Imagine you’re someone else, she told herself. That’s the essence of the writer’s skill. Imagine you’re a beautiful, innocent girl on the threshold of womanhood, whose parents die in quick succession. You are sent to live with your aunt and uncle in a remote castle on a cliff, a river snaking through the valley far below. Your uncle makes advances and your aunt pretends not to notice. There is a sympathetic maid, who hints of family secrets and a curse. The old woman’s son will help. He’s a forester on your uncle’s estate and hates having to destroy the trees, hundreds of them cut down every year for firewood and building materials. Your uncle is forever ordering tunnels supported by fresh beams to be dug under the castle.
You don’t have to imagine this at all. Your ancestor Walter wrote it in the novel that scandalised the country in the 1780s. He called it The Seeker and it was never seen in respectable homes, though many a Victorian burgher kept it locked up. The title refers to the uncle, Baron Amherst, who makes a pact with a hooded figure he knows is an emissary of the devil. Although the baron is enormously rich from his sugar plantations in the Caribbean, he wants more. He seeks the mythical treasure brought back from a jungle El Dorado by a Spanish explorer and buried beneath the castle before it came into the family’s hands. The emissary of evil knows the exact location, but he extracts a price – the niece. She must be sacrificed, her blood drenching the earth above the treasure’s resting place.
Evie was sure her parents hadn’t read The Seeker; they had probably never even heard of it. Andrew leafed through the papers and scanned the farming magazines, but she had never seen him with a book in his hands. Victoria read the novels on the Booker shortlist every year, without any sign of enjoyment.
But The Seeker was integral to the Favons’ history. The family name was embossed under the title on the spine. The book was well known in academic circles and there were articles about it. Although the story was melodramatic – gypsies shouting curses at the Baron and his wife when their carriage passed, witches casting spells from ancient grimoires, the heroine tortured in a pit with something far nastier than a pendulum – there was power in the words. Once the heroine, unnamed for reasons known only to the author, realised her uncle’s wicked plans, she became a strong character. She stabbed him with his own dagger when he came to rape her on the black altar and her bonds fell away. She watched as the Devil, in the form of a snake with the head of a crocodile, revealed the treasure sought by the Baron. It proved to be a box of rank earth containing the bones of numerous fingers. The wicked uncle screamed and was then devoured by the Devil. The hooded figure approached the heroine and said that his master admired her courage. She could go in peace or enter into a bargain that, because of her purity of spirit, would have real earthly value, though her soul would still be forfeit. The book ended with the young woman considering the choice. Would she become the next Seeker?
Evie felt that the writer was a kindred spirit. Walter had a club foot and was despised by his relatives. Evie was pretty sure her parents had little interest in her and had never got over the fact that she was a girl. On the other hand, Walter was sent down from Oxford for setting a servant on fire; the man later died and a large sum had to be settled on his widow. Dispatched to the plantations, Walter dared to take the side of the slaves, improving their living conditions without asking his father’s permission. He was stricken by malaria and spent the rest of his short life in the mountains of Switzerland, whence the alpine landscapes of The Seeker. He died at thirty-three, his friends claiming he had been poisoned by agents of his family.
Evie was sure that was what happened. She sometimes thought her father would like her to suffer a similar fate. She shivered. Not for the first time she wondered if the accident with the Land Cruiser really had been an accident, as he always claimed.
55
Heck and Joni, wearing coveralls and bootees, stood side by side and looked at the body in the water. The right leg had been secured to a nearby tree trunk. The sun was high in the sky, but the light was blocked by the tall trees where the river took a bend northwards. Birdsong rang out over the softer rush of the water. They had looked at the map when they arrived. The crime scene on the Coquet was twenty-eight miles north of Corham and a couple of miles west of Rothbury.
‘What’s that on what’s left of his neck?’ Heck said, squatting down by the tape lain by the SOCOs on the grassy path.
Joni was trying to make sense of the torn skin below where the Adam’s apple would normally be. ‘A bite?’ she wondered aloud.
‘You know who cuts off heads and hands.’
‘Bad people.’
‘Yeees. What kind of bad people?’
‘The professional kind.’ Joni glanced at her boss. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’
‘Do you now?’
‘Gangsters like the Albanian kind would have no problem doing this.’
Heck shook his head. ‘I did think that for a few seconds. Then I told myself not to jump to conclusions. The Newcastle gangs did worse than this often enough. It isn’t so easy to hide the victims’ identities these days with DNA testing.’
‘But that isn’t the point of mutilation. They’re sending a message to the enemy.’
‘Right.’ Heck peered at the corpse again. ‘This fellow was young. Even after some time in the water– not too long, I’d guess – his muscle tone is pretty firm.’
‘The skin isn’t worn much either,’ Joni put in. ‘Except around the knees. Those look like keyhole surgery scars.’
‘A sportsman, maybe.’ Heck drew her away as the photographers finished and men in wet suits started getting the corpse out of the river. ‘Let’s hold off on the speculation for a bit, Joni. We need to get things organised here.’
Tasks were given to the officers on scene. Pete Rokeby led a group of uniformed officers combing the woods for tracks and other trace evidence. Eileen Andrews interviewed Brian Sweeney. He was twitchy but calm, keeping his red setter on a short leash and eyeing her dubiously. He had little to tell. He had seen no one else on his brief walk, nor any vehicles parked near the river. Soon people in the local houses, which were few, would be canvassed and the pathologist and SOCOs would give their preliminary impressions.
Doctor Bertha Volpert was kneeling by the body, which was now on a rubber sheet on the bank. She was suited up, her hair in a matching white hat. The apparel gave her the look of an over-inflated Michelin woman. She shook her head after taking temperature readings.
‘I’ll have to do the calculations back at the lab,’ she said. ‘The river water is cold and it has reduced that of the body.’ She looked up at Heck and Joni. ‘So don’t even think of asking about time of death.’
‘I don’t see any lacerations or other marks,’ Joni said.
‘You are observant, DI Pax. I do not know if the Coquet is a river full of fish, but he hasn’t been nibbled at. That could suggest he hasn’t been in the water for many hours.’
‘The question is, did he have his throat ripped out before his head was taken off or afterwards?’ Heck said.
Big Bertha gave him one of her trademark crooked smiles. ‘It will be very hard to tell, DCI Rutherford. The bite or bites – the tearing of teeth is unmistakable – would result in massive loss of blood, but brain function may have been terminated by severe head injury. Alternatively, he may have exsanguinated from a wound higher up the throat. He looks to have been in good physical shape.’ Dr Volpert nodded at Joni. ‘Going back to DI Pax’s earlier point, it is suggestive that there are no defence wounds on the hands or arms. The animal – probably a dog, though I have to check the wounds in the lab – might have been on him before he could react.’ She paused. ‘Or perhaps he managed to keep it at bay with some implement for a time.’
‘It didn’t happen here, of course,’ Joni said. ‘The bank is undisturbed.’
‘Assuming there are no blood deposits in the wider vicinity, no,’ the pathologist said.
‘The killer, or rather, the owner of t
he killer dog who mutilated the corpse, took a chance dumping the body here,’ Heck said. ‘Although it may have happened under cover of darkness. Why take the risk?’
‘So that DNA and other trace materials were washed away, of course,’ Big Bertha said tersely. ‘Fingerprints on the body will potentially have been compromised as well.’
‘Let’s hope we find some footprints then,’ Heck said.
Joni glanced around. ‘It’s obviously not a path many people use – there’s no signpost on the road – but I suspect there’ll be plenty of prints to be excluded before we find those of the person who dumped the body. And the ground is dry.’
‘I’m glad I don’t have your job,’ the pathologist said.
Heck and Joni picked their way over the markers left by SOCOs to a secluded spot between two sycamores.
‘First question,’ Joni said. ‘Why was the victim put in the river? If he’d been buried on a moor or in one of the numerous forests around here, we’d never have found him.’
Heck nodded. ‘Our dog-owning friend either wanted him to be found or didn’t care.’
Joni looked away. ‘The latter’s even more worrying than the former.’ She waved a blowfly away. ‘Second question. How many people in Northumberland own dogs trained to go for the throat?’
‘How long’s a piece of string? This is the country, Joni. Most people have dogs and plenty of farmers have vicious ones.’
‘Not ones that would do that kind of damage.’
‘Probably not. The average sheep dog’ll give you a nasty nip at worst. I’d say that wound was caused by a large hound, but there’s still no shortage of them. And there’s no point going through the dog licence archive because, a) not every bugger buys a licence and, b) there’s no record of training. Obviously there’s the Dangerous Dogs Act, but that only covers a few breeds.’
‘We need to check the missing persons register.’
‘Aye, put one of your people on that.’
Joni stepped over the crime scene tape and took out her phone. Before making the call, she turned back to Heck. ‘Of course, there is another possibility. The victim might be an Albanian pimp that Suzana Noli caught up with.’
‘That’s bit far-fetched,’ Heck replied. ‘Where would she find a dog?’
‘Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she tore his throat out herself.
Heck watched Joni as she started to speak into her phone. Sometimes her human side was to the fore and at others she was colder than a sea trout.
56
‘So what do we do with him, Kylie?’
‘What do you think, Pumpkinhead? Squeeze his nuts till he tells us where Gaz is.’
‘It’s quiet enough around here.’
‘Aye, Daryll, it is. When we’ve finished, we can dump him in the sea.’
‘You what? You mean kill him? He’s a fucking Albanian.’
‘That’s the point, Jackie. He’s seen all our faces. Do you think we’ll keep our nuts if we let him loose? These people are animals.’
‘Still, Kylie, killing him because he … oh, I get it.’
‘Glad to see one of you’s got more than half a brain, Hot Rod. Right, let’s get started. Hold him still.’
Thwack.
‘Fuck, that hurt.’
‘Why don’t we take him outside and use the bats on him?’
‘Good idea, Daryll. Right, dickhead, out. Keep a tight grip on him. Aye, lean him against the car. So where’s Gaz, you fucker?’
‘Don’t know no Gaz.’
Crack.
‘Sure about that?’
‘Fuck you.’
Crack.
‘Jesus Christ, Kylie. You’ve broken his fuckin’ arm.’
‘Who cares? He’s got another one. For the time being.’
‘Yeah, but…’
‘Yeah, but what? This is our mate we’re talking about.’
‘All right, but you canna kill the guy.’
‘Watch me, Pumpkinhead. Listen, you twat. We know someone who saw you put Gaz into a Bentley.’
‘Aye, a Bentley Continental GT Speed.’
‘Shut up, Jackie. Where was he going?’
‘Fuck you. Aaaah!’
‘Dinna worry, man. One of your balls is probably still OK. Pick the bastard up, Hot Rod. No! Shit! Fuck! Get after him!’
‘What about Hot Rod?’
‘Stay with him, Daryll. Come on, the rest of you.’
‘Fuck. Where did he get that knife?’
‘Good … fucking … question, Jackie. I thought … you … searched him?’
‘I … did.’
‘Come on, he’s getting … to the road.’
‘Ah … ah canna run … any more.’
‘Useless tosser … Pumpkinhead…’
‘Oh fuck, he’s … stopped that car.’
‘Oh fuck. He’s … fucking … gone.’
57
Heck went back to Corham after a couple of hours and Joni stayed to supervise the canvassing and search in the woods. Officers from Rothbury had been drafted in and were going through the undergrowth on their hands and knees. None of the people in the cottages had seen anything, but some had gone to work. Interviews were being arranged, but one woman lived on her own and the neighbours didn’t have her number. Pete Rokeby was trying to track her down.
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ the chief SOCO said. ‘Whoever dumped the body was strong as an ox. I measured the victim’s feet and there aren’t any prints as big as that. He must have taken a size twelve.’ He looked around disconsolately. ‘Then again, there aren’t many useful prints on this dry ground.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Unless you’ve got really sharp eyes.’ He pointed to an area on the bank that had been taped off.
Joni kneeled down by it and stared at the grass. It had been trampled, but as the growth was fresh, there wasn’t much damage to it.
‘See that?’ the SOCO said, extending a hand.
‘Sort of. Medium-sized shoe?’
‘Aye. It’s only a partial, but I estimate it at a size ten. It’s fresh and close to the water, so there’s a good chance it’s our man’s. Unlikely to be a woman’s, is it? It’s an Adidas trainer, I recognise the sole pattern.’
‘It could be a woman wearing whatever shoes she could find.’
‘Well, she’d have to be bloody strong to have carried the victim this far from the road. Big Ber—, I mean Dr Volpert, estimated his weight at over twelve stone.’
Joni had a flash of the half-naked woman running away from the brothel. Could Suzana Noli have carried the tall man along the path? How would she have got him here? In a stolen car? Or the victim’s own car? Had she been hitching and killed the man who’d picked her up? She had murdered one of the Albanians, seriously injured another and forked a third. She’d already shown she was capable of anything. On the other hand, she was skinny and probably undernourished, like the other Albanian woman. This case might not be connected to her at all.
‘Whoever it was wanted the body to be found,’ the SOCO said. ‘This isn’t exactly the middle of nowhere.’
‘Perhaps the killer didn’t know the area,’ Joni said, arguing against herself out loud. ‘Perhaps the victim’s killer wasn’t the same person as the person who dumped the body.’
‘Could be. Then you’ve got to wonder which of them cut off the head and hands. If there are two people involved, you’ve got more on your plate, haven’t you?’
Joni nodded, ignoring the SOCO’s evident delight as Pete Rokeby walked up.
‘I’ve spoken to the last potential witness,’ he said. ‘Violet Crichton. She sounded pretty doddery. She said she didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. She’s coming to Force HQ in the afternoon to give a statement.’
‘The body was probably dumped first thing in the morning – maybe even in the dark if the guy – or woman – knew the area.’
‘Woman?’
Join told him her thoughts about Suzana Noli.
Pete looked dubious. ‘She’s a s
lip of a girl, isn’t she? I mean, I can see you carrying the victim down here, but her…?’
‘Thanks,’ Joni said, unsmiling. She looked around the sylvan scene, the sun now glinting off the river and the birds still loud. She had just got her bearings. Her mother’s cottage was less than three miles to the west.
58
Ag Rutherford had driven to work the long way round. Every Wednesday she took her father-in-law to his friend Gavin’s place. The idea was that they played music – David on the Northumbrian pipes and his pal on acoustic guitar – but she suspected they nattered most of the day, consuming numerous mugs of tea laced with whisky. The old man was usually the worse for wear when she picked him up in the late afternoon, making the kids double up with his less than politically correct comments. Most of the time she let him get away with it.
‘Lovely morning,’ he said, struggling to push the Fiat’s seat back as he looked out over the fields.
‘Spring has blown in with its full and glorious palette.’
‘You should write poetry, lass,’ David said, with undisguised admiration.
Ag didn’t tell him that she did, not that she’d ever had anything published. Even Heck was unaware of what she wrote in the leather-covered book she locked away each night. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed by her writing – rather, it was the only thing that was hers and hers alone. She loved her husband and kids, she loved her job, she even loved the old reprobate sitting beside her, but she needed something for herself. She’d always been good with words, but it was only since Heck’s cancer that she’d started putting her thoughts down in free verse. Although the diagnosis and treatment had been hard for all of them and she knew her husband wasn’t clear of it by a long way, some of its effects had been positive. They were closer as a family and Heck had a better grasp of who he was; at least some of the time.
Carnal Acts Page 16