Crooked Street

by Priscilla Masters

  In another part of Leek, Kath Whalley was holding court. ‘I will get her,’ she was saying to the gathering, a combination of family and old cronies. The Whalleys didn’t really have friends.

  ‘But it’ll be in my own time. I want her vulnerable. I want her to suffer. I’ve waited for this chance, planned it every day I was inside. I am going to make her regret ever tangling with me.’

  Fred sat, impassive. It went against the grain but he needed to warn the detective. She needed to be on her guard.

  And in yet another part of the small town Rory Forrester was packing his wellies into the boot of his car. Later on today he had a job to do. What he called a ‘Good Life’ couple wanted to take a look round Starve Crow Cottage and it was his happy task to show them around. Later. With April had finally come warmer weather. And with warmer weather came the flies and the putrefaction accelerated.

  9.45 a.m.

  Joanna was keeping the briefing factual yet at the same time inviting ideas.

  ‘It is highly suggestive that Jeff Armitage’s murder is connected with the disappearance of Jadon Glover,’ she said. ‘Here we have two options: Glover is either dead, in which case his body has not been found – or he is alive, in which case is he implicated in the murder of his colleague?’ Honesty forced her to add, ‘I think that’s highly unlikely. I believe Jadon Glover is dead and we have, so far, failed to find his body.’

  A small thought wormed its way into her mind. Perhaps it had been important that Glover’s body was not found for one of two reasons. Either the implication of his killer – possibly his wife, given what they now knew. Or if his body had been found was it possible the perpetrator might not have had the chance to get at Armitage? While Glover’s was a disappearance, a full-blown murder investigation was something else. Arc lights would be turned on the crooked streets of Leek. No chance for another street stabbing.

  Instinct told her she had just put her finger on the button. Police training pushed her towards caution.

  The officers were silent. Questions might be asked but where were the answers? A few of them sighed. They needed evidence.

  Joanna tried her best to encourage them. ‘So keep an open mind. We need to continue with the house-to-house enquiries and take any witness statements. Find out who Armitage visited last night, how much money he had on him, check his mobile phone, computer records, try and get in touch with his two remaining colleagues. See if anyone apart from the two young boys saw anything. In the meantime, DS Korpanski and I will be visiting Eve Glover – again. Hannah …’ she addressed DS Beardmore, ‘… you’ve done some child protection training, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Without warning it flashed across Joanna’s mind the difficult time Matthew would be having at this moment recounting Rice’s injuries to the court. She’d been at these sessions herself and winced at the graphic detail of cruelty and suffering. She shook herself.

  Focus on the job, Piercy.

  ‘I wondered, Hannah, if you’d mind speaking to the two boys again. These are, potentially, important witnesses. Their mother and grandmother seem to be around most of the time so they can sit in.’ She risked a smile. ‘Make sure you’re not breaking the rules.’

  Hannah Beardmore smiled her response. She was not a rule-breaker.

  Joanna addressed the entire room then. ‘We’ll be searching the four streets for some forensic evidence, focusing mainly on Barngate Street.’ She turned to Mike. ‘Keeping the three women from Nab Hill Avenue in our sights.’

  Korpanski nodded.

  Her next sentence was dragged out reluctantly. ‘And I suppose, whatever our personal opinions, we’d better warn Jeff’s colleagues.’

  11.30 a.m.

  Joanna was having trouble tracking Eve Glover down. She wasn’t on her landline which put her straight through to answerphone; neither was she answering her mobile phone. She left messages on both and for a moment had a tingling feeling.

  What if Eve was with her husband? Holed up somewhere? And then she answered her own query. Eve was, obviously, sitting in court, listening to the injuries her own son had sustained from her mother.

  Of course she wouldn’t be answering the phone.

  12.15 p.m.

  Matthew had finished giving evidence and had returned to the front row as the coroner delivered the verdict of culpable homicide. Now it would be up to the police and the courts to bring the case to court. Matthew’s role was theoretically over. If Rice’s grandmother pleaded guilty there would be no need for him to recount the child’s injuries again. But as he left the court he knew that for him the scars would remain, deep inside him. These cases brought their own particular sort of sickness. The memory of that small boy with distorted limbs, injuries that must have been agonizing, signs of neglect everywhere from decayed teeth to severe malnutrition, even lumps of hair pulled from his scalp, would stay with him, invade his dreams and lie at the back of his mind. Gradually, over months, they would fade.

  And then there would be another – and another.

  After court had been dismissed he sat very still in his car, glad of the silence and of being alone. He felt terribly depressed. No child should be brought into the world unless it was desperately wanted by both parents, not just one. He couldn’t do this on his own. He couldn’t love any child enough for both of them and he knew Joanna didn’t really want a family. She was happy with him and her career. Maybe he should have recognized that from the start and been content. She had to want a child and love it too. Had he been able to, he would have rung Joanna right now and shared this thought, spent time discussing their future. He fingered his phone but in the end returned it to his pocket. When he saw her this afternoon it would not be private but public. No time. No chance for a talk. How many couples are destroyed by this?

  Put the knife through the dishwasher twice on the hottest wash and no forensic laboratory will find even the most microscopic trace of blood. The wonders of modern science and machines.

  DS Korpanski had been dispatched to speak to Jeff Armitage’s partner, Arnie, who turned out to be nothing like the muscle man he’d expected but a small, wiry man in his late twenties with a whisper of a voice. Mike treated him with respect but it was soon obvious that Jeff Armitage had kept his private and professional life far apart. Arnie knew nothing of value about his partner’s business dealings. He seemed frozen. Paralysed with grief.

  DS Hannah Beardmore had quickly put the boys, their mother and grandmother at their ease. She was so motherly herself. Her plump, maternal figure, gentle voice and patient manner melted their fears well away. Also she spoke in the slow pace natural to native moorlanders.

  She accepted the proffered cup of tea, admired the boys’ shaky Lego models, sat back and, quite casually, asked if they remembered anything else about the lady who pushed the man to the floor.

  It had been decided not to tell the children what it was they had witnessed. They were young and vulnerable and might be damaged by the knowledge. On the other hand, they were potentially valuable witnesses. Not only had they witnessed the crime but they had actually seen the killer, so anything they could remember would be useful. They regarded her with round eyes as she told them that they were being very helpful.

  It was Bob, the younger boy, who dug his brother in the ribs. ‘She dropped something,’ he said. ‘The lady dropped something. I heard it …’ His brother turned to look at him, surprised perhaps that his brother could remember something he could not.

  Then he seemed to remember. ‘It tinkled,’ he said, ‘like money.’

  His brother gave a solemn nod while Hannah Beardmore listened.

  TWENTY

  Finally Matthew roused himself from his stupor and rang to say he would be starting the post-mortem at two – if that was OK. Joanna agreed to attend as well as two uniformed officers to collect any evidence.

  When 2 p.m. came and she’d arrived he was already in his scrubs and seemed a little distant, avoiding her eyes. No kiss.
‘Matt,’ she said, putting her hand on his arm. ‘Did the court case go OK?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, fiddling now with his facemask; a useful concealer of facial expression.

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said again, then, unable to stop himself, he grabbed her elbow. ‘When are we going to be able to talk, Joanna?’

  She knew she couldn’t give him a definitive answer so shrugged.

  ‘I thought so,’ he said and turned away from her to face the corpse being wheeled into the PM room while she fumed. What did he expect? He knew full well she was in the middle of a serious case – probably two murders, not even just one. It simply wasn’t fair for him to make demands on her. So she stood, resentful.

  As they wheeled him in Joanna started. She should have been used to it by now but one never really grew accustomed to this sight.

  Jeff Armitage was still dressed in his blood-stained chain-store suit, shoes on. His man-bag had already been looked at and saved. It had contained nothing particularly interesting or helpful: money, books, mobile phone. Nothing to hint at his killer. The clues would all be here. On his body.

  While his clothes were being cut off and bagged up, along with fingernails and hair combings – all the trace evidence gleaned – Joanna watched and worried as she studied her husband’s face. She knew Matthew so well. He was deep and stubborn. She knew exactly what he wanted out of life and she could go along with it. So far. What she couldn’t provide was to want those same things herself with matched enthusiasm; neither could she magic up a pregnancy.

  And then there was Eloise, who always drove a wedge between them wilfully and skilfully. Joanna had learned to deal with this by limiting contact with the girl and keeping her distance when they did meet up. It worked – up to a point. If anything Eloise’s boyfriend, Kenneth, had made the situation a little easier. He bore Joanna no grudge, felt no hostility towards her and was simply amiable and polite. Neutral. Unlike … Her mind drifted on.

  Matthew’s parents. Their arrival had driven the wedge a little wider, pushed it in deeper. Perhaps, Joanna reflected as she took her place at the side of the mortuary table, had she become pregnant, the hostility would have melted away. But, so far, that hadn’t happened. And so the situation between her and Matthew’s family remained uneasy, a sort of skirting around each other, like wrestlers in a ring, waiting for the first body encounter. As for her own family, her mother and sister (married, with two kids), they had never been close. She had been too much of a daddy’s girl and when he had gone frost had formed between herself and her mother and sister. Ironically they both simply adored Matthew. Lara, her niece, treated him as a favourite uncle. Even Daniel, her nephew, sparred with him and played football. On their infrequent visits, she would watch them and know: this then would be how Matthew would be with his own son – if he ever had one. And her mother never missed an opportunity of reminding her of this. Typical of her mother to poke her nose in when she was ignorant of the facts.

  Joanna watched him work, taking measurements, making observations into the video recorder, tousled blond hair the colour of damp sand, face completely absorbed, half hidden by the mask he tended to tuck under his chin. He had long lashes over green eyes that magically changed colour according to his mood, from the dull green of seaweed in a rock pool on a dirty grey day reflecting disapproval to a bright mischievous, elfin brilliant colour. How had their blazing passion for one another withered to this? And – watching his nimble fingers begin to tease out Armitage’s body secrets – how could they rekindle that love? A holiday? No – Matthew wanted this house, Briarswood. There was only one answer and it was, it appeared, beyond her capability, whatever the doctor said. Relationships. She sighed. They were too complicated. At what point, exactly, had she lost control of her own life? Like Eve who, with her glamorous Italian wedding, had lost her son.

  And then Matthew lowered his facemask, looping it underneath his chin, looked across at her and she remembered exactly at what point she had lost control. At this exact point when his eyes had crinkled and he had smiled at her, warmth lighting his face. She smiled back at him and felt heat trickle back into their relationship. They did love each other. Then he bent back over his work and her eyes too returned to the body of the murdered man. They also had this in common, their work.

  Jeff Armitage was small and wiry, his body, even in death, muscular, tattooed and toned. He lay naked, exposed. Matthew made a cursory examination of his brain but it was patently obvious that the main focus of the post-mortem was to photograph and examine the five stab wounds to his chest.

  The amount of contusion and bleeding around each one was the clue to the order of the assault. She’d watched enough post-mortems to know this. First of all, Matthew photographed the wounds. Then he took measurements of the superficial injury. Because of the skin’s elasticity the wounds tended to be smaller than the size of the blade and he took this into account. But the depth of the wound was a firm indicator of the length of the blade so he inserted a probe to measure its depth before he began to explore beneath the surface and assess damage to the deeper structures. In some cases one could perform a virtual post-mortem using a CT scanner but this was a new technique and not ready to be used in a murder case. This one needed the old butcher’s slab of a post-mortem table and the sharp eyes of a pathologist. Matthew pulled his facemask back up over his nose and mouth.

  ‘Twenty centimetre blade, width three to four centimetres. Sharp and pointed,’ he said. Then, looking directly at her, his green eyes gleaming, he said, ‘Think kitchen knife. Carving knife.’

  She could tell from the way that his facemask was rucked up plus the crinkles around his eyes that he was smiling at her again. They would be all right. They loved each other enough to weather the storms ahead.

  His attention returned to his work. ‘Wound one,’ he spoke directly into the video camera, ‘extended into the liver and caused extensive bleeding in the upper hepatic edge.’

  He worked again, cutting, exploring slowly and rhythmically, getting into his stride as he became more absorbed. ‘Wound two nicked the aorta, again causing extensive bleeding, blood spurting but internally.’ His gloved index finger was probing around.

  Joanna interrupted. ‘Would the perpetrator have been blood soaked?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Matthew screwed up his face as he scooped up a handful of what looked like dark red tripe. ‘It’s just a nick. The pressure in the aorta is’ – he sucked in a breath – ‘impressive, to say the least. But really I can’t say, Jo. Maybe, maybe not. Probably. Certainly there was extensive loss of blood but most of that seems to have been contained in the peritoneal cavity so don’t go looking for someone walking up the street soaked in blood. No Nightmare On Elm Street.’

  She smiled. He always managed to put a lighter note on what was undoubtedly a grisly business.

  His hands were still for a minute, his eyes, now resting on her, warm and friendly and she felt reassured. She smiled back at him. There was a moment between them, nothing more.

  But it was enough. It was precious and now she was happy and confident again.

  Then he turned his attention to the other three wounds inflicted in the chest and for this he needed to split the sternum. This was done with … think cheese wire, and the grating noise turned her stomach.

  ‘Wounds three and four both entered the lung. Three on the right upper lobe and the skin area is wider.’

  Two knives?

  He was frowning, then supplied the logical explanation. ‘Maybe he moved. Twisted away. The fourth blow was inflicted to the left lower lobe and missed the heart by—’ Matthew blew out his cheeks, inflating the facemask as he measured, ‘A centimetre. No more. Then the fifth blow was hey bingo. Straight into the left ventricle.’ He turned to Joanna. ‘He would have bled to death from strikes one or two but it would have taken a while. Maybe half an hour or so.’ He couldn’t resist a touch of black humour. ‘Had the later blows not been inflicted he coul
d have texted you the identity of his killer.’

  She could have punched him even when he turned around and said, with a flourish, tugging his facemask off, ‘So there you are, Jo. Cause of death shock due to blood loss due to multiple penetrating wounds entering the liver, aorta, lung and finally the heart.’ He held his gloved hand up in warning. ‘And before you even speak, it’s not possible for them to have been self-inflicted so we’re looking at a homicide.’

  She defended herself with a smile. ‘I wasn’t even going to say it.’

  ‘No, but it’s as well to have all eventualities ready in case defence brings it up.’

  ‘Defence?’ She felt despair. ‘For that I need a suspect, Matt.’

  He put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a light kiss, his eyes warm now. ‘I have complete faith in you.’

  ‘I wish I did.’

  But as she left the mortuary she switched her phone back on.

  4 p.m.

  Rory Forrester was enjoying driving across the moorland. He switched the radio off, opened the window and drank in the sweet air, the isolation and the complete and utter beautiful silence. He had full appreciation of the majestic beauty of this area, particularly as he came from inner city Birmingham.

  He could pick out the cottage from a mile away. Starve Crow Cottage sat in splendid isolation, miles from anywhere, on a ridge too high for trees. He was meeting the couple here, a pair who had made money in IT and now wanted a taste of the good life, or so they thought. In Forrester’s mind the reality didn’t always live up to the fantasy. Life out here could be tough. Still – their decision. His role was to sell them the idyll.

  He was still smiling as he opened the gate and moved his car on to the track, off the road and glanced again over at the sad little cottage, his mind echoing his initial impression. Would benefit from modernisation …

  As he shut the gate behind him his eyes rested on the rough, hand-painted sign.