Flesh Evidence: a heart-stopping crime thriller

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Cyril’s phone rang.

  “Shit…I’m on my way. Is Owen there? Get Liz too.”

  Julie placed the pen-drive into a bag and slid it across the table. “Report is already with you.” She tapped the computer. “Problem?”

  “Another jar of honey has been found, but with a new label. It’s a different size and surprisingly has new contents. Watch this space.” He stared at Julie for a moment before collecting the bag containing the pen-drive. He left.

  ***

  It was a déjà vu moment for Cyril as he walked into his office and saw the jar, secure in the plastic bag and nestled on his in-tray.

  “Everything’s in bags, even the bloody body!’ he groaned out loud.

  “Owen!” Cyril called picking up the bagged jar and rotating it whilst holding it to get a clear view. Owen’s bulk blocked the light of the doorway. “Where, when and how?”

  “It was handed in at Craven Lodge.” Craven Lodge was the police station in Harrogate’s town centre. “Details are there. It was found sitting on a wall a few yards from the office and brought in by a Fred Ainsworth who thought it might be significant after reading about our request for jars of honey. His details are there also.”

  Liz knocked and came in. “You were nearly right, Owen.”

  Owen frowned.

  You said the letters on the back of the jars would lead to bugger all; well you were close, so very close. They were, in fact, the co-ordinates for where the body was dumped… Nidd Hall. Close but no…”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  Liz put the paper on the desk and arranged the labels in a certain order before writing down the co-ordinates. She then demonstrated how the different labels made up those ordered numbers.

  “That’s why some of the labels had no specific numbers to the bottom left, The significance of their always being in the same location on the label gave someone a clue and only when Forensics sent in images of the body with the exact co-ordinates did we put two and two together.”

  “Sadly, days too late.” Cyril’s tone deflated the excitement that had been in Liz’s voice. “So what do we have on this jar?”

  “A new label as you can see, ‘Imbroglio Honey, 2015’.

  “What on earth is imbroglio?” Liz asked, trying to gain her confidence.

  Owen simply lifted his shoulders.

  “It means confusion, or embarrassing situation and that, my dear friends, is where we find ourselves. This jar was placed near the police office to be found and found quickly. Someone is laughing at us right at this moment.”

  ***

  Colin Pearson, the Area Forensic Manager, watched the final part of the video showing Tony Thompson’s captor before pressing the pause button. He turned to address those in the room.

  “We’ve been able to identify that whatever room Thompson was held in had metal sides and roof so was probably some kind of shipping container. Colour, probably blue on the inside at least.” Colin pointed to the top left of the screen. ”If you look carefully here you’ll just make out a series of tally marks, possibly white chalk, possibly the number of days he was held captive? You will also noticed the perpetrator was right handed when using the knife. However, our handwriting expert is convinced that someone who is left-handed wrote the labels. It poses two questions; two people, or our man is ambidextrous? Something we cannot determine at this time. Voice investigation suggests that the sound was dubbed onto the tape at a later date and voice-changing software was used. These are readily available to download free; one you might like to check out pays reference to a bee! We are checking those.”

  “Are you sure it’s a man?” Stuart asked whilst chewing a pencil.

  “Most of the descriptions point that way but we do know that the person was probably disguised, beard etc. The height too, about six foot. Being able to move a dead weight of forty-seven kilogrammes needs some strength suggesting male but we can’t rule out...”

  “Unless there are two.”

  “Colin, anything else from the body that might determine where he was held?” Cyril asked.

  “There were scratch marks to the lower arms.” He turned to the screen and brought up images. “These show that he rubbed against a wooden chair arm. Minute splinters suggest a mahogany wood with traces of, and I dare not say it, bee’s wax. The seat to which he was strapped was probably Victorian. There was also a severe decubitus ulcer to the sacrum.” Another image followed. “It tells us that this person probably never left that seat so it might be a Victorian type commode.”

  “So you’re saying that Tony Thompson was secured to a seat for over three weeks, fed honey and physically and emotionally abused by one, maybe two people of unknown gender?”

  “Yes, who has some kind of container close to hand, in an isolated place and is heavily into bees. That is where the concentrated police work should focus because the likelihood is he has Carl Granger strapped to that very commode and when he dies and he starts his game of cat find mouse with us, he might also find and trap the next victim.”

  Cyril looked at the white boards and specifically at the word ‘INVICTUS’.

  “Why is he unconquered? Who has challenged him and why? Why tattoo this permanently? Why the tongue? Who has said what? What has come out of the mouths of fourteen year olds? What is he telling us? Everything’s been in code so far, but somehow this is in plain sight.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Autumn 1980

  Samuel moved the action man figure across the carpet, making strange noises as if the doll was hovering above the ground. He turned the figure vertically through three hundred and sixty degrees before making a crashing sound. He then brought the figure to his face and kissed it.

  Ian watched carefully as the child hugged the figure.

  “What is he wearing, Sam?” Ian pointed to the cloth draped around the figure.

  “It’s his dress, Daddy, he was going to the ball like Cinderella but he fell down the stairs.”

  Ian hung his head. “I’m going to kick the football outside. Do you want to play?”

  Sam shook his head, never taking his eyes from the figure. “Don’t like football. I have to look after him like Mummy looks after me.”

  Ian went into the kitchen. Jose was peeling potatoes. “He never seems to do anything but play with that bloody doll. He doesn’t want to play football, doesn’t want to play with the cars, just the Action Man figure. What happened to the combat clothes and the gun?”

  “It’s in his toy-box somewhere. Why?”

  “He was dancing this morning, too. Spends too long with you and your bloody mother, he’s getting to be more of a girl.”

  Jose wiped her hands on her pinny before turning, so that he could see the anger on her face; it said everything.

  “If you put in a few more hours to help with him, then maybe he’d gravitate more to you. But you spend all your spare time up to your armpits with that pile of junk you keep in the garage. And whilst we’re at it, let’s face some truths; you shout too much, you demand his attention…he doesn’t like football. Some boys don’t. He doesn’t want to wrestle with you or box. He likes to play by himself. Just accept that. You bully him. It’s probably just a phase he’s going through. Besides your mother said you didn’t socialise well when you were his age. You were also timid. You were frightened of Dr Who and when you went to the pictures to see ‘Darby O’Gill and the Little People’ you wouldn’t sleep in your own bed for a week. That didn’t make you any less masculine. And what about that shawl you carried until you were eight? Give him a break, Ian…go and maul with your car but give us both a break.”

  Ian stormed from the kitchen, ensuring the door slammed. Jose hung her head. When she looked up, Samuel was standing looking at her, his head to one side.

  “I love you, Mummy. Sugar and spice and everything nice that’s what…” he didn’t finish.

  Jose smiled. “I love you too, Teacake.” She’d called him Teacake since he was born.

 
“Mummy, we don’t like Daddy. Do we, dolly?” He turned and went back into the lounge mumbling “Slugs and snails, slugs and snails…”

  Jose watched as he toddled through the door, the doll clutched firmly to his cheek as if in deep conversation. Somewhere deep down she felt uneasiness but she was unsure as to whether it was Ian’s anger or what she had just witnessed; either way, she closed her eyes and wept for herself.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Stuart finished adding small black crosses to a large map of Harrogate and the surrounding area. Each marked cross signified some form of metal container, each would be circled once it had been checked. He knew from initial enquiries that some had been locked for years considering the overgrown state of their surroundings. These would be visually checked but not opened and the reference filed separately, as the time taken to trace owners was considered unprofitable.

  “What if the one you seek is a hundred yards further from the search zone?”

  Stuart turned, the pen between his lips. “Bloody funny that…thanks for that! Now piss off!” He was pleased to see that the facial expression of the young DC changed as he sloped from the room muttering that it was only a joke.

  Stuart prioritised any that were near water treatment works or swimming pools. The number to inspect proved daunting and on more than one occasion there had been false hope. The majority were used for legitimate storage but one had been found to contain a small cannabis factory. The general public had been asked to check lock-ups and garages but nothing had been forthcoming.

  Liz sat doodling, the phone lodged between her shoulder and ear. It rang a number of times before being answered. The person on the other end said nothing but Liz could hear breathing.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, can I help you?” Pamela Shepherd asked timidly.

  “My name is Liz Graydon and I’m trying to contact Pamela Shepherd.”

  “I’m Pam Shepherd. How can I help you?”

  Liz breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m a police officer looking into an incident that occurred at the Stray Fair, and I believe you were working there for a Mr Jenkins.”

  “Yes, Bruce has been very kind. He gives me work when I’m back at home. I’ve a commitment to my aunt, which does mean I can’t take permanent work.”

  “Do you recall the youth that went missing during the Fair?”

  “Ms Graydon, I do remember the reports but if you are going to ask if I saw him or served him I’m going to have to disappoint you. On such occasions you see so many faces it’s impossible to pick one out unless there is something unusual or outstanding about them. You tend to remember the abusive ones, but generally it’s just another evening and another event.”

  “I understand, but you do realise that we have to check all avenues? When will you be returning to Hempsthwaite?”

  “I nip back briefly whenever I can. I have a dog and I really shouldn’t be away like I am but my neighbour is very kind…”

  Liz doodled the words Very Kind again on the pad and joined them with circles that had the appearance of spectacles before scrawling, why is everyone so kind to Pamela????

  “…Mr Melville, he looks after Sam. I buy the food.”

  “Will you ring me when you’re next over, I just need two minutes of your time? Tell me though, did you teach?”

  “Yes, worked in a private school, taught science but when my mother was taken ill I was under a lot of strain, and so I left. I’ve been a carer ever since, firstly Mum and then my aunt. You have to do what you feel is right.”

  “Thank you. Don’t forget to call me when you are next home.” Liz gave her number and asked Pamela to read it back. She wanted no excuses for her not making contact.

  Liz put the phone down and stared at the doodles. She wrote check! In block capitals and underlined it. She turned to the computer to run a full background check on Pamela Shepherd… something just wasn’t ringing true.

  ***

  DC Henry Jones finished reading the report he had written after interviewing Flight Lieutenant John Simms, Officer Commanding the Air Cadet Squadron that both boys had attended. It noted that although they had been friends, they did not meet socially outside the regular two weekly meetings and they even attended different schools. Both boys had been enthusiastic from the outset and were keen to rise through the ranks, both had recently had air experience flights at Linton. He noted that this had been on two separate occasions. They had joined the Cadets in the school Year Eight, as rising thirteen year olds. Both boys’ records were exemplary. DC Jones had also received a full list of other members of the Squadron and their names were now on a dedicated watch list, even the female Cadets. A list of all the adult volunteers at the Squadron was added alongside their Disclosure and Barring Check details; a mandatory check when working with children was attached. All seemed up to date. He added the details to the system and attached copies to all relevant team members.

  ***

  There had been a definite change in the mood of the town with the disappearance of the second youth and the discovery of Tony’s body, More news coverage brought with it a greater caution from parents; fewer youngsters were seen at the parks or playing on The Stray. There was no panic or fuss, just a sense of caution that was evident when the schools returned after the summer holiday. Traffic was heavier than normal and around some schools chaotic, as anxious parents brought or drove children to school. For a town that had often been labelled, ‘the happiest place in the United Kingdom to live’, it was showing subtle signs of strain and Cyril knew that. It was reflected in the televised interview he gave for the local North East News. He felt hamstrung, requesting parents to be vigilant. He felt inept whilst reassuring the general public that the full resources of the North Yorkshire Police Force were working on their behalf.

  ***

  The second week of the new school term fell like a hammer blow to Cyril’s team as three new jars of honey were found. Each had been left in a public place; the first on the stone marking the place of the long demolished Brunswick Station on Trinity Road, the second beneath the CCTV camera stanchion facing the Cenotaph and War Memorial, and the third outside Harrogate’s Tourist Information Office. Cyril couldn’t help but feel a flutter in his stomach. Three jars, one found on Trinity Road. Was the name of the road significant with the placing of the jars? The second one had been found at a place commemorating the dead and the third… He didn’t want to contemplate the thought of who the next victim might be. Was the murderer contemplating kidnapping a tourist? It might also be noted that one was right under a CCTV camera. You could, my friends read that as, right under our bloody noses, he thought.

  The Incident Room was full. It was wrong to say that there was a degree of optimism but every new piece of evidence found or left meant that the killer could have made an error; it would only need a small trace of DNA, a partial print or a hair. Photographs of the identical jars were displayed on the screen, their labels, immaculately placed, straight and level. The familiar, handwritten style was clearly demonstrated, the only difference being the name, now it carried the title, ‘Tabulae Rasae Honey, 2015,’ the pretension of which didn’t escape Cyril.

  Cyril spoke first. “It’s Latin, a rough translation, and I had to look it up,” he said before referring to his notes – “the mind not yet affected by experiences or impressions.” Cyril paused. “He’s bloody playing with us. There’s one consolation, and that is Carl may still be alive. There are no tattooed pieces of flesh in the jars only small, neatly tied clumps of human hair and they have proven to be Carl’s. The honey appears to be the same and therefore we can assume at this stage that it’s from one batch. It’s no surprise that on the back of the labels we find more marks. This time we have the words Mercy, Deliverance and Voiceless. The Forensic handwriting people suggest the words are case sensitive, also written by a left-handed person. It’s a reference but as they are all situated in a different area of the label, I’m assuming that this is not to a specific loc
ation. You’ve had time to ruminate on them, anyone want to make a suggestion?”

  There was a long pause. A voice from the front, left table broke the silence.

  “He crouches, voiceless, in his tomb-like cell,

  Forgot of all things save his jailer's hate

  That turns the daylight from his iron grate

  To make his prison more and more a hell;

  For him no coming day or hour shall spell

  Deliverance, or bid his soul await

  The hand of Mercy at his dungeon gate:

  He would not know even though a kingdom fell!

  The black night hides his hand before his eyes,--

  That grim, clenched hand still burning with the sting

  Of royal blood; he holds it like a prize,

  Waiting the hour when he at last shall fling

  The stain in God's face, shrieking as he dies:

  "Behold the unconquered arm that slew a king!"”

  The room fell silent. Nothing was said. Cyril simply stared at DC Brian Palmer who sat, his head slightly lowered, looking a little embarrassed and red- faced.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”

  “Sorry? Don’t be. Where the bloody hell did that come from?”

  “It’s from ‘The Dungeoned Anarchist’ by the poet Charles Hamilton Musgrove. I had to learn it for an elocution examination in a past life, my A.L.C.M, if I remember correctly. My mum wanted rid of my Yorkshire accent, believed I’d get a better job if I could speak properly. Those three words brought back the terror of the exam. I remember it was at The Unity Hall in Halifax, it all came flooding back, made me think of it straight away.”