by Alex Scarrow
‘You think there’s uncooked fluid in there?’
Dayne looked at Boyd. ‘Correct. We’ll get something almost certainly; it takes a helluva lot of heat and time to cook everything right out of a body. The spinal column is usually the last place to hold out, so I’m going to go probing in there for a viable sample.’
‘What about the fatty deposits that were around the body?’ asked Boyd.
‘To have boiled out as grease eruptions, the body would have been heated to oven temperature, like a Thanksgiving turkey. The fatty deposits are where it’s cooled back down to what is essentially lard. There will be nothing useful there.’ Dayne pulled out some slides from the scan and showed them to Boyd and Lane. ‘We’re looking for liquid density, and I can see what looks like some in the spinal cord here.’ He pointed at an area on one of the scans. ‘And also here, the dura mater. We might get lucky with one of these, but the rest of the body is probably unviable.’
Boyd nodded. This was going to be a little easier than the last autopsy he’d attended. He was looking at charcoal in the shape of a splayed man. One arm had been broken off and was lying on the table like a spare, but the other three limbs were doing their best rendition of a star.
‘The SOC report says he was found in this pose?’ said Dayne.
Boyd nodded again. ‘He was tied down to a snooker table.’
Dayne grinned. ‘Love how you Brits call it that.’
‘Was the arm broken off before the body reached you?’ asked Lane.
Dayne nodded. ‘It may have thermally amputated during the fire; that happens. Boiling pressure at the joints can create an explosive force. Like when sausages burst.’
Lane pointed at a glistening texture around the wrist of the separate arm. ‘What’s that?’
Dayne came round the table and bent down to look more closely at it. ‘It looks like melted plastic. Perhaps a watch strap?’
‘Or a cable tie?’ offered Lane. ‘Plastic, though. If it was that hot, surely it would have melted enough for him to snap himself free?’
‘Unless he was dead before the fire?’ Boyd looked at Dayne. ‘Is there any way you’re going to be able to determine that?’
Dayne winced. ‘Probably not. If he was less burned, yes… there’s be signs of scorching of the trachea, signs of smoke inhalation. I’m not going to get that sort of information out of this body. Toxicology samples might… I repeat, might give us chemical traces that could have been inhaled from the smoke or the accelerant used. But, honestly, it would be guesswork, a suggestion only.’
‘And there are no indicators of cause of death other than –’ Boyd stopped himself saying death by cooking.
Dayne looked again through his slides. ‘Nothing that indicates a deep penetration or laceration or blunt trauma.’
‘What about a bullet wound?’
Lane looked at Boyd. ‘You’re thinking – a professional hit?’
He nodded. ‘Then disguised as something more emotive.’
‘If there was a bullet or bullet hole in there, the passage would have showed up, crystal clear,’ replied Dayne. ‘And a bullet inside? Metal presents wonderfully clearly in a scan.’
‘Right,’ said Boyd.
‘I’m going to start the examination by digging for any remaining soft tissue. We’ll get viable DNA, I’m sure. If we’re very lucky, we’ll get a few more details from the toxicology report, but the scans I’m afraid aren’t telling me much more than where I need to begin excavating.’ Dayne picked up a serrated blade. ‘By the way, where do I send the report? The Metropolitan force is our client.’
‘Although the Met’s paying,’ said Lane, ‘the report needs to be directed to me in Sussex.’
‘Okay.’ Dayne nodded. ‘I’ve got your email address... I think.’
Lane pulled out one of his cards and left it on the corner of a kit trolley. He tapped it. ‘Just in case.’
As they stepped outside into the sunlight, Boyd savoured the warmth on his face and the glow of light on his closed eyelids. He took several deep breaths to dispel the growing nausea he’d been feeling. It wasn’t the body; it was the odours that did it – the faint tang of formaldehyde, the residual whiff of fuel, the grotesque scent of cooked meat.
He was suddenly relieved to detect the smell of cigarette smoke as Lane sparked up. Boyd fought the urge to ask Lane if he could spare one. But the return of that old habit was just one bad choice away. He wouldn’t go there again.
‘It would be useful to know for sure,’ said Boyd.
‘What?’
‘Whether Sutton was alive or dead before the fire got going.’
‘He was tied out,’ said Lane. ‘You don’t need to tie a dead body.’
‘Which suggests more than a professional hit. Doesn’t it?’
Lane nodded.
‘So he was probably tortured first,’ said Boyd. ‘But why? To get information? To exact revenge?’
‘Aye… you’re thinking it’s less likely the ex-wife or one of the kids had a hand in it?’
‘Maybe, yeah. But… it’s possible they hired someone and things got out of hand. These things do happen.’
‘Or maybe it was an attempt to disguise the motive?’ offered Lane.
‘Right – make it look weird and ritualistic.’ Boyd pondered that in silence while Lane finished his cigarette. He’d seen that tactic a few times before. It worked pretty well as a smoke screen, especially if the press got hold of it. It wasn’t popular with the higher-ups, though. Pressure to investigate satanic groups or weird cults – stoked up by the papers, of course – meant spending critical resources chasing down blind alleys.
He looked at Lane. ‘You said there could be official secrets that came out during the investigation?’
Lane puffed out a cloud, then bit his lip. ‘Not that I’m expecting any. Sutton wasn’t a big cog in the government.’
‘But he would have attended cabinet briefings?’ Boyd said.
‘Aye.’ Lane nodded. ‘Mind you, he was a junior minister, so probably only attended full cabinet meetings, and those tend to be little more than photo opportunities.’
Boyd looked out past the car park, across to Fulham Palace Road and the park that ran alongside this side of the glistening Thames. He’d had a picnic there not so many years ago. With his family. A memory of a £5 Tesco disposable BBQ and burgers, and Noah waddling across the grass, barefoot, in a nappy and dinosaur T-shirt.
He closed his eyes again and concentrated on the last of the cigarette smoke, in a bid to dispel the association of that precious moment with that blackened corpse on the slab.
23
‘I think this must be it,’ said Okeke. She’d spoken to Hermione Sutton first thing this morning to get the address of her cake shop that it was in Brighton’s Dukes Lane arcade .
The shop looked out onto a cute little square with space for half a dozen small round tables and parasols. Next door was a café, and opposite a Ted Baker’s. Since it was sunny, warm and lunchtime, the tables were full with ladies lunching and, Okeke noted, seagulls that seemed to show a little more respect than the louts back in Hastings.
Warren stepped forward to open the door to Hermione’s Treats, but Okeke gently stopped him. ‘A word before we go in.’
‘What?’
‘I’m leading this interview.’
He frowned. ‘What? Hey.’ His voice hardened slightly and he stuck his chin out, challenging her. ‘I don’t remember the boss putting you in charge.’
‘I spoke to her on the phone. I talked her into seeing us.’ Okeke shrugged. ‘I’ve built a little trust with her. It makes sense for me to lead. You just sit tight and look cute.’
She pushed the door inwards before Warren could respond, and a bell tinkled inside the shop.
It was busy. There was a queue at the glass counter for cakes, pastries and coffee – everything on display was one hundred per cent vegan. There were stools in the front window, neatly lined up along an eat-in counter,
and a few tables at the back, all of which were occupied.
A woman with long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and wearing a green apron, approached them. ‘Are you Samantha?’
Okeke nodded. ‘And this is DC Warren.’
Warren nodded politely.
‘I’m Hermione,’ said the woman. She was carrying two plates stacked in one hand and a cloth in the other.
‘This seems like a bit of an awkward time,’ said Okeke.
‘It’s busy, yes, but it’ll clear in ten minutes,’ Hermione assured them.
‘Do you want us to go and come back in a bit?’ asked Okeke.
Hermione shook her head. ‘There’s a back door beside the toilet, with “Staff” on it. It’s a quiet outdoors space where the girls can take a break. Grab a seat. Can I bring you a coffee?’
Okeke smiled. ‘Thanks, that would be nice.’
She looked at Warren.
‘You got anything cold?’ he replied. ‘Like a Coke or something?’
She shook her head. ‘Sorry, we don’t stock any of the branded fizzies. I can get you an iced coffee or an ice tea?’
‘I’ll just have an orange juice, thanks,’ he said.
Hermione nodded at the staff door. ‘Go through – I’ll be with you in a little bit.’
Okeke weaved around the queue to the door and pushed it open, stepping into a tiny courtyard that was a pleasant little suntrap. If it wasn’t for the waste containers, it would’ve been a perfect space for a couple more customer tables.
They sat down, Warren whipping off his jacket and loosening his tie. ‘It’s fucking warm today.’
He pulled out a packet of cigarettes.
‘Hold on,’ said Okeke. She looked around and saw an ashtray sitting on top of a blue plastic drum. ‘All right, I guess it’s okay.’
He pulled one out for himself and offered her one.
‘Go on, then,’ she said. ‘But we’ll have to make it quick.’
He lit them both, handed her one and sat back. ‘So did the guvnor say you were to take the lead?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘But this is going to be a sensitive conversation. Her dad’s dead.’
‘I did all the family visits for the Ken Doll case,’ Warren pointed out. ‘I’m not going to go blundering in.’
‘All the same,’ Okeke said, ‘let me lead. If you think I’m missing something, you can give me a hint.’
They finished their cigarettes and stubbed them out just as Hermione came out with a tray. She set their drinks down and pulled up a chair.
‘Okay then, so how can I help you?’ she asked.
‘There’s a few questions we want to ask you about your father… and about the fire,’ Okeke said.
‘The first one being… why are you back at work and not sobbing your heart out?’ Hermione said.
Okeke watched her closely. There were complicated flickers of emotion fleeting across her face – not at all easy to read.
‘No.’ Okeke shook her head. ‘We deal with things like this in our own way, right?’
‘Well, for your information, I despised the man,’ Hermione said. ‘He was a bully. He mentally abused Mummy for thirty years, until she couldn’t take it any more. I think the term to use now is “gaslighting”, isn’t it?’
Okeke pulled out her notebook. ‘In what way did he abuse her?’
‘Oh, he told her she was stupid, constantly. She was useless, an air-head. He shouted at her all the bloody time.’
‘Was he ever physical?’
Hermione shook her head. ‘I never saw him hit her, but… I mean, he didn’t need to. It was all non-stop put-downs and sarcasm and saying cruel things to her. He undermined her self-confidence, her self-worth, and of course he cheated on her… probably several times.’
‘But she did divorce him eventually?’
‘With my help. I had to convince her. I told her I could see he was killing her slowly. Killing her with meanness. Even then, he screwed her over in the divorce. He bullied her into giving over half her money.’
‘Her money?’
‘Money from Grandma and Grandpa – from her side of the family. It was obvious he married Mummy for the money, the connections, the social standing. Daddy was a grubby opportunist. I hated him.’
Warren caught Okeke’s eye and raised his brows.
‘Did you have much of a relationship with your father’s family?’
‘Not really. Daddy was ashamed of Nanna and Grandad Sutton. His working-class roots always bothered him. He was their only child and pretty much blocked them out.’ Hermione looked at her. ‘It takes a cold-hearted arsehole to be able to do that, right?’
Okeke nodded. ‘Did he not want you and Henry to have a relationship with them?’
‘Oh, God, no! He frequently told us they were a waste of space. Non-achievers.’
‘Wow, that’s hard,’ said Okeke.
‘I know! He was all about climbing up the social ladder. That’s literally ALL he cared about. A little man with very little time for anyone but himself.’ She laughed harshly. ‘Did you ever watch that old comedy show Dad’s Army?’
Okeke frowned; she vaguely recalled the show from her childhood. Something about stuffy old men in army uniforms.
‘My dad was a bit like Captain Mainwaring. Not in appearance, just in his manner. It was all about making an impression. All about show. He was a pompous little social climber.’
There’s not an ounce of love there, Okeke mused. Or grief.
‘He was complete bullshit,’ said Hermione. ‘Parlaying himself upwards from one useful connection to the next. That’s how he ended up in the government. All talk.’
‘Did he ever abuse you?’ asked Warren.
Hermione’s mouth clapped shut.
Shit, thought Okeke. Far too blunt. She glared at him.
‘What do you mean… physically?’ Hermione asked.
Realising he’d been leaden-footed, Warren glanced at Okeke, unsure as to how to proceed.
‘Or mentally,’ Okeke said, kicking Warren under the table.
‘Well, not sexually, if that’s what you’re suggesting. No, not really. He had no time for me. For either of us.’
‘And does your brother feel the same?’ asked Okeke.
‘Henry?’ She laughed sharply again. ‘He’s cut from the same cloth as Dad. A complete self-serving prick. They weren’t any closer, if that’s what you mean. Henry’s out for Henry, no one else.’
‘Do you know where he is?’ Warren cut in. ‘We’ve been trying to contact him for several days now.’
Hermione shrugged. ‘No idea. Dubai, maybe? Probably trying to con someone out of their money.’
‘What does he do?’ Okeke asked.
‘Something to do with raising investment funds. But, if you strip away the fancy business title and trappings, he’s basically a salesman who wants your long card number and sort code.’
‘Right,’ said Okeke. ‘A used car salesman in very smart clothes?’
‘Exactly. But with some very rich old school friends to vouch for him. You wouldn’t believe the number of doors that opens.’
‘So you’re not close with him, then?’ Warren asked.
Hermione pulled a sarcastic face. ‘Can you tell?’
Okeke took a deep breath. ‘Now I know this is an uncomfortable question to be asked…’ she began, ‘but in the event of your father’s death…’
‘You’re asking whether Henry or I would benefit?’ Hermione guessed.
Okeke nodded.
‘As in, “Did either of you do it?”’ Hermione added bluntly.
‘No, I’m not asking that. I’m only trying to get a complete picture of your father’s situation, the people –’
‘Who’d want him dead?’ she finished for her. ‘Well, much as I hate the narcissistic, self-serving bastard, I wouldn’t want to kill him.’ She leant forward. ‘Is that what’s happened? Was he… murdered?’
‘We believe the fire was started deliberat
ely,’ said Warren. ‘With the intention of catching him inside, yes.’
‘God,’ said Hermione, wide-eyed.
‘Had he made any enemies you can think of?’ Okeke asked. ‘Anyone who’d want to exact revenge on him? Or want something from him?’
‘Well, I’m sure he has lots of enemies, but what do you mean by “want something from him”?’ Hermione said.
Okeke shot Warren a warning look. She didn’t want the London break-in mentioned. Not yet. Not until Boyd said it could be used in interview.
Hermione shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It wouldn’t surprise me if his relentless social-climbing made use of some dirty little secrets along the way.’
‘Okay,’ Okeke said, nodding. ‘Thank you, Hermione. I think we’ve got enough for the moment.’
‘Were you aware he was dying?’ Warren blurted out.
Okeke nearly choked on the last mouthful of her coffee.
‘Dying?’ Hermione stared at Warren, genuinely shocked at that news. ‘Dying? How? Of what?’
‘Motor neurone syndrome.’
‘Disease,’ corrected Okeke. She was strongly tempted to kick him again, but managed to restrain herself. ‘We only learned he was suffering from that yesterday,’ she explained to Hermione.
‘Dad had MND?’
Okeke’s instinct was telling her again that Hermione’s reaction to the news was authentic. She hadn’t known anything about this.
‘When?’ she asked. ‘I mean how long ago was it diagnosed?’
Okeke shook her head. ‘I don’t know, but we’re aware that he had a carer for the past year. Do you think your brother would have been aware of this?’
‘I… I don’t know. Probably not. He barely speaks to him unless he wants something from him. You said dying…. How long did he have left?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t know that either.’