by Tim Ellis
He held out his Warrant Card. ‘DI Dark, Serious Crime Division.’ He produced the victim’s picture. ‘You remember him?’
There was a customer in the chair submitting himself to a haircut. Dark had no idea what type of haircut it was. In his day, you either grew it long or had a short-back-and-sides. On the wall, there was a poster with about twenty pictures and accompanying names of the type of haircut a man could choose to have. They ranged from a “Fade and Taper”, through a “Pompadour”, to a “Man Bun”. He had no doubt that the world was going to hell in a handcart.
Lee – if that was his real name – was a thin, athletic-looking man in his early thirties with a quiff of hair on the top of his head. ‘Undercut,’ Lee said, and tapped one of the photographs on the poster. ‘Came in Monday just before closing and asked for an “undercut”.’
‘Did you get his name?’
‘No.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘The usual – football. I’m a City man myself, but he was a red. We discussed the value of Pogba . . .’
‘Anything that might help us identify him?’
‘Said he lived locally, but I hadn’t seen him before. Mind you, there are a number of barbers in Marple, so he could have been going to one of those, or anywhere else really.’
‘Didn’t give you any idea of where he lived locally?’
‘No.’
‘Anything else?’
Lee thought for a handful of seconds and then shook his head. ‘Sorry.’
‘Thanks anyway.’
‘No problem.’
They headed towards the door.
‘There was something else though,’ Lee said.
Dark turned. ‘Oh?’
‘Because he was my last customer on Monday, I had to unlock the door for him to get out. As I was locking it again, I saw him walk towards a fairly new blue Ford Fiesta parked up outside. There was a good-looking bird with blonde hair in the driver’s seat. As they drove away, the last three letters of the number plate caught my eye – UWD. I remember, because I’m one of those guys who has to fill in the spaces. Everything has to make sense. Two and two has to equal four every time. If it doesn’t, I start thinking about conspiracies. Anyway, I made UNWIND from those three letters. I know, call me crazy, but that’s what I do.’
‘That’s very helpful, Mister . . .?’
‘Kielty – Lee Kielty. You know where to send the reward.’
‘The cheque’s in the post.’
‘I’ll keep an eye out for it. Oh, and if you need a decent haircut, I do a pensioner discount.’
He decided not to respond.
They made their way outside.
‘You should take advantage of that discount,’ Lake suggested.
Lake wanted banter, but he wasn’t going to oblige. Banter had to be earned and developed over a long period of time. She wouldn’t be around that long. ‘A solid lead that we wouldn’t have uncovered if we hadn’t pursued the meagre leads we already had, Lake?’
‘I’m not going to win, am I?’
‘Win!’ He grunted. ‘If you were one of ten competing apprentices, you’d be last by a couple of hundred yards. You need to up your game, Lake. At the moment, you’re simply holding the rope. I expect more of you than that – a lot more. Right, contact Burrows and tell her we’d like to know who owns that car.’
She took out her phone.
‘And I’ll meet you at the last shop down the road.’
Lake nodded.
He crossed the road. Was he being too hard on her? Too critical? He hoped she wasn’t going to resort to tears, that would be the last straw. That was how it was with most of the run-of-the-mill detectives, they gave up too easily. He remembered the story of how Sir Stanley Mathews used to chase down every ball to create goals after many other footballers would have given up. It had made a lasting impression on him. That was why he solved all his cases – he chased down every lead no matter how hopeless they seemed.
Lake was waiting for him on his side of the road when he reached the last shop, which happened to be a carpet business.
‘Anything else?’
‘No.’
‘What did Burrows say?’
‘She’ll call me back when she has something.’
‘Okay. Let’s walk up to the top end and finish off.’
As they began walking his mobile vibrated – it was Hendrik. ‘You carry on,’ he said to Lake. ‘I’ll catch you up.’
Her brow furrowed, but she walked on ahead.
He stopped. ‘Yes, Hendrik?’
‘We’ve just come back from the doctors, Mister Dark.’
‘What did they say?’
‘That Dixie had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder as you suggested this morning.’
‘And?’
‘The doctor prescribed a daily 20 milligram capsule of a drug called Prozac. She has to go back next week for an assessment, because it has some pretty serious side-effects.’
‘Let’s hope it helps, but keep an eye on her.’
‘I will.’
‘Has she taken a capsule already?’
‘Yes. I made sure she took it as soon as we got home.’
‘You made her stick her tongue out, looked inside her mouth using a torch and felt around in there with your fingers?’
Hendrik laughed. ‘I think we can trust her, Mister Dark.’
‘Everybody’s guilty until proven innocent, Hendrik. Thanks for letting me know.’
‘Okay.’
The call ended.
He’d heard of Prozac. He recalled how it had led to behavioural changes in some people and they’d committed suicide and even murder. Yes, he and Hendrik would have to keep a close eye on Dixie.
‘Who was that?’ Lake asked when he caught up with her.
‘Is it likely I’m going to tell you?’
‘Probably not.’
‘So, why ask?’
‘Wasn’t Hendrik that hacker with the Mohican haircut who was working with the female reporter over Christmas?’
‘If you devoted as much effort to the murder investigation as you do to sticking your nose into my private life, I’d be impressed.’
They reached Market Street.
‘I’ll cross over,’ he said. ‘You stay on this side. We’ll meet at the top.’
‘Okay.’
After thirty-five-minutes he reached the last of the businesses – a firm of accountants called Morgan and Nunn – and sat on a wooden bench opposite the cinema. He had to wait another ten minutes for Lake to arrive.
‘Anything?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Any word from Burrows?’
‘I’ve written down a name and address.’
‘And you didn’t think to tell me?’
‘I just have.’
He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
‘We don’t need the car, it’s not far away.’
***
He took it for granted that Lake knew what “not far away” actually meant, but he was sadly mistaken. He envisaged a short walk of about five minutes, but instead she led him down Lockside to Lime Kiln Lane, along Strines Road to Marsham Drive and into Ladythorn Avenue. Altogether, it took them thirty-five-minutes to reach Number 97.
As they walked along Lockside, Lake said, ‘That’s the canal.’
‘The same one we found our victim in?’
‘Yes.’
‘Interesting. So, he could have entered the water up here and ended up at Lock 9?’
‘Except there’s no current, and he would have had to have passed through seven locks to reach Lock 9.’
‘Mmmm! Not realistic.’
‘They call this stretch of the canal The Marple Locks, because there are so many locks within a short distance.’
The geography of the Peak Forest Canal was all very interesting, but other than it being where the victim’s body had been deposited, he doubted it had anything to do with the murder.
Standing outside 97 Ladythorn Avenue staring at the blue Ford Fiesta with the number plate SM15 UWD parked outside in the road he said, ‘Another black mark against you, Lake.’
‘What for this time?’
‘A “short walk” means exactly that. We should have brought my Rav-4.’
‘Or a mobility scooter? I forgot about your age – sorry.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with my age. It’s about time restraints. We need to be at Wythenshawe Hospital by three o’clock. It’s now two-fifteen, and we still have to question the owner of the blue Fiesta, and then walk back.’
‘I didn’t realise it would take so long. Burrows said it wasn’t far away from Oldknow Road.’
‘Oh, so it’s Burrows’ fault this time? It’s about time you started taking responsibility for your own actions, Lake.’
She sighed and knocked on the front door of the three-bedroom semi-detached house.
After a few seconds, the door opened a crack. An attractive blonde-haired young woman in her mid-twenties stepped out through the gap and closed the door behind her. She was wearing trainers, shorts and a sweat-streaked thin top that left nothing to his imagination. Her hair was held back in a haphazard ponytail with an elastic band, she was breathing heavily and using a discoloured white towel to wipe the sweat from her face, neck and the rivulets snaking down between her breasts.
‘Yeah?’
‘Leah Rice?’ Lake asked.
‘Yeah.’
Lake held out her Warrant Card. ‘DC Lake and DI Dark from the Serious Crime Division in Manchester.’
‘Yeah?’
She hooked her thumb over her shoulder. ‘Do you own the blue Ford Fiesta with the registration SM15 UWD parked on the road?’
‘Yeah.’
‘We’d like to come in and talk to you about where you were on Monday afternoon.’
‘Why?’
‘We’re investigating the murder of a young man who was found in the canal at Lock Number 9 yesterday afternoon.’ Lake opened up the folded piece of paper and held up the picture of the victim.
‘I heard about it. What’s it got to do with me?’
‘We have a witness who said they saw you outside Lee’s Barber Shop on the High Street in Marple, giving this man a lift.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wasn’t there.’
Dark said, ‘Can we come in?’
‘Why?’
‘Because we’d like to question you.’
‘You just have. I’ve told you I wasn’t there. What more do you need to ask me?’
Lake glanced at him and then said to the woman, ‘Would you rather we took you down to the police station and questioned you there?’
She shrugged. ‘If that’s what you have to do, do it. But I don’t see why you want to come into my house.’
‘And you own this house?’
‘I do now.’
‘Do you work?’
‘Yes.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I’m a dancer.’
Dark’s eyes narrowed. ‘A dancer! Where?’
‘The Satin Gentleman’s Club on Tasle Alley, just off Albert Square in Manchester.’
‘I know it.’ What he knew was that the club was owned and controlled by the Romanian Ghenosu clan, and was a front for every kind of criminal activity from human trafficking to murder. Was that the link? Wasn’t Transylvania in Romania? Wasn’t it the original home of the vampires?
‘You look like someone who would know where it was.’
‘It’s just around the corner from Bootle Street police station.’
‘A local haunt then?’
He ignored her taunt. ‘You’re a stripper?’
‘I’m an exotic dancer. Would you like me to give you a private performance?’
His lip curled up.
‘And don’t judge a book by its cover. I already have a degree and I’m studying for my Masters at Manchester Metropolitan.’
Lake interrupted. ‘Where were you on Monday afternoon between three and five o’clock?’
‘Here.’
‘Is there anyone who can verify that?’
‘No. I was on my own exercising. As you can see, I do a lot of exercising.’ She pushed her impressive chest forward. ‘I have to keep in shape. And anyway, I didn’t realise I needed an alibi.’
Lake held up the picture again. ‘Do you know him?’
‘Haven’t I already given you my answer?’
‘Never seen him before?’
‘No.’
‘And you weren’t outside Lee’s Barber Shop on Monday afternoon?’
‘No.’
‘We’ll probably have to talk to you again, Miss Rice,’ Dark said.
‘Feel free.’ She closed the door.
They began walking back.
‘What do you think, Sir?’
‘I think you should tell me what you think, Lake.’
‘The barber must have been mistaken about her car. She didn’t look as though she was lying.’
‘She was lying. The question is: How are we going to prove it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Ring Burrows. Tell her we need all the CCTV footage in Marple analysing from Monday afternoon. If Leah Rice was out driving that blue Ford Fiesta, then she’ll have been caught on camera.’
‘Of course.’ Lake pulled out her phone and made the call.
‘Right, open your legs up, we have a post-mortem to attend.’
Chapter Six
Professor Finn was waiting for them when they arrived at the mortuary in Wythenshawe Hospital at five to three.
The victim was lying face-up on the stainless-steel table.
Dark thought he looked even worse than he did yesterday – if that was possible.
‘Ah! Dark and Lake. My two favourite detectives.’
‘How are you, Professor?’ Dark said.
‘Oh, you know – hit-and-miss, fair-to-middling, run-of-the-mill. I suppose, if I’m being brutally honest, I’m as well as can be expected when you consider I’ve been living under the harsh and merciless dictatorship of Mrs Finn for most of my adult life. I should get another gong for my contribution to marital harmony, but I doubt that will be forthcoming in the near future. So, here we are with all things being equal. Shall we begin?’
‘Ready when you are, Professor.’
He stared at his assistant. ‘Ah! Of course, I haven’t introduced you to Morbid, have I?’
‘I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.’
‘Quite.’ The professor indicated a platinum blonde-haired woman in her late twenties wearing blue scrubs and a white coat. Her skin was nearly translucent, but she was strangely beautiful. Only her silver-grey eyes and light-brown eyebrows broke up the pale flawlessness of her face. Even her lips were colourless.
He half-smiled. ‘Hello, Morbid.’
She ignored him.
The professor laughed. ‘That was fun, wasn’t it? You’d get more response from one of the corpses in the fridge. Morbid doesn’t talk to strangers, men, police officers . . . In fact, she doesn’t even talk to me. Oh well, we’re not here to exercise our vocal cords, are we? And before I forget! Morbid ran the victim’s fingerprints and DNA through the respective databases, but nothing useful came back. And if you provide me with a name to compare the dental x-rays with, I’ll be able to give you a definitive answer on a match, but otherwise . . .’ He shrugged.
Dark’s lip curled up. ‘I suppose a simple murder was too much to ask for.’
‘Far too much, Dark.’ The professor switched on the microphone dangling from the ceiling on an extendable arm and spoke into it. ‘This is Professor Daniel Finn carrying out the post-mortem of an unidentified male, who will henceforth be referred to as Joe Bloggs, on Thursday, January 16 in the Mortuary at Wythenshawe Hospital. Joe Bloggs was found in the water at Lock 9 in Marple on the Peak Forest Canal at approximately three p.m. on Wednesday, January 15. Also in a
ttendance are my assistant Morbid Maud Glover, Detective Inspector Josiah Dark and Detective Constable Annie Lake from Manchester’s Serious Crime Division. . . The cadaver is a well-nourished male in his mid- to late-twenties . . .’ Morbid reeled out the measure from a yellow Stanley tape, and between them they measured the man’s length. ‘Length, or height, a hundred and seventy-four centimetres, or five foot nine in old money. The hair is shaved on the sides and there is a growth of two and a half inches on the top of the head. There is no evidence of neck hair, which suggests he’d had a haircut within a few days prior to death . . .’
‘Monday afternoon, Professor,’ Lake said. ‘We’ve just found out.’
He glanced at her. ‘Yes, that sounds about right.’
With the help of Morbid, the professor carefully removed the victim’s clothes. Each item, as it was taken off, was described, examined, put into an evidence bag, sealed and labelled.
‘Musculature is well-developed. There is evidence of bloating with green discolouration. Maceration of the hands and feet has begun due to the absorption of water into the outer layer, which has not been helped by the multiple injuries the victim sustained in the lock. As a result, there is some separation of the skin from the digits . . . Time of death provided at the crime scene using Henssge’s temperature/time-of-death nomogram with a correction factor of 0.5; an environmental temperature of 2 degrees C; one layer of clothing on the corpse; that was found in non-flowing fresh water and with a rectal temperature of 8.3 degrees C – was thirty-six-hours. I see no reason to change that estimate.’
Next, the professor carried out a detailed external examination, which focused on the numerous injuries sustained by the victim. Each wound was measured, photographed and the pattern, anatomical location, colour, course, direction, depth and structure was identified. ‘Excluding the obvious penetration wound to the chest, the other injuries are not consistent with physical violence. As previously noted, they appear to have been acquired during his time trapped in the lock gates.’ He drew their attention to three wounds one after the other. ‘Note the jagged edges of each. The wounds are all like that. They weren’t made by a knife, or by blunt-force trauma. It’s my early conclusion that the skin was ripped open by being wedged in the lock gates.’ He turned the victim’s disfigured head to one side. ‘However, take a look at this, Dark,’ he said pointing to a puncture wound on the left side of the neck, just under the ear.