it far easier being at the table instead of up here as a voyeur. As much as the viewing room experience was likened to being in the room by those who didn’t want to be up close and personal with the corpse and its dissection, it was far from the same for her. At least in this viewing place she was removed from the odour by the distance, walls and windows; the recollection of the smell associated with a post-mortem still made her gag.

  ‘The male is wearing calf-length boots. A black, possibly leather, skirt and a would-be-white woollen top.’

  The Professor continued with his rendition of the facts. Charley watched intently as he took tapings from the exposed flesh and clothing before he started to remove the cadaver’s garments.

  ‘There is severe bruising around the neck and a deep ear-to-ear laceration.’