Fifty Two Weeks of Murder

by Owen Nichols

  “A few,” he replied. “Can you read for me?” Anders smiled, reached over to the bedside table and plucked a book from the top before sliding back on the bed and leaning against the wall, folding her legs under her.

  “Of course. We haven’t finished The Hobbit yet.” As she flicked to the right page, she heard a creak in the hallway and guessed that Cassie was outside, listening in. “Come on in hun,” she called and Cassie gave a rueful smile as she snuggled up to her on the bed, her damp hair soaking through Anders’ blouse. Though she was nineteen years old, her past had aged her in many ways but stunted her development in others. Anders cleared her throat and started to read, putting on her best dragon voice for Smaug, as Aaron and Cassie drifted off to sleep.

  Later that night, Anders showered and changed into her nightwear, a strappy top and some shorts, and moved quietly around the flat as she cleaned the kitchen, took her tablets and turned off the TV that had been left on. She’d even managed to get Aaron’s favourite t-shirt off him and in the wash. She’d have it dry for tomorrow. Once Anders was done, she made her way to the workroom, taking a bundle of papers with her. Closing the door quietly, she started to pin the sheets to the whiteboard that she’d screwed to the wall. Using a black marker, she drew lines, scribbled ideas and started to build a pattern of evidence. Her work done, she stepped back and appraised her notes, chewing the tip of the marker absently. Finally satisfied, she locked the door behind her and made her way to bed, easing herself under the sheets with a satisfied purr. Within seconds she was asleep.

  A few hours later, Anders’ phone rang, crashing through her sleep. Snapping instantly awake, she grabbed the device before it could wake Aaron and Cassie.

  “Anders,” she said, sleep making her voice groggy. Mal’s dulcet Welsh tones came from the speaker.

  “Get to Smith’s Antiques opposite the Natural History Museum. We have our first entry into Buckland’s competition.”

  Chapter 8

  Throwing on a pair of jeans over her shorts, Anders moved swiftly through the flat to the kitchen. She quietly set up breakfast and left a note on the fridge before grabbing her jacket and sneakers and running down the steps of the apartment building to the basement where her car was parked. Slipping on her sneakers as she ran, she hopped into an old Ford pick-up truck and tapped in the address Mal had given her into a small sat nav tucked away in the glove box. With scant regard to the British Highway Code, Anders sped from the basement and skidded onto the street, covering the distance to the crime scene in half the time that the sat nav predicted.

  As she approached Smith’s Antiques, the roads narrowed. Store fronts lined the streets, selling London tourist paraphernalia or dinosaurs and other items of interest that anyone coming from the Natural History Museum might fancy. Most shops sold cheap tat, but there was the odd gem hidden among the back streets where only those who knew what they were after went. Smith’s Antiques was one such gem. A small shop sandwiched between two large houses, they seemed to creak inwards, shrinking the shop yet further. The sign was old and muted, the window’s dark and musty, but the shop was filled with rare finds that would sell for many thousands at auction. The whole street was filled with a flashing red and blue light as stationary patrol cars idled close by, yellow police tape strung across the road.

  Anders parked near the tape and walked to the closest uniformed officer, holding out her warrant card for him to see. The three silver downturned stripes on his epaulettes showed the officer to be a Sergeant. Had she been in uniform, her insignia would have shown a circle of oak leaves with crossed tipstaffs in the centre, a call back to the fourteenth century when arrest warrants were carried in the hollow tips. It was also handy for clubbing and led to the distinctive police batons. The sergeant looked young and was visibly shaken by what he had seen, blinking rapidly as he leaned forward to look at her card. He frowned as he saw her rank and stood to attention, his training overriding his shock.

  “Report, Sergeant,” she said and he gulped at the recall, wiping sweat from his shaved head with a damp tissue.

  “Yes ma’am,” he said. “An alert was posted an hour ago. Neighbours rang us when they saw blood pouring from under the doorway. They banged on the door to see if anyone needed help, but there was no reply.” Anders looked around the street and saw curtains twitch in a few windows. The locals were clearly enjoying the show, she mused, before turning her attention back to the Sergeant.

  “I entered the premises by jimmying the lock and found…well…it looked like something from that website so I called it in. Been here waiting for you guys. No one but your boss has been in or out since I saw…” Anders gave him one of her dazzling smiles and thanked him for his work, giving him a comforting pat on his arm. She told him to get the rest of the uniformed officers and start knocking on doors and taking statements.

  “Start with that one,” she said and pointed to where she had seen a shadow through the curtains as a bored housewife watched the excitement below. She made her way to the same van that Barry had requisitioned earlier and saw Ben getting into a new set of coveralls.

  “Hey Ben,” she said, grinning as he spun on his heels to greet her, his lanky frame twisting to accommodate the sudden movement. He brushed a mop of hair from his eyes and smiled a welcome.

  “Hi Anders,” he said, his voice surprisingly deep and strong. “Enjoying your first day?” Anders gave a wry chuckle.

  “Thought you’d still be at the Common, processing the Crucifixion.” Ben shook his head and the mop of hair drifted back over his eyes again.

  “I’ve got SCO on it now. I’ve done enough there that even they can’t muck it up. Mal wanted us here.” SC+O were the Specialist Crime and Operations Unit of the Met and consisted of the Major Investigations Team. Had McDowell not set up this specialist task force, then they would have been handling this case. They were an excellent unit, but Ben worked on a different plane to most of his colleagues. He turned back to the van and started unloading more equipment, Anders helping him with some of the heavier gear.

  Once they’d finished, Helen walked round the corner and Ben blushed wildly as he saw her. She’d clearly been on a date and wore a figure hugging dress and heels that were even taller than her usual. Anders chuckled as Helen approached, a scowl on her face.

  “On a date Helen?” she asked. “Anyone interesting?”

  “It was about to get interesting,” she grumbled as she sat on the back of the van and pulled off her shoes, the hem of her dress riding up to reveal the tops of her stockings. Helen noticed Ben glancing at them and winked at Anders. “I guess this case is really going to interfere with my sex life. A woman has needs you know.” Ben blushed further as he reached into a box to get out his forensics kit and Helen couldn’t resist teasing him further.

  “If I don’t get my fix regularly, I just get cranky,” she said with a grin. Anders joined in gleefully.

  “There’s always that twixt works on batteries,” she replied and Ben dropped his case, spilling powder on the street. Helen sighed theatrically.

  “True, but they never last long enough!” She guffawed with laughter, but soon took pity on Ben and helped him gather up the equipment, fussing over him like a mother. Mal exited the shop as they worked and gave them a curt nod. He looked tired and obviously hadn’t been home yet. Under his coverall, Anders could see the same shirt and jeans that he’d worn the day before. When he spoke, Anders could hear the tiredness in his voice.

  “Sorry for calling you out at this time of night, but it looks like Crime and Punishment in there.” Anders took off her jacket and tossed it into the back of the van as Mal spoke. She stepped into some coveralls and pulled them up over her legs, seemingly oblivious to the fact that her top showed the scars that ravaged her back. She was turned away from the crew and Helen gave her a smile, both sympathetic and sad. A look of sorrow crossed Mal’s craggy features and he quickly averted his gaze as Anders zipped up the coverall and turned around.

  “Di
dn’t take you for a fan of Dostoevsky,” she said, unaware of the stir her back had caused.

  “A-level English,” he said. “My teacher’s favourite book.” Anders smiled and put some headphones in her ears. Selecting an album at random, she gave Mal a nod and stepped into the antiques shop as “A Feather on the Breath of God” played from her phone. After she left, Helen looked to Ben, who shrugged.

  “Most likely some form of strategy training to effectively recall information from a crime scene.” Mal gave him a strange look, but he carried on regardless. “I’d imagine she’s combining episodic free recall with cued recall using the music to stimulate the medial temporal lobes for conscious recollection coupled with the posterior midline region for imagery. She’s most likely creating a state dependent recall at the same time. One that can be enhanced by replaying the music without necessitating the need for drugs.”

  Mal turned to Helen and opened his hands in a helpless gesture. Helen smiled and gave Ben a maternal pat on the back.

  “Aww bless. What he’s saying is that he really needs me to find him a woman. When was your last date love?” Mal sighed and walked off, following Anders into the shop and neatly sidestepping the congealed pool of blood on the pavement. Helen chuckled as she picked up her case and followed Mal.

  “You could have just said she’s a woman and remembers things better,” she said. Ben, hurrying to catch up spoke animatedly.

  “Well, it’s interesting you say that. How different is the brain of a…” Mal stuck his head from the storefront and gave them an impatient look.

  “Will you two stop faffing about and hurry up!” Scampering after him, they made their way into the crime scene that made up the first known entry to Lord Buckland’s macabre game.

  Chapter 9

  The shop was dimly lit despite the cluster of lights that adorned the ceiling. The owner had used low wattage bulbs and they were grimy with age. The floor was lined with rows of wooden shelves and they were packed with antiques from all ages. They’d been placed together according to rarity and not location or date, so the statue of Amon Ra from Ancient Egypt found itself rubbing shoulders with a clay bowl from Macedonia. Anders spied a terracotta figurine from China and noted the Samurai Sword from Japan that had belonged to Yamada Nagamasa. A small tag was tied to each piece, though no price was listed.

  As Mal entered, he saw Anders walking slowly through the shop, a look of intense focus on her face as she surveyed the room, taking in the tiniest of details before turning her attention to the corpse. The body sat on the floor slumped against the counter, a terrible mess of wreckage where its head used to be. Mal’s eyes were drawn to the axe that was embedded into the floor next to it, positioned in such a way as to give the most dramatic effect when photographed correctly. Blood and chunks of gore spattered the walls, floor and ceiling. It had been a crime of unrelenting viciousness. Mal had no doubt that it was an entry into the Murder Competition as the press were dubbing it.

  Helen knelt by the body, careful to avoid disturbing the pool of blood that surrounded the victim and grimaced at the pulpy carnage. Ben had set up some halogen lamps and the shadows were banished from the store as he switched them on. Gone were his awkward movements and bumbling personality, replaced by an efficient professional who knew his work. Anders removed her headphones and stood next to Helen, just as Mal asked for her thoughts.

  “Repeated blows to the crown of the head with a blunt object. I’d say the blood stained axe is our culprit,” she said with an arched eyebrow. “Helen?” The axe was covered in blood, but it was the back that had been used, not the blade, which was free from gore. Streaks of blood had run from the back, down its edges and then soaked into the wood that it had been slammed into. Helen nodded her agreement.

  “I’ll have to check the measurements of the axe and match them to some of the compaction fractures on the skull, but it’s more than likely correct. The problem is going to be finding a spot on the skull where I can get a clear enough reading. There must be more than a dozen separate impacts that have crushed the skull.”

  “There’s a lot of rage here. In the book, the Pawnbroker’s head was probably mostly intact. The author wrote of the dead eyes that watched his killer accusingly. Here, there’s so much damage, the skull is crushed to below the nose.”

  “The attacker probably only stopped through sheer exhaustion,” said Helen as Ben started photographing the body and putting flags down to mark blood spatters. Helen saw a leather wallet peeking out from a pocket and asked Ben to photograph it before removing the wallet and passing it to Anders. She took a tablet from the forensics bag and tapped in the name on the driving licence, scrolling through the details until she had what she needed.

  “James Smith. Owns this shop. Married to Janice Smith and a father to Mitch, who lives at home. I’ll get Abi and Lucy to go round their place.” Mal nodded, his eyes drawn to the corpse. The way the arms were slumped to the sides and the legs splayed out meant that he could simply have been resting were it not for the savage damage done to his head. He let out a deep breath and his features hardened.

  “This is the first entry we know of. We need to solve this quickly, before peoplefolk go thinking it’s ok to enter this damn competition. Most people are killed by someone we know, so I want everyone checking and interviewing anyone that has links to him. This much blood doesn’t scrub off easily, so there’ll be traces. We’re still searching Buckland’s properties for any sign of him and I’ll leave Barry on that.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and lifted his head to ward off the tiredness.

  “This is what we do, why we were formed. Why we’re a self-contained unit that doesn’t need to wait months for forensic analysis. This is also why we don’t fuck up.” Pep talk over, he left to coordinate the uniformed officers and get SC+O onto the site to help process the evidence more quickly. He knew that if this case went unsolved, it would give others the push to try and make their own entry. Regardless of Buckland’s motives or justification, five million pounds went a long way to overcoming any moral quandary about murder.

  Chapter 10

  Anders put Aaron to bed and left some food in the oven for Cassie, who was on a late shift at her café. Exhausted, she poured herself a glass of red wine and made her way to the workroom, stealing some chocolate from the fridge as she passed. She mused that it was a good job she did so much exercise or she’d regret the recent lapse into chocolate binging her return to England had started.

  She carried a large bag of papers that Jesse had printed off for her and sat crossed legged in the middle of the room. It had been a long day. Processing a crime took months. From finding evidence at the scene, interviewing witnesses, notifying the family, carrying out the autopsy and analysing toxicology reports, the whole process took time, not the forty minutes a TV show would take. Though they could analyse much of the data in their own lab, it was still a laborious task. Leads had to be followed, suspects interviewed, alibies checked, evidence trails followed, rechecked and new avenues pursued.

  The team had worked hard, Lucy and Duncan following up on leads as Anders helped with the physical evidence. Mal had used his rank to get SC+O support and had enlisted officers from the Met into collecting more data. All told, more officers had worked on this case in the last twenty hours than had worked on all the murder investigations in the previous year combined. McDowell had called in many favours to get a resolution quickly and, as she sat on the floor, Anders started to comb through the evidence, glad that any request from her division automatically took priority in any other department. At the same time, she had “A Feather on the Breath of God” playing softly through a docking station for her phone.

  Reading through the evidence, she placed the papers around her when she was done, a physical manifestation of the mental construct that she was building. Anders’ laptop would chime frequently as more evidence was sent to her. She printed these off and added them to her construct.

  Blood spatter analysis. The b
lows came directly to the top of the skull, an even arc of blood blooming around the shop floor and spurting upwards to the ceiling. First blow, centre of floor. James Smith was five seven, slightly below average. Length of axe showed killer to be roughly the same height or more to get a clear hit on top. Weight of axe, five kilo’s. Average person could lift the axe, but it would take a little time. No suspects were above average size. Means blow likely came from behind if Smith wasn’t to dodge such a perfect strike.

  Next page. Autopsy. Nothing from toxicology. Stomach analysis showed he’d eaten at around seven the previous night, as indicated by his wife. No alcohol or drugs. Nothing unusual outside of the pulped skull, no defensive wounds. Caught unawares, or too shocked at what was happening. Either hit from behind or knew suspect well. Blood spatter inconclusive.

  Witnesses. Nothing seen. One reported a noise at roughly midnight and some shouting or cheering. Security cameras in store hadn’t been switched on for years and none of the local cameras showed anything useful.

  Prints. Three sets. The wife, the son, Mitch and the shop assistant, Beth. All happy to have their prints taken to discount them from analysis. No other prints. Fibres on body. Hairs, same length and colour as wife, one on shoulder matching Mitch’s colour. Beth’s hair everywhere. Peroxide blonde with green tips. Spectrometer still in action at the lab.

  Stocktaking report. Nothing missing. No evidence of theft.

  Smith’s background. No friends to speak of. Spent most of his time at the store. Well regarded in his field. Medical records show no major illnesses. Autopsy found no underlying ailments. A healthy fifty year old. Anders scanned the pictures of the family and Beth, committing them to memory and placing them in her construct.

  The process took hours and she was mentally exhausted by the time she was done. She’d had but a few hours’ sleep in the last two days. Taking her first sip of wine since she had sat down, Anders put the music back on and slowed her breathing. Closing her eyes, she focused on the movements of her chest as it rose steadily with every breath. Slowing it down further, she used the music to return her to the scene of the crime. This time, she removed the police presence, the flashing lights and the noise created by the mass of people at a crime scene.