Sam spun round.
Jim Melia, the Home Office Forensic Pathologist, stepped towards them plate by plate.
‘Burnings at the stake started from the feet up and hordes of people turned out to watch.’
‘We’ve become a bit more civilised since then Jim,’ Sam said. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
He peered into the pit.
‘But I wouldn’t make too much of a thing about being more civilised. Burnings may not be state legislated anymore, but the human capacity to inflict pain on his fellow man has never diminished. Most people keep it in check because they don’t want to end up in prison, but that doesn’t make them incapable of inflicting it. Just look at ISIS.’
‘A psychologist as well now Jim,’ Ed said.
‘A mere observer of life Ed, in all its faults and failings.’
‘Julie, there’s not much more for me here,’ Sam told her. ‘We’ll get away. Let me know when you’re done and we’ll see you at the mortuary. See you soon Jim.’
Outside Sam fumbled in her pockets for her cigarettes.
See what everybody sees…
‘This is really well planned Ed. Worryingly well planned. Look around. Middle of nowhere. No cameras. Set on fire in a pit. They must have known it was there.’
She lit up.
‘And if they didn’t bring the rope, they must have known it was here. Same as the oil drum. They couldn’t chance that they’d just find something to tie him to. And the milk bottle, the petrol, the rag to light, if it was a petrol bomb. All had to be brought here.’
She shook her head slowly as she smoked the cigarette.
‘This lot aren’t amateurs. They knew exactly what they were doing.’
‘How many do you reckon?’ Ed said.
‘More than one, probably more than two. He’s got to be transported here, tied up. At least three.’
‘Three psychos. Marvellous.’
Ed was sitting in Sam’s freezing office, overcoat collar turned up, pen in hand, listening as she paced the room. The corridor outside was in darkness and the heating was off. Estates Management didn’t consider the Murder Team being called out at all hours when they set the central heating timer.
‘Get Bev out. She can make a start, fire up HOLMES,’ Sam said.
Ed raised his eyebrows and smirked at the accidental pun.
Sam gave him a look and spoke again.
‘No point in calling anybody else out. Let them come in at eight. It’ll be a long day. I want to speak to the druggie. Get Bev to make some initial inquiries about this Jeremy Scott.’
She opened a desk drawer, took out a bottle of Jo Malone perfume, and sprayed her neck and her clothes.
Ed burst into a coughing fit. ‘Bloody hell you’re choking me.’
‘Better than smelling like a coal fire. Jeremy Scott. His address will be on his licence. If it is him, 78-year-olds tend to notify DVLA when they move so the address should be current.’
She put the bottle back in her drawer.
‘We’ll need to get round his house,’ she said. ‘See if there’s a Mrs Scott. If not we’ll need a door-to door team to check on the neighbours, see when he was last seen.’
She took a mouthful of tea from the mug getting cold too quickly on her desk.
‘Then it’s associates, lifestyle, habits...the usual victimology. Jim’ll not be able to give us a time of death but it hasn’t just happened. He wasn’t smoking.’
‘Wasn’t drinking either the boring bastard,’ Ed grinned and Sam smiled.
Black humour was often the only way to deal with the things they saw.
‘This will be a hard slog. To all intents and purposes he may as well have been in the open air. Always the most difficult to detect…’ Sam said.
She and Ed knew the statistics. 80% of killers who murdered their victims in buildings were caught. Only 20% of those who killed in the open were ever captured.
Sam continued. ‘This morning get someone to plot the nearest CCTV cameras. It’s a long shot but he hasn’t walked there. If we know where the cameras are we’re good to go if anyone’s seen him getting into a vehicle. See if he owns a car. If he does, where is it?’
She sat down and put her head in her hands. ‘Burnt alive. Jesus.’
Ed shrugged: ‘If he was burnt alive.’
‘Jim’ll be able to tell us that when he examines the lungs and whether there are any other injuries,’ Sam said. ‘If there aren’t, that’s a hell of a way to kill somebody. Tie them up and firebomb them. The location, the planning, taking the petrol...that’s plenty of premeditation.’
She turned on her desktop computer.
‘After that, there’s not a lot can be done for now; victimology, forensic at the scene. We’ll take it from there.’
Chapter Four
Ed called Bev then drove Sam into Seaton St George.
The warmth of a twenty-four operational police station was a marked contrast to the cold of Headquarters but the comfort didn’t last long.
The two detectives gagged in unison when they opened the door of the tiny interview room by the front desk.
Curtis Brown was shivering next to a radiator, the stench of urine and faeces radiating from him like a chemical weapons attack.
Sam rubbed her watering eyes.
‘Curtis. I’m DCI Parker and this is DS Whelan.’
‘We’ve met,’ Ed said.
Curtis Brown nodded.
Neither detective sat down, both preferring the relative safety of the open door and life-saving air stream.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Sam said. ‘It must have been a shock for you.’
Another nod.
‘We just need to ask a few questions then you can go. If you feel you need some professional help to talk through what you’ve seen tonight then we can put you in touch with people.’
The counsellors are going to love you Ed thought.
‘I’m okay. It’s not the first time I’ve seen a stiff.’
Sam’s eyes were drawn to Curtis’ teeth, and in that department he was a white one short of a snooker set.
‘Okay. But if you do, Ed will give you his card.’
Ed put his hands in his trouser pockets. Cheers Sam.
‘I’m okay. Look will it take long? I’ve got things to do,’ Curtis said.
‘Not long…We’re not going to search you,’ Sam told him, turning her head towards the corridor and taking a deep breath she hoped more than expected was discreet. ‘We just need you to tell us what happened tonight’.
If someone had dropped a packet of itching powder down Curtis Brown’s clothes he wouldn’t be scratching anymore than he was now.
‘Scored some gear. Went into the old garage to shoot up and saw the stiff. That’s it. Listen will I have to go to court? I don’t want to go to court.’
Ed took a deep breath, put his hands on the desk, and leaned towards Brown.
‘You listen Curtis, I don’t suppose anybody who works at any court wants you in their midst, but we all have our crosses to bear.’
Ed reckoned he could get one more sentence out before he needed to breathe. Burnt bodies and heroin addicts. He’d be living with the smells for weeks.
‘You will have to make a statement and more than likely go to court but if you don’t want to help, maybe I’ll wonder if you’re the one who killed that man.’
Ed stepped back, stuck his head out of the door and sucked in air. Discretion could go fuck itself.
Curtis rocked on his chair and clasped his hands as sweat broke out on his brow quicker than a fat businessman grunting on a prostitute. ‘I never done nowt.’
‘Then make a quick statement to Sergeant Whelan and you’ll be on your way,’ Sam flashed white teeth at Ed as she pushed past, liking the look when he realised the next terrible minutes of his life would be spent in the firing-line of Curtis Brown’s ruined mouth.
Maybe I should try for promotion again, Ed thought sourly.
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He went to the front desk, scanned the labels on the tall metal cabinet, pulled open two drawers and grabbed a witness statement frontice page and a couple of continuation pages.
He took a breath that would have impressed a free diver and walked into the interview room.
Ed had long ago come to realise there was something about being in a small confined space with a heroin addict. It wasn’t just the unholy smell; eventually you became immune to that. It was the addicts themselves, the endless shaking, the dirt-grey pallor of their skin, the gaunt and sunken features of a face robbed of hope and a body starved of anything worth having.
Looking at him now, Ed knew Curtis needed a hit.
‘Curtis, just tell me what you saw, how you got to the garage and then you can be out of here.’
The eyes stared back at him from sockets as deep as ocean caves.
‘Look I know you’re in possession,’ Ed pushed. ‘You went there to shoot up. I’m not helping you by taking your wrap away. Just tell me what happened.’
Curtis was silent then made his decision.
‘I went to the garage to score. I rang my dealer and he said that’s where he’d be. I cycled. It’s miles man. Just went inside and I saw that thing. Burnt. Stinking. Scared the shit out of me. I ran man and rang your lot.’
‘And I appreciate you did that Curtis,’ Ed told him. ‘Did you see anyone else there, other than your dealer?’
‘No.’
‘Did you get there before...’
‘I was there before Deano, yeah.’
Curtis looked down and muttered ‘shit’ under his breath.
‘Dean Silvers?’ Ed was straight onto it.
‘I’m not saying.’
Curtis pulled up the collar of his soiled summer-weight jacket, his fingers yellow with nicotine.
‘Okay, so Dean comes in a car?’
‘Yeah, I mean no, I’m not giving his name,’ Curtis glared. ‘Pulled into the garage, turned his headlights off. He didn’t get out of the car. I bent down at his window, felt the warm air. Will this be much longer?’
‘No. Soon as you finish.’
‘I bought a tenner-bag. Him and his mate drove off. That’s it.’
‘Who was his mate?’
Curtis looked down at the floor again, thrust his hands in his jacket pockets, and buried his neck in the collar. ‘I’m not saying.’
‘Last thing Curtis,’ Ed said. ‘Where are you living at the minute?’
‘Why?’
‘In case I need to see you again.’
‘Why?’
‘Curtis I can search you and lock you up if you’d prefer.’
Heroin addicts like Curtis were nothing if not pragmatic...always act in your own interests, keep your loyalty level at zero and only think as far ahead as the next hit.
‘On the streets but there’s this squat,’ Curtis said when he realised silence wasn’t his best tactic. ‘I’m there most nights.’
‘Address?’
‘How should I know? It’s not like anybody’s sending me letters.’
Ed banged the table. ‘Curtis.’
‘Blue door, old house, big house, on Station Road.’
‘I’ll find it. Do you want a cup of tea? Sandwich? You could do with knocking something into you.’
‘I just need to go man,’ Curtis scratched his head.
‘How’s your mother?’
‘Don’t know.’ His knees were moving faster than pistons in a car engine.
‘Shall I give her a message?’
Ed watched Curtis Brown shake his head. ‘No point.’
‘She’s still your mother even if she did kick you out. Can’t blame her. Not with you nicking things every time her back was turned.’
‘Can I go now?’ Curtis stood up.
‘How many other times have you bought drugs at that garage?’
‘That was the first time.’
‘We need to get you to hospital,’ Declan said as Pixie Carlton sat in the caravan’s dinette, a cup of tea in his left hand.
Declan had left the A1 and parked on the first out of town retail park he had come across.
His wife had bandaged Pixie’s right hand and dressed him in some of her husband’s clothes. The red checked shirt was too wide and too short; the jeans, too big around the waist, finished closer to his knees than his ankles.
‘I’ll be fine,’ Pixie said, droplets of sweat falling like the start of a cloud burst as shock and a burning temperature took their toll.
‘What’s your story then?’ Declan said, leaning against the cooker, rolling a cigarette. ‘Bollock naked, beaten to a pulp. You don’t sound the type. Too posh.’
‘It’s a long story.’
The four women, Declan’s wife, daughter and two granddaughters, were squeezed around the dinette. They stared at Pixie but said nothing.
‘It’s a story that you should tell us, especially if me stopping for you has put my family in danger.’
Pixie looked up at him and put the tea on the table.
‘You’re in no danger. If they’d wanted to kill me they could have done.’
He winced as the pain from his hand played pinball with every nerve in his body. He took a deep breath.
‘They wanted to teach me a lesson and remind everybody else what happens if you cross them. Dumping me on the A1 was just Mat’s idea of a laugh.’
‘Mat Skinner?’
Pixie’s head jerked in surprise. ‘You know him?’
‘Piece of shit just like his father,’ Declan said. ‘How did a well-spoken young man like you get mixed up with that scum?’
Pixie had found himself asking the same question on a daily basis.
‘God I wish I’d never set eyes on them. I’m an estate agent. Met them when they were looking to increase their property portfolio, got chatting and eventually I got the courage to ask about buying some coke. Nothing heavy at first but I ended up supplying my mates...’
‘And you stole from them. The Skinners,’ Declan interrupted.
‘Sort of.’
‘Not the brightest.’
‘I know.’
Pixie dropped his head, a big man broken but not looking to blame anyone but himself.
‘Who’s at home?’ Declan asked.
‘Nobody,’ Pixie told him. ‘Live alone. Rented.’
Declan’s wife stood up.
She told him that was enough talking, said Pixie needed a hospital and needed it now.
‘C’mon then,’ Declan said. ‘Listen son if the police come round I’d prefer you don’t mention us.’
‘I won’t. I don’t even know your name.’
‘That’s how I’d like to keep it.’
Instinctively Declan held out his right hand. Pixie moved his own on reflex but only for a moment. The pain bent him double.
‘What’s the sketch with Curtis?’ Sam said, as Ed walked into her office.
Ed grimaced: ‘Apart from scratching and my clothes stinking of piss?’
Ed brought Sam up to speed with Curtis’ statement and his slip about Dean Silvers.
‘It was Silvers who suggested the garage for the meet,’ he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. ‘We can’t rule out dealers or users being involved. The MO would suggest dealers rather than users but a user like Curtis could have seen something. I’ll go and see his mother later, see if she can shed any light.’
‘You know her?’ Sam asked him.
‘Went to school with her. She was a magistrate.’
‘Jill Brown?’
‘That’s her,’ Ed said. ‘Decent woman. Her husband died years ago. Cancer. Curtis had been no bother until then but that’s when he went off the rails. He just got in with the wrong crowd. It happens.’
Ed reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a blister pack of pain killers.
‘You okay?’ Sam’s eyes flashed concern.
‘I’m fine. Just getting a bit of gip from my neck.’
‘Do yo
u need to go home?’
Sam had wanted Ed to return to work on restricted duties, to ease himself back after the stabbing but he wouldn’t hear of it.
‘It’s just because I’m cold,’ Ed pushed the pack and took out two tablets. ‘I’ll be fine.’
He popped the tablets into his mouth and washed them down with a slurp of tea.
‘Since his mum finally kicked him out Curtis has been locked up a few times for shoplifting,’ Ed said. ‘That’s about his level, like most of them, that and stealing from their own.’
Sam stood up and asked Ed to head over on a fact-finder to Jeremy Scott’s home as a priority.
‘No point in us both going,’ she said. ‘I’ll have a chat with Bev.’
Chapter Five
The Avenue was one of Seaton St George’s most exclusive streets, the grass verge and mature trees separating the footpath from the pothole-free wide road. Ahead, Ed saw the revolving yellow lights of the council gritting machine moving at a steady pace. He pulled up outside The Willows. He knew plenty of the houses in this street were home to senior figures in the local authority.
Wouldn’t do for the big wigs to put up with potholes and ice. They’d have council workers scraping the frost from their windscreens if they could get away with it.
Ed had gone from interviewing Curtis Brown to this rarefied world in twenty minutes.
He walked up the gravel path, stones slick with ice crunching under his feet. A few lights were on in some of the houses, people preparing for their working day, a day starting considerably later than Ed’s.
A light shone through the small stain glass window in the top of the door. The front room lights were on, curtains drawn. He knocked on the freezing cold door, his knuckles stinging against the wood.
Nothing.
He knocked again.
Still nothing.
Ed walked down the side of the house, opened a trellis gate and stepped into the back garden. The lawn was short, the grey paving-stone patio covered in frost, the plants cut back.
He peered through a wooden-framed window, single glazed and misted by a patch of frost on the inside. Ed was looking at the kitchen, the light on. He could make out freestanding units which seemed tidy enough before his gaze rested on the dark grey worktop next to a stainless steel sink and drainer. The pork pie, cut into precision quarters, and a delicately-sliced tomato on a blue plate looked like a surgeon had dissected them.
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