by Karen Long
Smith and Timms were deep in conversation and looking through a folder containing photographs and paper documentation. Both nodded to Eleanor as she walked towards them and carried on in their low tones. Timms opened the door for Eleanor and they made their way into the cold room. Matt Gains stepped out from a small office and walked towards the huge stainless steel door that kept the bodies at a cool two degrees celsius and keyed in the code.
“Ok, we got the ballistics typing for Ellis and Paget but it’s going to take a minimum of a week to run through matching. I’ve had assurances from Bill Griffith that this will take priority,” said Timms.
“Anything unusual?” asked Eleanor.
“Well… looks like a .308 calibre rifle but early days,” sighed Timms.
“That narrows it down then,” said Eleanor unhappily. “I wanted unusual, I get Costco!”
“Yeah but… Bill took a look and said it didn’t look like it had been fired from a Winchester. So watch this space!”
The detectives stopped chatting as Matt pushed a gurney in from the cold store and closed the door behind him. A black body bag complete with double-signed tags indicating first stages in the chain of evidence, lay before them. Eleanor nodded that he should break the tabs.
There was very little to suggest that this had once been a human head. A small, clear plastic evidence bag had been placed next to the shoulder containing a quantity of bone and tissue that had been collected from around the bed and floor. A third of the occipital bone remained tenuously attached by tendons and skin to the spine and hanging from that an almost complete left temporal bone. Of the brain there was virtually nothing left.
“How are we going to id her?” asked Eleanor gently moving the plastic bag around and squinting at the contents. “I guess there’s not enough to do a reconstruction?”
Matt shook his head. “I doubt it. I’ve not opened the bag but there seems to be a couple of teeth there, maybe the odontologist might be a better bet?” But neither he, nor any of the detectives looked convinced.
Smith flipped open his notebook, “Mrs Earnshaw gave me a list of distinguishing marks… ok… appendectomy scar from an op she had in third grade.”
Matt unzipped the bag to the corpse’s knees, exposing stiff blood soaked pyjamas. As he carefully peeled them open there was a corresponding scar across the right lower abdomen. Eleanor turned to Laurence and raised her eyebrows. He leaned over and looked carefully at the scar nodding back. “Agree Matt?” she asked. He also nodded.
“Tick that box then,” said Smith. “Urm, she’d had some dental work as a kid and I’ll call the records up first thing.”
“Tattoos?” asked Eleanor hopefully.
“Not as far as Mum knew. Ok, two strawberry birth marks on left shoulder blade.” The detectives all moved round to the other side of the gurney as Matt cautiously lifted her shoulder. Timms flipped on a small penlight revealing the two birthmarks. Smith looked and compared them to the small sketch he’d made on his notebook. “That’s it! And last one; she bit her nails down to the quick apparently.”
Laurence knotted his brow. “She had manicured hands when I saw her.”
Matt reached inside the body bag and drew out a hand, which had been bound tightly in a brown bag. “She shoot with the right?” he asked Smith who nodded.
“Open the left,” said Eleanor. They watched as Matt cut open the paper bag and exposed a hand complete with perfect nails. Eleanor carefully pulled at one of the nails, which had been glued on. As the nail peeled away from the bed, it was apparent that Tracy was a committed nail biter, there being only about a quarter of an inch of furrowed keratin left on the finger.
“We saying it’s her?” asked Smith.
Eleanor frowned. “Until we can do a DNA compare to her mother, I’d say yes.”
Matt re-zipped the bag and prepared to wheel it back into the cold store. “When will she be autopsied?”
Matt sighed, “Can’t see it happening before the end of the week. Maybe two days max. Dr Hounslow’s got everyone working overtime this week but I’ve got thirty bodies in storage.”
“See what you can do Matt ok?” Eleanor asked.
He nodded as he pushed the gurney away.
“Okaaay, what next for you two?” asked Eleanor as she fastened her coat, peering at the steady rain through the glass doors that led to the morgue car park.
“Well Smith and me are discussing the case in D’Angelo’s for the next hour. Wanna join?” said Timms expansively.
“Love to,” replied Laurence.
“No, we’re off to interview Miss Guthrie, ex-Principal of Greenslade High,” replied Eleanor.
“We are?” Laurence couldn’t hide the note of disappointment in his voice.
“Yup, you drive,” she said, handing Laurence the keys and opening the doors.
Gary Le Douce slipped quietly away from the bar, where he’d been having a pleasant chat with a regular customer and into his inner sanctuary. He closed the door and slipped the bolt across it giving himself sufficient time to work out how to salvage his plan. He’d seen the man enter the club and begin to make his way through the handful of patrons and working girls in the direction of the bar. There was no doubt in Gary’s mind that he’d come to check whether the money had been collected. If he said it hadn’t there was a distinct possibility that the man would want it back, in which case his elaborate plan would come to nothing. If he lied and said it had gone then it might keep the man at bay for a while allowing the kidnapper to come and collect the money. So all Gary would have done was mess with the time frame, not a particularly bad thing in itself. Better still the upside to this was that if the money wasn’t collected he could keep it for himself. He looked at the surveillance feed on the small monitor. The man was staring straight at it but how could he? It was hidden between some bottles and really couldn’t be detected from the bar. Gary felt a shudder run unpleasantly along his spine. He waited for several moments, hoping that the man would realise that he wasn’t there and head off but there was nothing in his body language that indicated he was about to leave. The knock at his door made Gary jump.
“What?” he shrieked. It couldn’t be the man because he was still visible on the screen.
“Boss?” It was the voice of his bartender Brent. “You in there boss?”
“What the fuck do you want? Who’s looking after the bar?” snapped Gary.
“Sal is. There’s a guy out there says he wants to speak to you.”
“What about?”
“I dunno. Said he wasn’t leaving till he’s seen ya,”
“Tell him I aint ’ere,” said Gary in an increasingly urgent tone. “I did!” replied Brent defensively. “But he wasn’t buyin’ that.” “Why the fuck not! Weren’t you convincing?” hissed Gary.
“I guess no more than usual,” was the irritated response. “I don’t like this guy.”
“Join the fucking club!” said Gary loudly.
There was a pause before Brent started again. “Well what you want me to do then? I could call up Len. He’ll see him out.” Len was their ageing bouncer. Gary had employed him since opening the bar in the late eighties and hadn’t the heart to get rid of him – or the cash, as Len was very cheap. The guy had never taken a single night off in all the years he’d been there. Maybe it was time to think about a retirement package and get in some new blood. Gary sighed deeply.
“Tell him that…”
But Brent had anticipated this, “He said I wasn’t to bring no message back even though you ‘weren’t’ in the building. He’d only speak to you.”
Gary ground his teeth. He was cornered but maybe he could bluff his way out. Straightening his back and readjusting his dressing gown Gary unlocked the door and stepped into the gloomy corridor. “Get Len up here and tell him to watch my back. Ok?”
“Roger that boss,” said Brent with more chirpiness than the situation merited.
Gary followed him into the bar and beckoned the man over to
a more private corner.
“The money,” said the man flatly. “It hasn’t been collected and I want it back. You can keep the handling fee.”
Gary thought quickly. “He came in the morning after you left it. Dark haired man, in his thirties I’d guess. So, I gave him the money because that’s what you’d asked me to do,” he said with a righteous tone.
The man looked at him carefully, as if trying to peel away the many layers of deception that had woven themselves around Gary Le Douce over the half century he’d been thieving, lying and cheating those around him. Gary held his gaze. He wasn’t about to cave in over something as pathetic as whether he could hold a stare. But there was something about this man. Something that made Gary feel dirty and frail, not feelings that regularly shook him.
“The money is still here. It wasn’t collected was it?” said the man slowly.
Gary bit down on the inside of his lower lip. “No. I’ve got the fucking money,” he spat. He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened to his resolve. He saw Len take up an adversarial position next to the man’s right side, which should have filled him with confidence but something told him that this man was not going to be beaten down.
Ignoring Len’s frantic eyebrow communications, Gary stood up and walked quickly over to the bar where he reached below the counter and pressed a small hidden button, which opened a drawer below the counter. Gary reached in and without looking withdrew the package and secured it under his robe managing not to draw any unwanted attention from the punters who were propped along the bar in various stages of inebriation both liquid and sexual. As he handed it over to the man he found himself unable to look him in the eye. Silently the man stood up and made his way out of the building and into the night. Despite the loss of a potentially lucrative little deal Gary felt oddly relieved. He knew the man would never come back and for that he was extremely grateful.
Eleanor felt exhausted and suspected that the throbbing sensation behind her eyes was going to have developed into a full-blown migraine before the evening was out.
“What number?” asked Laurence peering into the rain drenched streets as he maneuvered the car through the evening traffic.
Eleanor looked at her notes. “Thirty-seven, Lincoln Drive. Take a left up here and it should be along the left.”
Laurence turned into the small, tree-lined drive and took tally of the numbers.
“Odd on the left… twenty-nine… thirty-three… that one,” he said quietly, pulling the car to a halt outside a small, brick-built two-storey detached. Both he and Eleanor looked at the house and saw the curtains twitch as their arrival was noted.
“Miss Louisa Guthrie, retired Principal of Greenslade High School, 1975-98,” read Eleanor from the notes Johnson had supplied.
“What are your expectations?” asked Laurence checking his tie and teeth in the rear view mirror.
“I’m not sure yet,” mused Eleanor. “I’m hoping she’ll remember Lee and tell us about the relationship between him and Tracy. Maybe she can provide some insight into his personality. I don’t really know yet,” she said turning to look at Laurence as he prepared himself to meet Miss Guthrie. She noted his long, delicate fingers as he ran them vigorously through his hair in an attempt to tame it and thought they seemed better designed for surgery than manhandling perps and guns. Eleanor was struck by how little attention she’d paid not just to his appearance but who he was. She knew she didn’t want him there but only because she didn’t want anyone taking Mo’s place. Who was she kidding? She didn’t want him there because he didn’t know who he was and a homicide detective still grappling with those issues was a liability. But until he fucked up or she managed to persuade Samuelson to team him up with Smith then she was going to have to tolerate him. She opened the passenger door and stepped out briskly slamming it behind her, noting the confusion on his face.
Miss Guthrie’s tea was weak and flavourless, rather like the woman herself. She was quiet, with a penchant for chintz and porcelain figurines. Eleanor and Laurence, by the look on his face, were both wondering how a woman with such little obvious personality could have been in charge of a large High school in a notoriously rough area of the city.
“Lee Hughes was an exceptionally gifted artist,” said Miss Guthrie sipping her tea and nibbling on a small sweet biscuit. “I even had a painting of his placed in my office,” she replied with a tight smile. “But of course I had it removed when he disappeared.”
“Why was that Miss Guthrie?” asked Eleanor keenly.
“Well, he had turned his back on the school and therefore could not have been celebrated there,” she said with a tone bordering on religious fervour.
“What did you do with the painting?” asked Eleanor
“I think it was burned,” said Miss Guthrie calmly.
“Do you have a photograph of the painting?” asked Laurence.
Slowly the ex-Principal placed her cup and saucer on the tray. “I rather think it’s time you explained your interest in Lee Hughes. Don’t you?”
“We are of the belief that he may be involved in the deaths of two women and possibly two police officers,” replied Eleanor.
Miss Guthrie raised an eyebrow and leaned forward slightly. “And how is that possible? It was my belief that the boy was dead.”
“There is nothing to indicate that,” said Eleanor, who also moved closer.
“After the deaths of his mother and sister Lee vanished and to my recollection was never seen again.” By the tone of her response it seemed that Miss Guthrie put a fair amount of score in her recollections and beliefs. She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow as if waiting for Eleanor to present some acceptable facts to her. Eleanor was beginning to understand why this woman had managed to maintain the headship of a difficult school.
“How au fait are you with the circumstances surrounding the deaths of Lee’s mother and sister?” Eleanor asked.
“By ‘au fait’, I take it you want to know whether my knowledge extends further than the fact that they were discovered in the garage, presumably the victims of carbon monoxide poisoning. I am also aware that Lee’s younger sister Carin was wrapped in a plastic sheet of some description and that the detectives that interviewed me at the time were insistent that Lee’s mother couldn’t have done this.
However, Lee was very definitely in school on the day and time in question and could not have been involved in the deaths.”
“You seem very sure about that Miss Guthrie,” said Eleanor.
“I taught him English that morning and he never left my sight between second and third period. Following that he was with the Head of Art till lunchtime. He did not attend afternoon registration at one fifty-five, which indicated that he must have left the school during the lunch break.”
“Which ran from one p.m. till two?
Miss Guthrie nodded tightly. “When his form tutor notified me of his unauthorised absence I called his home but there was no response. I believe the police found him several hours later wandering the streets but I’m sure you will have retained the original statements and already know that.”
Miss Guthrie closed her mouth and looked at the two detectives in a way that suggested that she did not take supplementary questions.
“You have an amazing recollection of the events Miss Guthrie,” said Laurence with admiration in his voice. “You said Lee had ‘turned his back on the school’. What did you mean by that?”
“I meant he refused the support the school offered and took himself off. That is not the way that things are done at Greenslade,” said Miss Guthrie bristling with indignation. “A problem shared is a problem halved is our thinking.”
“But you believe him to be dead. Surely he couldn’t have turned his back on the school if he was no longer alive?” suggested Laurence firmly. Eleanor glanced at him, wondering where this line of baiting was going. She suspected it would lead them quickly to the front door none the wiser for their visit and was just about to commandeer the questio
ning when Laurence butted in.
“Miss Guthrie I believe you are holding something back. You are toying with me waiting for me to ask the right question aren’t you? You’re not going to give me the information I need until you feel I deserve it! No wonder you were in charge of one of the most successful schools in the county. I wish I’d had you as a mentor maybe I’d have made more of my life,” he mused slumping back into his seat.
Eleanor gaped at him but before she could indicate that he go and wait by the car she heard a giggle. Miss Guthrie was giggling in an unpleasant girlish manner a hand pressed lightly against her lips.
“Don’t be silly. I’m sure you were an excellent student Detective Whitefoot. But after so many years teasing the best out of people I’m still wedded to the old techniques.” She sighed and rearranged her skirt tucking it under her ample knees and waited for Laurence to begin. She held a finger up to him. “I shall tell you exactly what I remember and endeavour to answer all your questions in the utmost detail. Fire away.”
Laurence shunted to the edge of the sofa and locked eyes with Miss Guthrie. “Give me your impression of Lee Hughes.”
“Well he was a quiet boy and didn’t communicate easily with his fellow students. Particularly average grades apart from Art. Now the piece of art I had hanging in my office was burnt. I saw to that because of the relevance of its contents to the deaths.”
Laurence leaned even closer. “Go on.”
“It was a dark painting, showing the death of Ophelia. They had been studying ‘Hamlet’ in English you see. But Ophelia wasn’t floating in the water surrounded by the posy of herbs and flowers, as is described in the play. This Ophelia was wrapped in polythene.” Miss Guthrie let this sink in.