by Carol Wyer
She greeted the desk sergeant and made her way through a door to the corridor and narrow wooden staircase behind reception that led to the landing where she’d be working. With each creak of the stairs, she felt more comfortable. She knew this place. It was part of her DNA. On the first landing, she halted. Her old office, adjacent to a busy ops room, was upstairs, but she wouldn’t be using it. She’d been assigned a different room on this floor. Heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs and Neil Cousins, one of the other DIs from upstairs, almost collided with her. He took a step backwards when he recognised her, his face a rainbow of emotions from surprise to concern. His voice was hesitant, the tone of somebody talking to a terminally ill relative.
‘Kate! I didn’t expect to see you back so soon after—’
She shrugged it off. ‘Had to come back sometime. I was getting fed up at home, sitting about with my feet up, watching daytime television. You know, there are no good cop dramas on in the afternoon. It’s all quiz shows and soap operas. Never been one for soaps.’ She clamped her mouth shut to stop the babble, then regretted it as the look she’d been dreading appeared – the look of sympathy.
‘I’m sure you know best, but take it easy. You went through a truly awful ordeal—’
‘Kate!’ Another voice interrupted the conversation. It was Morgan, one of the officers she’d chosen to assist her on the investigation. At over six foot, with a superb physique, DS Morgan Meredith ought to have been an athlete. He’d played football at county level in his youth but instead of pursuing a sporting career had joined the force at eighteen and was one of the department’s rising stars. At twenty-four, he stood every chance of reaching the upper echelons before he hit forty. Kate had picked him because they’d worked closely on several tough cases in the past, and she’d been impressed by his dedication and energy. Not only was Morgan wiser than his years but he could pull several all-nighters in a row without any complaint whatsoever, and he was discreet.
She was grateful to the young man who meandered across, a grin playing across his face. ‘Got to tear you away, guv. I’ve been sent to accompany you to the boss’s office. As if you’ve forgotten where it might be.’
Neil moved off with a ‘Right, well, no doubt we’ll bump into each other.’
Morgan observed the man’s departing back and, lowering his voice, said, ‘I wasn’t asked to fetch you. You had one of those rabbit-caught-in-the-headlights expressions. I figured you could do with someone to deflect any unwanted attention.’
Her shoulders sagged a little. Neil had almost sent her racing back out to her car. Although she was grateful for Morgan’s apparent sixth sense, she was ashamed that she had allowed her panic to show. Neil would have seen it, too. She was undoubtedly the laughing stock of the station and needed to sort her shit out quickly if she was to ride this out. ‘Cheers. Had a moment of first-day nerves. Crazy, isn’t it?’
His face grew serious. ‘No. Perfectly understandable.’
She switched to work mode. ‘Are we set up and ready to go?’
‘Yes. Emma’s trying to work out how to set up equipment in what can only be described as a broom cupboard. Bloody budget cuts. You’d have thought they’d have sorted us out a room in the new building.’
She heard the smile in his voice. The floorboards issued creaking protests as Morgan strode beside her. ‘DCI Chase has briefed us. That’s to say, he told us we’re working directly under you, and the whole thing is to be kept hush-hush. He said you’d fill us in when you arrived. Here we are.’
He pushed open the door, a room next to a cupboard of cleaning supplies. He hadn’t been far wrong. The space was cramped with two desks pushed together back to back and a third hard against the wall. There was one window, splattered with a Rorschach inkblot of bird mess that resembled an animal-hide rug. Squeezed into one corner was a whiteboard and pen.
She pointed at it, and Morgan shrugged. ‘It was the best they could do for us.’
Twenty-three-year-old DS Emma Donaldson, in a white shirt, black trousers and low-heeled boots, was tapping at a computer keyboard. Under the light of the window, her raven-black bobbed hair shimmered a deep shade of blue, emphasising her pale, delicate face. Emma might look frail to some, but appearances were deceiving and the young woman, who lived with her grandmother on a tough housing estate in Stoke-on-Trent, could handle herself in any situation. Emma had not only grown up with six older brothers but was an expert in tae kwon do, training most evenings at her brother Greg’s martial arts academy. She was also as ambitious as Morgan, and together they made a formidable team. Kate couldn’t have chosen better.
Emma finished her task and stood up to greet her boss. She lifted a handful of pens placed beside notepads. ‘Hi, Kate. I borrowed some supplies from one of the briefing rooms and I’ve got the computers up and running, so we’re good to go. Oh, and I got us some water from the canteen. I told Iris it was for you and she gave me all these.’
Ten individual bottles of water stood on the far desk. Iris, a sixty-something widow, had always treated Kate well. She would have to make the trip across to the canteen to thank her, but not yet. She wasn’t ready for meeting fellow colleagues or any other staff yet.
She smiled at Emma and, placing her bag on one of the chairs, addressed them both. ‘First off, thanks for agreeing to be part of this investigation.’
Morgan rested his back against the wall, a giant in the limited space. ‘Elite squad. That’s what we are – an elite squad.’
‘We can’t be a squad. A squad is lots of people. We’re only three members. We make up a team,’ said Emma.
Morgan widened his shoulders and adopted a body-builder pose, fists together, muscles bulging. ‘Like The A-Team.’
The corners of Kate’s mouth twitched. These two always worked well together. ‘Whatever we are, it’s to remain under wraps. We’re dealing with a sensitive issue – the murder of a VIP.’
Morgan threw Emma a look that said, ‘I told you so.’
Kate drew out the photographs Ervin had given her and laid them out on the desk in front of her. ‘Alex Corby.’
Emma pulled a face. ‘The Alex Corby of Corby International?’
‘Corby International?’
‘Morgan! You must have heard of Corby International. They’re a massive exporter of British food – from breakfast cereals to chilled meals – based in Stafford. Alex Corby was one of the top ten UK entrepreneurs in 2019. He’s worth millions. He was voted one of Britain’s sexiest men – last year, too,’ said Emma. ‘He’s pretty fit for an older bloke.’
Morgan gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Ah, there it is. Fit. That explains why you know so much about him.’
Emma ignored his teasing. ‘It’ll be all over the media. When did this happen?’
‘His body was discovered yesterday afternoon. His secretary, Lisa Handsworth, tried to contact him and when she couldn’t reach him went to the house and spotted him through a window. She raised the alarm. No information’s been released to the media yet. Superintendent Dickson has insisted on a media blackout for the moment, partly out of respect for his widow and children, and partly to give us a head start before the news hounds get a sniff of it. Just for info – Alex and he went to school together and were good friends.’
‘They won’t be able to keep this under wraps for long,’ said Morgan, who’d shifted his bulk away from the wall and was bent over the photographs.
‘I know. Which is why we need to work as fast as we can. So, let me bring you up to speed. Alex Corby’s wife, Fiona, and their two children, Hugh and Jacob, were spending the half-term holiday at their villa in the south of France, leaving Alex home alone. At some point, we think between mid-morning and mid-afternoon, when his body was found, Alex Corby opened the security gates to a person or persons unknown and granted them access to his house. They overpowered him, cable-tied him to a dining-room chair, and tortured him.’
‘How?’ Emma raised one eyebrow quizzically.
‘Th
e killer inserted a metal implement into Alex’s mouth, prising it open, and force-fed him small pieces of apple, one of which lodged in his throat and caused asphyxiation. Although the remains of the apple were left behind, the instrument used to torture him was removed from the scene – or so we believe. We don’t know what it was, but it made cuts and abrasions on the inside of Alex’s cheeks, palate and tongue.’ She tapped the relevant photographs as she spoke. ‘Forensics are still searching the house and grounds.’
Emma lifted the photograph of the knife and discoloured apple and commented with a shake of her head, ‘It’s been cut into microscopic pieces, almost all identical.’
‘Killer’s either a chef or got OCD,’ said Morgan.
‘It’s a valid point, and one worth noting. It helps us piece together a profile of this killer. Methodical. Neat. This was a well-planned attack. We don’t know if the plate, knife and apple were already out when the killer arrived, or if they searched for them. Bear both in mind for the time being.’ She thought for a second; she had already worked out how best to approach the investigation on her way to the station. It was time to action those strategies. ‘I’ll talk to Harvey Fuller, the pathologist on this investigation, to confirm what I’ve told you. I’d like you, Emma, to learn more about Alex Corby and his business. Find out if Corby International has shareholders or board members, or even if Alex had a silent partner, and talk to all of them. Also, see if there have been any business dealings that raise cause for concern, or if anyone has threatened the company, or Corby directly.’
Emma scribbled notes on one of the new pads as Kate spoke.
‘Because of the remoteness of the Corby mansion, it’s unlikely anybody would have spotted any comings and goings. The house is reached via a lane leading off the B5103 – the main road, linking Uttoxeter and Abbots Bromley to Rugeley, which passes over the reservoir.’
Blithfield Reservoir, constructed in a shallow valley once consisting of farmland and the River Blithe, was an 800-acre man-made lake set below rolling hills and divided roughly in half by the causeway. It was also home to an abundance of wildlife and recognised as an important habitat for wildfowl, which meant it was frequented by visitors keen to explore the ancient woods or participate in recreational activities such as sailing and fishing. For Emma, however, it meant only one thing.
‘I know it. It’s on the Ironman route,’ she said.
The Ironman Triathlon, considered one of the most challenging one-day events, was made up of a 1.9-kilometre swim, followed by a 90-kilometre bicycle ride and finishing with a 21.1-kilometre run, and Emma had competed in the Staffordshire event three times.
‘Then you know how rural it is out there. Alex Corby’s home is at the end of a private road, off Lea Lane near Admaston, and I believe it overlooks the reservoir. The nearest neighbours are almost a mile away. Can you pinpoint it for us?’
Emma pulled up a map on her screen and zoomed in on the area in question.
Kate traced an invisible circle around the residence. ‘Because of its location, there’ll be few, if any, surveillance cameras in the vicinity. All the same, I’d like you to search for vehicle movement in this area. We’re especially interested in anyone who travelled on the B5013 at any time between mid-morning Thursday into early afternoon. I’ll also leave that with you, Emma.’ Kate could count on her sharp eyes and patience for such a time-consuming task.
Kate continued. ‘I want to check out his home as soon as possible. His wife was contacted last night and is currently making her way back from France to her parents’ house near Uttoxeter, but we aren’t expecting her to reach there until later this afternoon. I’d like to interview her when she does. I also want to talk to Alex’s secretary, Lisa Handsworth. Morgan, you’ll accompany me.’
‘Guv.’
Outside the station, a lorry sounded its horn noisily, making Kate’s heart flutter . . .
The train’s horn sounds as it whooshes past a station. It isn’t slowing. It isn’t stopping. Nobody can help them.
She steadied her nerves, eyes on the photographs. ‘There’s one more thing. As you can see, Alex’s right eye was removed. The killer appears to have taken it with them, probably as a trophy.’ Kate was fully aware that taking a trophy would help prolong, and even nourish, the perpetrator’s fantasy of the crime. Some stole a victim’s wallet, their ID, a lock of hair or a piece of jewellery. It was rare they kept hold of a body part, unless it held a significance for the murderer. ‘I’m happy to accept that as a theory, but eyes are considered to be the windows to the soul, and there might be a greater reason the perpetrator is hanging on to it. I’ve nothing else for the moment. Any questions?’
Emma tucked her hair behind her ears, a sign she was ready for action, and responded for both of them. ‘No. All clear.’
‘Morgan, give me a couple of minutes to check in with the pathologist, and then we’ll pay Alex’s secretary a visit.’
He flexed his fingers as if preparing to play a piano. ‘I’ll make a start on surveillance cameras for you, Emma.’
‘Cheers, big man.’
Kate left them to it and, heading into the corridor, rang the pathology lab. She was met with an accent that took her back to a trip she and Chris had made to the Norfolk Broads shortly after they’d moved in together. Chris, who’d hired a sedan-style cruiser, the perfect size for a couple, revealed he was actually able to pilot the Fair Jubilee. It was the first boat Kate had ever been on and she’d been mesmerised by its luxury, the spacious bedroom and the corner whirlpool bath. Their plan had been to spend evenings on deck, drinking wine and stargazing, but the weather had had other ideas; so, fed up with the persistent rain, they’d abandoned the boat and got drunk at a pub not far from where they’d hired it. She jerked herself away from the memory, concentrating on the strong drawl at the end of the phone as Harvey introduced himself and explained his findings.
‘Alex died of violent asphyxiation through choking. The actual foreign body causing the occlusion of the air passage was lodged between the pharynx and the bifurcation of the trachea. There were twelve pieces of apple in total in his stomach. Unlucky thirteen, slightly larger in size than the others, killed him.’
‘Is it possible he was force-fed them until he choked to death?’
‘Evidence would suggest so. There are small lesions on his scalp, commensurate with a force being executed on the hair follicles, suggesting somebody tugged hard on his hair to force his head into a recumbent position. The abrasions on the roof and inside his cheeks and the microscopic particles are undoubtedly from a metal implement inserted into his mouth to hold it open, thus preventing him from masticating any food. Furthermore, there’s evidence of petechiae around and on the surface of his left eye. This haemorrhaging, caused by pressure build-up, suggests he struggled to cough and dislodge the object in his throat. There’s also a bluish tint around his lips, which we usually associate with asphyxiation.
‘The object didn’t fully obstruct his air passage, so he’d have probably been conscious for several minutes. His brain would’ve died some four to six minutes after the introduction of the segment. It was, to put it in layman’s terms, starved of oxygen.’
‘What about his eye? Was it extracted while he was alive?’
‘Removed post-death.’
‘Did you discover it anywhere on or inside his body?’
‘No.’
‘What time do you think he was killed?’
‘Death occurred sometime between eleven thirty in the morning and two o’clock in the afternoon.’
‘Were there any signs of a struggle or fight?’
‘Nothing. No trace of any other DNA. We’ve got further blood tests to run to check for drugs and then we’ll be through with him, but if anything else comes to light, I’ll get in touch immediately.’
‘Thank you, Harvey. Will you send the complete report across?’
‘Of course, I will. Nice to chat to you. I’ve heard so many good things about you. You�
��ve certainly not had an easy time of it, yet here you are back in the saddle again.’
Chris had warned her that some people would still be angling for information about the incident on the train. Harvey was doing it. She had to get off the phone before he could say anything else. She excused herself and pressed the ‘end call’ button.
Returning to the office, she recapped the conversation she’d had. ‘So, with regards to CCTV or safety camera footage, search for vehicles in the area between ten and two. We’ll extend that window if we think we need to. This attack was as methodical as we suspected. Not only did Alex choke on a slightly larger portion than all the others found in his stomach, it was the thirteenth piece.’
‘Triskaidekaphobia,’ said Morgan. ‘Unlucky thirteen. Stephen Ho in the vice squad told me number four is considered unlucky in Chinese culture because it sounds almost exactly the same as their word for death.’
Emma mumbled, ‘Good work, Detective, you’ve established our killer’s unlikely to be Chinese.’
‘You should reign in that acerbic wit of yours,’ said Morgan, his face mock serious. ‘I’m keeping an open mind, as is appropriate in these situations. The killer might be superstitious or be pandering to numerical myth.’
Emma rolled her eyes. ‘You need to get a life. You spend too much time reading Wikipedia.’
While she was all for morale-boosting banter, Kate steered the conversation back to the investigation. ‘The killer pulled hard on Alex’s hair to force his head backwards. I’m wondering if we might be looking for two suspects: one who dropped food into his mouth and another who kept his head in position. It’s only a thought, but bear it in mind. Okay. Morgan, let’s go visit his secretary.’
Morgan froze the image of the B-road passing through the village of Abbots Bromley close to the reservoir, the timeclock in the corner on Thursday at 10.27 a.m. A green tractor and trailer filled the screen. ‘Not spotted a great deal up to this point, Emma. Only a couple of vans. I’ve made a note of the times. Over to you.’