Alan was an architect and worked mostly from home. It was a blessing, and Rachel didn’t knock it. He did demand a certain amount of quiet time away from the kids when he was busy or seeing a client, but on the whole, he was very accommodating.
After one last look, she deleted the text from Jed McAteer. She checked Alan’s again. He’d arranged for a builder to come and look at the properties. He’d been going on for months about wanting to link the two semi-detached cottages by building a sunroom that would join them together at the back and overlook the gardens. The idea was that the girls could come and go freely. They had discussed it, but Rachel hadn’t paid much attention. Now she read that Alan had produced the drawings and wanted an estimate for the work. The only positive Rachel could see at the moment was that it would provide the girls with a space of their own.
The house phone rang again. This time it was Detective Superintendent Stuart Harding, Rachel’s immediate boss. What the hell did he want? Like she didn’t know. Checking up on her was his favourite pastime.
“I’m surprised I caught you,” he said.
This was Harding-speak for what are you doing home at this time of the morning? No good arguing. In his book, Harding was always right
“The canal killing.” He wasn’t one to waste energy on idle chitchat. “I want you as SIO on this one, and we need a quick result. We haven’t had a good press of late and we need to redress the balance, regain public confidence.” There was a pause. “I’m relying on you, DCI King. Get down there at once and don’t let me down.”
“We’ll do our best as usual, sir,” she said. “If that’s all, I should get going.”
Chapter Three
DCI Rachel King donned a white coverall, overshoes and gloves and pulled the hood over her curly red hair, carefully tucking in a few wayward strands. The usual scene played out in front of her. The forensic team were spread out over the area, heads down, faces intent. The photographers had made it before her and were busy snapping the body from every angle.
The pathologist, Dr Colin Butterfield, was examining the victim, and Rachel went up to him. He was a man in his fifties, tall and slim with thinning hair and a ruddy complexion. DS Elwyn Pryce was bent over at his side, taking in everything that was said. She trusted this quietly spoken Welshman, who worked closely with her. They were friends as well as colleagues.
DC Jonny Farrell was the newest member of the team and the youngest, a sharp dresser. He stood with his hands in his coverall pockets, shifting his feet and trying not to look like a spare part. Every few seconds he glanced down at his shoes. As she got closer, Rachel saw the look of distaste on his face and smiled to herself. The mud and filth of the canal bank had seeped over the elastic of the plastic overshoes and was no doubt staining the expensive leather.
“I’d say dead since last night,” Butterfield called up to her. “But I’ll know more after the post-mortem. Naked. Several deep lacerations to the head and body, and the throat cut. Butchered, you might say.” He grimaced. “Luckily he hasn’t been in the water long.”
“Luckily? I don’t think our victim would agree with that,” she said.
Rachel hadn’t seen one as bad as this for a long time. Parts of his body were so badly burned that both the epidermis and dermis had split, allowing the fat beneath to melt and leak out. He was young, probably no more than twenty. He lay on his back, and his eyes — lifeless black smudges — stared up at nothing. He was tall and skinny. All that remained of his hair was the odd blond wisp sticking up from a bloodied scalp. But apart from a few scratches, the skin on his face was smooth, untouched. It was an angelic face, and made him look younger than he probably was. The only blemish on it was a mole, high on one cheekbone.
“The burns are patchy. Parts of his torso and his face aren’t damaged at all. In other areas, he looks like he’s been fried,” Elwyn Pryce said.
“It’s difficult to say how the burns were inflicted,” Butterfield added. “But even though he’s been in the water, I can still detect the faint whiff of petrol.”
“Did the burns kill him?” asked Elwyn.
“I’ll tell you that after the PM. But if they didn’t, the cut on his throat certainly did. It’s right around, and deep. He’d have bled out in no time. It’s a good clean job too.”
Rachel swallowed hard. “Thorough job, then.”
“Yes, and he took his time.”
She nodded at the body. “Who would want to do that to another human being?”
“A nutter? Some mad bastard?” Jonny Farrell offered.
“That isn’t helpful, Jonny,” Rachel said. “Was he conscious?”
Butterfield shrugged. “Difficult to say. We’ll do a toxicology screen. With luck, he was drugged. But if the burns didn’t kill him, once his throat was cut it would have been quick, that’s for sure.”
If the burns were inflicted first, death would have been a welcome release. The lad had suffered. The burning would have hurt like hell. Rachel consoled herself with the thought that he would probably have lost consciousness by then. The pain would have been excruciating. At least fifty percent of the surface area of his body was an ugly, raw wound. Rachel leaned in for a closer look. It looked like he’d fallen into a vat of boiling water.
“Who called it in?” she asked.
Elwyn Pryce shook his head. “Some male, and that’s all we know. He didn’t give a name. I’ve already checked, and the phone was an unregistered pay-as-you-go.”
“Obviously got something to hide. We need to find him.” Rachel turned her attention to Butterfield. “Is there anything that might give us an ID?”
Butterfield shook his head. “Not that I’ve seen so far. No clothes, watch, nothing. It will be down to forensics or luck to sort that one.”
“Our killer went to a lot of trouble. He might have wanted something from him. Money, information, who knows?” Elwyn said.
“What is this place?” Rachel circled around, trying to get her bearings. They were on a large tract of waste ground dotted with piles of rubble, with the canal running through it. The waterway would run from here up into the city, and back to the Bridgewater in the other direction.
“The railway still uses some of the buildings you see over there in the distance. Those mills to the right have been empty for donkey’s years. I read in the paper that this entire area is earmarked for renewal, but I won’t hold my breath,” DC Jonny Farrell said. “The homeless use those arches under the railway line to sleep in, and gays bring their pick-ups from Canal Street here.” He sniggered. “Makes me queasy, just thinking about it.”
Rachel threw him a questioning look. Jonny was new to the job and young. Some aspects of what they dealt with embarrassed him. On the surface he was streetwise, but he had a lot to learn about human behaviour.
“Is this what happened here, I wonder? Any sign of recent sexual activity?” she asked Butterfield.
“Difficult to tell, might be impossible. You’ll have to wait until I get him on the slab.”
Fair enough. “Come on, Jonny, bring a torch and let’s go explore. Make sure you get plenty of photographs,” she called over her shoulder.
Rachel walked across to the row of arches with Jonny reluctantly trailing behind her, cursing as his feet sank into the mud.
“Most of these are boarded up but one or two look accessible. That one over there.” Rachel pointed. “The train tracks run overhead and the tramline is on the far side as it rolls into Piccadilly. Scream as loud as you like, I doubt you’d be heard.”
“Given the burns on his body, there’d be a lot of screaming.” Jonny shuddered. “You don’t think he was killed on the towpath then?”
“He’s been beaten, burned and had his throat cut, so no, I don’t.”
The two of them stepped into the dark interior. The concrete floor was strewn with rubbish and a pungent smell of rotting food and urine permeated the air.
Jonny screwed up his face. “What a bloody awful place. To think, the homeless
use these holes to sleep in. Poor buggers.”
But Rachel wasn’t thinking of the smell. What they could see was more important. Her eyes darted about, taking in every dark corner. This was the place, she just knew it. And Rachel’s gut instinct was rarely wrong.
“See? Here, on the floor. It’s black, sooty,” Rachel ran her gloved hand lightly over the mark. “And that over there, on the floor — blood splatters.” She weighed up the chances of being seen or heard from the outside. Minimal. “Get the victim in here and the killer would have had plenty of time to do his worst. I think this is the kill site. It’s a long shot, but I wonder if there were any homeless around last night? Any idea how we might find out?”
“I’ll have a word with the organisation that provides food. There’s a group that goes around handing out sandwiches and hot drinks.”
“Do that,” she said. There was plenty for the forensic team to go on here, but would they find anything to help identify the killer, or even the victim come to that? She hoped so, otherwise they were stuffed.
“There’s a pile of rope here on the floor, and all sorts of rubbish stacked in that corner. What d’you think, ma’am?”
“I think this is the place where the young man was tortured. Once his attacker had done his worst, he carried or dragged him out to the canal to dump him.” Rachel stood up. “Get forensics to go over this place thoroughly. There is a slight chance we might get some DNA.”
“If our victim was brought here for a quick fumble, they could have met up the road on Canal Street,” Jonny suggested. “It’s only a few hundred metres away.”
“We’ll make enquires, check out the CCTV and speak to bar staff. But first, we need to know exactly what happened to the young man. The post-mortem will give us some answers.” She looked at Jonny. As yet, he hadn’t been keen on the gorier side of the job. “Do you want in?”
He made a face. “Okay . . . But if I puke, please don’t tell the others.”
Rachel nodded. Let him keep his credibility intact.
Suddenly she grabbed his arm, pointed to a passageway that led through to the neighbouring arch and gestured for him to be quiet. “There’s someone in there,” she whispered. “Don’t let him get by.” With Jonny following, she stepped into the dark passageway.
“I didn’t do ’owt! I didn’t see ’owt neither.”
An elderly man, bent double and apparently in pain, emerged from the shadows. “I didn’t kill the lad. I’ve never harmed no one.”
He wore a filthy ripped overcoat with a long scarf wrapped several times around his neck.
“It was you who rang us?” Rachel asked. It was a good guess.
The man nodded.
“Did you sleep here last night?” she asked.
He nodded again, took a step forward, lost his balance and crashed into Jonny.
“Ma’am!” the young detective gasped, “he’s off his head. He stinks of whisky.”
“We’ll take him back to the station, give him a bite to eat and let him sober up. Then we’ll see what he has to say.”
Chapter Four
Rachel tapped the photo pinned to the incident board. “The PM is scheduled to take place within the hour. Me and Jonny will attend.” She looked at DC Amy Metcalfe, the other woman on her team. “Amy? The guest we brought in from the scene is still sleeping it off. If he wakes up before we return, give him some food and keep him happy. We need his help. He was in those arches last night, and he probably saw or heard something.”
DC Amy Metcalfe stuck up her arm, and Rachel nodded at her, hoping for a useful contribution for once. It was about time Amy pulled her weight.
Amy was thirty-one, Rachel thirty-nine. Not a great deal of difference, but unlike Rachel, Amy had no children in her life, and no man either. She had expensively cut chin-length blonde hair and was never seen without her makeup. Rachel couldn’t imagine where she found the time. Most mornings, it was all Rachel could do to brush her hair. Off duty, Amy was something of a party animal, and this morning she obviously had a mammoth hangover. Her three or four strong coffees and the paracetamol she kept popping were a dead giveaway.
“Ma’am, I’ve checked missing persons. So far no one matching the victim’s description has been reported,” Amy said.
“If the lad was a rough sleeper, that’s what I’d expect. We don’t know how long he’d been living on the streets, so you’ll have to go back further.”
Amy pulled a face, annoying Rachel. So the DC didn’t enjoy rummaging around in records. Who did? When she was on form, Amy had the makings of a good detective, but she needed to sharpen up. She was rather too careless about her work and often made mistakes. And unlike Rachel, she seemed to have no feel for the job, no gut instinct. Her mediocre notebook was her only weapon in the fight against crime.
“The CCTV from Canal Street should be in,” Rachel said. “It’s a stab in the dark because all we have is the photo of the lad taken at the crime scene, and he doesn’t have much hair in that. But he was blond and he has a distinctive mole on his cheek. Take a look, and see if you can spot him. We’ll meet back here early afternoon. See what we’ve got.”
Her mobile beeped, and she checked it quickly. It was a second text from Jed McAteer.
I won’t take no for an answer. Dinner, Friday. We deserve some you and me time.
Rachel almost dropped the phone. When they parted for the last time, they’d decided that contact wasn’t on. It caused too much upset all round. He knew the score, so why was he being such a persistent bugger all of a sudden?
“Problem?” Elwyn asked.
“No, just the kids,” she said. “Want to know what’s for tea.”
“They’re big enough to fend for themselves, surely?”
“They’re lazy, Elwyn. Lazy to the core. If I don’t feed them, God knows what they’ll be eating.”
Elwyn Pryce was the only member of the team who Rachel spoke to about her family. Personal issues, and homelife, were all best left on the doorstep each morning. It saved complications. But Rachel was only human, and sometimes she needed someone to offload to. The quietly spoken Welshman was a friend. They’d been working together for years now, and she trusted him not to gossip. But she wasn’t daft. The others would be well aware of her circumstances — the divorce, her daughters’ antics. They’d have overheard her talking to Elwyn, and ranting at Alan over the phone.
She was in two minds as to what to do about Jed. Should she ring or text him, remind him of what they’d agreed? Or perhaps it would be best to ignore him and hope he got tired of bothering her. But why now? It worried Rachel. She hoped to God he wasn’t connected with the new case.
“Jonny, get your gear. We’re off, and you can drive.” She’d negotiated the city traffic once today, and didn’t fancy a re-run.
* * *
The morgue was attached to Manchester Infirmary on Oxford Road. The forensic labs were housed in a purpose-built facility a few hundred metres away.
Colin Butterfield was gowned up and ready for them. In the ante-room, a technician handed the two detectives their coveralls. Rachel didn’t like this part of the job, to put it mildly, and she knew today’s PM would be one of the worst. Through an adjoining glass door, they could see the victim laid out on a trolley, his body covered by a white sheet.
“Ready?” Butterfield asked as soon as they entered the room. The technician removed the sheet, and they turned their attention to the young man laid out before them.
“I have already had a look at the body and made some preliminary notes. Our victim is tall, underweight for his age. The condition of the body means that I can’t say for certain whether there was any recent sexual activity. Death was caused by severing of the carotid artery when his throat was cut. He’ll have bled out fast. That, and all the other cuts on his body are clean and precise. The blade was thin and sharp. You’re looking at a scalpel or one of those DIY knives.” He leaned in closer. “It was a clean job.”
“Was he drugged?�
�� Rachel asked.
“Tests are ongoing to see what drugs are in his system.”
Given the extensive burns and the state of him, Rachel hoped they’d find a whole shed load, otherwise the lad would have suffered horribly.
“Prior to death, the lad was beaten. His bottom lip is split open and there’s a tooth missing. I cannot determine if there is other bruising because the skin is so burnt. However, prior to his chest being mutilated, two of his ribs were broken.”
“What about the burns?” Jonny asked.
“Inflicted before death. He lost a lot of blood, which indicates that his heart was still beating when his throat was cut.”
“Any idea how he got burnt?” Jonny asked.
“Difficult to say, but as you can see, the burning is in patches. We have sent skin swabs off to the lab. Despite him having been in the water, there was a smell of petrol when we were on the canal bank. The burns are far worse in some areas than in others.”
“Are you saying he had petrol poured over him?” Rachel asked, horrified.
“Not poured, exactly. Possibly the fluid was wiped over his body and then set alight.”
This wasn’t going well. They needed something to work with. “Have you ever seen anything similar?” Rachel said.
“No. I’ve seen plenty of burned bodies, but none quite like this. More tests are required, I’m afraid. I’m not in the habit of guessing. Like you, Detective, I deal in facts. Best wait until the lab results are back.” Butterfield took his knife and made the customary incisions down and across the body. Jonny looked away.
“He hadn’t eaten much in a while. Stomach contents consist of the remains of what looks like a cheese sandwich, and lager.”
That would match with him having been on Canal Street prior to his death.
Butterfield removed the internal organs from the body. He examined each one and sloshed them into a bowl. Rachel cast a glance Jonny’s way. He was pretty green, but doing a good job of holding it together.
Next Victim Page 2