The Tribes

by Catriona King

  Amongst the other things Craig noticed was that Nicky had been baking again, as evidenced by the crumbs around everyone’s mouths. What had started as a cake baking competition between her and Rhonda was in danger of making them all obese. He decided to have a word with her and then he thought again; it would be more fun to make Liam, the biggest cake eater of them all, be the one to tell Nicky that she shouldn’t bring any more pastries in.

  When he’d finished his sweep he nodded Liam to start. He was too tired. It wasn’t insomnia and it wasn’t malnourishment, and to admit to his fatigue would be to support his mother’s view that his feelings about Katy were wreaking a physical toll.

  Liam stood up and started to boom.

  “Well now, you bunch of miscreants.”

  As a team building tactic it was a novel one.

  “We had no cases at nine o’clock this morning and now it looks like we’ve got two-”

  Annette cut in, making him sigh. He remembered the good old days when she’d raised her hand when she’d wanted to talk.

  “Two? What’s the second one?”

  “Might be the first one, depending on your point of view.”

  Craig overcame his lethargy and stood up, waving Liam back to his seat.

  “Right. The first case has come from Doctor Winter, and we’re not even sure yet if it actually is a case but it’s beginning to look that way.” He reached behind him for his coffee and took a sip before carrying on. “There was a farm death near Armagh early this morning. A dairy farmer, Colin McAllister, was working in his slurry pit and he was overcome by the fumes.”

  Liam raised a forefinger uncharacteristically. Craig was wondering why he was being so polite when he saw him point his other one first at Annette and then at the one that he’d just raised. Annette’s response was to blow a raspberry at the lesson in etiquette. Craig couldn’t be bothered commenting. Life was too short to get between those two.

  “You wanted to say something, Liam?”

  “Didn’t he have an air supply, boss?”

  “What?”

  “You can’t work safely with slurry without an air supply.”

  Craig nodded him to continue, retaking his seat. Liam had grown up on a farm whereas what he and John knew about farming could be written on the back of a stamp.

  Liam scanned the group. “OK, who knows what slurry is?”

  To Craig’s surprise the very urban Ash raised his hand. “Collections of decomposing waste, usually found on farms.”

  “And the dangers of working with it are…?”

  “Succumbing to the effects of gas. It can kill in seconds so you need to have an air supply.”

  The D.C.I. gawped at him. “How the heck do you know all that?”

  Ash shrugged. “My head’s full of random facts. Mostly from Wikipedia.”

  Liam was put out. He was the farming expert and now he’d been upstaged by a computer geek. Rhonda opened her mouth but he shut it again with a glance. All he needed was for her to know even more about farming and he might as well retire.

  “Aye, well.” He gestured at Ash. “Kermit’s right.”

  Ash straightened up indignantly. “Kermit? I thought my nickname was Smurf!”

  “Your hair’s green now. And anyway, I thought you didn’t like nicknames.”

  Ash’s mouth closed silently in defeat, giving Liam his second wind.

  “But I bet you’ve never seen a slurry body, have you?” He gave them all a ‘so there’ look. “Well, I have and they’re not pretty, I can tell you.”

  Craig interjected. “Good, then you can have a look at the one at the morgue.” He made a rewind motion with his hand. “Go back a little. What was that about a separate air supply? So you’re saying that a slurry suit alone wouldn’t have been enough protection? Does that mean having a hole in it wouldn’t have killed him?”

  Liam scoffed. “It wouldn’t have helped, but a suit’s no good without an air supply. It’s the fumes that kill them.”

  “What about a face mask?”

  “Not a blind bit of use unless it’s attached to a tank of air. Did your man have that?”

  “Not that John mentioned.”

  There were still a lot of questions to be asked. As Craig thought of some of them he signalled Liam to move onto their second case.

  “OK, so Annette and I went to a scene a few hours ago. A body washed up against the Lagan Weir. Young male; late teens early twenties. Drowned.”

  Craig shook his head. “Apparently drowned.”

  Liam rolled his eyes. “Drowned subject to P.M. So that means what?”

  He scanned the faces of his class. Jake answered first.

  “Accident, suicide or was pushed.”

  “Very good. Exactly right. So what else do we need to know?”

  He turned to Annette but she shook her head. They’d already had this discussion, time to give one of the others a chance. Rhonda seized the gap and with a heave of her shoulders she added.

  “Where did he enter the water and how long was he in it?”

  There was silence while Liam grinned first at her and then at Craig, while the others gawped, openly surprised. Not only could they hear the statuesque brunette’s voice clearly for the first time but some of them had obviously just realised she hailed from another continent. Jake pointed a finger at her in shock.

  “You’re from Australia! When did that happen?”

  Ash looked puzzled. “I thought you were from Ballymena.”

  Annette chipped in. “No, she won a cake competition in Ballymena.”

  It brought a sceptical sniff from Nicky.

  Rhonda looked shocked. “I’ve always been from Australia!”

  Liam interrupted, laughing. “What he means is no-one could hear you before so no-one could tell where you were from -”

  Craig cut in. “Nice and all as this international entente is, could we please move it along?”

  Liam obliged. “OK, so we have a man in the Lagan, possibly drowned, and we need to know when he went into the river and where. So Ash, liaise with the Docs and get all the algae, time of death and current stuff, then plot our man’s journey. We need to know when and where he went in and what exactly killed him.”

  He spotted Andy eying the remainder of his muffin and grabbed it to take a bite, continuing through a mouthful of sponge. Craig allowed the ensuing “Phff…tho…” to continue for five seconds before cutting him off.

  “What Liam’s trying to say is that leaves us with questions: was this suicide, an accident, or was this man murdered? There are signs that point to the latter being the case. We’ll go into more detail following the post-mortem, but until then, Andy, when you’ve stopped giving Liam the evil eye over that muffin, I want you to get an I.D. on our victim and find everything about him there is to know. Jake; you, Rhonda and Ash check out all the CCTV available anywhere along the Lagan for the past…” He glanced at Liam for an approximate time of the victim’s submersion but his mouth was still occupied so Annette obliged instead.

  “He looked as if he’d been in the water around one or two days, sir.” She glanced at Liam for confirmation and was answered by a nod.

  “OK, good. Jake, let’s check the last seventy-two hours of Lagan CCTV just to be safe, and don’t forget any shops, garages, traffic cams and residences overlooking the river as well. Someone might have seen or heard something. If you need to you can contact Joe Rice and he’ll get some uniforms to do door-to-door. Can anyone think of anything else?”

  “Bar staff.” It had come from Andy. “There are pubs along the river so the bar staff or bouncers might have noticed something going on.”

  “Good. OK, Andy, you and Annette take that. Also boat clubs. There are rowing clubs along the river, so let’s see if anyone was out rowing on any of those nights.”

  Liam finally found his voice and he used it to insult the baker. “Here, Nicky. That muffin was a bit chewy. Not up to your usual mark.”

  She jumped up at her des
k. “Don’t you dare insult my baking! Of course it tasted chewy. You’re supposed to wash it down with tea, not inhale it!”

  But she hadn’t missed Rhonda’s smirk. The Bun War that had settled down just before Christmas looked as if it was about to restart.

  Craig sighed and shook his head. “Liam, if you can’t say anything nice don’t say anything in future.” He sounded like his dad. He rose from his chair before anyone else could speak. “Right, that’s it for now. You’ve all got plenty to do. We might brief again later so remember you’re all on call.”

  He jerked a thumb at Liam and headed for the lift, waiting until they were inside before letting rip. “Honestly, you have all the tact of a JCB. The whole cake contest thing had just quietened down and now you go and start it again!”

  It took him another minute of ranting to notice that Liam was smiling and only a second more to realise that this was exactly what the D.C.I. had planned all along. Liam had seen his looming office cake ban and had stopped him in his tracks by pitting Nicky and Rhonda against each other again. Craig leaned back against the wall and laughed, accepting that he’d been expertly outplayed.

  Chapter Four

  The Pathology Lab

  John Winter lifted the man’s right hand in his own and held the magnifying glass in his left, six inches from its cold, swollen flesh. After a moment’s consideration he turned the hand over to peer at its palm. The Lagan’s fish residents and animal visitors had begun feasting on the appendage, but there was still no disguising the abrasions covering it. They spoke of their victim’s palm scraping frantically against a hard surface sometime before he had met his death.

  The pathologist’s gaze travelled along the fingers to the raw, ripped flesh at their tips; signs of gripping and the possibility of particulates that might lead them to where the youth had entered the water first. He stared for a moment longer before deciding that only a microscope could tell him more and he was just turning to find one when Craig and Liam clattered noisily into the room. John’s “shush” was automatic, borne from respect but more for his own comfort than that of the man lying on his slab.

  He continued his examination assiduously, Craig standing beside him in silence, seeing everything that the scientist saw. Liam meanwhile was slumped against a bench along one wall, tired out by a week of sleepless nights with his young children and a looming weekend that looked like it was promising even more. He yawned loudly just as John began to speak, drawing a reproving glance from Craig. The pathologist continued undeterred.

  “Right. The dorsums of both hands are bruised; one to two days old approximately, which means the bruises were made on-”

  “Tuesday or Wednesday.”

  Craig smiled. “Good news. Liam can count.”

  John ignored the interruption as if it hadn’t occurred. “The bruising is almost certainly from someone stamping on them, in fact there’s a faint shoe print on his right hand that Des will be photographing once I’ve finished here. The bruising on the left is less than that on the right, which suggests what?”

  This time Craig answered. “That he was right-handed.”

  John’s “correct” clashed with Liam’s “How do you work that out?”

  The pathologist set down his glass and pulled up a stool, waving the others to two more.

  “Marc said he was right-handed because the bruising on his right hand is worse, which tells us that hand was stamped on more, meaning it was probably the one he used most to hang onto the bank, most likely because it was stronger. The dominant hand is stronger, therefore he was right-handed. OK?”

  Liam thought for a moment and then gave a pragmatic nod. John picked up his thread.

  “Both hands suffered fractures, mainly of the metacarpals, the long bones of the palms.”

  Craig nodded. “Which fits with them being stamped upon.”

  “Most likely, but the types of fractures will confirm it. Both palms show abrasions all over, plus there are tear abrasions on the finger pulps.”

  Liam sniffed. “So basically he was scrabbling to hang onto the bank and some bastard was trying to force him in.”

  John gave a small smile. “Said like a true poet. I’ll get you to write Natalie’s Valentine card.”

  Craig was staring at their victim’s bloated face. He’d seen drowning victims before of course, and they were never pretty. Days of submersion in water had a bad enough effect; imagine your whole body like one huge macerated finger pulp from too long in the bath. But the feasting of fish and encasement in vegetation made drownings a particularly horrific sight. He would take a shooting any day; at least if it wasn’t in the face the victim’s family could view the body without throwing up.

  But it wasn’t just the man’s appearance that was bothering him and after a minute he asked a question.

  “Did he drown, John?”

  Liam snorted rudely but John slowly shook his head.

  “Yes. Well, no and yes. Before I tell you what I mean, why did you ask?”

  Craig gestured at the man’s trunk and legs, still hidden under the sheet. “He looks strongly built, so unless he couldn’t swim at all…”

  John nodded. “Well spotted.” He smiled as Liam’s scepticism morphed into surprise. “First the abrasions were starting to heal, meaning he was still alive for some hours after he fought his assailant, and I found something that makes me think he was sedated before he entered the water.” He slid off his stool and returned to the dissection table, lifting the hair behind the man’s right ear and then standing back for them to see.

  “Can you see it?”

  Liam shook his head, but Craig kept staring and then gave a faint nod.

  “A red spot?”

  John retook his seat. “It’s an injection site. I’ve put a rush on the tox-screen but my guess is he was injected with something and then thrown in. He was still awake enough to try to climb out, until he tired of fighting his captor. He succumbed to the combination of drugs and fatigue at some point and drowned, but I’m not sure how quickly. It’s very possible that without the drugs he would have survived.” He gave a grudging smirk. “It was clever. If it hadn’t been for the injuries to the backs of his hands we might never have thought this was anything more than a drowning.”

  Craig smiled. “Except that you spotted the injection site.”

  “I have to be honest. I probably wouldn’t have done if I hadn’t, like you, questioned how such a sturdily built young man had drowned. It made me look much harder-”

  Liam had had enough back slapping for one day.

  “OK, you’re both geniuses.” He ignored Craig’s arched eyebrow. “So we’re saying he was injected and shoved in, then the guy who did it stopped him climbing out. Bit careless to stamp on his hands, wasn’t it? Seeing as it’s the only thing that told us it was murder.”

  John shrugged. “Not really. I mean, what are the odds you’ll trace him through a shoe print? And it was always likely to come out he was sedated from his tox-screen, and if nothing was found in his stomach contents we’d have gone looking for an injection site.”

  Liam wasn’t giving up. “But you still might’ve assumed he’d injected himself.”

  John’s eyes widened. “Behind his ear? I don’t think so.”

  Craig had been watching the ping-pong dialogue thinking of something else. He added it now.

  “OK, so whoever did this knew it would come out as murder eventually, but even if they’d thought about the footprint they’d have reckoned the odds on it being enough for us to trace them were low.”

  Liam nodded. “They’d have been right.”

  “Even allowing for all that I don’t think they would have cared.” He hesitated before he said his next words. “To me this feels like a hit.”

  John’s eyes widened in excitement. This was why he loved working with the Murder Squad. The pure pathology part of his job was intellectually stimulating, especially when he visited sites abroad or attended international meetings with his peer
s. But for sheer adventure none of it touched the murders that came to Craig.

  Liam was thinking something else entirely and if it had hit the air it would have sounded like “oh shit”. They’d already had their fill of hitmen in Belfast with Stevan Mitic, a Serbian sniper still on the run for several murders. They needed another one like him like a hole in the head.

  Craig saw his reaction and dealt with it first. “OK, let me caveat that. I don’t mean a hired hit man. This wasn’t a contract; it feels too personal.”

  The D.C.I. wasn’t appeased. “OK, so it’s not a Mitic, but that’s even worse.”

  John glanced from one detective to another looking puzzled. “Why is it worse? Surely not having someone roaming the streets with a sniper rifle is good news.”

  Craig shook his head. “Not necessarily. In a way Liam’s right. A contract killer only does things for payment and at as big a distance as they can, hence Mitic using a rifle. But this guy did it up close so that means the killing was personal, either to him or to someone that he’s linked with.”

  Liam continued the thought. “And the fact that he was able to get our John Doe to the river means they probably knew each other, and… ” He gestured at the body. “He trusted his killer.” He winced. “This says rivalry to me, boss.”

  John wasn’t going to be left out of the scenario building. His eyes gleamed as he spoke. “Funny you should say that.”

  “What?”

  John waved him away. “I’ll tell you in a minute. But how about this for a scenario… he injected his victim, put him the boot of his car and then drove him to the river and dumped him.”

  Craig decided to humour him; it was a way of rehearsing the arguments he would be having with himself later that night.

  “OK, so how would that work? The victim’s a big man and young, so he would have to have been heavily sedated for the other man to get him in the boot. So why would he have allowed his assailant close enough to inject him? And he obviously woke up again when they reached the river, enough to fight, so how did his killer get him into the drink?”