Touching the Dead

by Wendy Cartmell

  6

  Lindsay packed her bag as the students left the lecture hall. All around her was the chatter of 50 people eager to start the weekend. Fridays were a drag at the best of times but sitting through a dry lecture on psychology had made them yearn for the freedom the next two days off would give them. But Lindsay didn’t feel much like joining in.

  She slung the heavy bag over her shoulder and climbed the stairs to the exit. The large, steeply banked lecture theatre made her feel dizzy and her legs were weary from depression rather than tiredness. She was beginning to think she’d enrolled in the wrong course and it was getting her down. Criminology had fascinated her throughout her teenage years, and she was an avid watcher of CSI type detective and forensic tv shows. Expecting to be taught detection skills, as she wanted to join the police force upon graduation, instead she had been bombarded with psychology strands. She knew that that was an important part of the degree, but still… And on top of all that she was in her final year and had to decide what the subject of her dissertation was.

  As she passed through the foyer, there were free copies of the Chichester Argus, the local newspaper, on display, and she grabbed one. Maybe she could find something different to do this weekend, instead of the usual drink, drink and then drink some more. Even that aspect of university life was losing its appeal.

  Once at home, she dumped her stuff in her room and went into the kitchen, wrinkling her nose at the mess and smell. She threw open the windows and clicked the kettle on. Now the state of the house was starting to get her down as well. Perhaps a herbal tea would help, she decided. She took the mug of boiling water back to her room and popped in a bag of green tea from the stash in her cupboard.

  She lifted the local newspaper from her desk and put down the mug. As she turned the paper over to read what was on the front page, under the fold she found an article about a young woman found dead on the bank of the harbour at Bosham. There was scant information in the article, but it piqued Lindsay’s interest. There weren’t often murders in Chichester, a sleepy county town in West Sussex on the edge of the South Downs. The body hadn’t yet been identified it said, although it was hoped that a positive identification would be made in the next few days. The article had been written by the paper’s Crime Reporter, Archie Horne.

  Lindsay went to her computer and pulled up the Argus’ website and checked out Archie Horne. His picture suggested he was a few years older than her and his bio said he had joined the paper upon finishing his degree in journalism. He had curly black hair, a square jaw and was of Italian or Spanish heritage, if his olive skin was anything to go by. She tied her long dark hair back and reached for her mobile. Perhaps there was something interesting to do in this godforsaken town after all.

  Lindsay waited in the Costa Coffee for Archie the next morning. Unable to settle she checked her phone and started to chew her nails. Mentally slapping her hands down she checked her bag one more time. She had her pad, pen and copy of the paper. Her phone was fully charged so she could record any conversations. The trouble was she hadn’t been entirely honest with Archie when she’d phoned him. She’d led him to believe she could help with his coverage of the murder. Which was true because of her degree, but he’d drawn inference from their conversation that she had information on the crime. Well, that was his fault, not hers. Although she could have put him straight during their phone conversation and failed to.

  She sat straight backed at a small table for two and kept up her observation of the front door. She knew what he looked like from the paper’s website and she told him she had long, dark hair with a wide hair band holding it back from her face.

  A man walked in the door and scanned the crowd. As he caught sight of her by the window, she raised a hand and he smiled and made his way to her.

  ‘Lindsay?’

  ‘Yes, hi, Archie.’

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘No, no I’m good thanks.’

  ‘Okay, well, I’ll, um, just...’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, and he left to get himself a drink, bumping into several customers on the way. She wondered if he was always this bumbling. Didn’t reporters have to be incisive, determined, forceful? Oh well, maybe that was why he was at a local paper and not a national.

  ‘Hi.’ Archie appeared and cut through her train of thought. Sitting down he said, ‘Right, what do you know about this murder?’

  ‘Ah well,’ Lindsay had the grace to blush, ‘I might have given you the wrong impression.’

  His eyes hardened.

  ‘What I mean is I might not have any new information, but I can help with everything else.’

  ‘Everything else? I don’t need a junior, thanks,’ and he went to get up and leave.

  ‘I’m not a bloody junior,’ and Lindsay’s eyes blazed to match his own. ‘I’m a criminal psychologist.’

  Archie had the grace to go red and sit down again.

  7

  Charlie Flood left the house to do her shift at the Student Union bar. She wasn’t looking forward to it as much as she usually did. She hadn’t wanted to leave her girlfriend and it was cold and damp outside, the clouds threatening more rain. She was dressed rather too skimpily for that kind of inclement weather, but it got very hot behind the bar what with all the cooling equipment, and a few hundred bodies, that summer clothes were the order of the day, even in the middle of winter.

  The bar was crowded as usual. If anyone knew how to party, it was students. The noise was particularly bad as there was a local band playing. Heavy metal wasn’t Charlie’s bag and the noise made it hard to hear the orders. Those who waggled empty bottles at her, got served more quickly than people needing to shout in her ear about gin or vodka.

  Her boss pulled her to one side about 30 minutes before they were due to close. ‘Alright, Charlie?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she nodded grabbing a bottle of water from under the bar and chugging down half of it.

  ‘You seem a bit, I don’t know, off tonight, I suppose.’

  ‘No, I’m okay, just tired. Got an exam tomorrow and it’s on my mind, you know?’

  ‘Don’t I just. Look, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Let’s face it you normally are. One of the brainiest around I reckon.’

  ‘Ah, thanks for that, Stefan.’

  ‘No worries. Look I’m just going to change my tee-shirt. Some idiot bumped into me and drenched me in cider.’

  Charlie laughed. ‘I wondered what that smell was. I hadn’t taken you for a big drinker.’

  ‘No I’m not and definitely not at work. Be back in five.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Oy, Charlie!’ someone shouted, and she turned and went back to serve the thirsty customer.

  There wasn’t much time left before she could go home to Helen. But to do that she’d have to walk through a dark alleyway, a shortcut. To be honest it had always struck Charlie as a good place to be jumped, even in daylight, never mind the dark. But it would get her home quicker and that’s all Charlie cared about tonight. Maybe she’d knock this job on the head. Try and manage without the money. She’d talk to Helen when she got home. They’d make that decision together.

  ANUBIS

  Anubis, the God of Death, looked around his isolated lair and was satisfied with what he saw. He had spent many centuries, as the keeper of the souls for his Pharaoh masters. Even though they were long gone, his work would continue. His mission now was ridding the world of the unclean. Those not worthy of a place in heaven. Those who were destined to live in the underworld for all eternity.

  He had his instruments of torture.

  He had his scales and the all-important feather.

  He had his victim.

  ‘Do we really have to do this?’

  The voice made him pause. He hated that voice. The voice of reason. ‘Yes,’ he snapped, ‘we do.’

  ‘But this girl hasn’t done anything.’

  ‘Hasn’t done anything! How can you say that! She is a tart and a slut.’


  ‘Really? What evidence do you have?’

  ‘Evidence? Evidence? How dare you!’ By now Anubis was roaring. ‘Did you not see the clothes she was wearing? Did you not see that place of debauchery she works in?’

  The girl who was tied to the table, joined in the conversation. Calling for help. Asking him not to hurt her. Saying she’d do anything if only he wouldn’t kill her. Between her and his other self, they were beginning to get on Anubis’ nerves, so he lifted his cattle prod and gave her a blast. That stunned her and reduced her to small whimpers.

  To be accurate he didn’t use a cattle prod on her, but a picana. An electric prod, originally based on the cattle prod, but designed specifically for human torture. It worked at very high voltage and low current so as to maximize pain and minimize the physical marks left on the victim. It allowed him to localise the electric shocks to the most sensitive places on her body, where they caused intense pain that could be repeated many times.

  It was one of his most favoured possessions.

  ‘Must you use that awful thing?’

  ‘Look, butt out, will you? Leave me alone. Can’t you see I’m busy preparing the instruments that I’ll need for the procedure?’

  They were clean and sterilised and ready for him to wield his power as Guardian of the Scales. A power that made him invincible. No one could escape him and his particular brand of justice. His latest persona was one of the better ones that he had taken the mantle of over the years. A simple soul that no one would ever suspect was really someone other. Something other. The body had served him well so far and he hoped it would continue to do so for many more years to come. But only if he’d shut up. The objective of a physical body was to enable Anubis to remain on earth. He didn’t need lectures from some jumped up wimp.

  As he worked, he recalled the Jumilhac papyrus that recounts a tale where Anubis protected the body of Osiris from Set. Set attempted to attack the body of Osiris by transforming himself into a leopard. Anubis stopped and subdued Set, however, and he branded Set's skin with a hot iron rod. Anubis then flayed Set and wore his skin as a warning against evildoers who would desecrate the tombs of the dead. Priests who attended to the dead wore leopard skin in order to commemorate Anubis' victory over Set. The legend of Anubis branding the hide of Set in leopard form was used to explain how the leopard got its spots.

  Eventually he was ready. It was time.

  While the girl was still alive, he made the first cut from the bottom of her ribs to her belly button. He then made the further two incisions to make a ‘Y’. The girl lost consciousness once he started cutting through the fat and muscle on her chest to expose her ribs. It wasn’t surprising. She hadn’t been given anything to dull the pain. He folded open the skin and held it in place with clamps. Underneath the ribs he could see her heart, beating erratically, but still beating.

  He grinned. That was precisely what he had hoped for.

  As he watched, the beating became slower, jerky, faltering.

  He took the cutters necessary to open the ribs to give him access to the heart. That was the moment she died. Her heart couldn’t take any more shocks. With practiced movements he broke through the ribs, exposing her heart. He cut it out and for a moment held it in his hand, still warm, blood flowing over his fingers, wondering how such a small organ could be capable of keeping a body alive. Without a beating heart, a person was nothing. No one.

  He placed the heart in a container on the nearby table and took a moment to clean himself up, before moving onto the next stage.

  BIG, BAD WOLF.

  Anubis stopped. Big, bad wolf? Where had that come from? ‘Was that you?’ he snapped.

  ‘Nope, not me. I wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Good, glad to hear it.’

  Anubis looked around the chamber. He was alone with the dead body of the girl. There was no one else there.

  He shrugged and carried on with his work.

  8

  ‘We’ve got an ID, Guv,’ called Judith. ‘Bill’s just sent through the report.’

  Jo and Eddie came out of her office, where they had been researching Anubis, the idea being that the more they knew about the Egyptian God, the better to understand their killer. However, Jo wasn’t sure it was helping at all. All it was serving to do was to creep the two of them out.

  ‘There she is,’ Judith pulled up a picture of a young woman with black hair cut in a Vidal Sassoon sharp bob. ‘Alison Rudd.’

  ‘Her hair,’ said Byrd, ‘it’s just like in the Egyptian pictures.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what attracts him, the sharply cut black hair,’ agreed Judith.

  ‘How come Bill found her?’

  ‘Fingerprints,’ said Judith, skim reading the report. ‘It seems she was arrested when she was a teenager. Nothing major, possession of marijuana, drunk and disorderly. Looks like she was a bit of a rebel at one stage. She is also the subject of a missing persons alert.’

  ‘What did she do for work?’

  ‘Worked in the accounts department of a local high school.’

  ‘Not so glamorous, nor rebellious,’ said Byrd.

  ‘Seems she saw the error of her earlier ways,’ said Jo.

  ‘So in that case, where did she meet our killer?’

  ‘That’s the million-dollar question, Byrd. Come on, let’s try and find out. Judith, are there any details on her living arrangements in the missing person’s file?’

  ‘Yeah, there’s a flat mate called Daniel Tate.’

  ‘Great, let’s hope he’ll be there to let us in. And get contact details for her parents from the mis per file. If they’re in the area we’ll see them while we’re out, if not arrange for the local police to inform them, will you?’

  ‘Boss,’ agreed Judith and turned back to her computer.

  It was only a short drive to Alison’s flat. Jo said little on the way there, lost in her thoughts of Egyptian hieroglyphics and sharply cut black hair. Her hand strayed to her own hair, as usual put up with a large clip, as usual a bloody mess. But let’s face it who had the time to diligently blow dry their hair and the money to look after it with lots of expensive products. Alison Rudd, obviously.

  They pulled up opposite a purpose-built block of flats on the edge of Chichester. They both got out and Jo wrapped her tweed wool coat around her as a gust of cold wind hit them head on. ‘What number, Byrd?’

  ‘202 – so I’m guessing second floor.’

  They ran across the road during a brief break in the traffic. The door to the lobby opened under Jo’s hand and she raised her eyebrows at Byrd. So much for a secure entrance.

  ‘Steps or lift?’ Byrd asked.

  Jo looked at him.

  ‘Steps it is then.’

  ‘Really, Byrd, I thought you’d know better than to ask,’ she said as they reached the first floor. ‘You know I hate lifts. And anyway steps are better if you’re interested in burning calories.’

  Mind you, Jo wasn’t so much, as she was slender. The pressures of being a DI were better than any slimming plan.

  They arrived at the door of 202 and could hear noises coming from within.

  ‘Sounds like the TV,’ said Byrd. ‘Looks like we’re in luck.’

  His knock was answered by a young man with tousled hair, wearing jeans and a green rugby shirt with a white collar. Jo wasn’t sure if the hair was some sort of trendy style, or he hadn’t bothered to brush it that morning. Jo and Byrd held up their identification and he seemed taken aback to find two police officers on the doorstep.

  Jo introduced herself and Byrd and then said, ‘And your name is?’

  ‘Daniel Tate. I live here.’

  Ah, he’s on the defensive already, Jo thought.

  ‘Do you know Alison Rudd?’

  ‘Yes, she’s my flat mate. Why?’

  ‘I think it’s best we come in, sir.’ Byrd pushed the door open wider and didn’t give Daniel a chance to object.

  Tate stepped back, and as Jo walked into the flat, her hand brushed again
st Tate’s bare forearm.

  She saw red. Literally. The colour filled her head.

  Her steps faltered and she almost toppled over, having to grab the back of the sofa to keep upright. But then the fleeting feeling passed as quickly as it arrived. Jo was left wondering what the red indicated. Blood? Anger? Rage? But whatever it signified, she was left with an overwhelming feeling of menace.

  They were in a living room, in the centre of the flat, with doors off on either side, all of which were closed. Picture windows opposite where they stood gave a good view of the city scape.

  ‘Can you confirm this is a picture of Alison Rudd?’ Jo asked and held out her mobile to him.

  Tate squinted at it. ‘Yes, yes, that’s her. Why?’

  Jo ignored his question. ‘So you share a flat with her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Together, as in partners?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. I just happened to apply when Alison had an empty room and she chose me. Maybe she wanted a man around to fix stuff, or for security, you know?’ Daniel put his hands in the pockets of his jeans, almost as if he were deliberately trying to look nonchalant. ‘Look, what’s this all about?’

  Jo answered his question with another of her own. ‘Is that you then? Know DIY do you?’

  ‘Not so much, no.’

  ‘How about self-defence?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well if Alison wanted you for security, wouldn’t she have been interested in someone who had some sort of martial arts training?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ he shrugged.

  ‘What do you know about then?’

  ‘Well I could pay three months’ rent in advance. I reckon she needed the money.’

  Daniel Tate sat down but didn’t offer Jo a seat. She took one anyway, leaving Byrd roaming the room. Tate ran his hands through his hair, making it look even worse than it already was. If that were possible.