IMPURITY

by Ray Clark

  “Fuck me!” said Reilly.

  “I told you.”

  Gardener wondered what could have caused such complete destruction. He turned to Fitz. The man was tired. His normally tall, lean frame stooped. Fitz’s wrinkled complexion, combined with the exhaustion in his face, easily gave away his sixty years. The pathologist’s half-lens glasses, still speckled with blood, perched lower down his nose than they should be, on the verge of falling off.

  “Can you tell me anything?” asked Gardener.

  “The only fact I have at the moment is the skeleton belongs to an elderly male, approximately sixty years of age. I can’t do a normal post-mortem. As you can see, there’s nothing left. All the major organs had been completely destroyed before I could make an inspection. His brain, heart, liver, lungs, kidneys, all gone. There’s nothing but bones and mush. Extensive degradation due to proteolysis.”

  “Which means what?”

  “All the proteins have broken down. I’ve taken tissue samples for analysis.”

  “You’ve no idea what caused it?”

  “None. Because of the advanced putrefaction, I had to work pretty quickly. I’ve taken hair samples, which can be tested for drugs, and I managed to acquire some urine. Hopefully, toxicology will tell us something. I would have liked at least one major organ to work with for histology.”

  “What about acid?” Reilly asked.

  “It’s possible, but acid usually leaves a residue on the bones. Most acids leave something of themselves behind. For example, if sulphuric acid had been used, the bones wouldn’t have dissolved. There would have been an insoluble coating of calcium sulphate, which would show on the bones as a strange, off-white, almost yellow colour. But acid doesn’t usually leave bones. I remember the case of John George Haigh in 1949.”

  Oh, God, thought Gardener, here he goes.

  “He’s probably the most celebrated of the acid murderers. He had an acid bath at his factory in Crawley, Sussex. Dropped a Mrs...” Fitz paused, sucked in breath, “Durand-Deacon in it. If a human body is submerged in acid, it will be completely digested, bones and all. Haigh’s mistake was that her body wasn’t fully immersed. A little bit of the feet were left above the level of the compound.

  “One of the doctors investigating the case found a gallstone on the ground outside the factory where Haigh had dumped her sludge. He also discovered the remnants of the bones of the feet and believe it or not, her false teeth. They were identified by her dentist, and Haigh was convicted.”

  “That’s all very entertaining, Fitz, but we’re investigating this body, not some woman who was killed while you were serving your apprenticeship.”

  Fitz snorted. “It’s not an acid, in my opinion. Whatever it is, it started on the inside and worked its way out. It’s dissolved all of the soft tissue, but not the clothing or the bones. It’s a new one on me.”

  Fitz’s last comment worried Gardener. As far as he knew, the pathologist was probably the best in the country. He had over thirty years in the specialist area of anatomic pathology. Gardener trusted him. If he said he’d never seen anything like it, and he didn’t know what caused it, they were in trouble.

  “Is it homicide?”

  “In my opinion, yes. What’s happened isn’t natural. If it is natural, there is no recorded case.”

  “Any ideas on the unnatural substance?” asked Gardener.

  “Not at the moment, no.”

  “What about an estimated time of death?”

  Fitz shrugged before answering. “Judging by what the landlady said last night, he was still alive between half past six and eight o’clock. Yet he was almost completely destroyed by half past eleven.”

  “So, whatever it is only took three hours to do its work.”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Gardener stared at Reilly.

  He turned back to Fitz. “Have you any ideas? Is it a chemical?”

  “Without the results of the analysis on the samples, I can’t tell you anything. Just give me a day or two and I’ll send my report through. Hopefully, I will have something more concrete for you.”

  “Any opinion on the type of person we should be looking for?”

  “You really need a profiler for that. For what it’s worth, I think it’s someone with high intelligence. Whatever the assailant used is probably very specialized.”

  Fitz paused.

  Gardener could tell there was more.

  Apprehensively, Fitz added, “It took three hours for the body to reach a state of decomposition which normally takes three months.”

  Fitz replaced the sheet over the remains. “I wish you the best of luck, Stewart. I think you’re going to need it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Back at the house in Rawston, Gardener mounted the stairs cautiously, warning Reilly to do the same. He knocked loudly on Nicki Carter’s door. She answered immediately, forcing Gardener to wonder who she’d been expecting. He could tell from her expression it wasn’t him.

  She was wearing the same clothes she had on the previous evening. Of course, so was he. The only difference was, he hadn’t been home yet.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “To talk.”

  “I’ve already spoken to you lot.”

  “No, you made a statement which told us where you were. Now we need to build up a picture of the deceased. It’s our job, remember? Can we come in?”

  “I suppose so.”

  She didn’t actually invite them in, she simply left the front door open and skulked off. The flat contained two rooms. One had been sectioned into nothing more than three cubicles accommodating a bathroom in one corner and a kitchen in the other. A small bed struggled for space with a bookcase along one wall. The other room, the living room, gave a view of the terraced housing in Rawston around them. Both rooms stank of baby and damp. A threadbare carpet covered the floor, and peeling wallpaper and nicotine-stained paintwork the walls. She owned very little in the way of furniture. Nicki Carter offered them a seat.

  Gardener chose to stand.

  “Will it take long?” she demanded. Her manner and her broad Yorkshire accent, in which she had a habit of dropping H’s and reformulating words to suit the dialect, annoyed Gardener.

  “As long as it has to.”

  She lit a cigarette, sighed, and slumped down heavily on the sofa. A cloud of dust billowed up around her.

  He loathed cigarette smoke, but it was her flat.

  “Where’s your baby?”

  “With me mother.”

  “What can you tell us about the man upstairs?” He picked up a photo of Nicki, her baby, and a third woman, perhaps her mother.

  “Is he dead?” She exhaled a cloud of smoke.

  Gardener glanced in her direction but didn’t speak. He figured his expression would be enough to answer her question.

  “I didn’t like him. What’s it all about?”

  Nicki started as Reilly spoke from the other side of the room. “We’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Come on, Nicki. What happened in the flat upstairs is serious. It’s our job to investigate. It doesn’t matter whether any of us like it or not. We need to work together,” said Gardener. “We’ll ask you a few questions, then we’ll be out of here. All we’re after is a little cooperation. Now, you said you didn’t like him. Why was that?”

  “He were so high and bloody mighty. Thought he were above everybody. Look at this place. It’s hardly the Ritz, is it? Used to prance around as if he owned it. Professor Plum I used to call him, of Tudor Mansion.” Nicki snorted laughter. “A big, fat, ugly slob who thought he were important.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Do you know what he used to call us, all of us? ‘My dear.’ Slimy bastard. Is he dead?”

  Gardener ignored her question. “So, we’ve established you didn’t like him. Why?” He replaced the photograph and strolled over to the window, his back to Nicki.

  “He were a
pervert.”

  Gardener turned to face her. “Clarify that statement.”

  “He flashed at me once.”

  “Where?”

  “Up there on the top landing. It were ages ago.” As she finished her cigarette, she lit another with the stub of the first. “He were drunk. Bloody fond of a drink, he were. Always comin’ home late, pissed, causing a racket, shoutin’ and bangin’ into things. Used to hammer on me friggin’ door as he went past, thought it were funny to wake the baby. Anyway, he did it this night. She were at bingo…”

  “Who?” Gardener asked.

  “Olive Bloody Bradshaw.” Nicki Carter leaned forward but remained seated, her expression angry. “You wanna ask her about him. There’s summat goin’ on between ’em, if you ask me. Well, this Friday night he comes home drunk, as usual. It were about midnight. Starts bangin’ on the door. I couldn’t hear what he were sayin’ because I had the telly on. Did it about three times. I got up in the end. When I opened the door, he were halfway upstairs. I asked him what the bloody hell he were playin’ at, and he just turned round, had his cock in his hand, said I could play with that if I wanted and just started laughin’. Bastard!”

  “Did you report it?”

  “What’s the point? What would you lot have done? It were my word against his. By the time you lot had got here he’d have been asleep. He’d have denied it anyway.”

  “That’s not the point, Nicki. We can’t do anything if you don’t tell us.”

  The girl stood up and walked into the kitchen. She came back with a can of lager. “Do you want one?”

  “No, thank you. We’re on duty.”

  Sitting back down, she took a long drink, and followed it with a guttural belch. “Nasty bastard as well; had a right temper. Cornered me on the stairs once, outside me flat. I were rushin’, gettin’ the baby ready to take to me mam’s. As I got outside, he were rushin’ by the door. We bumped into each other.”

  Gardener noticed the expression on her face, a mixture of fear and disgust. He could tell she hated Plum but suspected it went deeper than one or two isolated incidents.

  “He dropped a brown paper bag, and a load of porn mags fell out,” she continued. “I picked one up, see, to have a laugh. I could just imagine him, sat up there most nights playin’ with himself over these mags. Went bloody mad, he did. Pushed me up against the door. All he did were stare at me, didn’t say nothin’. Picked up his mags and pointed a finger at me, then carried on upstairs.”

  Nicki fell silent again.

  Gardener glanced over at Reilly busy taking notes.

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” she spoke up, “but I’ve got to be somewhere.”

  “So, last night, you were here all night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you notice whether or not he had any visitors?”

  “Can’t say as I did. But then, I spent half the night tryin’ to calm me son down.”

  Gardener changed topics. “Who lives in the flat next door?”

  “Not sure.”

  “You’re not sure. What does that mean?”

  “It means, I hear the door opening and closing every now and again, but I never see anyone. It happens at odd hours as well.”

  “You’ve never seen anyone,” Gardener pressed.

  “No. You’ll have to ask Olive Bloody Bradshaw about that as well. It’s her house.” Nicki glanced at her watch.

  She seemed agitated. Gardener was surprised she’d been so forthright with her information. He still suspected her hatred of Plum went deeper than she was letting on, which may or may not have a bearing on the case.

  “Okay, we’ll leave it at that for now. I may want to ask you some more questions later, though. If you do remember anything, give me a call.” He passed her a card. She jumped quickly to her feet, following them both out onto the landing.

  “Oh, one more thing,” said Gardener. “Which pub did he drink in?”

  “The Black Bull, I think, a couple of streets away.”

  Gardener nodded. “Thank you for your time. If you do remember anything, no matter how trivial, give me a ring.”

  He stopped her as she went to close the door. “I think you’re hiding something. I will be back.”

  Nicki didn’t respond. She locked the door behind and leapt down the stairs two at a time, leaving them standing in front of her apartment.

  Gardener turned to Reilly. “What do you think?”

  “I think we need to speak to Olive Bradshaw.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You’d better come in.”

  The eye-catching decor and level of hygiene in Olive Bradshaw’s flat pleasantly surprised Gardener as he entered. It created a remarkable contrast to the other flats, the building’s exterior, and the neighbourhood itself. He wondered what possessed her to live in a crumbling, derelict, plague-infested area like Rawston.

  He noticed her residence was bigger. The living room was one large open space, into which she had crammed an eccentric number of personal belongings. Queen Anne chairs carefully coordinated around Wilton rugs. The woman was obsessed with trinkets.

  “Would you like to join me and my sister Mabel for tea, Inspector?” She pointed to a chair at the table. Once seated, she picked up a brass jug and started polishing it.

  Mabel had a petite frame and a relatively smooth complexion. She clasped her cup with arthritic fingers. She wore her blue rinse hair in a tightly packed bun, and wire-rimmed spectacles.

  “Thank you, I’d love a cup.”

  Reilly nodded his agreement.

  To Gardener, not only was Olive Bradshaw’s flat a complete contrast, so was her attitude – giving him the impression of a Jekyll and Hyde personality.

  Olive passed them both a cup of tea using a Chinese bone tea service.

  “Biscuit?” She pushed a plate towards him.

  “No, thank you.” Eager to move on, Gardener decided to open the investigation with an apology, suspecting it would appeal to her better nature. If she had one. “I’ll have the mess upstairs cleaned up as soon as possible.”

  Olive nodded her approval, rubbing the jug vigorously. Gardener noticed the brassware in the room outnumbered every other trinket. The collection included plates, jugs, bowls, candleholders, and pine surround mirrors, all of which sparkled.

  “So, how can I help you, Inspector?”

  “You can start by telling me a little about yourself and the setup here.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Just some general information, etcetera. How old are you?”

  “I’m in my golden years, Inspector.”

  “You mean diamond, don’t you, Olive, love?” offered Reilly.

  She narrowed her eyes, shooting him a withering stare.

  “Married?” asked Gardener, quickly.

  “No.” She paused, before adding, “I’m saving myself.”

  Gardener’s eyes met Reilly’s, pleading silently with him not to follow that comment.

  The Irishman smirked and continued with his notes.

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “About five years. It was my brother’s house to start with. He’d always suffered with asthma, and as he got older, it got worse; didn’t it, Mabel?” She nodded to her sister. “Anyway, he asked me if I’d like to come and live here. In return for doing a bit of caretaking and looking after his affairs, I was allowed to live rent-free.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “No, Inspector,” said Mabel. “Our Maurice died a year back now. Poor love had a stroke.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve let the place fall into rack and ruin,” continued Olive. “Grief is a funny thing. Anyway, we’re selling up now, aren’t we, Mabel?”

  Her sister nodded.

  “She’s just sold her house in Burley-in-Wharfedale,” Olive informed Gardener. “We’re both living here temporarily until the sale goes through.” By the time she finished, Gardener’s cup sat empty. Mabel cleared all the dishes, was
hed, and replaced them at the table.

  “And Herbert Plum?”

  “I’m not sure I know that much.”

  “You’d be surprised,” said Reilly.

  “Anything would be useful,” Gardener added.

  “He was about sixty. A big man, not very house-proud. His clothes were clean enough, always washed them at the launderette.” She glanced at her sister. “You know the one, Mabel, on Dewsbury Road. Small shop, mucky windows, smells. Her who always takes her dog to bingo runs it. Don’t like her myself. Too secretive.” She turned back to Gardener. “Anyway, he washed his clothes there. Never ironed ’em, mind. Well, what man can?”

  She smiled at Gardener before continuing.

  “He was always polite, always said ‘Good morning, my dear.’ Knew his manners, he did. Brought up properly. Not like kids these days. I blame the parents, myself. They’re always hanging about on street corners now, up to no good. It’s about time your lot brought the bobby on the beat back.” To Mabel she said, “Mrs Watson’s eldest is in trouble again.”

  “Craig? He’s never been any good, that one. Never amount to anything,” Mabel replied.

  “Can we stick to the point, please?” Gardener asked.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Inspector. Where was I?”

  “Trying to establish some facts about Herbert Plum. What did he look like, Miss Bradshaw?”

  “I’ve got a picture somewhere.”

  She left the table and went into another room. Gardener studied the impressive range of oil paintings. Little could be seen of the wallpaper. Each wall had a theme: country scenes, stormy seascapes, old world inns, and animals and children.

  “Here we go,” Olive said as she returned. She sat and passed him a photo. Four people posed at a seaside resort. Olive and Mabel, each holding candy floss, stood between two men.

  “That’s our brother on the left. Herbert is on the far right.”