“I only remembered it this morning,” Whitton said, “after I got the call about the body in the church I forgot about the whole thing.”
“What did the man say?” Brownhill asked.
Whitton looked at the clouds forming in the distance. Rain was definitely on the way.
“Wrapped in a blanket he was,” Whitton said, “that’s what he said. Wrapped in a blanket. Didn’t make a sound.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” Whitton said, “that’s exactly what he said. I think he saw the murderer carrying the child away on Friday night. Why else would he say that?”
“Unless…”
“Unless what?” Whitton said.
“Nothing,” Brownhill said, “let’s go and find this mysterious alcoholic shall we.”
“I’m going to need some help,” Whitton said.
“I’ll get you some help,” Brownhill marched out of her office.
Whitton followed after her. She had to almost run to keep up.
Baldwin was nowhere to be seen as Whitton caught up to Brownhill at the front desk. She spotted Thompson next to the window. He was talking to Sergeant Harold Ingram. Whitton had never liked Ingram. He was an old school sexist pig who modeled his whole appearance on Elvis Presley. He even curled up his lip like Elvis. He gave Whitton the creeps.
“Where’s Baldwin?” Brownhill’s voice boomed out.
The whole room went quiet.
“I just popped out for a second Ma’am,” Baldwin returned to her desk.
“Baldwin,” Brownhill said, “I need you to round up all available personnel. We have a very important witness to locate. It’s to do with the Nathan Green murder.”
“Ma’am?” Baldwin looked confused.
“You heard me,” Brownhill said, “I don’t care if they’re sick, on leave, in bed, hungover, just get them ready. Wake them up if you have to. This is our number one priority case. I need every man and their dog to get themselves to…”
She looked at Whitton.
“Meadowgate,” Whitton said, “I thought we could start with the pubs in the area. Somebody must know who this man is.”
“Very good,” Brownhill smiled at Whitton.
The smile made Whitton feel uneasy.
“Everyone here who hasn’t got something highly important to do,” Brownhill scanned the room, “is to do the same. We need to find this man. He could be the key to the whole investigation.”
Brownhill was about to say something else when the door to the station was opened. A man walked inside and everybody stared at him. He was around six feet tall with hair that looked like it had not been brushed for days. His face was an unhealthy grey colour and his bloodshot eyes were sunk into his head. Nobody said a word. The man walked up to Whitton and smiled. A strange smell seemed to follow him around.
“Morning everyone,” Smith said, “morning Whitton. I believe you need some help?”
THIRTEEN
Death warmed up
“You look like death warmed up,” Whitton parked her car outside the Lion’s Arms on Meadowgate.
“I look like what?” Smith said in a gruff voice.
“Death warmed up,” Whitton said, “it’s a phrase my dad used to use all the time. It’s not a compliment by the way.”
“I like it,” Smith said, “death warmed up. It describes pretty much how I do look at the moment.”
They walked towards the pub. Whitton had briefly explained to Smith what had happened over the past few days as they had driven from the station. She had not been sure if Smith had been listening. He had seemed miles away.
“Let me get this straight,” he said, “a five year old kid disappeared from his house on Friday night and was found dead the next day in a church?”
“That’s right.”
“Who would want to kill a five year old boy?”
“It’s good to have you back,” Whitton said.
“Don’t speak too soon, I’m only here because you manipulated my conscience.”
“Whatever sir.”
The Lion’s Head was surprisingly busy considering it was not yet lunch time. Smith and Whitton walked up to the bar. There were three men working behind it.
“Excuse me,” Smith said.
All three barmen ignored him.
“Hey, arsehole,” Smith shouted to the closest one.
The pub went quiet. Whitton looked at Smith in disbelief. The barman approached Smith. He was a big, stocky man with a shaved head. He slammed a huge fist on the bar counter in front of Smith.
“You’ve got ten seconds,” he said in an accent Smith knew to be Scottish, “you can walk out or you can leave in an ambulance.”
“Can we have a word?” Whitton stepped forward.
She showed the man her ID card. He leaned in closer to inspect it. His cheap aftershave was overpowering.
“Anything for you darlin,” he said, “Why didn’t you just say you were polis?”
“I’m afraid my colleague is a little out of touch with reality at the moment,” Whitton said.
“Aye,” the man said, “I can see that. What can I do for you?”
“We’re looking for a man,” Whitton said, “he may have come in here on Friday night or yesterday afternoon.”
“Busiest days of the week,” the man said, “we get a lot of people in then. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Smith said.
“I said I can’t help you,” the bar man moved his head closer to Smith, “because I wasn’t here, that’s why. I was off. Only came back this morning after a week off.”
“Is there anyone here who can help us then?” Smith emphasized the word ‘can’.
“Jack,” the bar man shouted to a short man with a thin pony tail, “These people would like a word.”
The man known as Jack almost fell off his bar stool. He hobbled over to Whitton and Smith. He looked like one of his legs was shorter than the other one.
“What do you want?” he asked Whitton, “I’m just minding my own business.”
“We need your help,” Whitton said, “We’re looking for someone who may have been in here this weekend.”
“I see a lot of people coming and going,” Jack said, “how about you buy me a drink? It might jog my memory a bit.”
“How about we drag you off to the station,” Smith said, “and stick you in one of the cells just because you have an offensive haircut.”
Jack’s shorter leg started to twitch in a disturbing manner.
“What did he look like this bloke?” Jack said to Whitton.
Whitton had to think carefully. She had not really paid much attention to the drunken man.
“About average height,” she said and realized how ridiculous she sounded.
“About five ten,” she started again, “fairly stocky. He was wearing an old overcoat.”
Jack looked like he was thinking hard.
“Don’t remember anyone like that,” he said, “Like I said, “I see a lot of people. I’m in here most nights.”
“He had perfect teeth,” Whitton suddenly remembered.
“Nope,” Jack said, “never seen him before. Can I go now?”
He hobbled back to his seat without waiting for an answer.
“It’s good to be back,” Smith said, “it feels like I never left.”
“I’d forgotten how much fun it was working with you,” Whitton sighed.
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you,” Smith said, “let’s get out of here. There must be a lot more pubs around here.”
“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice was heard from the other side of the bar.
Smith looked over. A middle aged woman was sitting on her own. She was wearing far too much make up. An empty wine glass lay in front of her. Smith pushed past two men and walked up to her. Whitton followed him.
“I couldn’t help overhearing,” the woman said, “the name’s Janet. I’ve never heard anyone call Sean an arsehole before and live to tell the tale.”
“What can you tell us?” Whitton said.
“There was a man in here,” Janet said, “he wasn’t in on Friday but he was here yesterday afternoon. It struck me when you mentioned something about perfect teeth. Nobody in York has perfect teeth but this bloke’s were like something you see in the films. White and straight they were. They didn’t look real.”
“Do you know who he is?” Smith asked.
“Fill up my glass for me,” Janet smiled at him, “and I’ll try to remember a bit more.”
Smith picked up the empty glass.
“Arsehole,” he shouted to Sean, “top up for the lady. Quick as you like.”
Janet started to giggle. Sean took the glass and filled it from a bottle of Port. He glared at Smith and put the glass on the bar. Janet emptied half the contents in one go.
“The man with the perfect teeth,” Smith said, “what do you know about him?”
“Port’s two quid,” Sean said.
Smith looked at Whitton. Whitton shook her head, took out her purse and handed Sean a two pound coin.
“He was a bit strange,” Janet said, “I didn’t quite know what to make of him.”
“What do you mean?” Whitton said.
“We had a bit of a chat,” Janet said, “don’t get me wrong, I’m not in the habit of chatting to complete strangers but he seemed quite harmless. He was pretty wrecked and feeling sorry for himself. I felt sorry for him but the funny thing is what he told me he does for a living.”
“What’s that?” Smith said.
“Like I said,” Janet said, “we had a bit of a chat and after he told me what he does it struck me as funny. Ironic if you want to use the posh word. He was so miserable and yet he works as a clown.”
“A clown?” Smith said.
Janet finished the rest of the Port in the glass.
“That’s right,” she said, “he told me he works as a clown in the circus.”
FOURTEEN
Irregular mosaic patterns
Grant Webber was stumped. In almost twenty years in the York forensics department he could count days like these on the fingers of one hand. His team had gone through St Olave’s church methodically. They had concentrated on the area around where Nathan Green’s body had been found and spread outwards. The young boy had been strangled, there was no doubt about that; the report from the pathology lab had confirmed it one hundred percent. There had been fingerprints all over the crime scene but Webber had expected that. St Olave’s was a popular tourist attraction. The most recent fingerprints had been confirmed as coming from the American tourists and these had been eliminated. Webber instinctively knew that his main hope of finding anything useful would come from the blanket Nathan Green had been wrapped in and that was where his problems started.
Webber looked at the blanket spread out in front of him. There had been no blood anywhere on the blanket but Webber had not expected to find any. In strangulation cases, blood is rarely shed. Webber had found three different types of hair on the blanket. One of the hair samples was determined to have come from Nathan Green, one was also human hair but it had not yet been identified but it was the third hair sample that had caused Webber’s forensics brain to go into overdrive. At first he had assumed it to be the hair from a dog. It was light brown in colour and it was similar to samples of dog hair Webber had analyzed in the past. They had quickly established that the Green family did not own a dog and Milly and Dwain Phoenix had not been in contact with a dog on their holiday so the assumption was, the killer had a dog. There were so many dog hairs on the blanket that there was no way that they could have got there by a chance meeting with the animal.
Webber had spent over three hours examining each hair under the microscope but he knew that something was not right. The hairs on the blanket belonged to no dog he had ever seen before. On further examination he had cross checked the samples of hair with previous samples of dog hair he had tested. The hair shafts on all samples were similar but it was when he examined the hair pits, the pits which are attached to the skin, that Webber noticed vast dissimilarities. The dog’s hairs were more regular in cross section whereas these new samples seemed to have very irregular mosaic patterns.
Webber scratched his head and sighed. This is going to be harder than I expected, he thought. He decided he would take a break, drink a cup of coffee and give his brain some time to rejuvenate. He took off his glasses and stood up.
“Found anything?” DI Brownhill was standing in the doorway.
Webber rolled his eyes. His coffee break had just been cancelled.
“There’s something unusual about the hairs I found on the blanket,” he said, “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“Sounds intriguing,” Brownhill stepped inside the laboratory.
“Intriguing isn’t the word,” Webber said, “this is more annoying. I can’t figure out where all the hairs on the blanket came from.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let me show you,” Webber pointed to a screen above his desk.
“This is a human hair,” he pointed to the image on the screen, “and here is the same hair in cross section.”
He tapped a key on the keyboard.
“Now,” he said, “this is a sample of a hair from a Labrador. You can see it’s nothing like the human hair and of course it’s not supposed to be but this one is the poser.”
He brought up the image of the mystery hair sample.
“Do you see that?” Webber said, “See what I mean?”
Brownhill came closer. Webber could smell the soap on her skin. He realized he was breathing more deeply to take in the faint smell.
“What’s that?” Brownhill pointed to the pattern on the cross section of the hair sample.
“That’s our mystery,” Webber said, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to do something I’ve only done once or twice before in nearly twenty years.”
“Oh yes,” Brownhill smiled, “and what’s that?”
Webber realized he had a strange feeling in his stomach. This woman was starting to affect him. He gulped twice and the warm feeling in his gut subsided.
“I’m going to have to ask for help,” he said, “this one has got me completely stumped.”
“We’re all only human,” Brownhill said, “even me.”
Webber turned off the screen and tried to compose himself.
“I was about to take a break,” he said, “recharge my batteries for ten minutes. Can I buy you a cup of crap coffee from the canteen?”
“Sounds wonderful,” Brownhill headed for the door.
The smell of soap lingered in the air long after she had left.
FIFTEEN
Circus clown blues
“What on earth made you decide to start smoking weed?” Whitton asked Smith as they drove to the circus grounds on the outskirts of the city.
“It just seemed to happen,” Smith said, “I’d finished playing a few songs at the Deep Blues Club. I had to borrow Mad Dog’s old Telecaster and I just wasn’t connecting with the guitar. It sounded shit to be honest and Mad Dog came up to me afterwards and pretty much told me the same. Anyway, he gave me a spliff and I thought, what the hell. It felt good and the second time I got up to play everything was different. I forgot about everything and just played. I don’t know where it came from.”
“And that was that?” Whitton said, “you turned into a junkie overnight?”
“I woke up the next morning and I felt like hell,” Smith said, “but I felt like doing it again. I felt like forgetting some more.”
“You know that stuff damages your brain cells?” Whitton said.
“Whitton,” Smith looked across at her, “I’d been knocking back one, sometimes two bottles of Jack a day, even a prude like you can see that marijuana is a healthier option.”
“If you say so,” Whitton said, “and I’m not a prude.”
“Do you want to try some then?” Smith patted his jacket pocket.
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�You can’t be serious?” Whitton said, “You’ve got it on you now? You’re a police officer. You’d be sacked on the spot not to mention a charge being brought against you.”
“Relax Whitton,” Smith said, “I’m just pulling your leg.”
Whitton parked her car in the field next to the Circus tent. Luckily the rain that had been threatening earlier had drifted east into the North Sea and the field was dry. They got out of the car and looked around. Smith took out a packet of cigarettes, put one in his mouth and lit the end. The smoke drifted back towards Whitton.
“You weren’t pulling my leg were you?” She said, “I may be a prude but I know that smell.”
“Chill out Whitton,” Smith said, “it helps me to think. Besides, this is just a bit of mild hash. The worst that can happen is you’ll have to drop me off at the pizza shop later when I get the munchies.”
They walked towards the Circus tent.
“Depressing isn’t it?” Smith said, “the big top after the show is over and everybody has gone home. All that’s left are miserable clowns and hungry lions.”
“Take a deep breath sir,” Whitton said, “and please let me do the talking in there.”
“Show’s over,’ a woman emerged from the side of the tent as they approached, “next show is tomorrow evening.”
“We’re not here to see the show,” Smith said, “I hate the circus. We’re here to speak to a clown.”
He put his hand in his pocket to take out his ID but realized it had been destroyed in the fire at his house. He had not bothered to apply for a replacement. Whitton took out hers and showed it to the woman.
“What’s this all about?” the woman said.
“We just need to speak to the clown that works here,” Whitton said.
“Which one? We have three clowns at the moment.”
“Then we’ll speak to all three,” Smith smiled inanely, “three clowns, sounds like a brand of Irish whiskey.”
Whitton found it hard not to smile.
“I’ll take you to the staff accommodation,” the woman walked off around the tent.
Alberto Moreno was sitting outside his caravan reading a newspaper when Smith, Whitton and the woman approached.
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