Relieved that they didn’t have to face the A.C.C. with his disgraceful behaviour, or at least two of them were, Kyle had been hoping that his path to power could have been smoothed by having official access to the man, but unofficial would have to do and it was going to be soon, they decanted to the section café to discuss the episode further.
“At least the girl got a settlement out of it. Fifty grand.”
Andy was outraged. “He should have been locked up for it! It was a sexual assault.”
As Aidan stirred his coffee he made a dry aside. “You’ve changed your tune. An hour ago Price was your wonderful boss.”
Andy flushed. “Yes, well, that was before I knew-”
Kyle interrupted. “Yes, it was assault, but the woman must have signed an agreement not to prosecute when she accepted the money.”
Aidan shook his head. “The force should have prosecuted him even if she wouldn’t. They would nowadays. Price should have gone down for it, or at least lost his job.”
Andy nodded glumly. “Nowadays is the operative word. There’s zero tolerance now, but back then she probably thought that the police would close ranks and Price would have got off.”
Kyle had been sipping his coffee but now he set it down. “So, what do we do with this?”
Aidan frowned. “What do you mean? The timing puts Price out of the running for the murders so we do nothing but check that the girl’s alive. From a distance. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t need to be reminded of that night.”
The spook turned to Andy. “Do you feel the same way?”
Andy was still festering that a man that he’d respected had turned out to be a pig, so he said nothing for a moment. When he did eventually speak it was in a resentful tone.
“I’m pissed off about it, but sadly Aidan’s right. Price is as guilty as sin, but without proving it in court he’ll never pay for it, and if any of us leaks this, much as I wish there was a way, then we’ll get our asses sued off.”
Which didn’t mean there mightn’t still be some way to use the knowledge, and Kyle already knew what it was going to be.
****
The Labs. 1 p.m.
John and Des stared at the array of bones lying in front of them; the previous few hours spent painstakingly arranging them into two separate skeletons, both unquestionably female, and both now with fractured hyoid bones, giving strangulation as their definitive causes of death. As yet they couldn’t be certain that they’d allocated every bone correctly to each woman, judging only on their sizes and wear-indicated ages, but DNA would confirm everything in the coming days. For now, the scientists were scrutinising the skeletons for other injuries, and information on how the women had lived their lives, but most importantly for anything that might have been transferred from the killer to their victims through Locard’s Exchange, such as hairs, clothing fibres, and if they were impossibly lucky, a fingerprint. Locard's principle held that a perpetrator would bring something to a crime-scene and leave with something from it, and that both could be useful as forensic evidence.
In the dissection room with them was Judith Holmes, the forensic anthropologist who had given them information on the girl. She was examining her mother’s bones this time, and as she perused the second skeleton John drew Des off to one side, whispering, “Do we have anything more on the DNAs?”
“Such as?”
“Their ethnicities, which one the dark hair came from maybe? Anything more at all?”
Des hemmed and hawed for a moment before answering equivocally.
“Yes and no. The hairs had no roots, so it was impossible to get DNA from them, and although there was some perspiration found on the red fibres, the amount was too small to get anything, even through PCR.”
PCR or Polymerase Chain Reaction was a technique used to amplify a few copies of a DNA segment to generate millions and assist analysis.
“So I’m back to looking at bone marrow, and that takes longer.”
“What was the yes bit then?”
“I asked Grace to test the mother’s hyoid bone, and it showed she spent her childhood and early adult life in the middle-east.”
The likeliness of her having spent her later life in the west John could already postulate from the chemical analysis of her daughter’s bones. But the middle-eastern aspect was interesting in another way than geography.
“Can you get a definite ethnicity on either of them?”
Des made a face. “I can tell you that both had genetic markers common to Iran, but anything else would just be inference.”
It didn’t tell them much more of the women’s story than they’d had earlier. The pair could have moved from the middle-east to the west for any number of reasons.
Des asked a question of his own.
“Anything more on your side?”
The pathologist nodded. “We know the girl definitely died within the past thirteen years, because of her teeth. The type of dental implant she had is only used in the Emirates and was new to the market in two-thousand-and-five. I can’t date the mother’s death yet, but it probably happened around the same time.”
Des had been tossing up whether or not to tell the medic the second thing that Grace had discovered less than an hour before. He had wanted to repeat her test, just for certainty, but he trusted the CSI not to have made a mistake and early knowledge might help the investigation.
He led into the topic by gesturing at the two skeletons.
“Did you notice anything different about the bones than we got out of the concrete with lithotripsy? As opposed to the skull and ribcage the builders found on the site, say?”
The pathologist frowned, confused. “Like what? They were a bit cleaner perhaps, but they’d been protected from the elements for years by being deeper in the ground.”
For more clarity Des lifted the larger skull, the one that he and Theo Sheridan had freed from deep inside the cellar, handing it to the pathologist to assess. After a lengthy scrutiny and repeated running of his fingers across the top, John realised what the forensic scientist meant. He’d been so focused on the skull’s age, shape and markings that he’d missed the slightly chalky texture of the bone, putting it down, if it had even crossed his mind, to concrete dust from the ground.
“The bone surface is brittle!”
The forensic lead nodded. “I had Grace swab each of the bones in radiology as soon they emerged from the cement, and we’ve found traces of Sodium Hydroxide on them.”
John’s mouth fell open. “Lye! That’s how they stripped the flesh!”
Lye is an old-fashioned name for the chemical Sodium Hydroxide.
The pathologist shuddered as he pictured the process and at the memories that it conjured up; far too many of the victims of genocide he’d been called to help identify overseas had been covered in the chemical in mass graves, in an attempt to erase their existence.
“A high enough concentration of Lye would have cleaned the bones in a few days, and it calcifies them, which explains why they’re so brittle. But the killers were stupid; if they’d had the sense to leave the bodies in it for longer we would never have found useful bone markers, just calcified skeletal shells.”
The forensic lead nodded. “And if they’d been smart enough to use acid we’d have no bones or teeth at all. We’re looking to see if there’s a taggant to say where the hydroxide came from. I’ll let Marc know as soon as I can, either way.”
A taggant is a chemical or physical marker added to materials to allow identification and various forms of testing.
“Fingers crossed there is one. By the way, Marc’s following up on your cannabis lead with the DoE’s security-guard now. The foreman said he wasn’t involved.”
“How do you know?”
“He called me after the interview to ask if we’d got anything more on the bones.”
A sudden twinge in his back told Des he needed to sit down; too any hours bent over the radar machine. He reached behind him for a stool before continuing.
“Speaking of which, when do you get the girl’s facial reconstruction back?”
“In an hour. Then Sylvia will start on the mother’s-”
The conversation was interrupted by Judith Holmes touching John on the shoulder. He turned to see her holding a bone.
“This is the younger victim’s tibia, and it confirms what I said before about her being sporty. Her leg muscles were highly developed on both sides, which goes along with her running a great deal.” She pointed to an elevation just below the knee joint. “The highly developed insertion of the patellar ligament, here, says that her quadriceps muscle was bulky. That sort of growth comes from repeated short sprints rather than distance running, so I would shorten her list of possible racquet sports to one. Squash. Short, frequent runs.”
“That’s great, Judith. Anything on the mother?”
She lifted one of the older woman’s skeletal hands.
“The only muscles that were highly developed were in her hands. She either used them in manual labour of some sort or she played an instrument to a high standard, and the muscular development around the four fingers of the left hand but not the thumb implies that it was a stringed instrument rather than the piano.”
“Any idea what sort?”
The anthropologist thought hard for a moment before committing herself.
“All right. But you can’t hold me to this, it’s just an educated guess. I think she played the violin or viola.” She held up her arms in a playing position. “Her left hand would have done the fingering, so all but the thumb would have been moving repeatedly.”
“Which means the right arm did the bowing. She was right handed.”
Holmes made a face. “Probably, and there are some signs on the right wrist and arm that would support that. But it’s not definite, John, so don’t place too much weight on it.”
She turned back to the table and lifted the larger of the two skulls.
“However, the mother’s skull definitely shows some of the ethnic features of Asian origin. Look here, the orbits are circular, whereas in Europeans they’re aviator shaped and in Africans rectangular.” She touched the nose gently with her forefinger. “And here, her nasal aperture is heart-shaped and her nasal bridge is less pronounced than in Europeans. All of that fits with someone of Asian origin. Her daughter’s Asian features are less marked-”
Des cut in.
“Could the mother have been Iranian? We found some genes that would support that.”
Holmes was unconvinced. “Possibly… but her features definitely tend more towards Asian. But I heard you say the girl’s reconstruction would be back later? I’d like to see it if I could. It might provide more clues.”
John nodded. “I’ll give you call right away. And thanks, Judith.”
As the pathologist walked his guest out Des took the opportunity to return to his lab, and the moment he exited the lift on the third floor Grace appeared, beckoning to him urgently.
“I’ve found a taggant!”
The forensic lead followed her quickly to her office and examined her analysis, nodding when he saw that she was right.
“Have you sourced it yet?”
The CSI smiled excitedly. On days like this she loved her job. Actually, if she was being honest she pretty much loved it all of the time.
“Yes. It came from a chemical manufacturing company in Omagh that supplies plastics’ factories and some other businesses.”
Des wanted more.
“I need you to pin it down exactly, Grace. We need every company and process that particular hydroxide is used in by the end of the day.”
She was well known in her family for loving a challenge so the CSI was certain that she could rise to the one she’d just been set.
****
Michaelson’s Chartered Surveyors and Land Agents. Bangor, County Down. 2 p.m.
Craig had had enough of the young man in front of them. Philip Michaelson’s repeated chant of, “client confidentiality” had been droning in his ears for the previous ten minutes, in a voice that possessed the pompousness of a Victorian surgeon without any of the educated charm. He’d had enough of being talked down to like that when he was a probationer P.C., so to halt further aural abuse the detective raised his palm sharply, in a manner that had successfully stopped lorries at roadblocks so it should definitely work here.
“Stop!”
The surveyor stopped, his eyes widening in shock. He recovered quickly and had just opened his mouth to speak again when Craig got in first.
“I have two queries and you will answer them, Mister Michaelson.”
The aperture widened another centimetre.
“Unless you wish to spend the rest of your day locked in a cell for obstructing police enquiries?”
When the mouth clamped shut Craig gave a nod.
“Good. I see we’re in agreement, so here’s my first question. Who appointed you to act for The Monmouth Consortium? And I don’t mean the secretary that phoned you.”
Liam could see the flag carrier for confidentiality about to object again and shook his head in warning.
“I wouldn’t, son. He turns green when he gets angry.”
It was a pop culture reference that none of the three missed, but Craig deferred his chuckle until another time. Whether the modernity of the reference had connected with the millennial surveyor’s Marvel Comics reared existence, or Liam instilled more fear than him, Craig detected a slight shrug of defeat and then ‘Confidentiality Man’ packed away his Lycra for another day.
“William Bruton.”
“And he is?”
They already knew but Craig just wanted to hear what he would say.
“A member of The Monmouth Consortium Board.” The superhero puffed out his chest importantly. “He’s also an MLA in the Energy Party.”
MLA is the acronym used for an elected Member of the Legislative Assembly, Northern Ireland’s parliament; it was often used to describe the politicians in less pleasant ways as well.
Craig frowned when he heard the name of the Bruton’s party. Maybe it was just coincidence but they were hearing an awful lot about energy nowadays.
“Good. Now, query number two. Tell us exactly what you told the foreman on the site regarding digging, and why.”
Michaelson feigned confusion, earning him a sigh and a tut from Liam followed by another warning gaze. It was sufficient to make the surveyor abandon his pretence and respond to the query, albeit with a grudging frown.
“I told Mister Kelly not to dig below the current floor level.” He hurried to explain. “But that was just sensible. Most of the floor has useful car-parking space below, so why would you want to dig into that?”
Liam signalled to ask a follow-up.
“But not the bit in the corner bordering Upper Queen Street. That bit was originally a cellar that had been filled in.”
Michaelson’s answer came reluctantly and with a shifty gaze.
“Yes… OK… but I probably just forgot to mention that.”
Craig shook his now-aching head. “If you’re covering for Mister Bruton, then please don’t be stupid. I very much doubt that he would do the same for you.”
The surveyor’s sudden display of fervour surprised him.
“He would! He’s family.”
Craig furrowed his brow. So the man in front of them was related to William ‘Billy’ Bruton MLA. He wasn’t sure what to make of the revelation, except that the size of their small country made nepotism if not exactly obligatory, far more common than it ought to be.
He parked the fact for another time and seized on another that the youth had just inadvertently revealed.
“So... Mister Bruton specifically ordered you to tell the foreman not to dig down.”
No answer.
“Didn’t that seem strange to you, as a surveyor?”
His defiant response confirmed what Craig had suspected.
“As long as it doesn’t contravene health and safety regulati
ons, the Board can instruct us in any way they see fit.”
“And you’re certain it was the whole Board and not just Mister Bruton giving the instruction?”
The confusion on the surveyor’s face said that anything more they got from him was unlikely to be of use, but Craig needed to be certain.
“Right, so Mister Bruton told you to instruct Dean Kelly not to dig down, and you believed that instruction was coming from the full Monmouth Consortium Board?”
Michaelson considered whether confirming the words would be disloyal, and deciding that it wouldn’t he nodded.
“So what do you believe might have been the reasoning behind that?”
Craig knew it was on the tip of the surveyor’s tongue to point out that he’d raised far more than two queries, but his superhero courage didn’t seem to extend to the risk of being rude.
“Money. If the builders were to dig out the floor and lay a new one it would add several days work to the project, plus materials. With a professional contracting crew you could be talking about several thousand pounds.”
It was plausible, but it didn’t ring true to either detective. Still, they weren’t going to get anything more useful from the man, so Liam dropped his scowl and with it his imaginary hand around Michaelson’s throat and they left the office and headed back to the car.
“You realise he’ll be on the phone to Billy Bruton by now.”
Craig shrugged. “There’s nothing we can do to stop him, short of locking him up. My hunch is it won’t matter. If Bruton knows something about those bodies he made his contingency plans a long time ago.”
They climbed into the car and Liam turned over the engine.
“So where next? Billy Bruton’s office?”
Craig shook his head, thinking for a moment before he replied. “No, let’s go back to the ranch. I want to know a lot more about Bruton before we interview him.” He took out his phone. “But I want an eye kept on him until we do.”
“One of ours?”
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