by D Attrill
“More information than that?" she managed to ask as he dive-bombed beneath the slipway.
“I just said the face might ring a bell.”
“I hear that about a lot of bodies I stumble across.”
She recognised Blackburn Road once they got onto it. It was some smoky old industrial street that Hargreaves had told her about once, as part of one of their rare ‘peaceful’ conversations. Slowly rising its way north, it passed rugged old terraces and railway station buildings, then into a razed landscape of chimneys and abandoned industrial floors. Familiar lights ahead added a surreal momentary tint.
“Time for the moment of truth.” Garstone turned eagerly to the right as PC Thompson waved him into a spot.
“Good evening, ma’am." Thompson came leaping across the weeds to meet them. “Sorry to have turned you out in this again.”
“Not to worry, Will.” Leyton covered herself with a large black cagoule as she climbed out. “I've been a slave to drama today... besides which it has stopped raining.”
“Why the hell do you need that on then?” Garstone was pondering.
Thompson, shrugging in exchange, showed them over the cordon and up an extremely short road that was horseshoed by vegetating wasteland.
A tall No-Cycling notice stood silhouetted against the sinking night sky, marking the entrance to the bridge as somewhere by.
“I take it the magic white tent took some performance to put up.” Leyton reacted as she reached the forensics room. The tent was struggling to stay upright in the treacherous Sheffield wind.
“Just this minute sorted her.” PC Mike Raylesthorpe welcomed her forth “The victim’s location’s a pain in the arse enough.”
Leyton let him show her through the tent while it still stayed up. A pair of faceless forensics officers seemed not to be interested, just nodding her past.
She ascended a spiral ramp leading her high over the M1 motorway below. Only a light shining from officers at the other end of the bridge showed her any help getting over, although they appeared to be setting up the scene on their own side.
“Might want to be careful, ma’am.” called Raylesthorpe from behind. “They’ve had real palaver, putting them lights up at top.”
Mystified by this, Leyton began making her way slowly across.
She’d got seventeen feet along when she suddenly felt her left foot trip on a large invisible mass in front. The shock sent her almost over the railings. She fought herself to her feet, with Garstone’s help, before squatting down to study whatever it was she’d been assaulted by.
A dark blanketed heap could just be made out, as the lights of a lorry lit the scene up from beneath.
Having found the edge, Leyton slowly lifted it aside.
“Tell me you’re joking…god….”
She lowered the sheet again as Garstone stepped close to look.
Chapter 3
(i)
Leyton felt guilt pouring on her harder than the rain as she hunched over the fallen. The light yellow shirt was a giveaway to both Garstone and herself. She gesticulated to him to get down beside her, instead of getting to grips with his industrial-sized light.
The curly-haired, middle aged face showed up in the glare. It was whitened more by the light than by loss of its own blood. The body lay on its front, though they could see the head was craned placidly upwards.
She reminded her DC of that friendly food court assistant who’d helped her deal with an aggressive young mother earlier today. A shocking and sudden death like this seemed just like the punishment dished out to that do-gooder who dared to intervene.
“We’ll have to wait for Jamieson to show up before any more can happen.”
She accepted that verifying the cause of death would not be easy where they stood.
The signs indicated that the victim had just started to roll over as she was thrown.
She then noticed a different coloured shade to the blanket, just at where it rolled back. There was a patch of dark halfway down the victim’s back, almost the size of a 50p piece.
Leyton yearned to belt out the words ‘should have done more’ as she stood away to let a photographer in, but she couldn’t allow colleagues to hear her assuming blame. She finally satisfied with ducking her head a little in respect.
“Seen ‘em tracks down here?” The voice of DC Armitage was still less difficult to hear than her own tormenting thoughts.
“My god, where?”
Any excuse to flee this fume-ridden footbridge suited her. She gave Garstone his torch back and tramped back down to the tent.
“Ok, I’m here. Show me right away.”
“Mike found ‘em. Hope he didn’t nelly them up when he parked.”
PC Raylesthorpe was waiting to put the tape across as Leyton entered the space. She didn’t seem to spot any SOCs or forensics supervising him.
“So, is someone amazing going to show me these tracks then?”
“You’re just about stood on them, ma’am.” Armitage warned her.
Leyton jumped hurriedly back again. Stepping so much as a toenail on top of evidence was like the end of the world. She regretted leaving Garstone with their only good torch, especially when she saw Armitage produce his paltry red implement. Taking the Sainsburys Switch-o-matic grudgingly, she flicked it at where Raylesthorpe had fingered. Traces of faintly patterned treads showed up. They all seemed newly moulded into the ground.
She could just discern a semicircular curve. It led right across to the terrace end behind, having distinctively deformed the earth mound in its path: this driver had pulled an impressive manoeuvre in missing the wall.
The pattern designs were nigh-on impossible to distinguish, although the manner of the vehicle’s arrival was more important for now. Leyton had heard of a calculated landing, followed by a clumsy take-off: they’d have parked up hurriedly, slung the victim out and dragged her up to the top, before battling the elements to escape.
The hurried exit was obviously an attempt at making up time.
Method alone impressed her - the suspect had evidently earmarked this spot. Aside from being an ideally unlit route, which saw only sporadic use at night, the colour of the footbridge floor would have matched the victim’s ‘giftwrap’ enough to slow its discovery up.
“I’m amazed you hadn’t created these tracks yourself, Mike.”
Crisp new high-pitched sounds set her on end. ‘Coldplay' music came from the Vectra, as a vague crystal glow coloured the windscreen.
Knowing Garstone had probably not locked the car she shot across and opened his side door. Her mobile sat vibrating on the dashboard.
“How can I have been so stupid?” she thought, as she took it and answered. She felt even more foolhardy as it turned out to be only a missed call message. The number that came up with it was Becky’s.
Leyton debated with herself on how to phrase the reply. She finally gave in to the straightforward take.
“Becky, hi it’s Joanne. Sorry I didn’t get chance , back at the Post office, to say bye properly, so I’d understand if you thought I was terribly rude. Just checking that you reached home safe... ly...hold on...”
She lowered the phone slowly down without finishing. Immediately in front, just feet from the pavement, something shone in the headlights.
It was round and glowing, as if a portal in the earth had opened up. Calling the boys across, she stepped over for a more assuring look.
She stopped as motorway lights sent everything silver again. The object was rested upright, against the base of an uprooted steel gatepost. About thirteen inches wide and plastic, a hubcap was something she recognised without Garstone’s help. She knew she’d only see more by moving it, so she summoned for some gloves from Raylesthorpe. Picking it up with minimum contact she placed it on end and twirled it slowly around. As the Vectra’s headlights shone, she could see the jagged pattern of the trim. She traced it to a very familiar logo, right in the centre - the unmistakable one of a 'Vauxhall' car.
“What the hell’s she scooped up now?” Garstone came crowding round her.
“Something quite useful, you’ll agree.”
She showed him the hubcap, as if it were a freshly-baked cake on 'Blue Peter'.
“Hope I’m not implicated here.” Garstone looked to be registering the make.
“It could be anything ‘Vauxhall’.” She saw the item was causing him discomfort. “But now’s not quite the time to discuss.”
“Want to bring it inside the tent, ma’am?” Raylesthorpe asked. “Thought you’d prefer it to out here in the cold.”
Not feeling any warmer from the engine heat, Leyton took up on his offer.
She set the exhibit flat upon the table and they all swarmed around it. Whilst she and her two DC.s started taking notes, the topic twisted from the type of car to the type of impact instead: what the hell could have removed a hub cap this suddenly, or violently?
Leyton and Armitage were winning two-one against Garstone in the theory match, hers being that the driver might not have not seen one of the numerous potholes in time.
The mud and heavy scratching all over the front of it made her think again though; a separate impact, that had happened just beforehand could have loosened it.
There was too much damage to suggest the hub cap had simply broken off, rolling about on its end then toppled flat, front side upwards.
“So, I take it we’re now looking for a Vauxhall with four wobbly hub caps.” Garstone declared “Or possibly just three.”
“What about we find the one with a funnily-deformed bumper?” Leyton knew what paid off quicker, under procedure.
“I don’t know about that.” he said to her out of earshot. “Toby... that kid you talked to? He was telling me the Corsa flew sky-high at the front, just as it hit Summers’s body.”
“Oh god..” What was Garstone doing not sharing this straight away, she could demand to know right here?
“Either it got Mr Summers somewhere softer, or it smacked the kerb first. I mean, seeing as the guy was actually stood on the south-east corner pavement…”
“Do you know Greg, sometimes, I’m ready to call you useless…”
Sudden vibrations shook from Leyton’s jacket as well as her brain.
“No prizes for guessing who this is...” she dragged her mobile out, almost taking her lining with it. “Do excuse me a few minutes...or maybe longer.”
“What are we supposed to do whilst waiting?” Garstone whinged.
“Oh, you could just snap it and bag it. Don’t worry, I won’t be long.” She swapped places with Pathologist Donald Jamieson as he arrived. “Don, just in time. Sort these boys and their toy out, would you? There’s a kind man.”
“Me? Kind?” Jamieson eyed her two DCs stood alone with the item, “Who’d imagine such a preposterous thing?”
“Ok, Becky,” Leyton hit her answer button before she lost the incoming caller. “How be you tonight then?”
She listened to a lengthy yet excited reply.
“You’re kidding me aren’t you?” Spotting officers staring, she was inclined to drop the volume.
“I tell you what, darling. I’m totally tied up at the moment but I’ll be over tomorrow, early as possible.”
(ii)
Garstone didn’t get the usual wakeup call from Leyton the following morning. It was something in the region of quarter-past-seven as he searched his mobile for texts. Sitting up, he checked his patterns for the day. As he found his guitar almost on the verge of sliding from the end of his bed, he attempted to rescue it. Just then, the tone rippled.
A text popped up in purple.
‘LEYTON: Morning, my lovelies. See you at the mortuary, 8.30.’
“Dunno pal.” Armitage said as Garstone met him outside his flat in Chapeltown “Not heard owt.”
“She texted me...I assumed she’d texted you.” Garstone wondered if Leyton had dozed off, forgetting to charge.
Driving towards the city, the DCs continued to joke about her strange turn in character. It lasted right until they reached the mortuary car park and crossed straight over to the main door.
“She could have thought I’d stopped over yours the night.” Armitage continued the conversation as they strolled in.
“She’d honestly think I’d be that stupid?” Garstone joked as he approached the lab and knocked.
“You two have got some nerve.” said Don Jamieson as he opened the door to them. “FitzMichael found a crisp packet under the table last Wednesday.” He was looking at Armitage as he said it.
“We’re due to be meeting up with Leyton at half eight.” Garstone hoped the ban hadn’t been applied to their full department. “Shall we hold on till she’s turned up?”
“Oh what the heck...” He showed both Garstone and Armitage in. “It’s on my head if our Irish friend finds out, just remember that.”
“Dr FitzMichael’s rung in ill,” called another pathologist passing in the corridor. “He contracted severe gastroenteritis last night.”
“I never thought his wife’s mashed potato would be so lethal.”
“I wonder what Leyton’s last servant died of overnight. Dumping us here like this.”
“She's made up for it.” Jamieson dropped a fresh-looking file on the table. “If it saves you peeking right now, the poor unfortunate soul in front of us is Paula Louise Radcombe. Aged 57. Employee of ’SurfaceSaviours’, a Sheffield-based cleaning contractors company. Widowed, two grown-up daughters both living abroad.”
“Aye, they’ll have a shock, next time they show up back over here for a cuppa.” Armitage was watching Jamieson take back the sheet.
“If you let me carry on,” Jamieson took back the sheet “Ms Radcombe was referred to by her colleagues as something of a loner. Worked 9.30 - 12 midday, Wednesday and Thursday. Regularly walked home, to her address in Lane Top, bus rarely involved. In other words, she and her killer made acquaintances sometime between 12.30 and 5.05pm yesterday afternoon.”
Hearing enough, the two detectives stepped closer to look at their subject.
The body of Paula Radcombe lay, only partly covered. At least she was now face-up though.
Garstone forgot all about that, however, once he was shown the wound.
A fearsome star-shaped gash had shattered the woman’s upper chest, close to the throat. He remembered the vague patch of blood on that blanket, beneath yesterday’s paltry lighting.
Collecting some gloves, he and Armitage crowded the table. Long seconds went by, with Jamieson nodding and humming as he got occasional details down that he’d obviously not managed before their visit.
“Shall we press on ahead then?” Jamieson finally ended his unbearable silence. “To hell with the Fitz-meister.”
Holding laughter back, Garstone welcomed Armitage in to study.
“Hey, you didn’t say nowt about her being done both sides.” Armitage showed some shock.
“Probably just from one actually, Leroy.”
Jamieson gave him an X-ray picture.
“It's only our first helping, I admit, but it does indicate a large hand-held weapon was employed.”
“Tell thee, I’d like to get me hands on whichever chuff-job this were.” Armitage displayed a face of disgust. “I'll give him ‘both sides’, alright.”
“I’d like to extend you the very best of luck then... noting that the only thing we’re going to find any fingerprints on now is our missing weapon.”
“Not even the blanket...?”
“Tested to the last thread." Jamieson seemed to be smiling at making it hard “Distinctive smell of dogs’ deposits somewhere about; definitely NO hint of human essence.”
“Someone out there with gloves of titanium.” Garstone quipped.
“Either that, or some type of butterfingers, in the art of bladed implement use.”
“In English...”
“The photo shows that the weapon penetrated Miss Radcombe’s internals at a notably haphazard angle.”
“A single, fatal stab; except you see our old friend the knife here ended up exiting the body halfway down the spinal area, having travelled ‘diagonally’ through about every vital organ in its way. Obviously, the blade had bumped into something a bit too hard inside the old dear. It's likely therefore, we're looking into an impromptu killing, carried out by someone walking the street with a weapon, but without his set target for the night.”
“But something that big?” Garstone studied her 46inch girth. “Miss Radcombe was hardly a supermodel. What sort of thing’s gonna have gone right through her and out the other end?”
Jamieson disappeared to assault his filing cabinet. He darted back in with a digital e-fit. It showed a fearsome bowie knife.
“Fuck me on a broom...”
“The Bayswater Bruschetta. One of a couple of similarly sized weapons, handed in during Hargreaves’s time. One was a thirteen- inch, bladed implement. The width of the blade would have done the same irreparable damage; straight through one side of the mountain and out the other, with a friendly ‘hello’.”
“What kind of bastard makes these for fun?” Armitage asked. He looked resentfully at the weapon.
“American make. All products completely illegal in the UK.”
“How come one of ‘em ended up in Sheffield then?”
“On the black market my boy, anything’s possible.”
“How would you know all this without owning one?” Could Garstone find it in him to accuse sweet old Don Jamieson of such a thing?
“I can only say it’s not that dissimilar to the toy my son David took on safari. Two-inch-wide blade, one side heavily serrated. Twelve-point-nine end to end, excluding the handle part. Lovely if you have a loaf of bread that’s being awkward.”
“Jesus be chuffed.” Armitage tried his glasses for grease, before looking twice. “See how it came out t’other side of her.”
“Only just so...”
Jamieson showed them a photo of the rear puncture to Paula Radcombe’s lower back.