Tasteful (A Kate Redman Mystery Novella)

by Celina Grace

  It had been eerily similar to the examination of the first foot. The limb, blotched with decay, garlanded by flies, laid like a macabre exhibit on the fresh green grass. Even Jackie, the SOCO had been the same. At least Kate had managed to remember her name this time. What had been different, none of them could have predicted.

  Kate glanced across at Martin, sitting quietly with his hands folded in his lap. “So, I don’t think either of us was expecting it to be from a totally different person, were we?”

  Martin half-smiled. “Well, I know I wasn’t. I just automatically assumed it was the matching pair to the first foot.”

  “Same here.” Kate flicked the indicator on to join the dual carriageway. “It just gets weirder.”

  Martin nodded in acknowledgement but said nothing. After a moment, Kate reflected that she probably should try to get to know him a little better, draw him out of himself a bit.

  “How long were you with Bristol, Martin?”

  “About seven years. Ever since I started.” Martin unlaced his fingers and Kate caught a glimpse of a wedding ring on his right hand. She decided to leave the personal questions until later.

  “What was your last case?”

  Martin glanced at her. “The Poppy Taige case. We were working with Missing Persons on that.”

  Kate nodded. Poppy Taige was a twenty-year-old Bristol University student who had disappeared after a night out with her friends over two months ago. “I don’t know much about that, just what the press have been reported. It’s gone a bit quiet on that now, though, hasn’t it?”

  Martin nodded. “We were only involved in a preliminary capacity. Obviously loads of students go missing after heavy nights out, for one reason or another. It’s just – well, as you know, they tend to turn up again – alive - or not.” It was Kate’s turn to nod. “Well, with Poppy, she just vanished.”

  Kate shook her head. “Her poor parents.”

  “Yes.” Martin was silent for a moment. “Anyway, I transferred before anything really happened. Well, nothing has really happened, the case is ongoing.”

  “And now you’re investigating stray feet.”

  They exchanged smiles. “It’s fine,” said Martin. “It’s different, isn’t it?”

  “That’s one thing to be said for this job,” agreed Kate. “It’s never boring.” They were coming into the town centre of Abbeyford, passing brick office blocks and the two high-rise towers that the planners of the 1960s had been permitted to build. “Can you imagine working somewhere like that instead?”

  “I did, for a bit.”

  “Really?”

  Martin chuckled. “Yes. Town planning department of the council. God, it was tedious. I stuck it out for two years after university and then decided life was too short to be stuck behind a desk.”

  “Good plan.” Kate swung the car into the station carpark. “Now, let’s go and wow them all with the little fact that we now seem to have feet from two unidentified people, God help us.”

  *

  Josh Kirkwood lay in his bed, covers pulled up to his chin, staring at the ceiling. There was a crack in the ceiling that looked like a dragon; it had been there ever since he was a little boy. When he was younger, a child, he’d imagined the dragon coming to life at night, flying around the room, swooping at him as he lay in bed. The only way he’d conquered his fear of that happening was to reframe the dragon as a friendly one, a pet who’d keep the other monsters at bay, breathing fire to dispel the bogeymen who always lurk in the dark corners of a child’s bedroom.

  Dragons were not his worry now. Over and over again, Josh relieved the moment he’d seen that jar in the study, seen the horror that had been contained within it. He’d stared and stared, convinced that he’d been mistaken, until, unable to help himself, he’d crept closer, shaking all over, directing the beam of his torch onto and through the thick glass walls of the jar. He could see the ragged ends of flesh where the neck had been cut, pale pink in the jittering light of the torch. The eye-sockets were empty, cavernous holes just visible beneath the drooping eyelids. Short dull black hair floated in whatever fluid preserved the head. Impossible to say if it were male or female; the features were bloated, distorted by decay, age or just the convex surface of the curving glass walls of the jar.

  In his bed, Josh turned over, pulling the pillow over his head. He’d fled the house, of course, hefting his backpack with the already purloined treasures, throwing it onto the lawn beneath the dodgy window, sliding that back down onto the windowsill as quietly as he could. He’d been almost panting as he did so, the air whistling in and out of his lungs in what were very nearly sobs. A quick check to see if he’d left anything incriminating and then he was off, over the back wall and down the lane, running now, barely caring if he was heard.

  Fuck, what was he going to do? Josh sat up abruptly and reached for his phone. For the hundredth time, he opened up his picture gallery and looked at the photos of the jar that he’d taken. The quality wasn’t good – the only light he’d had to see by was his torch and the flash of his phone had reflected off the glass, but you could see the head. Sort of. Enough to know that he hadn’t imagined it.

  He could hear his mum calling him from downstairs, something about walking the dog. He ignored her. What was he going to do?

  His gaze fell on the local paper, crumpled up and stuffed into the bin over by his chest of drawers. Local girl still missing was the headline. After a moment, Josh got up, moving like a old man, and pulled the paper from the bin. There was a picture on the front of the bird who was missing, pretty trim she was, dark-haired and smiling. Josh didn’t fancy her – she reminded him of one of his cousins, Hayleigh. Nausea twisted his stomach and he dropped the paper back in the bin and got back into bed.

  What if the head was hers, the missing girl? Poppy someone. Like almost everyone else in Abbeyford, Josh was well aware of the feet that had recently been found. Were they her feet, Poppy’s? Was that her head in the jar?

  Oh, Christ. Josh felt even sicker. What if there was a serial killer going about? It had happened before here – Josh had been too young to be really aware of it but he remembered his mum and dad talking about the killer who’d murdered those hookers, years ago. He thought of his younger sisters and his female cousins, Hayleigh amongst them. Shit, shit, shit.

  He knew what he should do. He should report it to the police. But how could he, knowing that he’d have to say how he’d seen the jar, because he was in the process of burgling that house? People like Josh just didn’t get involved with the police. At all. Ever. Not to mention what his old man would do when he found out. For a start, Josh would be out on his ear, nowhere to go, onto the streets, and probably with a broken jaw to go with it. Shit.

  He risked a glance at the paper in the bin. He could see Poppy Taige’s large dark eyes regarding him from the picture, just peeking over the top of the bin. She looked as though she were pleading with him.

  “Fuck, I can’t. Don’t ask me.” He blushed at actually having spoken aloud. Groaning, Josh rolled over to face the wall, pulling the covers over his head.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “So, how many unidentified limbs do you think you’ll find today?” asked Anderton, setting a steaming cup of tea in front of Kate. She noted with satisfaction he’d used her favourite cup and saucer, the vintage one with the delicately painted violets and gold rim.

  “Ha, ha. There can’t be any more, surely? I mean, it’s odd enough to have two feet in your possession...” She let the thought trail off as she sipped her tea.

  “Oh, by the way, I’ve set up a few more viewings for us this weekend.” Anderton applied himself to his own breakfast; bacon, eggs and toast.

  “Are you sure you should be eating that at your age?”

  “Cheek. I only have it occasionally.” Anderton pointed a buttery knife at her. “Besides, when was the last time you went to the gym, missy?”

  “I hate the gym,” Kate said absently. She was thinking ahead to w
ork, planning her day. “Anyway, email me the links to the houses when you get a moment and I’ll have a look. Providing I don’t have to deal with any more feet.”

  “Do you know what I think?”

  Kate indicated with raised eyebrows that Anderton should go on.

  He did so. “I think it’s someone who has one of those weird Victorian collections. You know, like stuffed animals, curiosities, things like that. Perhaps they’d been bequeathed them in a will or something.”

  Kate pondered. “Possibly. But – why get rid of them? Why plant them all about town?”

  Anderton shrugged. “People are weird.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Kate finished her tea, got up and kissed him goodbye. “Have a good day, darling. I’ll try and get home on time.”

  It was another glorious spring day. As Kate pulled the front door shut behind her, her mobile chimed and she dug it out. It was a message from Rav. It’s a boy!! Born at 4am this morning. Jarina and baby well. So knackered but so happy. He’d added about a hundred smiling and love-heart-eyed emojis after the words.

  Kate pulled in a deep, pleased breath. She texted back appropriate congratulations and love to Jarina and as yet unnamed baby, and added a few emojis of her own. Making a mental note to get some flowers and a card arranged and sent to the hospital, she strode off to work, feeling happy.

  Her good mood at Rav’s delightful news buoyed her all the way to the station. Running up the front steps, eager to let the reception staff know the news, Kate realised she’d have to wait for a moment or two. PC Paul Boulton was currently booking in someone, a thin young man, dressed in a grey hoody and skinny jeans. He had a look of such misery on his face that it stopped Kate in her tracks.

  Paul Boulton looked up and saw her and she saw a flash of relief cross his face.

  “Everything all right, Paul?” Kate asked, approaching the desk.

  “Yes. Yes. Actually—” Paul inclined his head towards the office behind the reception desk. “Could I have a quick word?”

  “Sure.” Kate stepped behind the desk as Paul handed over the booking in to his companion, PC Nevis and gestured to Kate to come into the office.

  “What’s the prob?” asked Kate, once they were inside with the door firmly closed.

  “Bit of an odd one.” Paul sat down and Kate did likewise. “That young lad out there. Do you recognise him?” Kate shook her head. “He’s Josh Kirkwood.”

  Kate did recognise the surname. “Ah,” was all she said.

  “He’s only twenty eight but he’s got a rap sheet as long as your arm.” Paul paused and added, somewhat reluctantly. “Anyway, he came in to confess to another burglary.”

  Kate raised her eyebrows. “Confess? Is that usual with him?”

  “No. Not at all. The thing is – he said, well – the circumstances are a bit unusual.” Paul seemed as though he was going to say more for a moment and then shook his head. “Perhaps it’s best if you talk to him directly.”

  “Me?” Kate didn’t normally handle burglaries but she knew Paul Boulton well enough to respect his opinion.

  “You’re handling this foot case, or cases, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right. Has this got something to do with that?”

  “It might do. Sorry to sound so mysterious but Kirkwood’s story is – odd. Probably best you hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

  Mystified but intrigued, Kate nodded. “Okay, I’ll take him in. Has he been cautioned?” Paul nodded. Kate went on. “Ok, great. What interview room is free?”

  When she and Josh Kirkwood were sat down opposite each other in a free room, Kate took a fresh look at him. He was tall, but very thin. His face would have been good looking if he’d put on a little weight but his skin was awful; greyish, marked with spots, his eyes ringed with dark circles and his jaw darkly furred with what was probably three-day-old stubble.

  “Can I get you a cup of tea, Josh?” asked Kate.

  He shook his head. “Can I vape?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Kate gestured to the no smoking sign on the wall, with the addendum beneath; including e-cigarettes.

  Josh scowled. Kate waited a moment and then said, gently, “Could you tell me what happened, Josh?”

  Josh was silent for so long that Kate as about to repeat the question, when he spoke. “I was doing this house, on Park Road. This big place.”

  “Do you have the number or the name of it?”

  Josh shook his head. Kate persisted. “Have you seen it by daylight?”

  “Yeah, course. That’s how I saw all the stuff.”

  Pondering for a second, Kate grabbed her phone and brought up Google Earth. She homed in on Park Lane, scrolling inward until the road was revealed and the houses that were ranged along it. They were huge properties, Georgian townhouses that were more like mansions. “Which one is it, Josh?”

  He pointed. Kate scrolled in even further to view the house number. Number 18, Park Lane. She scribbled it down on her notebook and excused herself from the room a moment. Using the reception phone, she called the office and got Chloe, asking her to check on the Land Registry for details of the owners of the house.

  Back in the interview room, Kate apologised again for leaving. Josh didn’t look as though he cared much.

  “Now,” said Kate. “What happened?”

  His confession took a long time. Kate listened patiently and only put up her eyebrows once, when he described the first moment of seeing the head in the jar. She noted how his hands shook as he recounted the memory and felt the first surge of pity for him. Eventually, his faltering narrative came to an end and he lapsed into silence.

  Kate was equally silent for a moment. She as thinking hard, not so much about the grotesque finding in the jar – if indeed, it even existed. Mind you, so many strange things were happening in Abbeyford at the moment, anything was possible. Even so, she found it hard to believe a serial killer would be quite so bold as to leave a body part of one of his or her victims in plain sight.

  No, what Kate was thinking was that this young man, this habitual thief, this ex-offender (she’d checked his rap sheet and seen that Josh had already served two short sentences for burglary), this hardened criminal had known what punishment he would face, for admitting to his crime. And he’d still come in to the station and confessed, because he wanted them to know that they could be facing something far, far worse. Say what you want, that took guts. And character.

  Kate said as much. Josh blinked, clearly unaccustomed to any form of praise and positive reinforcement, however faint.

  “What?” was all he said.

  “You should feel very proud of yourself,” Kate said gently. “You did exactly the right thing, Josh. That took real courage.”

  A tear tracked its way down his cheek. Josh swiped angrily at it but said nothing.

  “I’m going to ask the duty solicitor to sit in with you for a briefing,” said Kate. “Unless you already have a solicitor?” Josh shook his head. She paused for a moment, wanting to impart some words of comfort but unable to think of what to say. “It’s possible – I mean, I don’t want to get your hopes up but it’s very possible that - given the circumstances and your mitigating behaviour – you might not get a custodial sentence. It could be suspended.” Josh looked up hopefully and Kate forced herself to add, because the last thing she wanted to do was deceive him, “I’m not saying it’s definite. But I will certainly be putting something in my report that hopefully the judge will interpret as a reason to be more – more lenient in sentencing.”

  Josh hung his head again. Kate sighed inwardly but pressed on, aware of how fatuous she sounded. “Even if you – you go to prison, could you perhaps look at it as – oh, I don’t know – perhaps as something of a fresh start? There is support, you know, in prison, you just have to ask for it.”

  Josh looked at her, sullenly. “Yeah. Yeah, all I’ve got to do is avoid the rapists, the smack dealers and the ISIS recruiters and I’ll be peachy fucking creamy.”


  Kate spread her hands, helplessly. “I’m sorry, Josh. I really am truly sorry.” Not for the first time in her career, she had run up against one of the unpalatable truths about crime; that sometimes, the perpetrator was as much of a victim as the innocent bystander. What chance had Josh had, brought up in such a family as his? For him to have retained or developed even a tinge of empathy – amply born out here by his actions – was something of a miracle. For a moment, she remembered Rosa, the drug dealer and prostitute from an earlier case* who’d somehow managed to straighten herself out and make a new life for herself. She still messaged Kate occasionally on Facebook, letting her know how she was getting on.

  “Listen,” said Kate. “This will go to trial, you know that, Josh. There’s nothing I can do about that. But I have a friend – he’s an ex-offender himself – and he runs a scheme for young people who’ve been to prison, to train them up and to help them get back to a normal life. It’s a real support, there’s therapy and work and everything. I’ll ask him to come and visit you.”

  She paused but she could see Josh wasn’t listening. As she watched, another tear slid down his grimy face, disappearing into the stubble on his still-boyish jaw. Inwardly, she sighed again, but all she could say out loud was “I’m sorry,” once more. Because she truly was.

  *See Chimera (A Kate Redman Mystery: Book 5)

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “’Terence Buchanan,’” read Chloe from the print-outs in her hands. “He’s co-owner of number eighteen, along with a Mrs Mary Warner.”

  Kate glanced over at her companion in the passenger seat. “Married couple?”

  “Doesn’t say. We’ll soon find out, anyway.” Chloe glanced at the sat-nav on Kate’s phone, clipped to the dashboard. “Only ten minutes away.”

  The glorious spring sunshine of the morning had held. Kate had rolled down her driver-side window but it was still warm, almost too warm for the cashmere jumper she’d put on that morning. The daffodils’ brief moment of glory was almost over but as Kate drove along the narrow road – they were heading for the outskirts of Abbeyford, where town met countryside – she could see the nodding blue heads of the bluebells and the white stitchwort of the daisies dotting the grass. Buds were finally beginning to unfurl on the hedgerows, misting the tangled branches in pale green.