by Ali Carter
“There’s been a suspicious death sir, but I’m afraid I can’t say any more than that at the moment.” Walker wasn’t going to make any more mistakes that day. Andrew nodded politely and murmured his appreciation of the officer’s position.
“Is Harry Longbridge on scene by any chance?” He stared straight ahead though the windscreen towards Josie’s cottage.
“Yes sir, Mr. Longbridge is leading the investigation.”
“Ah good, that’s good. He’ll be pleased I’m here then,” he said matter-of-factly looking at his watch in feigned hurriedness. “We’ve talked at length regarding the first victim, I’d better get inside. I take it he’s already in the house?” Andrew now looked assertively at Joe, straight in the eyes, and saw unease hover there. “He’ll not want to wait for this,” he said patting a folder of sports column notes that sat on the passenger seat. “I’ve managed to collate it all now.” Joe weighed up the pros and cons of his boss not getting the information he wanted quickly enough, versus him letting non-constabulary through the cordon. What was that the Guvnor had said though? There is always more evidence he just had to look for it? Joe relaxed, straightened up and gesticulated to his colleagues ahead as he waved Andrew on through. Once he’d driven past the youngest officer on the squad a wry smile crept to his lips as he shook his head in sheer disbelief – amazing how that one always worked – every single time!
A dried, dark red ‘BITCH’, was scrawled in two feet high letters on the wall opposite the bed. It was enough to disturb anyone’s steel resolve, even Harry’s. He’d met some sickos in his time, but to use a freshly bloodied corpse as an ink pot was a bit ripe. It was also indicative of the murderer becoming less concerned about the length of time they spent at the scene, the strength of their anger, and their twisted mental and emotional state.
The flies were everywhere as were the forensic guys. White overalls collected fingerprints and carefully lifted papers, clothes and other items with gloved hands and long tweezers. The body had already been photographed, and a meat wagon been requested and despatched out to the house to transfer it to Kirkdale General’s morgue. Harry stood beside the bed that held Josie Kinkade for the last time as the police surgeon examined her.
“Nasty business this Harry, I’ve never had to deal with anything like it in the Lakes, not ever.”
“Tell me about it, I thought I’d come up here for an easy last few years. London was a playground of naughty kids compared to this. We still need to talk to the landlord – he seems to have gone AWOL.”
She ran a hand round the back of her neck, beads of perspiration broke out on her face. “Phew, it’s warm in here for an old place isn’t it?” She swiped irritably at a fly that buzzed past her ear. Harry nodded and ‘hmmed’ in agreement, he’d already discovered why.
“O-kayyy time of death somewhere between thirty-six and forty-eight hours ago, ’fraid I can’t be more precise than that. Rigor’s been and gone, she’s cold right through, we’ve got flies…” she swatted the air again… “and new eggs in the wound,” then pointed to a crop of white dots. “The coroner will fill you in on anything else.” She pulled off her latex gloves, sealed them in a plastic bag, dropped them into her case and snapped it shut.
As she picked it up to go, she sensed he was about to ask a question. Harry’s eyes had narrowed, his right hand pulled on his chin as he glanced from Josie to the wall and back again, studying the length of arterial spray from her chest. Shorter bursts than he would have expected from such a large entry wound, but almost identical to that of the other two bodies. What the hell had been used to create that puncture? That’s what it looked like, a form of deep, very wide puncture. They all looked like that. Not a knife, it was definitely not a stab wound. Well, not unless the murderer had spent a good deal of time gouging huge circles and removing lumps of… he shuddered. Maybe he was getting too old for this job.
The doc began to sigh impatiently. Harry looked back at her. She raised her eyebrows, her face twitched in hurried expectation as she waited for his comment.
“The coroner’s reports on the first three victims confirmed the use of chloroform. They also discovered traces of material embedded in the tissues, which would be understandable considering they were dressed at the time.” He pointed at Josie who was clearly naked. “Yet the distance of blood spray here was still short, even with no material, no jacket or even a thickish top to partially stem the spurts. The sheets are obviously saturated with the victim’s blood, but that’s mainly beneath her from continuous loss, not distant, not just from the initial point of attack.” Harry waited as the doctor considered his observations. She looked back at the bed.
“Well, I would say either the chloroform almost killed her, which would’ve reduced the blood pressure enough to create shorter bursts of arterial spray, or it had killed her, in which case the heart would have stopped pumping altogether prior to the external trauma, which would give the same result.” Harry nodded and thought for a moment.
“What if only a small quantity of anaesthetic was used and she was still half-conscious before the trauma occurred? Wouldn’t some sort of material be needed to cover the chest before weapon impact to help reduce initial blood spray?”
A pause… “Yes, probably, I – I would think so,” she agreed turning to look at Harry. “Have you found any type of cloth with a hole in it that would match the opening in her chest?”
“No. No I haven’t,” he replied. She looked at her watch now as if late for another appointment.
“You’ll need to get any finer details from the coroner I’m afraid, I really do have to go.”
Harry looked back at the girl on the bed. He was approaching the end of thirty years in the service, known down South precisely for his detail, for nailing the really tricky ones – but this? This was another kettle of fish altogether. This was straight out of a blockbuster, a nasty one at that, one he began to think he might not solve before his golden handshake. Christmas was only three months away and Harry could see himself retiring on a bum note. He heard an impatient sigh and looked up. This police surgeon really did look like she needed to be elsewhere.
“Thanks doc, I appreciate you coming out straightaway, I know it’s not usually your call.” He offered his hand and she shook it briefly before turning to leave the room.
“No problem, no problem at all,” replied Charlotte.
TWENTY-THREE
Harry wondered if the drugs had any link to her death, or whether that was simply a coincidence. It was certainly unlikely they’d have found this little ‘hot house’ anytime soon, the semi-detached cottage was an unlikely venue for a trafficker even if it was only ‘C’ class drugs. With the amount of shrubbery in that bedroom, this vet had been cutting off more than the local dogs’ bollocks.
According to neighbours, the owners of the adjacent house lived in South London and had bought the property as a holiday retreat. It was just one blow after another with this case, even basic local contact was unavailable.
A movement outside caught his eye and he looked up from the contents of a dressing table drawer. Members of the SOCO team continued to work around him. He walked over to the window and scowled deeply at the sight of Andrew Gale, notebook open and pen in hand. He seemed to be in deep conversation with one of his men. Now how would our Mr. Gale have known anything about Ms. Kinkade? It hasn’t even hit the media yet. The only reason the police were called in was because the milkman noticed broken glass in the kitchen door and two days’ bottles on the step.
Harry began to feel the familiar rise of angry frustration mingled with the development of a light head and grumbling stomach. He instinctively moved to throw open the sash frame and give Andrew a piece of his mind, only to stop seconds before a surprised SOCO officer had intercepted him. The window area still needed to be dusted for prints, and Harry’s personal irritation had momentarily made him forget official procedure – somethi
ng he never did. This hypoglycaemia thing really had started to get to him.
He mumbled a barely audible apology to the surprised officer, apologies being a rarity, as he realised what he’d nearly jeopardised. Turning sharply, he began to head for the door when he was brought up short as he noticed something else – an unadorned right ear. The red message on the wall opposite the door had taken his immediate attention on entering the room. The bed was positioned behind the door. Now on the opposite side of the body he could see there was an earring missing, and the stud in her left ear matched the one he’d found outside the kitchen door. Damn! Not the killer’s then, he thought – frustrated yet again. It seemed what he’d initially believed was the first real piece of evidence in this case, was in fact the victim’s own property. Most likely it had worked its way loose and just fallen out.
Harry disappeared down the staircase and out into the street already wired…
“… but can you at least tell me if…?”
“Mis-ter Gale!” Harry Longbridge stood in the front doorway hands on hips, his voice at yelling pitch. “How the hell did you get through my cordon?!” Andrew’s covert glance led to the youngest member of the Longbridge team. PC Joe Walker swallowed hard, eyes first looked upwards then down to his boots, then sideways, both directions, before he finally had to look at his boss. Feeling guilty, Andrew interjected.
“Come on Longbridge it wasn’t his fault, he’s only a kid, I told him I’d got some information you were expecting. I was just about to come into the house. He wasn’t to know.”
“Were you? And just why are you here at this murder scene as well Mr. Gale? Hmm?! Considering nobody is aware of this latest victim – apart from the perpetrator of course?” Then in delayed realisation added loudly, “And it’s DCI Longbridge to you and don’t tell me how to deal with my damned officers!”
“Actually I…” began Andrew.
“Damn bloody funny if you ask me! Feeling extra protective of this unfortunate woman as well are you?” Harry flung his arms towards the open front door. Andrew smarted then. Why did this ex-London cop always refer to murder as unfortunate, was it a Southern thing? He decided he may as well tell him now – how he came to know her.
“Look – Josie came to me at the paper after Rachel’s death. She read the article I ran in the Courier and told me…” he hesitated. If there was any mention of Miles meeting Rachel in the pub Longbridge would jump at it, yet he knew Peterson wasn’t the killer, “… . She told me she’d seen Rach three days before the murder, in the Carpenters Arms. She was very upset but said she couldn’t go to the police with anything. She refused to tell me why.” Harry ran a tongue around the inside of his top lip in thought as he eyed him closely. Well that made sense at least, he thought, considering what’s just been discovered inside that cottage. However, maybe Gale here was a customer. Maybe he’d just turned up to cut a deal.
“Let’s go inside Mr. Gale – I’d like to have a chat.” He extended an arm. Andrew was more than a little surprised at Longbridge’s invitation, but walked ahead of the policeman who followed him into the cottage. In the little hall Andrew stopped, not knowing which way to go. Harry gestured for him to turn right, into the lounge and they both sat down.
Andrew had not seemed familiar with the property so… thought Longbridge…maybe he hasn’t been here. Harry watched as Andrew wrinkled his nose, turned his head from side to side then lifted his chin to sniff the air. Andrew narrowed his eyes like he was trying to work out something…
“Anything wrong?” asked the detective. “Apart from…” he glanced up at the ceiling – “The obvious.”
“It’s that… smell. I think it’s… it smells like… cannabis. Did she – Josie – did she smoke weed?”
“And how would you know what that smells like?” replied Longbridge sarcastically. Andrew hesitated, then realised it hardly mattered now.
“I think Rachel sometimes indulged, I noticed it occasionally but never said anything. It was all tied up with her unhappiness, the failed marriage through her cheating husband three years ago, the endless unsuitable – ‘boyfriends’.” He made air quotation marks in disparaging inference of the men who’d littered her ‘post-divorce’ life. Harry thought for a moment.
“Nothing I indicate here is to reach that newspaper of yours until I say so. Deal?”
“Deal,” agreed Andrew, surprised at what felt like Harry’s slight change of heart regarding reporters, especially him. He hoped it meant he was going to get some inside information.
“Miss Kinkade was a drug dealer. Nothing major, not heroin or cocaine, but she had a fair little cannabis emporium up there.” He looked back up at the ceiling again. “I take it you knew nothing of this?” Andrew’s eyes widened in surprise – this was why Rachel had been friends with Josie.
“No. I definitely did not. I didn’t actually know her, not really, I just promised to let her know if… if I found out any…thing…” Andrew paused as he realised where this was heading… “Found out anything about Rachel’s killer,” he finished awkwardly. There, he’d admitted it now; he was trying to do this police officer’s job for him. Andrew waited for the fall out.
“Mis-ter Gale…” Harry sat forward elbows on his knees. “I realise that from some form of misguided loyalty you want to play detec–“ Andrew stiffened.
“There’s nothing misguided about my loyalty.” His tone was firm, unwavering. “Rachel just needed a friend at the end of the day. I feel I owe it to her to show that at least someone genuinely cared, that they would fight her corner, even if it was only platonic. I intend to fight her corner.” Harry studied this young man opposite him and realised he probably wasn’t going to go away anytime soon. He reminded him of himself thirty years ago, bull dogmatic, tenacious and downright bloody-minded. He probably had the makings of a damned fine officer. A smile began to tickle the sides of his mouth. He stopped it immediately.
“Maybe you’re just in the wrong profession Mr. Gale, but for now you are a newspaper reporter not a police officer. I would appreciate it if you’d remember that.” Andrew remained silent and tight-lipped. Harry could feel his head beginning to swim, hunger now beginning to eat through his stomach. He began to fidget, rubbed his tired eyes and looked about him agitatedly for a ‘grub runner’. Andrew noticed and immediately cottoned on. His father was diabetic and the signs were pretty much identical. He reached into his pocket and produced a KitKat. Chocolate being Andrew’s other great ‘foody’ love apart from fresh Italian coffee, he always had some form of confectionary on him. Harry’s eyes lit up in appreciation and he leant forward to receive it. As he peeled off that wrapper and broke the biscuit along its length, there was a definite feel of a temporary truce in the air. Harry snapped the chocolate stick in half, popped a piece in his mouth and developed a resigned lopsided smile as he chewed. This lad had good intuition as well, right now he’d be worth ten of his current crew – Pity that he thought, swallowing.
Charlotte Peterson had driven away from Josie’s cottage, back across the bridge and down the road before detailed thought hit. She’d just held a thorough ETD (estimated time of death) conversation with a senior police officer, and coolly conducted the official medical examination of her latest victim, in the girl’s own bedroom. The familiar hysterical twitch tugged at the corners of her mouth. Well, she’d reasoned to herself, considering that was where I’d despatched her, she could hardly be anywhere else really could she?
Charlotte had emitted a tight high-pitched laugh as she’d scrabbled in the parcel shelf for her lighter and cigarettes. One-handed, she’d lit up and inhaled as Andrew Gale had approached and passed her from the opposite direction. Her more distinctive maroon and silver Morgan had been left at work and the surgery Range Rover used instead, but despite his different car, there was no mistaking that young man’s clean boyish good looks. The appealing Hugh Grant fringe and his more than a passing resemblance t
o actor Richard Armitage was quite unmistakable. She’d rather liked him as Guy of Gisborne a few years back she thought smiling – then quickly brought herself back from her little lust fix…
There’d been nowhere else for him to go other than across the bridge, it was a dead end and harboured only four cottages, three of which were usually holiday rentals. It meant he must have been going to the dead vet’s place – but why? Surely the news couldn’t have reached the Courier yet?
Charlotte tapped the cigarette into the ashtray, quickly inhaled again and narrowed her eyes. The receptionist Gina Rowlands was back from a week’s holiday and knew she’d been called out to do an ETD… and where the location was. Those two were an item – one that had taken no notice of warnings so far. She and Gale were also friends with that pretty little barmaid, who’d up till now, inconveniently avoided ‘removal’. Yes – that much she’d gathered when she’d overheard Gina’s recent mobile conversation in the surgery ladies, plus a whole lot more – and both of them could turn a man’s head. She winced at that last realisation…
Andrew hadn’t noticed her, she was sure of that, but as she continued on towards town, she mentally marked his card too – a shame really as he was so cute. It appeared graffiti warnings and a ransacked flat were not enough to put Mr. Gale & Co. off the scent. Despite their complete and utter amateur detection work, it seemed those three needed upgrading. This time there must be no avoiding their promotion – up the List.
TWENTY-FOUR
New York
Emily Stone’s outstretched hand held the last crime thriller manuscript of the day. Thirty odd titles already screened by half the editorial team and pruned down from almost two hundred had swum about her large oak desk for most of the afternoon. Now tired, her hand hovered over the slush pile for a few more seconds before she let it drop on top of the other twenty-eight rejects. She congratulated herself on managing to find two really good thrillers for McCarthy Stone that season, one by a fledgling British author. When she considered what else she was working on at the moment, it amazed her she still had the concentration for editing, but then she did always love a good piece of crime fiction.