by Carole Pitt
Elizabeth waded in before anything else wrong footed her. 'Tell me where you were the day before Mr Carstairs discovered the body?'
'I don't do much,' he said.
'You mean you don't work. You haven't got a job.'
Lacroix jumped in to explain. 'He has benefits, enough to keep him going.'
'Let Jez answer the question,' Elizabeth said.
Patterson sat up and leaned forward. 'How does the benefit system work with the travelling community?'
Jez smiled, showing nearly perfect white teeth. 'Same as with everybody else, I get social security but not the full housing benefit.'
Elizabeth felt confused. How could they be entitled to housing benefit when they were effectively squatting?
Patterson had obviously thought the same. 'People usually only get housing benefit if they pay mortgage or rent.'
Lacroix sounded annoyed. 'We're not scroungers; we pay rent to Mr and Mrs Fowler. They’re our landlords and this property is in the private sector so the rules are different. As Jez just mentioned, we have to pay the difference. Our rent officer at the council decides how much benefit we're allowed.'
Elizabeth stood up. 'If you'll excuse me, I'd like a private word with my sergeant.'
'Are you finished with us?' Jez asked.
'No, so please stay put. We won't be long.'
Once outside the caravan, Elizabeth pointed to a makeshift bench made out of a couple of beer barrels and a length of wood. It was far enough away not to be overheard and the earlier aggro seemed to have calmed down.
'Tell me this,' she said. 'Why did the Fowlers omit to inform us that these people pay to live here? They know we can check with the council. More importantly, why are they desperate to be rid of them when they're making all this money?'
'Like Mrs Fowler said, she was fed up. Maybe she hoped by charging them rent they'd end up broke and move somewhere that was free, or council owned land where they'd be eligible for full housing benefit.'
Elizabeth rummaged in her shoulder bag and found her cigarettes. She lit one before replying. 'Ring Tewksbury Council office and ask for photocopies of all council tax bills relating to Roxbury Farm. I’ll need them before I speak to Lillian Fowler so tell them it's urgent. I'll contact the Inland Revenue to make sure the Fowlers have declared the extra income.'
'What if they haven't?' Patterson asked.
'They'll have a bloody big tax bill and no doubt a bloody huge fine as well.'
'Charging this lot means they can’t be classed as squatters. No the wonder the traveller’s could block previous evictions.’
Elizabeth flicked ash from her cigarette. 'Let's get back before Jez decides to disappear.'
'He's a strange bloke. I’ve checked criminal records, a few minor offences but they're notoriously difficult to track. Some of them change their name after a brush with the law,’ Patterson said.
'I bet there’s a few here who’ve done it. Lacroix’s an unusual one. I bet it’s not her real name.’
‘I thought Anyas Lacroix sounded French.’
‘She does look foreign so I might be wrong. Tony, could you find the other two? See how they’re getting on with the interviews and I’ll go back to Moore and Lacroix.'
Elizabeth grunted when she stood up then reached out to Patterson for support.
'When are these results due?' He asked.
'Soon I hope.’
'That’s good,' he said and headed off.
Elizabeth shuffled slowly back to Lacroix's caravan. She stopped a few feet from an open window and listened. The noises from inside were unmistakeable, they were either having sex or about to. Rather than hang around she banged on the door. What were they thinking, she thought, surely they could have waited?
It took two or three minutes before Jez opened the door. He was shirtless, his jeans unzipped, he also showed no embarrassment. For his age, his physique was impressive. He’d said he didn’t work but his tanned muscular upper body said otherwise. She also knew living on benefits didn’t stretch to frequenting a well-equipped gym.
'Sorry,' he said, his eyes saying the opposite.
'If you don't mind I'd like to carry on without further interruptions.'
Lacroix appeared, wrapped in a red silk kimono. 'I'm making coffee. Do you want some?'
'If I can come inside and drink it.' Elizabeth said.
Jez disappeared through a curtained off area while Lacroix boiled the kettle. While she waited, Elizabeth picked up a framed photograph and studied it. From the discolouration and the clothes, it looked like it was taken in the early fifties but she couldn't be sure. It was of a bride and groom dressed in the traditional white gown and morning suit.'
Lacroix handed her a mug. 'My parents,' she said.
'Do they live close,' Elizabeth asked, putting the frame down carefully on a small table.
Jez had reappeared, still without a top. Lacroix placed her palm on his smooth chest and made circular movements. 'They're both dead.'
Elizabeth felt as if she was wading through quicksand. The atmosphere was cloying, somewhere an incense stick was burning and it made her feel nauseous. Her need to escape fuelled her anger. 'If you prefer, we can have this talk back in Cheltenham. I'm investigating a murder and neither of you are taking me seriously.'
Lacroix gasped. 'Murder, we were told it was an accidental drowning.'
Jez slammed his mug down on a shelf spilling most of it and started yelling. 'It's not true, it's not true.'
Lacroix grabbed him and held him tight. 'It's alright, the police don't know for certain.'
Jez carried on whimpering but Elizabeth sensed it was a performance specifically for her benefit. 'I suggest you pull yourself together Mr Moore and stop pissing me about or I’ll have you both in a bright shiny interview room at Cordover Street Police Headquarters.'
'You can't make me go there,' Jez cried out.
Elizabeth knew if she stayed much longer, they would exhaust her. She pulled out her phone ready to ring Patterson. 'Answer my questions or you will be on your way.'
Jez wasn’t as stupid as he made out. He sat down and once more fixed his eyes on her. His pupils looked too large and Elizabeth wondered what he’d taken. 'I've got a telescope. At night I look at the stars or the wildlife.'
'And do you look at other things?'
'If something catches my eye but I don't spy on Mr and Mrs Fowler.’
Elizabeth wondered why he’d referred to the Fowlers. ‘Are you trying to tell me you spy on other people?’
‘I don’t spy on anyone, but I know who does.'
'And who's that?'
'Mr Carstairs,' he said. 'I see him when I'm focusing on the night creatures.'
He stared at her unblinking and she heard the change in his tone. He was trying to unnerve her and doing a good job.
'What else do you see Mr Carstairs doing?'
Jez smirked. 'Wandering around, even when the floods were bad he was out there in those waders.'
If this was true then Carstairs had lied in his statement. 'In order to see him wading through three feet of water you must have been out there too.'
Lacroix turned to face her. 'He’s usually with me. You can see how small this place is. When he stays here, I always get up if he disturbs me.'
'What about the nights he doesn't stay?’ Elizabeth demanded.
'I don't know,' she admitted.
'Do you have any female members of this commune who are missing, or did you see any strange women in the area?'
Lacroix answered. 'We have not seen any strange women near here. If we had we would tell you.'
Elizabeth raised he voice, 'What about the culvert Jez? Did you ever go inside it?'
'It's not safe now that they've blocked the other end.' Then he started laughing, a ghoulish sound that made Elizabeth shiver. They were both lying, but right now, she hadn't the energy to challenge them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Friday 21st March
Doctor Virg
inia Dalman arrived at the laboratory and immediately phoned Joe Grayson to inform him she was extremely annoyed the equipment she’d requested hadn’t arrived.
Grayson, half-asleep and unable to string a sentence together tried his best excuses. Dalman remained resolutely unimpressed and dissatisfied. She pointed out delivery of the necessary scientific equipment was due yesterday afternoon. Grayson apologised, he’d forgotten to contact the courier, would rectify the situation immediately then drop by and see her. Two lab technicians assigned to her arrived and were ready to start any preliminary tasks. Her mood precluded any overtures of friendliness; instead, she lectured them on her work procedures, gave them her first instructions and asked the young woman to make her a strong coffee.
Dalman surveyed what would be her workplace for the next several weeks. Cheltenham was not a place she’d ever expected to come to as she'd mainly confined her expertise to the big cities, not just in England, all over the world. Recently, she'd spent several months in New York working on a very complex case and this parochial little town held no interest for her. At least the laboratory was modern and she had no issue with her work environment. She inspected the existing machinery and opened her case file to start her daily log. A desk in the anteroom, serving as her office held her computer, a printer and her reference books. A digital recorder hung around her neck on a gold chain. Three flight cases contained personal tools that went everywhere she did.
She held up the recorder and began dictating fluently. The skull, stripped of its remaining tissue was ready to map. On her right, she inspected a box containing complex metal pins to hold the skull in place at the correct angle. She would supervise both technicians throughout the process and record every detail. Dalman was eager to begin even though she felt a slight sense of lethargy after working too many hours during the last few months without a break. The promised holiday hadn't materialised. The need to recharge her batteries was strong but the urgency to discover the identity of the skull was stronger. At times, she’d worked under tremendous pressure. Bosnia had almost brought her to her knees. The mass graves, not just those deep in the earth, but other more hostile places.
Forensic facial reconstruction gave the victim back its identity. From skeletal remains to clear features, that someone might eventually recognise. She summoned her assistants and for their benefit, continued her dictation.
‘We have a clean skull with no remaining tissue. My technicians will place a number of round rubber markers at specific points on the skull. We use these landmarks to indicate the depth of flesh in these locations. This depth is dependent on the sex, age, race, and the presumed weight of the individual. We join these landmarks with clay strips adding more clay in between to act as the ‘flesh’ of the face. Then we are ready to lay the facial muscles over the flesh, their structure and size based on the shape and size of particular facial bones. Then we add the external features such as the eyes, ears and a nose. Only after these procedures is the skin coloured. Next we choose an appropriate hairstyle and an estimated hair shade. Many of these external features are the most distinguishing points of a person’s face, but are unfortunately difficult or impossible to predict. We rely on certain rules during a reconstruction to ensure these features are as accurate as possible. The width of the nose tends to be the same as the distance between the inner corners of the eyes. The lengths of the ears are generally a similar length to the nose, and the mouth lies below the inner borders of the irises. The result is essentially a clay model depicting the likely appearance of our unidentified individual. Though this cannot be relied upon as a definitive identification the image will be used by both police and media with the hope it will prompt people to come forward and make a positive ID.’
Dalman pressed the pause button on the recorder. ‘Have you any questions?’
Neither assistant had so she continued. ‘In more recent years, computer technology has been utilised in facial reconstruction, which allows for the better manipulation of the image and an easier transfer between computers. We rotate the skull to allow a laser scanner to produce a three dimensional image. We use previously computed tomography scans of actual living people to determine the muscle, fat and skin we will place over the skull. We select certain profiles because of their similarity to the victim. This method protects the skull from any damage. ‘Are we ready to start,’ she asked her assistants?
‘Yes we’re ready Doctor Dalman.’
Dalman set up the laser scanner. This would produce the three dimensional images of the skull. She’d selected a few profiles based on any similarities she’d assessed about the victim's approximate age, height, weight and facial contours. The images would give Dalman more pointers as to how the reconstructed skull might look. She moved the scanner across each section of the skull and watched as the images appeared. The scanner briefly malfunctioned and Dalman, feeling suddenly tired and irritable, dismissed her assistants. Tomorrow, after she’d analysed the computer images she would bolt the skull onto the stand, ready to bring life the unknown face.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The mild spell was over. Elizabeth left the house five minutes after the heavens opened and unleashed an unrelenting downpour. On top of everything else, it was cold and when she unlocked the car, she was shivering. Worse still, the demister and heater didn’t work, why hadn't she taken the bloody thing to the garage? She held her breath when she tried the wipers. Only one struggled into action but at least she could just about see through the windscreen.
Dr Lang wanted to see her as soon as possible about her test results. Elizabeth felt the first tremors of anxiety. What was it to be, good or bad news? She wished she didn't have as much to do and had a strong urge to stay home and keep warm.
The surgery was packed. Several small children were coughing and crying simultaneously. Elizabeth went straight to the receptionist and explained that the doctor had called her in immediately.
‘Dr Lang is with someone but you’re next,' she said. 'Take a seat.'
Elizabeth couldn't find a seat so stood by the window looking out at the rain. It was still hammering down. Her nervousness increased and she tried to concentrate on work rather than dwell on the prognosis. The receptionist had to call her twice before she heard. Elizabeth headed along the corridor to Dr Lang's room with doom-laden thoughts. She knocked before opening the door and as she walked into the room, Doctor Lang greeted her with a friendly smile.
'Sit down,' Lang said. Elizabeth could tell by her demeanour she wasn't about to hear a death sentence but her heartbeat refused to slow down.
Lang looked up. 'We seem to have sorted things out,’ she smiled again and suddenly Elizabeth felt the dark thoughts subside.
'It seems you have the onset of osteoarthritis, albeit mild at the moment.'
Elizabeth’s brain felt deprived of oxygen and she couldn’t think straight. 'Not rheumatoid then,' she mumbled.
'Definitely not.'
'Sorry, I’m confused about the differences between them.’
'Allow me to explain,' Dr Lang said. 'As you know your signs and symptoms are indicative of some kind of inflammation. The main symptom of course is joint pain, which causes loss of ability, as you explained to me when you almost dropped a heavy pan. But there are others, like the stiffness that caused you to stumble and those sharp aches and burning sensations in the muscles and tendons. You may also have experienced muscle spasms caused by contractions of the tendons. Sometimes the joints fill with fluid, some people have increased pain when they contract a virus and have a high temperature. Even changes in the weather can affect the joints especially the hands and feet. The weight bearing joints such as the hips can also become affected.'
'What happens as the disease progresses?' Elizabeth asked, determined to confront the worst scenario.
'As the joints inflame more, it results in more stiffness and increased pain, but as I’ve said you have a mild form and it’s possible this attack may not last.’
Elizabet
h took in a deep breath. ‘Do you know what causes it?'
'Obesity can cause damage to the weight bearing joints, which doesn't apply to you, but it can also be hereditary. Has any family member had it?’
'I don't think so,' Elizabeth said.
'It could go back several generations and then surface again. I'd say the chances are high that one of your relatives has had osteoarthritis. You also must consider your recent injury which could have triggered a post traumatic stress response.'
'So it's possible it might not get any worse.’
Dr Lang looked her in the eye. 'The x-rays, blood tests and the physical examination have confirmed you have this disease. There are many effective treatments to keep it under control.'
Elizabeth had thought the days were long gone when doctors gave direct answers. Dr Lang hadn't joined the club. 'Tell me about them.'
'It's your choice, but there are other ways to help yourself as well as the medication. You can go the holistic way, eat properly and exercise. It's wise to avoid certain foods. There’s plenty of information on the internet as well as excellent books on the subject.'
Elizabeth managed a smile. 'What poison are you going to prescribe for me?'
'To begin with a mild steroid based medication.'
'Don't those make you blow up like a balloon?'
Dr Lang shook her head. Not this one, we've come a long way with meds for inflammatory diseases.'
Elizabeth wasn't sure whether she was relieved or disappointed. Of all the diagnoses she’d imagined, in the end she had a common, though painful complaint.
'Do these pills have side effects?’
'Most medications have side effects of some sort, but you're still young and it might not progress any further for several years. As soon as the pain is under control, we can try a different approach and a special diet to help build cartilage. Acupuncture has proved to be a good pain relief so that's something else you might consider. Right, I'll give you prescription and I'll see you in a month and we'll take it from there.'