Saxon

by Stuart Davies

  I’ll bet he does a marathon in less than three hours too. Devoting more time to getting fit went on Saxon’s To-Do list every January 1st. And stayed there.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ Clarke looked up as they entered the mortuary. ‘Welcome. Do come in.’

  The early afternoon had been devoted entirely to an extensive examination of the victims as they had been found. It had taken the SOCOs quite a while in the morning to locate all the fingers in order to allow the fingernail scrapings to be done. While Jake Dalton was finishing that gruesome task, Melanie Jones had combed all the body hair of the two women, to see if anything fell out.

  All orifices were checked for hidden objects. Buttons were matched and counted. Underwear was searched for any pubic hairs, which didn’t match those of the victims. Stab wounds were aligned with holes in dressing gowns and pyjamas.

  The surgical examination was beginning as Saxon and Parker arrived. First, the visual inspection.

  Clarke spoke into a microphone that was pinned to the collar of his green overalls. ‘Well, what have we here?’ he went on. ‘A bit of digging and poking by the look of things.’ Clarke had a somewhat theatrical manner on occasions and this demonstrated itself in a tendency to perform to the audience in his theatre. It could have been irritating. But Clarke was without doubt a consummate professional and Saxon forgave him his slight lapses into actor style. He and Parker stood in silence as Clarke went about the grizzly business of examining the body parts of the two women laid out before them.

  This first visual inspection took at least half an hour, as Jake stepped in periodically to take photographs, measure the width and depth of each stab wound, and remove samples for analysis. The two men worked together smoothly, with little need for instruction or questions.

  Once this first part of the examination was completed, Clarke made an incision across the back of Babs’ head and pulled the entire scalp over her face. This was done so that the pathologist could saw around the skull and remove the brain without messing up the face. It could all be put back so that the stitching was at the back of the head and not show if the deceased was to be viewed in their coffin. The major organs were removed after a great deal of sawing and snapping of cartilage and slicing of muscle. Bits weighed, some liquidised, and some put in chemicals. Dr Clarke worked quickly and methodically through his routine, continuing his non-stop monologue into his microphone.

  Both Saxon and Parker had taken the precaution of eating well – but not too much – beforehand, but Saxon, needing an escape from the reality of the process happening before him, looked at the opposite wall and wondered if Clarke actually felt queasy when he dissected someone’s remains, or whether the feeling wore off after several procedures.

  On the other hand, maybe he had counselling to blank the feelings. Maybe it didn’t bother him; maybe he didn’t care. Far from feeling uncomfortable or even neutral about what he was doing, Clarke seemed actually to be enjoying himself.

  It struck Saxon that the look on Clarke’s face was similar to that of a pianist in deep concentration as he entertained a hall full of people at a concert. It was consistent with his view that Clarke had possibly missed his vocation, hence the feeling that many people expressed, both admirers and critics, that Clarke was playing to the audience.

  Eventually Clarke finished both the autopsies, leaving Jake to stitch up and tidy what little remained of the bodies. Switching off his microphone, he took off his apron and threw it with his surgical gloves in the bin. He devoted some considerable time to washing his hands and spoke to Saxon over his shoulder as he did so.

  ‘Paul, I can’t tell you much I’m afraid,’ he began. ‘All I can tell you is that they were stabbed by a right-handed man, probably the same height as me, and that’s undoubtedly what they died from. Stab wounds, a bit obvious really, don’t you think?’

  ‘Funny you should say that, Richard,’ Saxon responded quickly. ‘I did notice that there was rather lot of blood around the place, and it’s true that both the victims seemed to have one or two holes in their bodies.’

  He smiled and lowered his voice. ‘They teach us to notice things like that, usually just after we join the force,’ Saxon said dryly.

  Clarke looked at him with eyebrows raised. ‘Sorry, Paul, that’s all I can say. I can only tell you how they died.’

  ‘You’re sure that there was nothing under their fingernails?’ Saxon tried not to sound desperate.

  Clarke just gave him a look over his glasses.

  Saxon continued. ‘Sorry, forget it, Richard, I’m just clutching at anything – you would have told me if you’d found anything.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s just that we are going nowhere fast with these other cases, and I can’t even tell if this bastard is the same killer.’

  Clarke held up one hand, now a very clean hand. ‘There is one thing that may be of use to you.’ He directed them back to the body parts of Barbara Jenner and they gathered obediently around the table. ‘If you look at the way her hand and fingers were severed,’ he went on, ‘you’ll see that he cut carefully between the joints. He didn’t touch the bone once.’

  He looked up at Saxon. ‘It’s typical of all the amputations. This man knew exactly what he was doing. Maybe he’s a butcher or a slaughterhouse worker.’

  ‘Or a doctor,’ said Parker hesitantly.

  Clarke stiffened and looked briefly at Parker. He smiled at him and then turned back to Saxon. ‘That’s for you two to discover.’ He stopped smiling and shook his head. ‘Sometimes I think that my job is far simpler than yours.’

  Wednesday, May 15, Telscombe Cliffs 6.00PM

  To say that Keith Jenner was pissed off was something of an understatement. He looked once again at his watch. But no matter how expensive it was, it couldn’t deliver his sister at the time she had said she would be there.

  She had never missed an appointment. He would have a thing or two to say to her when she eventually turned up.

  But that wasn’t his biggest worry. No, his main concern was that his reasons for failing to deliver the stuff on time would surely fall, not on deaf ears, but on the kind of ears that are just not interested in excuses, no matter how good.

  He climbed out of his van, lit a cigarette and sat on the grass verge. Trying to stay calm, he looked up and down the lane and then at his watch again. He had always thought that this was a stupid place to do the handover, but he had faith in Babs and, as usual, he’d given in to her better judgement. She was always the clever one – besides he’d always held the belief that women were far more cunning than men.

  She’d told him that the spot was perfect because Telscombe Cliffs was one of the few villages that could be accessed by only one road. She’d explained that this kept the flow of traffic down to the minimum. In addition, the road was cut into the side of the Downs and there were few trees in the area, so he could see well in advance if a car was approaching from either direction. His instructions from Babs were that if he saw a police car coming his way, then he was to puncture a tyre and that would be his excuse for being there.

  He tried her mobile for the fifth time. Little did he know that it was trying to ring but the battery was just too wet as it swam around inside a plastic evidence bag in the storeroom at Brighton Police Station.

  An hour crawled by and Jenner kicked his van a few times.

  ‘Fuckin’ bitch…where the fuck are you? Can’t rely on anyone,’ he shouted at the sky. He climbed back into his van and drove erratically back to London – barely able to suppress his rage and his fear.

  Wednesday, May 15, Brighton Mortuary, 6.30PM

  Their business at the mortuary was finished, thankfully. Parker had already disrobed and was on his way to the door, desperate for a cigarette.

  Steve Tucker waited in the background for Jake to finish stitching, so that he could play with his hose.

  Melanie Jones was avoiding any kind of contact, eye, verbal, or physical, with Tucker. She kept one eye on Jake, to ensure that she le
ft with him, if not before. There was no way she was going to be alone with Tucker, not even in the interests of positive reinforcement, not even to please Jake. Being alone with Tucker and a dead body didn’t count.

  Saxon and Clarke shook hands, agreeing to meet up for a game of squash later in the week, other priorities permitting.

  At that late stage in the afternoon, both Saxon and Parker were more than relieved to get into some fresh air. They were aware of the late-afternoon traffic: mothers collecting their kids from after-school activities; sales reps on their way home; trucks and vans heading back to base. Saxon and Parker’s day was far from over. Parker lit a cigarette as they both sat on a low wall outside the mortuary.

  ‘Christ, that man gives me the creeps,’ Parker shuddered. ‘It beats me how anyone can spend their working day chopping people up like that. He’s got to be a bit weird.’ He paused, suddenly realising that Saxon and Clarke socialised occasionally. Saxon said nothing.

  Parker changed the subject abruptly. ‘Don’t know where we’re going with this one, boss, I really don’t.’ As he spoke, he let the smoke out through both nostrils and his mouth at the same time, as if fumigating himself from the trials of the day, and the smell of death in the mortuary.

  Saxon said nothing for some minutes, just sitting still and gently biting his lip. Without warning, he jumped to his feet and half ran to his car. ‘Come on, Parker, let’s get a bite to eat and then have another look at the house. Sounds daft, I know, but it’s calling me, I just know it has something to tell me.’

  Wednesday, May 15, 29 St Nicholas Lane, Sewel Mill, 6.45PM

  Cecil Hayward looked back towards the kitchen window. He could see Edie pottering around in the kitchen, preparing dinner. They tended to eat their main meal in the evening, although his doctor had suggested that it would be better for both of them to eat more heartily at lunchtime, and then have a light supper.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Cecil had said. ‘I remember my father used to say “Breakfast like a king, lunch like a lord, and dine like a pauper,” although he never did.’

  ‘Well it was good advice,’ Dr Marks had replied. ‘Very sound, and it would be a good idea if you could both apply it.’

  Cecil agreed and it should have been easy, now that they were both retired. Although retired or not, Edie was still a busy woman, always running around from one thing to another. So it just wasn’t practical to have their main meal at lunchtime, and they continued to have dinner at around 7PM every evening. Including this evening. Wednesdays were usually something with mince.

  To tell the truth, it didn’t really bother Cecil that his wife was quite occupied. Bit of a relief really. He and Edie hardly saw each other during the day, which suited him just fine. He had his regular activities. There was the garden to look after and his shed to take care of.

  He finished putting his plants to bed and locked the door of the shed carefully. He fitted a heavy padlock too. All done.

  He smiled as he walked into the kitchen and the smell of shepherd’s pie hit his nostrils. It was one of his favourites.

  Wednesday, May 15, Hazel Lane, Sewel Mill, 8.00PM

  Parker was enjoying the ride as they drove towards Anvil Wood House. He had no problem being chauffeured, particularly by someone of such senior rank. The car wasn’t too shabby either. They had a good view of the surrounding countryside, although it was getting quite dark now, because you’re up quite high in a Land Rover Discovery. Then he noticed they were slowing down.

  Saxon was usually a nervous passenger and preferred to drive himself rather than be driven. And he loved his Discovery with a passion. He was aware of Parker’s quizzical look as the car slowed and they pulled off Hazel Lane onto the narrow grass verge, but he said nothing. Parker went back to his surveillance of the moonlit scenery.

  As they sat there in silence, looking across towards the scene of the murders at Anvil Wood House, the fat yellow moon shone an eerie glow gently onto the roof of the house. It picked out highlights on the pine trees, trees that must have been planted close to the house over a century ago.

  The dry, almost painful, bark of a fox echoed around the lanes, temporarily adding a more sinister tone to the situation. The house was impressive, even at night, a solid family house. A thought struck Parker. It was a house for an English family of Waltons. Not too many houses like that in his neighbourhood, that was for sure.

  ‘I’ll bet that place has seen a few things over the years, boss,’ he said, almost enviously.

  ‘Yeah, but nothing to match the last couple of days,’ Saxon said slowly, as he put the car into drive and drove back onto the road in the direction of the house. It looked – to his tired eyes – somewhat forlorn and dejected, wounded almost. Acknowledging to himself that he needed some sleep, and soon, Saxon parked the Discovery in front of the house.

  Police crime scene tape was wrapped almost completely around it. Almost as if a giant sticking plaster had been applied to the house in an effort to help it heal, it occurred to Saxon.

  God, I am in a bad way. Hallucinating! Who needs drugs anyway, you can get the same effect from exhaustion.

  Apart from the sound of the police radio, it was quiet, in so far as the countryside is ever really quiet. The horses had been moved to other stables already, which was not surprising in the circumstances. He could understand why nobody would want to go there so soon after such a horrific event.

  Word travels fast in the country, far more so than in a town, in Saxon’s experience. He knew it was possible in towns and cities for next-door neighbours never to see each other for months on end, never to meet even. His own place was a prime example. Apart from Fran, who lived in the flat below, he and Emma knew no one else in their block, for example. He shut the car door, but didn’t bother to lock it.

  Since it was an active crime scene, two police constables had been assigned the unenviable task of guarding the house overnight. They were sitting in their car, with the windows open. There was a smell of cigarettes and stale fast food.

  More at home in the familiar streets of Brighton, the two PCs were possibly quite relieved to see the two senior officers. They both went to get out of the car but Saxon put his hand on the driver’s door.

  ‘Don’t get up, lads, but smoke if you want, by all means,’ Saxon said. ‘Don’t mind us. We’re just here to take another look round.’

  He looked from one to the other. ‘All quiet, is it?’

  ‘Yes, sir, no problems,’ answered PC Barry Ryan, the driver, for both of them. He looked to be the older of the two, and was probably therefore the more senior. ‘But I reckon if it wasn’t so spooky, it would be quite boring,’ he added, with a touch of bravado.

  His partner, PC Michael Lucas, sat motionless on the passenger side as this exchange took place. He looked young, by anyone’s standards. In an age where everyone thought that policemen were getting younger and younger, even the young constables thought Lucas looked too young to be a cop. He was very aware of Saxon’s rank and to have a commander joking with you was something Lucas just didn’t know how to handle. Best to sit quiet and speak when spoken to, he decided.

  ‘I don’t know. You bloody townies are all the same,’ joked Parker. ‘Take away the street lights and you’re all pissing yourselves.’ He was enjoying sounding tough and experienced to the two young constables. Saxon rarely saw this side of Parker’s character and it amused him.

  Parker went on. ‘But watch out for Mr Stumpy, he might come back.’ He didn’t actually believe there was much chance of that, but he certainly wanted the two constables alert to the possibility.

  They ducked under the crime tape and unlocked the front door. Saxon entered first and switched the lights on, relieved to see that the house had dried sufficiently for the power to be reconnected. The occasional drop of water fell on their heads as they made their way along the hall, making them flinch.

  ‘So, where do we start, sir?’ Parker said, trying to stifle a yawn. His approach was matter-of-fact
and Saxon could see his DS had recovered his composure after the initial shock of the horror scene in the morning. The job never gave Parker sleepless nights.

  He may not have been the slightest bit nervous, but Parker was at a total loss to understand why they were back at the house at this time of night, without any particular agenda. However, he knew Saxon sufficiently well to trust his judgement implicitly. Parker knew that he was not only the kind of cop who was smart and observant, he was also one who had good instincts. Parker admired that.

  ‘I don’t really know, Parker. I don’t have anything specific in mind.’ Saxon was already looking around the entrance hall. ‘Let’s just wander around for a while. Look for things that are obvious, things that tell a story about our two victims. Anything at all that the SOCO guys may have overlooked.’ He shrugged. ‘They don’t always get it right, you know.’

  Parker nodded but said nothing, wondering where to start. He’d already given the place a thorough going-over and wasn’t convinced that they would find anything useful tonight.

  ‘But don’t look too hard, maybe it won’t be anything very obvious,’ Saxon continued, as he walked through the hall, heading towards the rooms at the end. He was definitely looking for something, but he didn’t know what. It was just an instinct on Saxon’s part.

  The ground floor was by far the hardest part; it was vast and seemed to have no end. Babs had an office on the right as you entered the front door and Poppy had one opposite. The fact that both of them led busy lives, sometimes independently and sometimes intertwined, inevitably meant lots of paperwork.

  They came back to the front door where Parker started on Poppy’s room and Saxon searched Babs’ office. In the latter, he found mountains of soggy receipts, twenty years of paperwork, shelves lined with files. It seemed this woman never threw anything away, he thought to himself.