It took a minute before he added to the scene by vomiting across the faint shadow that ran to his feet. Wiping his mouth, he tossed away the handkerchief before fumbling in his pocket for his phone only to realise that he had left it in the tractor. Slipping and stumbling, he ran as best he could. The stick was now forgotten.
Nearly a mile away, captured images of the fleeing farmer, the spectre at the feast, and the returning birds could be clearly seen. Had he heard the drone? Had he seen it? Shakily, his finger found the button on the control that stopped recording before bringing the drone back. From three hundred and five feet in the air and keeping station downwind of the activity it had, he had hoped, remained unobserved and unheard. Within minutes the drone’s legs were folded and the gimbal protected. He would, however, wait. His curiosity had been piqued to see if and when the activity around the scarecrow intensified.
The birds quickly returned. The first to arrive found the warm vomit more attractive than the corpse and another squabble soon erupted bringing with it the calling and flapping. It did, however, bring an extended respite for Carla whose faceless head lolled and her hair waved as if in silent protest.
It took less than fifteen minutes for the first responders to arrive at the farmyard, a fast-track paramedic and a local police patrol.
Stuart Groves had regained most of his composure and after careful consideration checked the contacts on his phone. He could not help but look at those for Carla and Cameron. His stomach churned briefly before he quickly flicked through stopping at Bill Rodgers. He tapped the number but received his answerphone.
‘Bill, it’s Stu. Call me when you can. Cheers.’
The Interview Room seemed to become more and more claustrophobic the more pressing the questions. Callum Smith continued to protest his innocence.
‘I went to apologise. See if we could move forward, and if not be lovers, then remain good friends.’
‘And that’s why in the week running up to her disappearance you were in this CCTV footage, you were at the salon?’ Skeeter asked.
‘I received a message from Carlos, the lad who works with her, his real name’s Brian, I believe. He messaged and then called me and said that Carla was always still mentioning my name and asking if she’d done the right thing by leaving me. He said he thought she still loved me. He was very close to her, idolised her and that’s why …’
‘Yes, we know.’
‘Well, I just wanted to find out if it were true. I was going to ask her to come back in some way. I realised what type of person I’d let go.’
‘Did she ever spend time at your new place?’
Smith shook his head. ‘No and I never went to hers. When I see her in here,’ he pointed to his head, ‘she’s always in the old apartment, where I knew her and where we lived.’
He pushed the photograph back across the table. ‘I honestly don’t know where she is. Do you think she’s safe?’
Skeeter collected the information she had spread on the table together, tapped it before sliding it into the folder. ‘As you know her better than anyone, only you can answer that. We on the other hand can only hope, pray and do our best to locate her. Thank you for your time. We will be in touch.’ She emphasised the word will, letting her eyes focus on his.
He stood, thanked them and left.
As April and Skeeter moved along the corridor after showing Smith to the reception area, the officer moved out to the front counter and approached April.
‘Message for you. I was about to interrupt your meeting. Urgent, ma’am.’ He nodded at Skeeter before returning behind the glass screen.
She read it. ‘Shit! They’ve found a body and they believe it’s Carla Sharpe. We’re meeting Mason there and he specifically requests your attendance, Wicca.’
‘Joy!’ Skeeter pulled a false smile. ‘He must really like me!’
Chapter 12
The whole of Midge Mill Lane was closed off by police cars and tape; a flapping plethora of blue-and-white plastic strips announced it was the boundary of a crime scene. It oscillated further when April’s car arrived. Looking at the map, it showed a narrow lane, about two miles in length. It had been bypassed years ago relieving it of traffic and noise, but instead bestowing it with pot holes as it was now seemingly forgotten. Today, ironically, it had taken a death to bring it back to life.
They observed the usual procedures until directed to park in Mill Farm’s yard. The remains of the windmill stood on the smallest of hills that was a high point for the flat surrounding farm land. Two CSI vans were parked further along the lane.
Skeeter climbed out and immediately scanned the area. To the west the land was flat and endless. It was not to her liking. Flat as a witch’s tit, she thought, bringing a smile to her lips as she turned her gaze east where the ground was on the rise. A large copse of trees swung over the hill before breaking into the hedgerows as if compensating for the bland landscape opposite. North and south seemed to be a mixture of both and to her that was what farmland should look like. Tan Pit Cottage, her home, was within the folds of similar hills, probably the highest point once you move away from the coast before you strike the Pennines proper.
DCI Mason walked across the yard wearing green wellington boots. They looked incongruous with the suit as the trousers appeared ruched.
‘This way, farmer seems fine, more worried about birds pecking his spring cabbage to be honest with you. Once he’d got over the initial shock and had a brew, he wanted to continue working on the field below the crime scene. Time’s money, he persistently advises.’ He paused resting his hands on his hips. ‘He makes the scarecrows in the first place so to find one had been exchanged for a corpse. Apparently these scarecrows have been renowned in the area for some time.’ He handed April an electronic tablet. ‘That’s the image of the scarecrow and whoever did this copied the original well. If you flick along you can see the corpse. Almost bang on for detail. Slight difference in jacket but to anyone passing along the road it would appear the same. Even he didn’t notice until the birds started their feeding frenzy, and he made the bloody thing. If you get a whiff of death, the farmer found and moved the rotting carcass of a deer near the hedge there. May have encouraged the feeding frenzy.’
The drone sat in his hand like a miniature dog, legs outstretched. He wiped the camera and the gimbal moved loosely. The small, green light flashed at the back of the body, a signal that it was connected to the controller. Finding a flat area, he placed the drone down carefully and collected the handset. It was ready to fly. Seventeen satellites had linked with it and the craft knew its home point. He tapped the take-off button on the screen and a circle appeared in the centre. Resting his finger on it the green line illuminated as it ran around the circle. On completing three hundred and sixty degrees, he lifted his finger. The drone rose a metre into the air. Within two minutes it hovered at three hundred and five feet, its eight blades barely audible. Turning the drone towards the farm, he pushed the right lever forward and the craft began its journey, unseen and unheard.
The scene, where white suited figures were walking around the blue and white forensic tent concealing the body, seemed surreal, almost unworldly. The alien forms, the monocoloured ground, and the polytunnels in the distance all contrived to make Skeeter imagine she was witnessing man’s early colonisation of a planet. Even the colour of the continuous blanket of cloud and the lack of breeze enhanced her perception.
Looking down at the tablet’s screen, she scrolled through the images. The footprints, pushed deep into the soil were probably those of the farmer. The close-up shots of the face were disconcerting. The plethora of beaks had torn away flesh leaving a raw, sinewy mass of marks beneath the fringe line. The eyes were long gone along with the nose. The knotted gag had forced the lips forward and had been easy picking leaving gums and teeth exposed. The area around the sliced neck had also received attention from the scavenging birds.
‘Similar injury as in Jennings’s murder, a ripping and tearin
g but here the birds have taken the injury to a higher level.’
In further photographs it was clear that the ears too had been savaged. The blood had obviously settled in the lower portion of the body leaving the exposed upper flesh ghostly and pallid.
‘Copied even down to the spinning discs. Clever. Our killer didn’t want this to be found for a while and we thought that too about Jennings’s location. Isolated spots seem to be the name of this killer’s game. My bet is that the soil on the shoes will be a perfect match to that near this body,’ April announced before looking at Mason and Skeeter. ‘The killer’s teasing himself, or us.’
Skeeter focused on the image of the red cap; the white swoosh mark partly concealed in the loose soil. ‘Or just bloody stupid and filled with an abundance of self-importance. See it all the time in bouts when visiting wrestling clubs come to take us on. The loud, arrogant ones are usually on their arses first so let’s hope he goes the same way – seems a cocky bugger. What do we know about the cap?’ She passed over the screen and pointed to the image of the red cap settled within the dirt next to the wellington boot, the opening facing upwards where it had fallen.
‘According to the farmer that wasn’t the original but the goggles were. We’re uncertain as to the CDs. Originally, they were just old music CDs that were damaged but I’m assured the jacket, trousers and boots are not those clothing the original figure which was an old shop mannequin. There are similar figures dotted around the farm but this one, according to the farmer, was placed closest to the public road because it was most lifelike. They were apparently brought here when a local shop closed and they were throwing them out.’
‘Prophetic,’ Skeeter uttered, a degree of cynicism to her tone.
It was April who heard the faint intermittent buzzing. She paused, turning in the direction of the noise. She scanned the farmland and out towards the main road some distance away. A motorbike appeared from behind some trees which ran along the road’s edge; the engine note, a growing whine, was amplified before falling away again as it disappeared from view. Silence returned. She continued to look but could observe nothing other than a few birds.
‘It’s amazing how sound travels out in the open. Did you hear that buzzing?’ Skeeter questioned. ‘The Goddess Nike ...’
April nodded but Mason shook his head in confusion.
All eyes fell on her.
‘Goddess Nike. What?’ Mason muttered.
‘… the swoosh on the cap she was wearing. Well, if my knowledge serves me well, the winged goddess Nike flew around the battlefields honouring the victors with glory and fame. Her main attributes were victory, speed and strength.’
Mason looked across at her. ‘I think Sharpe will get her fame. The press will be as eager as the gulls and the crows to get here to spread this story all over the front pages and the internet tomorrow. In place of glory, we just need to get rid of the ‘l’.’
‘Vultures, sir. The press was already on the outer barrier as we arrived. They smell stories like this.’
Mason laughed out loud. ‘We utilise the press, don’t ever forget that. Let’s get on. We have the farmer’s statement and once we get this body away, we can close up here. We need the post mortem results urgently as well as forensic results on the clothing and the discs. I also want a comparison on the shoe. I’ve a feeling most of the clothes will be from charity shops and therefore the DNA tests will be up the shoot before we begin, but we can live in hope. It’s in your hands, Decent. Good call with this. Didn’t go unnoticed.’
The screen images taken from the drone were as sharp as could be expected considering its height and distance from the scene. The tent and the three figures positioned some way from the main activity were visible but their faces unclear. The drone had hovered long enough and the battery was running low. With the left lever on the control panel, he turned the drone away and then pressed the button to stop recording. Within two minutes the drone was directly above its take-off point; the satellites and compass had done the job. As it came in to land, he held out an outstretched flat right hand. The drone hovered momentarily, the belly sensors keeping it away. A further press of the left lever and an automated voice from the handset speaker announced the drone was landing. Fingers wrapped the body and the rotors came to a stop. Silence reigned. Replaying the footage, the scene had a surreal appearance but even on enlarging the paused image the figures’ faces were too pixilated to identify.
Bill Rodgers sat looking at Fred and Lucy. He had accepted the offer of a coffee. He ran his first finger around the lip of the mug, the motion slow and deliberate. Although Fred and Lucy had been informed of the latest development in Carla’s case, it would not be mentioned. She would remain missing for the duration of this interview at least.
‘It must have been a shock hearing of Cameron Jennings’s death and Carla Sharpe’s disappearance. I believe they were both good friends of yours?’
Rodgers continued to study the cup and his finger slowly stopped rotating. ‘It was. Any news on Carla?’
‘Your friendship with Carla. How long have you known her?’
‘A few years. We had a fling before she met Mr Handsome, Callum Smith. It was nothing too serious.’ He paused and a slight laugh caught his throat. ‘Funnily enough, when they split, she rejoined our group. Good for a laugh, our Carla. Bit of a piss head though on occasion.’
‘What do you know about the breakdown of her relationship with Smith?’ Lucy enquired whilst flicking over the notes placed in front of her.
‘It went really smoothly initially, their relationship I mean. They moved in together and all seemed well. He was a bit of a bugger with other women, his clients from what I heard. It happened a few times, but they seemed to patch it up. I only heard things about that side of it from gossip – from other friends – mutual friends.’ He drained his coffee.
‘I asked specifically about the breakdown of the relationship but I’m interested in what you’re telling us. Go on.’
‘Like I said. It was mostly heard from mutual friends. That’s it really.’
‘Any violence involved? Did you hear about that from these mutual friends?’ Fred stood and leaned against the wall. His stance changed the dynamic of the room and he felt it gave him the high ground.
‘I know she could be a bit of a spitfire when she’d had a few. I’d seen that before and after that relationship. She could goad others into starting trouble easily too. She’d be the one to strike the match and create the spark and then she’d step back and watch the fireworks.’
‘You saw and experienced that?’ Lucy asked, surprise on her face.
‘On a couple of occasions, yes. Others in the group would try to defuse the situation, calm her down. They knew her but this was always after booze. Normally she wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Butter wouldn’t melt …’
‘Did she encourage you to start trouble?’
Rodgers looked at them both, knowing they were aware of his past. ‘On occasion but I’ve more control now. Older and wiser you could say.’
‘Was your relationship post her breakup with Jennings platonic?’ Fred’s question stopped him in his tracks and his expression changed immediately. He pushed away the mug and swung back on the chair like a defiant child.
‘What sort of question’s that? What the hell’s it got to do with you or anyone else?’
The pause was palpable as Fred returned to his seat, looking across at Rodgers and then at Lucy. ‘Shall I tell him, or shall I leave it to you?’ He did not wait for the reply. ‘You see, Mr Rodgers. Let’s imagine a scenario now. Let’s imagine that Carla doesn’t come home but her body is found. It doesn’t matter if there are suspicious circumstances surrounding her death or not as it will be treated as a suspected murder or suicide from the off. That will mean the coroner will be involved, an autopsy, DNA. You know what DNA is? It’s that magic stuff that unravels mysteries that were once unfathomable. From that we will discover many things about Carla’s life, her personal
life and with that, Mr Rodgers, the personal lives of others. So, ponder on that for a moment and when you’ve had a think, reconsider my question. And, Mr Rodgers, if the worst happens and we find a body and in or on that body is your DNA, then two plus two might make four. Answering questions now might save you an awful lot of trouble should things take a turn for the worst.’
Rodgers’s attitude changed immediately as if someone had hit a switch. He swung back towards the table and grasped the mug as if it were a security blanket.
‘When she split, she contacted me to go out. She asked if I’d invite her out with the friends we had. I agreed. On the first night out, she propositioned me. She suggested a one-night stand but made it clear that she was not looking for a relationship, or the responsibility a relationship brings were her words, whatever they mean. If I got the nod then happy days.’
‘Did she give the nod to any others?’
‘Not too sure. I would like to think not but knowing her state after the split it’s more than likely. Maybe it was her way of getting back at Smith. I’m no psychologist.’
‘Right! Go on.’
‘As I always say, women can’t live by bread alone.’ He looked directly at Lucy as if hoping for some support of his theory but received nothing in return. ‘Her motto was Life is for living – just live it! If you’ve been to her flat, you’ll have seen it written on one of the walls. So, for the purpose of DNA, the answer is yes on occasion and I’ve been to the flat and she’s been to mine.’
Syn (The Merseyside Crime Series Book 2) Page 8