“I know guv, no ginger nuts.”
He rubbed the already-growing shadow on his otherwise unblemished face, slumped down into his black leather chair and sighed.
“Come on Jack, bring the sexy back to London before I throw myself into one of those rivers.” A voice called across the office. It was Payne.
“Jason, bring your notebook and a pen. We’ve got a case to look at!”
“Coming, guv. What is it?”
“Looks like another knife-point robbery gone wrong.”
“Bloody hell. I thought we’d finished looking at those?”
“Well then, you thought wrong.”
Chapter Fourteen
Westminster Public Mortuary, London
“So, why did they send you along Jason? Seems a bit high-handed, you know, sending a DCI to do a DC’s job?”
Dexter Hodgkinson was as mild-mannered as they came, forty-two, yesterday as it happened, and ever-so-slightly hung over from the night before. He was also ever-so-slightly overweight, by around a few stone, according to his adoring wife Josie, who rarely saw him since the state-of-the-art mortuary had opened.
“You know how it is Dex? The job always sends its very best to deal with something suspicious. And the governor said this was suspicious. So, here I am.”
Hodgkinson swept his needed-a-cut Albino-blond hair out of his equally pale eyes.
“Have you met Jacqui?”
“No, I haven’t. Hello Jacqui, Jason Roberts, DCI from the Yard. Here because they sent me.”
“Good morning Jason. Jacqueline Clarke, I’m the APT. Pleasure to meet you. Here because I love working with Dexter.”
The anatomical pathology technologist was the right-hand person to any pathologist, and Clarke was busy reconstructing the body of a female; she had very dark, bitter chocolate-coloured skin which shone in the bright forensic lighting and was almost perfect but for the myriad lighter-coloured marks on her breasts and the large, long Y-shaped incision that ran down the front of her torso.
Her hair was short, tight braids shortened it more. Her teeth were arctic white, large and straight with perfectly spaced gaps. Her eyes were brown, lighter than her skin but an autumnal brown surrounded by a pool of pure healthy white.
Her head lay on the plinth, stitched back together. All of the organs that had been removed and examined had been carefully placed back inside her. There had been little need to take tissue samples as the cause of death was obvious – however, they still did.
“Your detective constable ever been here before?” Hodgkinson asked, looking at the younger officer, stood outside the room.
“No. Can you do the grand tour whilst I pontificate?”
“It would be my pleasure.” He waved to Andy West, a new addition to the team. Blond, grey eyes and well built. Judo black belt and recently married. “Come on in.”
Hodgkinson moved easily for a large man, would probably have been a great ballroom dancer if he ever had the time or the inclination.
“These facilities are among some of the very best in the world Andrew. We can store up to one hundred and two bodies. We’ve got top class bio-hazard systems here and some of the most exciting equipment – we can even tell the trajectory of a bullet by using latest technology X-ray machines.”
“Do you like working here, sir?”
“I do and don’t call me sir. Everyone calls me Dexter or Dex. Dexter the Forensic Pathologist. Keep me on side Andrew and I’ll make your future policing life a whole lot easier. Now, I take it you’ve seen a post-mortem before?”
“No sir. I haven’t yet, which is odd for a detective, but I’ve specialised from an early stage in my career, so I guess I missed out. If I’m honest, it’s not something I find very captivating.”
“No, me neither, can’t abide the bloody things but they pay the bills! Anyway, you’ve missed this one.”
West theatrically wiped his brow.
“I can summarise for you, seeing as though you are late to the party. First, we photograph the body, inch by inch, you’d be amazed how easy it is to miss something. Better to get it right now than suffer in court as an expert witness!”
“Now that is something I can vouch for,” said Roberts grimacing. “Bloody awful feeling being grilled by an appeal judge.”
“Happened to me on the last murder. Now, where were we? Photographed, clothed and stripped, clothes bagged, exhibited, then we X-ray – in this case it told a thousand tales. Then we take samples, blood and vitreous fluid – that’s from the eyes Andy. If you are looking for a reliable cause of death, they are indeed the window to the soul. Drugs or alcohol? The eyes have it.”
West was making mental notes as Roberts checked a text that had arrived.
Dex continued – he loved an audience. “Then comes the Y-shaped incision so often seen in TV and films. They always get the bloody thing wrong though. We use shears to peel back the skin and reveal the rib cage. It’s not as messy as you’d think as most of the blood has settled, if gravity has played its part. The cut goes from the shoulders down to the sternum. I always use the Y, some go for a T-shape. We are a weird lot, we do love our shapes!” He laughed. Black humour indeed.
West was transfixed. This was a one-to-one lesson he’d never forget.
“OK, now comes the part that most people like to pretend doesn’t actually happen. I cut the rib cage using a power saw, then lift it out to expose the organs, sometimes they are intact, in situ, but a murder or a violent accident can re-arrange them like a poorly presented cooked breakfast – the sausage is where the bacon should be and the beans are scattered everywhere about the plate. And oh lordy who put the liver over there?”
West began to feel nauseous. His top lip started to sweat.
“You OK? Want me to carry on?”
“Yeah absolutely. Fascinating.” He was actually pleased he didn’t have to watch it for real, the description was bad enough.
“At this point we take a sample of blood from the heart. Then I surgically remove the organs, slowly, deliberately, taking tissue samples. In this girl’s case you can say that the enormous wound in her abdomen killed her, but was she already dead when they did what they did? I’ll be the judge. Now, this bit will fascinate you.”
“I’m not sure I can wait.”
“You look a little green round the gills old son. Need some air?”
“Nope. Not at all.”
“Fine. This lady is a Jane Doe as the Americans call them – actually we Brits first coined that phrase years ago but I tend to go by ‘deceased female’. So, we still need to think about identifying her at some point. DNA is of course a huge leap forward, but the good old fingerprint still plays a part. But sometimes it’s bloody awkward trying to fingerprint someone whose been dead a while. Pay attention. I remove the skin from her hand and wear it like a glove across my own surgical glove, then fingerprint myself – as it were. Genius don’t you think?”
“If not a little macabre, Dex?” Roberts was becoming nauseous too, a devout vegetarian he was also hungry and the two activities weren’t mixing well. “Can we hit fast forward?”
“Of course. I bag up the organs, cut off the skullcap, remove the brain, treat it with formalin, take a sample, pop it in a large jar, label it, drop the organs back into the chest cavity, re-attach the ribs, pop the skull back together, Jackie sews the Y up, does her thing with her bits and bobs and Robert, as they say, is your mother’s brother.” He clapped his hands together indicating he’d finished.
West had just about heard enough. “A real shame I missed it, perhaps another time?”
Dex laughed, looking at Roberts who appeared more distracted than normal.
“Everything OK Jason?”
“You know how it is Doc.”
“No, Jason I don’t or I wouldn’t have bloody well asked!”
“Between us, Doc, I’ve got a new boss. Steve Payne.”
Clarke’s eyes rolled heavenwards, and she pulled a face that mimed what her boss wa
s thinking and about to say.
“Ah, I see. Which one Constant or Nagging?” He laughed as he perused the female lying on the table in front of him.
“Nagging.”
“Oh dear. Still, they don’t hang around forever. Pace yourself, he’ll piss off in six months – go and annoy someone else. That’s what they do.”
“One can but hope.”
“Indeed. Now my APT here normally does a world-class job of putting these dear people back together for the family, but sadly unless you know otherwise this little lady doesn’t appear to have one.”
“Can I ask?” West was transfixed with the markings on the girl’s face and body.
It was Clarke who answered.
“Fascinating, aren’t they? I’ve seen some far more spectacular than that Andy. It’s called scarification. Taboo to some, horrific even, but to many of the tribes in West Africa – and other regions of that continent – they are seen as a thing of beauty. I actually find them to be rather stunning.”
“They have these, rather than a tattoo?”
“Yes, these are literally much deeper than a tattoo and bizarrely I’m told from my studies that they hurt less as they pierce beneath the epidermis – the bit that bloody hurts. I’ve seen entire faces disfigured or beautified, depending on which side of the fence you sit. This young lady is indeed relatively young, hence the lack of more advanced scarring on her torso. My guess, and it’s an educated one is that she’s from Sierra Leone, or Guinea, Liberia, somewhere of that nature.”
“You can be that specific?” West was impressed.
“DC West you are looking at one of the UK’s most knowledgeable minds on the subject, she is very well connected to that part of the world and she is not just a pretty face! And, if that wasn’t enough, she is an expert pharmacologist. Drugs and all that sort of thing!” Hodgkinson boomed with complete delight, always looking to share his partner’s skills with anyone who would show an interest.
“Thanks, Dex.” She had a radiant smile. “Yes scarring or what some prefer to call body modification is a significant part of many African cultures. You wear a badge that denotes you as being in the Met Police, further south it’s Kent Police – same species, different area. In ancient African culture a name alone was often not seen as a suitable identification. The scarring techniques developed, to the point where one tribe can tell where another hails from, including their ethnic group, sub-ethnic group and even a particular household. Amazing isn’t it?”
“Absolutely.” West looked at the girl through different eyes. Speculated where she was from. “So in time you could drill down to a country?”
“In time I could drill down to a family. Have you seen the scarring on her back?”
She rolled the girl onto her side. A mosaic of horizontal and diagonal lines created a pattern the likes of which neither man had ever seen before.
“Have you any idea who her family might be?”
Roberts interjected. “At this stage we’ve got no idea. Hackney area are holding the murder file, I’ve been asked to step in and see what my team can do. I’m told it’s a knife-point robbery gone wrong. So, in your expert opinion, what was the cause of death?”
“Well, I’m not an expert but I’d say the hideous hole in her torso Jason. Brutal home surgery if ever I’ve seen it. The fact that someone has sliced through her abdominal aorta didn’t help. She’d have had minutes at best without incredible luck and immediate first aid and then only if the responder knew what they were doing.”
Roberts frowned. “Caesarean of some sort? Surely not?”
“God knows, nothing as routine as that.”
“What then?”
“Well, I’m not a betting man but this is not a conventional assault wound. You know a stabbing or a shotgun. She has some lower-level marks of violence, a split on her lip, some tape marking on her face, a bruise on each wrist and look down there, a couple on each shin too. My guess would be that this poor thing was held down. Someone, somewhere has had a good old furtle about inside this young lady, hence the void we found when they brought her in, and that explains the call to the Yard, and the subject matter experts!”
“Hardly Mr. T…”
“You do yourself no favours at times my boy. Play to your strengths. I remember when you and the northern chap first looked at a dead Romanian kid, everyone dismissed it as just another murder. Not you, you took it personally…you studied him.”
“You mean Jack Cade?”
“That’s him. I liked him a lot. Great attitude towards both the living and the dead. He liked a chat with them as much as I did.”
“Well, he’s back. And I was about to start working on something new with him when Nagging threw this lady at me. Back to knife-points I guess.”
“DC West, cover your ears a second.” The pathologist took on a fatherly persona.
“Now look here DCI Roberts, unless you want my boot up your arse, you’ll lift those shoulders and open your bloody eyes.”
Roberts knew when to toe the line.
“Bollocking accepted boss. What have I missed?” He straightened up, aware of his audience.
“Those.” Hodgkinson pointed to the exhibits; small items of property found on the body that had been missed in the initial sweep of the scene.
“You are gloved up so go and take a look. You’ll be impressed at my treasure hunting skills.”
Roberts ran his fingertips through the blood-soaked mush that lay on the surgical dish until he spotted something familiar.
“Cocaine? Condoms of cocaine. In her stomach? So that is what this is all about? She’s a body packer? Did they rupture, causing heart failure?”
“Nice try. Try again. Join in Andy. Not you Jacqui, that would be unfair as you know the answer, having found the clue…”
Roberts stared at the girl, trying to clear his head.
“OK, so you found some condoms filled with cocaine but you are telling me that they didn’t kill her and therefore weren’t in her gastric system?”
“Nice. Come on, you know the game, ask, ask and ask again.”
“Right, so the cocaine was added to her body – after her death?”
“Ooh, so close…”
West spoke, unsure whether he might be ridiculed by the more experienced staff.
“They stuffed her full of coke to throw us off the scent. Whatever that scent was it was worth more than coke…?”
“Bingo! You my lad will go far.” He pointed to the second surgical tray.
“Look closer at that and you will find the ones they missed.”
Roberts and West leant forward, almost theatrically, bowing towards the tray. Hodgkinson passed a disposable wooden spatula to the younger officer. “Be my guest, you’ll be seizing them, anyway.”
“Jesus boss look at this.” He looked at the pathologist. “Can I pick one up?”
“Do what you like for me Andrew, you’ve got gloves on, just don’t run away with it!”
West picked the first one up.
Roberts did the same.
“Bloody hell. Would you look at that?”
“Indeed.” The Path’ looked at both men and smiled. “What you each have between your thumb, forefinger and eyeball is quite literally a blood diamond. Conflict diamond, call it what you will. I’m guessing you know all about them?”
“Honestly Doc, no, not as much as you’d imagine. I know they originate in Africa, became a problem about twenty years ago after a civil war in one of the West African nations…about right?”
“If you wish to leave it that broad. You see just like this young lady those diamonds come from Sierra Leone, the Congo, Angola, take your pick really. What you hold there between your sweating fingers is indeed a diamond, and a sizeable one, mined in a war zone – and sold to finance that war. Thousands of men, women and children are used to literally dig these out of the ground, from gravel and mud and sand, along river banks, wherever they can find them.”
Roberts was mesmerized
. “I could give this to my young lady at home and she’d be nonplussed. Not exactly stunning is it?”
“Not yet no. But at that size they are worth a lot of money.” Clarke was back, leading from the front, West and Central Africa being her ‘thing’.
“The trade is beyond brutal but I guess neither of you know much about it? And that’s normal. There are diamond fields near Zimbabwe that military groups run, where those that don’t mine are beaten or killed. I read a report not long ago that highlighted how a helicopter gunship was used to murder hundreds of civilians. And it’s not just limited to diamonds, mineral ores, in fact anything that has a use at the higher end can be considered a conflict commodity.”
“OK. Whilst we know she was carrying conflict diamonds inside her. It leaves a few questions to answer. How did they get there? Who put them there? And why?” Roberts was staring at the brilliant white ceiling, thinking out loud.
“You missed one. Who took them out?” Clarke smiled with a shrug.
“And where are they now, guv?” West added.
“Right. Andy, I want this lot bagging up and exhibiting and for God’s sake let’s make sure we get them secured. It would seem in this young lady’s case diamonds were most certainly not a girl’s best friend.”
“Whose friend are they really Jason? It’s a cruel industry at times. There’s a place in Namibia they called the Forbidden Zone. One hundred and eighty miles of beach where the Orange River sweeps diamonds downstream from Lesotho and a place called Kimberley – the most famous place to find diamonds on planet earth. And before they head out to sea they are mined.”
The two cops were genuinely interested; other than seeing the finished product in a jeweller’s window on a panic-buying Christmas Eve they had never really considered the start of the journey. But then who really ever did?
“I’m told that since 1936 they’ve never allowed a vehicle out of the Zone in case somewhere, secret, a diamond is hidden. Just one. They even stopped people having pet pigeons, as on one occasion an owner fashioned a jacket, attached it to the poor thing and hoped it ended up at his place, diamond intact, stuffed inside the jacket.”
The Angel of Whitehall Page 12
