by Lisa Cutts
This morning, it was Ian Davis, busy dealing with the only other person in the foyer. She smiled and waved at Ian. He looked up and gave her a smile in return as the man he was talking to turned in her direction.
Something about him made her slow her pace. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was. It wasn’t simply that he was handsome; there was something about him.
She had reached the door and was aware that she needed her pass to get through, only she couldn’t remember where she’d put it. As she was about to ask Ian to let her through, he called, ‘Soph, if you’ve got a minute?’
‘Of course, Ian,’ she said, wondering if her hair was now a mess from her trip to the cashpoint.
She took the opportunity to walk the short distance back to the counter and get a good look at the man who was leaning against it. Aged mid-thirties, probably a little over six feet tall, although difficult to be accurate due to the leaning, the mop of black hair flecked grey in places, clean-shaven, polished shoes, no wedding ring.
She stood and locked eyes with the stranger, not fully able to forget that Ian was only a couple of feet away, barely an arm’s length across the counter. It didn’t escape her notice; it was the same cheap countertop where, over the years, she had stood at and spoken with hundreds of members of the public. Some were victims with physical injuries, who had dripped blood right where the main object of her attention was now leaning. Some had been suspects she had arrested for a myriad of crimes, some as witnesses to those crimes. No one had ever made her stop and stare so unashamedly.
‘Soph,’ said Ian – not for the first time, she was sure. ‘This is Dane Hoopman.’
‘Hello, Dane,’ she heard herself say.
Then she only just heard Ian add, ‘He’s transferring here. He’s not supposed to start till tomorrow but thought he’d drop in early and say hello.’
‘Hello,’ she heard herself say, picturing her face reddening.
Snapping to attention, and with some semblance of professionalism, Sophia said, ‘Where’s he starting? I’d better not let him through without warning. Who should I speak to?’
All the time she was aware that she was talking about someone who was present, and who she really should bring herself to look in the eye. Except as rude as it was, she found she couldn’t.
At last, he spoke. The voice she was expecting: a deep, even tone. ‘I’ve been told to ask for DI Harry Powell in Major Crime. I’m on attachment.’
One hand fumbling with her newly located security pass, the other on the door handle, she said, ‘Leave it with me. I’ll take care of you.’
Even without Dane’s wry smile, she appreciated her own poor choice of words.
Chapter 3
Twenty-five minutes later, Harry pulled his car over in the crime scene’s makeshift car park, which was, for all intents and purposes, the entrance to a farmer’s field. Thankfully, it was a fairly large area that was currently housing eight other vehicles, including a large marked police van, a CSI van and a white Ford Transit.
Harry clocked the worried, grey-tinged face of the man he assumed had discovered the body. He wore heavy-duty, well-used boots, tatty jeans and a shirt, and, over the top of it, a high-visibility jacket. He spoke rapidly to the policewoman taking his details, constantly crossing and uncrossing his arms over his chest; his left leg, which was slightly pushed forward towards the officer, jiggled as he spoke.
Yep, he had all the hallmarks of someone who had just found a body.
Making a point of a noisy approach, Harry’s shoes crunched on the stones as he covered the twenty yards to his witness.
Nodding to the police officer, Harry said, ‘Hello, Kate,’ before he turned his attention to the man he guessed to be in his early thirties, hands now down by his sides as if he didn’t really know what to do with them.
Harry stuck out a hand and said, ‘I’m Harry Powell, the on-call detective inspector from East Rise Police Station.’ They shook hands, Harry noticing the clammy palms of the jittery workman.
‘Paul Tanswell,’ he said. ‘Sorry about my hands. They’re a bit sweaty.’
‘Didn’t notice,’ said Harry. ‘How are you feeling?’
He saw Paul lift his shoulders and drop them. It was no doubt the best he could manage under the circumstances of his bizarre Tuesday morning.
‘Listen, Paul,’ said Harry. ‘I’m going to have a quick chat with PC Smith and then be back to speak to you in one minute. That okay?’
He waited for a nod before stepping a few yards away out of earshot, and took a brief summary from the officer who had started to take details not long before Harry arrived.
‘In your opinion, how’s he doing?’ said Harry.
‘Not too bad, but I think he may be putting a brave face on,’ she said, voice as low as she could make it. ‘He said that there should have been two of them here working, but his crew-mate didn’t show up. Probably would have done a blokey-type laugh it off thing if he wasn’t on his own.’
She glanced down at her notes.
‘Before you arrived, I got as far as him telling me he was sure it was a woman. It looked like the hand was sticking up out of the ground, a couple of the fingers chewed off or missing, but the clothing the arm was coming out of had some sort of lace-trimmed sleeve.’
‘Doesn’t prove it was a woman,’ said Harry, scratching at the stubble on his chin. ‘Might be Adam Ant on his way home from a gig.’
‘No,’ said Kate, with no hint of amusement, ‘he doesn’t live around here. What stuck in Paul’s mind was the thin gold bracelet around the hand – or what’s left of the hand since the foxes have had a go on it – and the fine blonde hair. He said that he thought it was a woman’s hair.’
She scratched at the side of her head with her pen before she added, ‘And Adam Ant’s got black hair.’
Harry thanked Kate, wondering how she knew so much about an 80s pop icon who was probably on Top of the Pops before she was even born, and made his way back towards the witness.
‘There’s no need for you to come back over to the site with me,’ said Harry as he watched Paul let out a slow breath. ‘I’ll leave you in the capable hands of PC Smith for now, and one of the plain-clothes officers will be in touch soon to get a more detailed account from you.’ He gestured towards the policewoman. ‘I’ve been updated on what you found, and while I don’t want you to keep going over it, is there anything else that comes to mind before I leave you here?’
Harry watched as Paul looked in the direction of the shallow grave on the edge of a copse, blocked off by police tape.
‘Only that it was the last thing I was expecting to see today,’ said Paul. He turned back towards Harry. ‘Supposed to be having a quick look across the land, checking for anything unusual ahead of the building work that’s to start here next week.’
He waved a hand in the direction of the green landscape. ‘The field’s been sold and we’re looking to build new homes here. It was all set to start last summer, but there was some issue with an access road. Anyway, that’s not important, but that area of trees where . . . where, well, you know. I could have sworn I checked that towards the end of last year.’
Paul broke off and chewed his bottom lip. ‘If I, well, she . . . I would have noticed last year, wouldn’t I? How long has she been there?’
Harry put a hand up to touch Paul’s shoulder. ‘It’s unlikely that you would have noticed, to be honest.’
‘I’ve no idea who she is, but the thought she’s been lying there for all that time, people walking by her, over her.’ Despite standing in the morning sunshine, Paul shuddered, crossed his arms again, although this time possibly less through nerves and more for warmth.
‘There’s really nothing you could have done,’ said Harry, reluctant to provide further comfort about deterioration of human flesh, the impact of the weather conditions or soil erosion. It wouldn’t help Paul and it could taint any evidence he might have to give one day in Crown Court. That was always Harry�
�s end-game – the conviction. That was what it was always about.
Leaving Kate to take care of Paul, Harry trudged along the pathway, the uniformed officer on the cordon pointing him in the direction of a small huddle of police officers all standing and examining an exposed cadaver in a shallow grave.
Chapter 4
The Boundary pub sat at the corner of an unassuming south-east London street. It had once been a thriving establishment used by dockers, lorry drivers and locals. Historically, its customers came from trade on the Thames, council houses and local markets, but nowadays, the only business came from a select few locals who were unwelcome in most other pubs.
A black Mercedes pulled up outside the building, its occupants all too familiar with the rundown establishment. The gleam of the impeccable car was all the more noticeable against the pub’s façade: years of dirt and fumes from goods vehicles on their way to brown sites and breakers yards, plus the hum of daily commuters taking shortcuts through the rat runs, had ingrained filth into the brickwork and rotting window frames.
Two men got out of the car and strolled to the front door of The Boundary as the driver made his way around the corner away from the main road. They didn’t have to worry about knocking as the door was flung open the moment they crossed the narrow pavement.
‘All right, gents?’ said the landlady, harsh morning sun highlighting every line she had accumulated on her face over her thirty-eight years.
She stepped backwards, holding the door wide with one tattooed arm, gold bangle catching in the sunshine.
‘Nice bit of tat you’ve got yourself there, Sheila,’ said the first one through the door, nodding at her jewellery.
‘You’re a saucy bastard, Sean,’ she said as he stopped to kiss her on the cheek. ‘You’ll ’ave something nice to say to me, won’t you, love?’ she said to the slightly shorter and younger of the two.
He stood in front of her, placed a hand either side of her face and said, ‘You’re lovelier every time I see you, sweetheart.’ He leaned down to kiss her.
She called to Sean, ‘See, he knows how to treat a lady, he does.’
‘Don’t fucking make me laugh,’ said Sean. ‘The greedy bastard’s after some breakfast, ain’t you, Milo?
She closed and bolted the door behind them before walking to the other side of the bar and leaning towards them, arms folded under her breasts. ‘What do you boys fancy?’ she asked, looking from one to the other.
‘How about a couple of nice big baps?’ said Milo.
She threw her head back and laughed, her body, not to mention her breasts, wobbling as she did so.
‘You can make your own tea,’ Sheila said as she moved away from the bar, hands smoothing down the thin cotton of her T-shirt. ‘How does a couple of bacon sarnies sound?’
‘As lovely as you look,’ Milo called after her as she sauntered to the kitchen.
He looked over at Sean. ‘What?’ he said at the slow shake of his boss’s head.
Sean glanced in the direction of the kitchen, sounds of crockery and saucepans being moved drowning out their conversation.
Keeping his voice down in case Sheila heard, he said, ‘I thought you were gonna try and give her one over the bar, you fucking polecat. I said to keep her on side, not bang her.’
‘Worth a try,’ said Milo with a wink. Then he shouted, ‘Sheila, want a hand out there?’ before sliding himself off the bar stool and walking behind the bar towards the sound of her off-key singing.
Sean wasn’t amused at his employee’s behaviour, yet Sheila had been an invaluable source to him over the years. The last thing he wanted to do was rush her into handing over what they’d come for. Still, they didn’t really have time for this: breakfast and shagging were all well and good, only not with so much to do.
He turned on his bar stool and ran an eye over the interior of the worn and neglected pub. He was able to almost taste the traffic fumes, despite the now locked doors and distance from the pavement. The place had certainly seen better days. Still, it was ideal for what they had in mind.
Who would be stupid or brave enough to pry into their business in this shit-tip? They were the biggest organized criminal gang in south-east England and they had all corners of the market covered, not to mention contacts in the right places.
Chapter 5
DI Harry Powell stood at a respectful distance from the hand clawing its way out of the earth. It was less of a hand and more of a gnarled piece of bone. In fact, at first glance, the only thing that really gave away that it had once belonged to a human was the lacy once-white material in the general area of where a wrist used to be.
Harry crouched down for a better look. To himself, more so than to any of the officers guarding the scene or the senior CSI setting up her camera, he muttered, ‘Paul did pretty well to even see this. It’s not that obvious.’
‘Talking to yourself again, Harry?’ said Jo Styles as she checked her photographic equipment.
‘Get more sense that way, Jo,’ he said, smiling up at her.
‘I wouldn’t kneel down there, by the way,’ she said, returning the smile.
‘Since when have you ever known me to contaminate your crime scenes?’ said Harry, feeling the onset of cramp in his thighs.
‘Wake up and smell the urine,’ laughed Jo, prompting Harry to spring up from the floor. ‘Didn’t you wonder what that odour was mingled in there with the warm summer breeze and good old countryside fragrances?’
‘Fucker,’ said Harry as he glared in the direction of the witness. ‘I bloody well asked him if there was anything else I should know. You’re telling me that him stopping to take a leak and wazzing all over my crime scene was a detail he omitted to give me? Dozy bastard.’
‘He was probably too embarrassed to say it a second time,’ said Jo. ‘Any chance you can get out of my shot, please?’
‘Sorry, Jo,’ said Harry as he stepped to the side. ‘It’s clearly going to take some time to get whoever this is out of the ground.’ He looked around to where half a dozen uniformed officers were carrying out painstaking searches in the nearby undergrowth. ‘Providing this lot don’t turn up a second body, I guess I should head back to East Rise and get some sort of investigation going.’
‘First things first,’ she said as she pulled an evidence bag from her pocket. ‘Want to take this bracelet with you? I’ve got enough photos of it for now.’
Harry took her camera from her while she carefully teased the gold jewellery from its owner and dropped it into the plastic bag.
Jo held it up to the light and the pair of them stared at it as if it were a thing of wonder.
‘We’ll call it nine forty-two hours,’ said Jo as she checked her watch and produced a pen from her inside pocket. She scribbled the time on the sealed bag, handed it to Harry and crouched down to make a note of what she’d done on her paperwork.
‘I’ll get this back to East Rise,’ he said, folding the bag and securing it in his pocket. ‘Chances of DNA from this?’ he said, pointing to his pocket where the item was now concealed.
With a minuscule shrug of her shoulders beneath the paper suit, Jo said, ‘As good as anything that’s sat out in the elements for weeks, maybe months.’
‘Won’t hold you to this, Jo,’ said Harry, nodding in the direction of the dump site, beyond the remains of the hand, ‘but that does look very much like the back of a woman’s head sticking out of the ground. Though I’m probably letting the length of the hair stop me from seeing it as a bloke. What do you reckon?’
Jo tilted her head to the side, considered Harry’s question as she looked at the slightly raised mound of soil, leaves and twigs before she said, ‘My money at this stage would be on a woman. Blonde, obviously. I can’t tell much more without disturbing the body, and I need to wait for the others to arrive before I start that. You’re the DI, but my starting point would be missing blonde women.’
Harry was well aware of what he needed to do. Something had been niggling at his bra
in since he’d taken the call from the Force Control Room that morning.
He had a sinking feeling that he knew the identity of the woman lying under a compacted mound of soil, missing some of her digits, with heaven knows what else beneath the surface. That morning’s scan of the Missing Persons list had sent a chill down his spine.
Whatever parts of her had been eaten by scavengers and insects was the least of Harry’s troubles. He had let this woman down once before; had seen her go to trial for a murder she hadn’t committed and, once free, he had failed to protect her.
If Harry wasn’t mistaken, the body used to be Jenny Bloomfield, someone his incident room investigated and charged with murder before she walked free from court straight into her own murder.
Chapter 6
The last year and a half had been trying for DI Harry Powell: his marriage had broken down; his divorce was through; he’d found his friend Linda lying on her kitchen floor, head caved in; and a member of his team had been murdered on duty.
Now it looked as though Jenny Bloomfield’s murder was going to bring a shit storm of epic proportions.
‘Fucking brilliant news,’ muttered Harry to himself as he made his way to Detective Sergeant Beckinsale’s office on his way back from dropping the bracelet to the CSI’s office for an urgent lab run.
‘Want the good news or the bad?’ he said as he stuck his head around the door frame to speak to her.
He watched her look up at him: only her eyes moved, and possibly a vein in the side of her head. Though in fairness, it was more of a throb he thought he witnessed as opposed to movement.
After what seemed like minutes, she gave in to his fixed stare, or at least as much as Sandra Beckinsale ever gave in – she raised an eyebrow.
‘What I love about you, Sandy,’ he said, ‘is that you manage to keep your enthusiasm under wraps.’