by Tim Ellis
‘Oh?’
‘She said she saw a police officer on a horse riding through the yard at ten o’clock at night.’
‘Yes, that is unusual.’
‘She gave me his collar number – MXC144.’
‘A Sergeant from the Specialist Crime Directorate! What the hell . . . ?’ He pulled out his phone again.
She snatched it out of his hands and lobbed it over her shoulder onto the back seat. ‘That’s why I was in early this morning. I phoned New Scotland Yard, and guess what they told me?’
‘The officer was working undercover?’
She screwed up her face and glanced sideways at him. ‘You’re not very good at guessing games, are you?’
‘I’ll have you know . . .’
‘That collar number hasn’t been allocated. In fact, they’ve only reached ninety-seven up to now. Also, they don’t have any horses.’
‘Who the hell . . . ?’
‘Katja – the barmaid – remembered something else as well.’
‘A witness with a photographic memory! You don’t get many of those to the pound.’
Kline wiggled forward, pulled her notebook from the back pocket of her jeans and passed it to him. ‘Take a look at the drawing of the wheel.’
He flicked through the pages of neat spidery handwriting until he found the drawing. Something slid out of the notebook and fell onto the seat between his thighs – it was a return train ticket between Farringdon and Lewisham for yesterday. He slipped the ticket back between the pages. ‘Okay, I see it.’
‘Katja saw a gold ring with that design on the third finger of the police officer’s left hand. Take a photograph of the picture, send it to Perkins and ask him what it means.’
‘I would, but you threw my phone into the back.’
‘Are you sure you’re a Detective Inspector?’
Chapter Six
They were running ten minutes late by the time Kline parked the new car in the hospital car park.
Quigg decided to phone Perkins after the post mortem, so they hurried to the mortuary.
‘Are you all right?’ Kline asked.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, but he wasn’t fine. He was thinking about the train ticket. It was his fault. He had smashed open the box by submitting the DNA from Kline’s gang-rape for re-testing, obtained the files of the two matches and told her what he’d done. What did he expect? She had told him she wasn’t going to pursue the rapists through the courts, and he’d known her long enough now to realise that she wasn’t the type of person to forgive and forget. It came to him then that Murdoch was only the first. She was going to kill all of them – one by one.
If he asked for a post mortem on Murdoch, obtained a copy of the fire report, discovered that Murdoch had been murdered and that the fire had been set deliberately – then what? He would have to do something about it. The investigating officer would want to know why he was poking about in the case – his interest would provide a link to Kline.
And he was certainly no saint. The last thing he needed was Professional Standards shifting their gaze towards him and his rainy day five million pounds. He was also an accomplice in a murder – albeit a justified murder, but with an illegally-owned gun. And instead of coming clean, he had buried Jones’ body in a Kent forest with a bag of lime to protect Lucy, and ultimately himself and his family. Hardly the behaviour of a whiter-than-white police officer. If he was Kline he’d probably do the same thing. People did what they had to do to survive. He realised then that he really only had one course of action open to him – leave well alone.
‘We’re here.’
He had come to a stop outside the mortuary swing doors as if his battery needed re-charging. ‘Oh!’
‘You’re mind’s not been on the job this morning.’
‘I’ve been wrestling with a personal problem, but everything’s hunky dory now.’
‘You are very late, Quigg with the secret first name,’ Dr Solberg said when they entered the mortuary and began putting on tie-up gowns, hats and gloves.
‘Sorry, Doc. This morning hasn’t really gone according to plan, but we’re here now – eager and willing.’ Which was a total lie. He wasn’t eager or willing – he felt sick. Necrophobia was his cross to bear. He hated dead things – especially corpses.
The body parts were all lying in their correct places on the stainless steel post mortem table like a marionette waiting for string to connect them all together.
‘I have better things to do than to wait for you, so some work has already been carried out. First, all the body is present and accounted for. Second, there is no match on the DNA database. Third, she was approximately ten weeks pregnant.’
Quigg’s brow furrowed. ‘I suppose that . . . ?’
‘Yes. The foetus is dead.’
‘Is it possible to find out who the father was?’ Kline asked.
‘I have taken samples from the foetus, but finding a familial DNA match is a complicated procedure. It will also depend on whether the DNA profile of the biological father is stored in the database.’
‘If she is the woman from the restaurant, and if the drunk was a spurned lover or boyfriend, I can’t see him doing this to her if she was pregnant.’
‘If he knew,’ Quigg pointed out.
‘And if it was his,’ Solberg added.
‘Mmmm!’ Kline said. ‘Yes, if it wasn’t his, that would provide him with a motive. Except, I forgot to mention it, but the restaurant manager seemed to think the two women were lesbians.’
‘Then where did the baby come from?’ Solberg asked.
‘We’d better tread carefully,’ Quigg said. ‘The baby might very well be the product of IVF treatment, in which case the baby’s biological father isn’t relevant.’
‘Shall I carry on?’
‘Of course, Doctor.’
‘Although there was a lot of blood at the crime scene, she was not killed there. I have catalogued all the external marks on the body . . .’
‘What about Perkins and his cloven hooves?’
‘He was right.’
‘He was?’
‘But they are not real. I found traces of glue and plastic. It is possible to obtain human-sized cloven hooves from a fancy-dress shop. Here . . .’ She reached for a piece of paper from the worktop and passed it to him. It was a page from an online catalogue displaying a pair of “Black Fur Hoofed Feet” for thirty-five pounds – only two left in stock.
‘Devilish,’ he said.
‘Also, some of the external marks on the body confirm my conclusion.’
‘What do you mean?’ Quigg asked.
‘You wanted to know if it was possible for a human being to pull out another person’s arm or leg from its socket?’
‘Yes.’
‘It is not. Well, not like that anyway.’ She pointed at the corpse. ‘We have experimented on cadavers that we are permitted to use for such things – it is not possible. Please lie down, Quigg.’
‘Don’t you have a dummy for these type of demonstrations?’
‘The dummies are all busy. You will have to do.’
He glanced at Kline.
‘Don’t look at me,’ she said. ‘I have my best jeans on.’
He screwed up his face. ‘Lie down? Here? On the floor?’
‘Yes, please. The floor is clean.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. All the blood and brain was removed before you arrived.’
‘All the blood and brain?’
‘Are you not familiar with mortuary humour?’
He scrambled down and lay on the cold tiled floor. ‘I think I’m going to die laughing.’
Dr Solberg bent down, gripped his left ankle and stood up again. ‘Mmmm, interesting!’
‘What?’
‘You are wearing odd socks.’
‘I’ve been distracted lately.’
‘If I were strong enough, which I am not, and I tried to pull this leg from its socket, I could not do it without
first putting my foot here . . .’ She placed her foot up against his penis and testicles and applied some pressure.
‘Jesus!’ Quigg said. ‘Be careful, I use those a lot.’
‘So I have heard. Anyway, there are no marks on the body consistent with that action. I would need to apply significantly more pressure than I am using now.’
‘I’m a bit confused, Doc,’ Kline said with a smile. ‘Can you demonstrate what you mean by, “significantly more pressure”?’
‘After all I’ve done for you, Kline.’
‘Maybe there were two people,’ Kline suggested. ‘One holding . . .’
‘No, there would still be marks supporting that hypothesis. There are no such marks. If I remove my foot . . .’
‘Yes, please.’
‘. . . And pull, and twist . . .’
He began sliding along the floor.
‘See, it does not work. Also, the knee joint would give way before the hip joint. The same can also be said for the elbow joint dislocating before the shoulder joint.’
‘So, how were the limbs separated from the body then?’ Quigg asked getting up.
Solberg directed them to look at a screen on the wall to the right of the cadaver as she focussed a small television camera on the head of the right femur that would normally have been embedded in the hip socket.
‘See here.’ She pointed to scratches on the surface of the bone with a thin stainless steel needle. ‘There are similar marks on the other bones also. Whoever did this thing, used a metal lever to prise the head of the bones out of their sockets, and then twisted them free tearing all the tissues in the process.’
They turned back to the body while she demonstrated how it might have been done.
‘Perkins thought the victim was conscious when the limbs were separated from the body,’ Kline said.
Doctor Solberg shook her head. ‘I am waiting for toxicology to come back, but there is a puncture wound here in the neck.’ She pointed to a tiny drop of blood. ‘I think she was in a drug-induced coma. So, now that you are in attendance let me continue with the post mortem. The scalp is cut along the hairline at the back and peeled forwards. The skull vault is then sawn front and back and put to one side to provide access to the brain, which is then removed by cutting the attachments inside the skull. A Y-shaped incision from shoulders to mid-chest and down to the pubis is then used to open up the torso . . .’
‘Do we really need to know all this?’ Quigg asked. ‘The previous pathologists . . .’
‘No, you do not need to know, but that does.’ She pointed to a microphone hanging by a wire from the ceiling. ‘It is a record of what is taking place. I don’t know what you are used to in London, but in Oslo we did things properly.’
She carried on describing the removal, weighing and inspection of all the internal organs, but paid particular attention to the heart. She took samples of blood, urine and bile that were deposited into collection bottles for further analysis. Throughout, photographs and measurements were taken.
Eventually, a technician was tasked with sewing up the incisions.
‘As you are aware, the chest above the heart was torn open and the heart ripped out. A knife was used to cut through the soft tissue, and then the ribs were smashed using a hammer. It was brutal but effective. The heart was placed on the cobbles and the reason it was still beating was that some of the arteries and veins were still attached. Therefore, she was still alive, but completely unconscious for a brief period.’
‘What about the number above her breast?’ Quigg asked.
‘It is as we said – a tattoo that has been partially removed using laser surgery.’
‘Is there any way of knowing who did the tattoo or the laser removal?’
‘No.’
‘Well thanks, Doc. You’ve been most helpful, if a little long-winded.’
‘You are going?’
‘We’re trying to catch a killer.’
‘There is a reclining chair in my office.’
‘As much as I’d like to catch up on my sleep, I really don’t have the time.’
‘You know very well it is to begin your therapy.’
Kline’s lip curled up. ‘Are you having therapy, Sir?’
‘No, I’m not. Come on, let’s get the hell out of here before she decides to admit me under Section 4 of the 1983 Mental Health Act.’
‘That might be a good idea.’
‘Coming from you, Kline, that’s a compliment.’
Outside, Kline said, ‘Lunch?’
He checked his watch – it was twelve-fifteen. ‘Bloody hell, where’s the time gone?’
‘Dr Solberg went on a bit.’
‘A bit! It was a post mortem of epic proportions. Right, I’ve got to go up to the maternity ward and see Ruth and the baby for five minutes, pop in and see Cheryl and her baby . . .’
‘I thought Cheryl’s baby was your baby as well.’
‘Didn’t you say possession was twelve tenths of the law?’
‘I think where babies are concerned the CSA have moved the decimal point. Now, a father has no possession, but they have to pay twelve tenths of their salary.’
The CSA, of course! They’d know where Caitlin and Phoebe were. He was still paying twelve tenths of his salary to Caitlin for Phoebe’s upbringing. He’d mention that to the private investigator later.
‘Well anyway, that’s where I’m going. You send a copy of that picture to Perkins, find out what else he knows, check that there’s been no escaped animals from the zoos just in case, and I’ll meet you in the cafeteria in half an hour.’
‘Okay.’
***
She’d gone into the station early while there was no one else about to get the addresses of the other four men who had raped her. Each one of them had a criminal record for a variety of offences. Rundie and McCarthy had done time in the Scrubs for armed robbery, Bowen was currently doing three hundred hours of community service for criminal damage, and Randolph was the subject of a restraining order by his girlfriend – he was making her life a living hell. All of them had enemies, people who wished them dead. Well, she’d get to them one at a time – no one would connect the dots back to her.
She made her way to the cafeteria and bought a mug of milky tea. Quigg could buy her lunch when he arrived. On an Inspector’s salary he could afford it.
Lesley Findlay – the Emergency Liaison Officer at London Zoo in Regent’s Park – tried to get her to adopt a penguin, and then offered her a whole day mucking out the elephants for two hundred and fifty pounds before she revealed that none of the animals had escaped in that or any other animal enclosure in London.
Next, she phoned Perkins.
‘I can’t speak now,’ he said. ‘I’ll phone you back.’
‘Excuse . . .’
The line went dead.
She phoned again, but there was no answer, so she photographed the drawing of the wheel and sent it to him with the message: “What’s this?”.
As she was skimming through the pages of her notebook, the return train ticket from Farringdon to Lewisham seesawed to the floor. Jesus fucking wept! What the hell was that doing in there? She was glad it hadn’t dropped out when she’d passed Quigg her notebook earlier. She ripped the ticket into a dozen pieces, got up and dropped it into a litter bin by the door.
‘Hello, DC Kline.’
She recognised Perkins’ voice and turned to see him standing there with a stupid grin on his face. ‘I didn’t expect you to come in person, you know.’
‘I had an appointment.’
‘Oh?’
‘I suppose you’ll find out sooner or later. I found a lump on my . . .’ He pointed towards the floor. ‘You know, down there.’
‘On your dick?’
‘No . . .’
‘Ah! On your nuts?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘It could be testicular cancer.’
‘Fucking hell, Perkins – the big C?’
He peeled away from her and headed towards the counter. After buying himself a coffee, he joined her at the table and sat down gingerly.
‘So, you could be dying?’
‘That’s slightly premature. I could also be living.’
‘Well, I hope it’s that and not the other.’
‘Yes, so do I.’
‘Does Quigg know?’
‘No, only you know so far.’
‘He’ll be devastated.’
‘I doubt that. Where is he? Why are you here on your own?’
‘He’s on the maternity ward. You know one of the women in his commune had a baby yesterday?’
‘Yes, I had heard. How many is that now?’
‘I’m not the fucking scorekeeper. It’s depressing just thinking about it. Did you get the picture I sent you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘It’s a black sun.’
‘And?’
‘I don’t want to spend what limited time I have left repeating myself. Let’s wait for Inspector Quigg.’
‘Fuck him.’
***
Both Ruth and Luke were sleeping. He stayed for ten minutes, wrote, “I Love You” on a scrap of paper and left it on top of the bedside cabinet.
He then went in search of Cheryl and found her at the other end of the ward, stuck his head round the curtain, smiled and said, ‘Hi!’
She reached for the alarm button. ‘I’ll press for security if you don’t leave.’
‘Give me five minutes.’
‘Three.’
‘What did you have?’
‘What do you care?’
‘I care.’
‘I’ve seen no evidence of that.’
The baby was sleeping in a cot on the other side of the bed. He walked round and stared down at it.
‘She’s a girl,’ Cheryl said.
‘Have you got a name for her?’
‘Poppy.’
‘Beautiful.’
‘I hate you, Quigg.’
‘I know.’
‘You got me pregnant and then totally ignored me.’
‘I think you let me get you pregnant, but things didn’t go the way you planned.’