by Ed O'Connor
Dexter whistled softly. ‘How can you tell? You can’t make an assessment based on body temperature for a body that’s been dead for so long, and presumably he was in a bad way.’
Leach looked Dexter in the eye. ‘You sure you want to know?’
‘Of course,’ came the assertive reply.
‘The body was in an advanced state of decomposition. We call it butyric fermentation. The body is drying out. Fluids ferment. Most of the flesh and hair is falling away and mouldy. Butyric acid produces a powerful cheesy odour. Do you all know what forensic entomology is?’
‘Bugs,’ said Underwood grimly.
Leach nodded, ‘One of the ways we can estimate time of death is by studying insect activity on the corpse. Once decay begins after death various different types of insects are attracted to the remains: blowflies, fleshflies and so on. They lay eggs, eggs hatch into larvae, which feed off the rotting flesh. We can work out from the type of insect, and the stage in its development on the corpse, when the person in question died.’
Underwood remembered why he wanted to be cremated.
‘For example, we found larvae of an insect called Piophilia Casei in the abdominal cavity of victim A. It’s more commonly known as the Cheese Skipper.’
‘Charming,’ Dexter observed.
‘Now,’ Leach continued, ‘the presence of Cheese Skipper larvae in the corpse is interesting. It means that the victim died a minimum of two months ago. Usually the presence of Cheese Skipper larvae occurs three to six months after death. I would suggest that the state of decomposition and the early stage of the larval development imply death at the front end of that time scale: say three months ago. I would also suggest that the body has been kept outside.’
Underwood shuddered. Leach’s comments had reminded him that death, like life, was a process not a single event.
Dexter tried to sum up the information. ‘So the victim was a middle-aged man, heavy build, dark brown hair, who most likely died at the end of January or beginning of February.’
‘Correct. Victim B then.’ Leach turned over a page on his clipboard. He had been working on the bodies all night and was feeling the strain. ‘Female, Caucasian. Again the head was severed completely from the body. Four ten-pence coins found with this corpse. I would estimate age between twenty and thirty-five years, body weight around one hundred and ten pounds and height at roughly five feet five inches. The distinguishing thing about this body was that a number of bones were broken: including both arms, a number of ribs and the pelvis. We also found fragments of glass embedded in the flesh of both arms. It looks like she died in an accident: went through a window at high speed.’
‘Time of death?’ Underwood asked, staring at his own notes.
‘Again, we backed up the physical analysis with an entomological assessment. Organs and soft tissues were beginning to liquefy, skin was breaking away and the abdomen was bloated with gases. However, on the cadaver we discovered a high proportion of blowfly pupae. Blowflies lay eggs on flesh within a day of two of death. However, these pupae were in their final stage of development. Bearing in mind the typical life cycle of a blowfly, I’d suggest the victim was killed eighteen to twenty four days ago. In a few days we can give more accurate findings.’
‘Why the big time lag between victims?’ Underwood asked. ‘He kills the first one three months ago – so end of January or beginning of February – and then waits two months until the next one.’
Leach shrugged. ‘That’s for you lot to figure out.’
Dexter turned to Underwood. ‘Maybe he was out of the country. Maybe he was in prison. Maybe we’ve arrested this prick for something else. We let him out after two months and he carries on killing.’
‘Maybe,’ Underwood agreed, or maybe he was receiving treatment.
‘Victim C we have now confirmed from fingerprints was DC Sarah Jensen. The body was cold but rigor mortis had passed. Green stains to the abdomen showed the start of putrefaction suggesting time of death was thirty-six hours or so prior to the discovery of the body.’
‘Makes sense,’ Dexter nodded. ‘Cause of death?’
‘As yet unknown but there were two needle puncture wounds at the base of her neck.’
‘What about the last victim, then?’ Underwood asked suddenly. ‘If you’re doing this chronologically he must have been topped pretty recently.’
‘Victim D. Male, Caucasian.’ Leach replied, ‘Head severed and absent like the others. A single ten-pence coin was found with the corpse. Aged between twenty and thirty five years, body weight around one hundred and sixty pounds, height roughly six feet. Remaining body hair was mousy blonde. This was the only body in a state of rigor mortis: it was cold and stiff. He died sometime between eight and thirty six hours prior to his body being discovered. Again, there were needle puncture marks on the neck.’
Underwood stood and tried to reconstruct the full chronology on the office white board. ‘So first we have Victim A, a middle-aged man killed around the beginning of February. Then, for reasons unknown we have a gap of two months until Victim B, the unidentified woman, is attacked eighteen to twenty-four days ago.’
He drew a timeline on the board with a blue marker pen.
‘Next, Ian Stark is attacked on 29th April and Jack Harvey is murdered the following evening. Jensen and Rowena Harvey are abducted on 1st May. The bodies were discovered yesterday afternoon.’
‘Busy week,’ Farrell observed.
‘Very,’ Underwood agreed, ‘the thing that interests me is the gap of two months between Victim A and Victim B. I’ll bet you that this guy was a patient of Jack’s and he was being treated in that period.’
Dexter could see the logic in Underwood’s argument. ‘So what do we do? Pretty much all of Jack’s files and his computer were destroyed. We’ve looked at the official referral cases he was working on from County and drawn a blank.’
‘I need to go though Jack’s personal effects. There may be something we’ve missed. Can you arrange for me to have access to his house, Dex? I may need to go back there.’
‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’
Underwood returned to his chair. He wondered whether to tell the group about his notion of change: that the killer was altering the perception of his victims. He decided that to do so would muddy the waters. This meeting was about detail. He would work through the logic of the idea himself.
‘Marty,’ Dexter continued, ‘what can you tell us about the tyre tracks on the heath?’
Farrell leaned forward in his chair, ‘Better news there, I think. We’ve been able to narrow the type of vehicle down significantly. If you remember DS Harrison had suggested the killer might drive a large, expensive vehicle. Once we’d taken the dimensions and tyre impressions from the heath we calculated the size and weight of the vehicle in question. Now, once we had the details I compared them with the specifications of some of the most popular off-road vehicles and jeeps. We got a match.’
‘Let’s have it, then.’ Dexter felt like they were making progress.
‘Most likely it was a Toyota Land Cruiser.’
‘Nice one,’ Dexter was relieved. She had suddenly remembered that Mark Willis drove a large Land Rover Freelander.
‘How can you be sure?’ Underwood asked.
Farrell checked his notes. ‘We derived three estimated numbers based on the tracks on the heath: wheelbase, tread and vehicle weight. We estimated wheelbase at two-six-eight-zero millimetres. The Land Cruiser two-point-eight litre long wheelbase jeep has a specification of two-six-seven-five millimetres. Tread we calculated at one-four-seven-seven millimetres. That was pretty much spot on. The same Land Cruiser has a front tread of one-four-seven-five millimetres and rear tread of one-four-eight-zero millimetres. We worked out gross vehicle weight based on the depth of the track impressions on the soil. We calculated a range of between two-seven-fifty and twenty-nine-hundred kilos. Again, that is consistent with a two-point-eight litre Land Cruiser with a long wheelbase. We als
o made rough projections of vehicle length and width. These are consistent.’
‘Good work Marty, it gives us something specific to work on at last,’ Dexter said.
‘The forensic team from Huntingdon came up with most of this. I can’t claim much credit,’ he replied.
‘We should tell the traffic plods and the house to house investigation teams to look out for that version of the Land Cruiser. Can we get a picture from somewhere?’ Dexter asked.
‘Already done,’ Farrell replied, sliding a colour sheet across the table.
‘We’ll circulate this.’ Dexter paused and thought for a moment. ‘Knowing our luck, every farmer in East Anglia is driving one of these things. We need to try and narrow down the search. Can we get lists of Toyota garages and dealerships in the area? Maybe if they have ownership records we could cross check them against known violent offender lists.’ It was a useful idea but Dexter realized it would be a vast undertaking and her resources were already stretched.
‘There may be another way,’ Underwood observed. ‘Check with dealerships and garages for service and MOT bookings. As our boy seems to have gone off the rails over the last three months, it’s a fair bet that if he had previously scheduled an MOT or service for that period, he missed the appointment.’
‘Especially if he was driving around with a body in the boot,’ Farrell observed.
‘Absolutely.’
‘It only works if he had the jeep booked in during that three-month time period,’ Dexter commented. ‘There’s nine other months in the year.’
‘It’s something,’ Underwood said simply.
Dexter nodded and decided to bring things to a close. ‘This is what’s going to happen from here. Roger is going to complete the post-mortem examination of the bodies and provide detailed blood test results and toxicology profiles. In the meantime, I’ll assign a couple of uniforms to check the physical profiles of the three unidentified victims against missing persons lists.’
Leach nodded. ‘Agreed. Give us twenty-four hours.’
‘Marty,’ Dexter continued, ‘give PC Sauerwine the details on the jeep and on local Toyota dealerships. He can trawl through sales and service records in the way that John suggested. I’m meeting Adam Miller from the university and driving up to Thetford Forest. He’s going to take me round some sites where these magic mushroom things supposedly grow.’
‘I’d like to speak to him when you get back,’ said Underwood.
‘No problem,’ Dexter replied. The meeting broke up. Farrell and Leach left the office. Underwood stayed behind.
‘It’s a lot to take in,’ Dexter said.
Underwood nodded. ‘We’re making progress, though. The problem is our procedures take time. It’s like trying to catch a cheetah by lining up a bunch of people in a field and walking very slowly towards it.’
‘We’d catch it eventually, though.’
‘Once everything was already dead.’ Underwood watched as Dexter yawned. Her eyes watered slightly. She wiped them dry with the cuff of her shirt. ‘I spoke to your old gaffer the other day,’ he said softly.
Dexter’s ferocious green eyes zeroed in on Underwood for a head shot. ‘Mclnally? What for?’
‘Calm down. He called me. He was concerned about you and some bloke called Willis.’
‘What else did he tell you?’ Dexter snapped, anxiety and fury crawling up her throat.
‘Nothing,’ Underwood lied. ‘He asked me to keep an eye on you. Said you might be paddling in a bit deep,’
‘He had no right. I can look after myself.’
‘I thought that once about myself. Look where it got me.’
Dexter saw the concern in Underwood’s eyes and felt her anger recede slightly. She had been thinking intensely about the Mark Willis situation. She had enjoyed seeing his name appear on her mobile three times in the previous hour. She sensed he was nearby, waiting for an opportunity to confront her, to vent his fury. He was wriggling on a hook of her creation. Alison Dexter had decided to purge her past, quickly and brutally. The scars that had suddenly become visible on her newly exposed wrist reminded her why. Willis had already made her destroy one life. One was enough.
‘There’s nothing to worry about, John,’ she said, adjusting her cuff, ‘it’s under control.’
Her office intercom suddenly squawked to life. ‘Inspector Dexter, this is front desk.’
‘Go ahead,’ she replied.
‘There’s a Dr Miller in reception.’
‘Thank you.’ Dexter looked up. ‘Time to go.’
56
Mark Willis managed to climb into Dexter’s flat through her bathroom window. He guessed that she had left the smaller, top window open to air the bathroom after her morning shower. There were still small patches of water on the white-tiled floor when he clambered in. Leaving the small window open had enabled Willis to reach down into the bathroom and lift the main window catch. It had all been remarkably easy. He had laughed at Dexter’s idiocy. Ground floor garden flats were soft targets for burglars. A copper should have known better. His initial amusement and pleasure at gaining access so easily was marred by the sudden realization that if Dexter had concealed his drugs in the flat, she would have locked the place down as tight as a snake’s arse.
He decided to check the place out anyway. He was sick of Dexter chucking obstacles in his way, he had resolved to take the initiative. At best, he would retrieve his drugs and retire, at worst he would take immense satisfaction in trashing her apartment.
He looked around at the little white bathroom. It came as no surprise to him that Alison had adopted a minimalist approach: white curtains, white bath, blue and white tiles. Willis remembered from her flat in Leyton that she despised frills and ornamentation. He unscrewed the top from a bottle of shower gel and smelled it: lemon and lime.
Willis left the bathroom and walked out into the hallway. There was a picture of Dexter in uniform with her class at Hendon Police College hanging on the wall. Their names were printed underneath the photograph. He read along the second row: ‘left to right, Davis A. L, Dering J.F, Dexter A. G, Dolton S.’ She looked pleased: she’d even managed a smile for the cameras.
‘Happy days,’ Willis muttered to himself.
He unhooked the picture from the wall and smashed it on the floor. Moving on, Willis rooted through the cupboards in the hallway and found little of interest: suitcases, boots, water proof clothing. The kitchen told a similarly blank story. He found a packet of rice in a cupboard and emptied it over the work surface. He immediately cursed his haste: it would have been much better to drop it all over the living room carpet. Dexter’s fridge was bare apart from six small bottles of Stella Artois beer, a pint of milk and a strawberry-flavoured yoghurt. Willis took a bottle opener from a drawer. He fancied a cold beer.
Dexter’s living room had crème walls and was tidily furnished. Willis slumped onto her sofa. There were two shelves of books and a rack of CDs next to him. He scanned the CDs, half-amused at her taste in music.
‘Always the rocker, Sparrer,’ he muttered. Some of the names were familiar to him, from the time he had spent at Alison’s previous flat: The Jam, The Clash, Guns ’n’ Roses, The Rolling Stones. Willis remembered Alison for a second dancing around her bleak little Leyton kitchenette, cooking a risotto to ‘Town called Malice.’ He banished the thought.
The beer disappeared rapidly and Willis returned to his work. He checked under and behind the sofa and knocked over Dexter’s computer table. Her papers spilled onto the carpet. Irritated by now, Willis walked through to her bedroom. He half expected to see her old West Ham pillowcase on the bed but was disappointed: white pillows and duvet cover.
‘Christ, it’s like being in hospital,’ Willis observed.
There was a pile of clean clothes, neatly folded on a wicker chair. He kicked them over. Willis was pleased to find her underwear drawer first of all, spending some time trying to find knickers that he recognized: he was unsuccessful but was reassure
d to find her taste in undies hadn’t changed. He stuffed a thong in his pocket for old time’s sake. Her clothes cupboard proved more interesting. Lying beneath a row of immaculately pressed shirts and sombre suits, Willis found a pile of black diaries and pulled them out to investigate further. The first was marked 1984, the last 2002. He opened 1984 randomly and read out loud: ‘22nd September. Sick of school. Tired of being treated like a five-year-old. Can’t wait for college.’
Willis closed the book. He was surprised. Despite the time he had spent with Alison Dexter, he had never realized that she had kept a journal. He didn’t think she was the type. And yet here was a record of her entire adult life. Presumably, there was also a complete record of their relationship and their unfortunate break-up too. That would make interesting reading. He selected 1994 and flicked through until he found August.
‘23rd August. Just back from Paris. Fantastic weekend. Great hotel. Mark spent a fortune. Went up the Eiffel Tower. Saturday night we had dinner on a river boat: amazing views. It’s so beautiful. Sunday, we had a great picnic and sex in the park! I’ve always wanted to do it outside. Got back to London late. Mark had to go into town on work. Pity it ended like that. He must be knackered. X’
Willis smiled to himself. He had indeed been knackered: and by the time he’d finished with Staff Nurse Siobhan at five in the morning he’d been completely exhausted. He thumbed forward a month or two, trying to remember when Dexter had found out about his daily trips to the boiler room with WPC Otham.
‘15th October. Working GBH case. Busy as hell. Got in late again. Mark ignoring me. Can’t think what I’ve done wrong this time. Bad feeling. Trying to ignore it. I’m late.’
Willis frowned at the last comment, his brain scrambling for an explanation until the penny clanked into place. He flicked forward, looking for a similar reference.