‘Victim’s white, male. Late-twenties, early-thirties. Head injuries, stab wounds. First off, we had it down as a woman’s body.’
That’ll comfort the dead guy’s loved ones. ‘How come?’
‘Small frame, slight build, skinny jeans. The hair, mostly: long, straight, hanging loose down the back. And, of course, until the doc turned the body, no one could see the face.’
She nodded. It figured.
‘I wish it’d stayed that way an’ all, boss. I can’t get the bloody sight out of my head now.’ She winced when he nail-raked a day’s worth of dark stubble. As to horror movies on a cop’s mental cinema – join the club.
‘Honest, Bev, how anyone can do that to another human being is beyond me.’ The injury to the back of the skull was bad enough, he told her, but the face looked like it had been used in the FA Cup Final. ‘It’s damn near caved in,’ Mac said, shaking his head. ‘Talk about overkill.’
I’d rather not. She turned her mouth down, reckoned if the damage was that bad establishing ID could be a right pain.
‘Nothing in his pockets, I take it?’ Bev asked. Wallet? Phone? Keys? Driving licence?
Mac threw her one of his looks. The one that said: ‘Are you having a laugh?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Flapping a hand. ‘Dumb question.’ So were they looking at robbery as the motive? A mugging that had gone beyond pear-shaped? A hit-and-rob mega cock-up?
Whatever. Without the vic’s name the inquiry would be hamstrung from the get-go. Of course the perp could’ve planned it that way. On the other hand, if the attack was as frenzied as Mac made out, it struck Bev that whoever was responsible had lost control; the violence wrought, mindless. Good. She rubbed mental hands: a perp who’d lost it was a careless perp and a careless perp was one who could easily have left evidence.
She nodded towards the property. ‘Is the thinking this is where he lived?’
‘Nah. Place is empty. Landlord’s having a job letting it, according to the neighbours.’
‘He’ll have an even bigger one now.’ She gave it some thought, then: ‘Maybe the vic knew the previous occupants. Called by not knowing they’d moved on?’
‘Maybe.’
Mac sounded as convinced as Bev felt. Both recognized the suggestion as little more than speculation. At this stage an investigation was a blank sheet, an empty canvas. Some cops likened inquiries to jigsaw puzzles – in this case they’d not yet found a corner piece, let alone a box showing the picture. What you might call working blind.
Bev stepped back a pace or two, swept her gaze over the façade, registered for the first time the grimy windows, faded paint flaking round rotting frames, crumbling brickwork with dusty sprouting greenery. ‘Think the vic might’ve been using it as a squat?’
‘Doubt it,’ Mac said. ‘He doesn’t have the look of a dosser and from what I could see his clobber’s not in bad nick.’
‘Right.’ Poor sod was probably just in the wrong place at the wrong time. In which case, the squad’s best hope of putting a name to what remained of the face was his mum or a mate filing a missing-person report.
‘We need to talk to that lot.’ Bev jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. Given the neighbours’ penchant for nosing, she’d be surprised if no one had spotted or heard something suspicious. Whether they’d share with the cops first, as opposed to their Facebook pals, remained to be seen.
‘Preferably before anyone leaves for work, Mac.’ Chop bleedin’ chop.
‘On it, boss.’ He raised a palm.
She watched him amble across the road, pulling a well-thumbed notebook from his breast pocket. She masked a fleeting, affectionate smile. Solid, reliable, dogged, Bev’s bagman always had her back. The habitual baggy denims, loud-checked shirts and desert boots – dubbed lumberjack-chic-less by Bev – didn’t really do Mac any favours, but the shambolic appearance was deceptive. Many a smart-arse had underestimated Mac Tyler. A costly mistake – generally only made once.
As he reached the line-up, people visibly straightened, stood taller, sat up mentally, as it were, sensing the spotlight turn their way. Bev sighed, ripped the boiler suit out of the bag, and sharpened her act while waiting for her cue.
3
‘You really reckon the killer used more than one knife, doc?’ Bev squatted on her haunches next to the pathologist and alongside the body. The photographer, who’d shot and videoed everything that didn’t move, had already left them to it. Right now Bev’s incredulous frown couldn’t have got any deeper if Joe King had just let slip he was a closet belly dancer. On ice. King couldn’t see her expression. Or vice versa. The narrow gap between their white caps and face masks just about enabled eye contact. Bev’s verbal tone clearly compensated for the visual deficit.
‘Are you doubting my expertise?’ King snapped. Startled, she watched his brown eyes darken a shade. ‘I’m not in the habit of spouting remarks for the good of my health, detective.’
‘’Course not.’ She raised a placatory palm. ‘My bad.’ Pompous git. Mind, it wasn’t like King to get arsey. Tasty, yes. The doc’s dark good looks were extremely easy on the Morriss eye. There’d been a time when she …
Time, place, Beverley.
‘That came out wrong,’ King said, holding her gaze. ‘Talk about pompous. Sorry, I had a rough night.’
Bev held the gaze a few seconds then looked down at the corpse.
‘Point taken,’ King ceded. ‘It’s not that I don’t care.’ She knew that. Knew he cared a lot. It was one of the reasons that made him so good at his job.
‘Leave it, doc. No worries. You were saying …?’ Because as worries go – Bev could see shed-loads. Numero uno: if they were looking for more than one knife, could it mean more than one killer on the loose? In which case, it doubled the workload at a stroke. And would give her immediate boss Mike Powell palpitations into the bargain. Detective Inspector Powell, aka The Blond, kept a closer eye on the budget than a Tory Chancellor. And as for fingers kept tight on the purse-strings, Powell’s were glued there.
‘In other words,’ King said, ‘get a move on?’ His mask creased briefly in what could have been a conciliatory smile. ‘Okay, here goes. As I say, I’m pretty sure we’re talking two knives, maybe even three. Look, you can see the incisions yourself.’ Bev’s gaze followed a gloved finger as he pointed out raggedy tears in the back of the denim jacket. Nine were visible to the naked eye. Blood had soaked but not yet dried into the fabric, and the navy had taken on a deep purple hue not unlike damson jam. Bev grimaced. Hold that thought not. Mind, she thanked God the victim faced the other way. King had been gently manoeuvring the body onto its side when she’d entered the tent. She’d caught not much more than a glimpse of the damage. Small mercies. Not that the perp – or perps, given what King had said – had shown the slightest mercy.
‘I’m basing it not just on the number of wounds, Bev. It’s their widely differing dimensions. I just don’t see how one blade fits all.’
‘With you.’ She nodded; should’ve spotted it sooner. ‘Any idea what actually killed him, doc?’
King’s masked billowed when he blew out his cheeks. ‘I’m speculating here, but my thinking is the blow to the head would’ve knocked him unconscious more or less instantly.’
‘Right.’ It made sense. The guy wouldn’t have known what hit him and, more to the point, if he went out like a light he’d have had no time to shout for help.
‘As you can see,’ King added, ‘the back of the skull’s shattered. That injury alone could’ve been fatal.’ Like someone had taken a hammer to crack an eggshell. Bev shuddered, briefly closed her eyes. Reckoned she’d seen enough already.
‘But so could two or three of the knife wounds, come to that.’ King rose in one fluid movement, then offered Bev a hand to help her stand. ‘I should be able to give you a better steer after the post mortem.’
‘Appreciate it.’ A hand-up and, hopefully, the head’s-up.
‘Poor bloke though, Bev.’ King slipped off the
mask. ‘Talk about overkill.’
Her hand stilled as she went to take off her mask, too. Hadn’t Mac used the exact same phrase? It made no sense to her. How the hell could someone be overkilled? Hey-ho.
‘So how long do you reckon he’s been dead?’ she asked. Crucial to establish a time of death, but, despite what TV cop shows would have you believe, almost impossible to pin it down accurately; in many instances the time given was little more than guesswork.
‘Shoot. I almost forgot.’ King reached into a deep pocket, pulled out a sealed evidence bag. ‘I imagine it came off in the scuffle.’
Bev’s eyes lit up when she saw the bag’s contents. ‘Where’d you find it?’ It being a gold Rolex.
King tilted his head towards the back of the porch. ‘Lodged down a gap in the tiles. I can’t take any credit, though. Ken spotted it when he was crawling round getting pics.’
Made robbery as a motive look a bit thin, then. Or did it? Maybe the perp didn’t know the victim had a watch on, let alone that it had slipped off. He certainly wouldn’t have spotted it in the dark. Taking a closer look, Bev saw that the glass was badly cracked. Intact enough though to make her eyes light up again: the big hand had stopped at 2, the little one at 17. She lifted her gaze and gave King a smile. ‘Handy or what, doc?’
Smiling too, he said, ‘In more ways than one. If I recall correctly, every Rolex is engraved with a unique serial number. So …’
She nodded, already on it. The watch would have a registered owner. She’d get it biked back to the nick asap. With a bit more luck and after a phone call or two, the inquiry should have an ID – and be able to tick its first box.
Bish bash bosh.
Extract from the Wolverhampton Echo
Police hunt for girl’s killer
Police are searching for the killer of a teenage girl from Wolverhampton. Clare Cooper’s body was found by her mother on the doorstep of their home in the Morden Vale district of the city.
Clare, who is believed to have been unemployed, is understood to have been out with friends on the night she was attacked.
Details of how the teenager died have not yet been released, but Detective Inspector Pete Naylor, who is leading the hunt for the killer, is appealing for help from the public. He is urging anyone who was in the vicinity of Queen Street, Manor High Road, Walsall Way and Drayton Close from eight o’clock onwards last night to come forward.
DI Naylor said, ‘It’s essential we trace Clare’s last movements. We need to speak to anyone who saw Clare or who noticed anyone acting suspiciously. This was a violent attack on a defenceless young woman and the killer is still at large. I urge anyone with information to contact the police immediately.’
Clare’s mother, Mrs Eve Cooper, aged 39, was too distraught today to comment. A neighbour who did not wish to be named told our reporter: ‘Clare was a lovely girl, bubbly and outgoing. She always seemed to have a smile on her face and a kind word for everyone.’
A special police hotline has been set up for members of the public to call in confidence.
4
‘How confident is he, Morriss?’ Mike Powell was at the end of a line sounding well hacked off. Bev, whose bum was parked on the bonnet of a police motor, could picture him dragging his fingers through the blond locks, long face like a wet weekend in Warley. ‘I mean,’ he moaned, ‘the last thing we need’s a double manhunt on the books.’
‘Yeah, that’d be dead inconvenient,’ she drawled. Gawd, she loathed bringing the DI up to speed. Shoot the messenger? More like hang, draw and decimate. Now that would constitute overkill. Curbing a smile, she gave her voluminous shoulder bag a one-handed riffle on the off-chance of coming up with something edible. Anything would do as long as it silenced the subterranean rumblings. Starving wasn’t in it. She’d been in go-mode since before first light, without so much as a cuppa cha or a fluffy Polo.
‘I s’pose it’s too much to hope King’s talking a load of bollocks?’ Powell sounded like a little kid who’d just cottoned on to the fact the tooth fairy didn’t exist.
Bet your sweet ass it is. She pulled a fed-up face: her food foray had failed. Not so much as a Tic-Tac lurking in the depths. Returning a mock-salute from a passing plod talking into a police radio, she told Powell, ‘I’m pretty sure he’s on the money far as more than one knife goes.’ Seeing as how The Blond would be lounging in his executive chair in his nice comfy office, audibly slurping probably the finest Brazilian blend, Bev described in more detail than strictly necessary the differing sizes and extents of the wounds to the body, the trauma injuries to the face and head.
‘Yeah, okay, point laboured, Morriss.’ As was Powell’s sigh. ‘And you say the search team’s not come across so much as a blunt pick axe? Blunt pick axe? He was stepping into oxymoron territory.
Best not go there. Circling a Doc Marten, she shrugged off the DI’s less than insightful observation. ‘Early days, gaffer.’ Give the guys a chance, why don’t you? Waiting for him to furnish a riposte, she glanced over at the tent, which now accommodated a couple of forensic science investigators lifting and sifting, and hopefully tagging and bagging a few goodies.
‘It’s the early hours I’m bothered about,’ Powell said. ‘They’re not called golden for nothing, you know.’
Couldn’t argue with that. Every cop knew that with each passing hour the trail lost a few degrees’ heat, witnesses were harder to come by, and accurate and total recall was less likely to be drawn from fading memories. Equally, they couldn’t conjure a perp out of thin air without hard evidence. Not like they weren’t trying. Crime scene manager Chris Baxter had promised to tip the wink soon as anything vaguely solid was unearthed. A signed photo of the killer would suit Bev down to the ground. At least said ground had dried out by now. During the time she’d been cooped up with the body, the sun had shown its face, the dark clouds more or less dispersed. The crowd, too, had drifted away in search of more excitement. Off to watch daytime telly, then.
‘You’re right there, gaffer. I’d best get on.’ Besides, she’d just spotted Mac trundling her way looking like a fat cat with shares in a creamery.
‘How long you gonna be stuck out there, Morriss?’
Powell was on the phone so she gave Mac a more exaggerated eye-roll than her norm. Knowing The Blond as well as she did, she’d bet a fair few quid he had it in mind to pass the buck. The DI was a past master, had it down to a fine art. Not today, Dali. Not with so much to see to out here. Chasing CCTV topped the to-do list.
‘I’ll not make it back for the brief, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Unlike most people … Morriss,’ – Powell left another telling pause, then – ‘I actually say what I mean and mean what I say.’
That was news to her. And thinking of news … she told him the media had been sniffing round. She’d already crossed words with a couple of hacks trying to sneak under one of the cordons.
‘We’d best issue a release, gaffer. Sort a news conference. Sooner rather than later.’ And definitely before social media scribes started spreading the so-called word.
‘Fine by me. Get onto the news bureau.’
‘Consider it done.’ As it happened, Bev already had DC Carol Pemberton – one of the squad’s brighter buttons – working on that front. ‘Oh yeah, and I’ve also asked Dazza to track down the landlord.’ Darren New, another squad DC and – like Pemberton – a good egg albeit with a few years’ less experience.
‘Good-oh. Right. I’d best crack on. Got a PAPS meet in half an hour.’
Bev frowned, had a sudden vision of cameras clicking, flashlights popping and lenses zooming. Then she remembered PAPS was one more acronym for yet another tosspot initiative: police and public safety, if she remembered right. Made a change from PACT: police and community together. Ask Bev and she’d say with a pronounced lisp that they were both a load of pith. Not that she’d be voicing that particular opinion if her DI application went as far as the interview stage. She might gob off a bit, but s
he wasn’t bloody stupid.
‘Anyroad, Morriss, keep me posted.’
‘Natch.’ She shoved over a bit when Mac made to perch alongside. ‘Hey, and gaffer, don’t forget I need—’ Damn. Bev glared at the screen of her phone. The prat had hung up. She’d been about to say she needed to know the second anything came in on the Rolex. Should have it covered, though, because Carol was chasing that particular lead and was more on the ball than the entire police football squad.
‘And goodbye to you too,’ Bev murmured, slipping the phone in her pocket.
‘Powell?’ Mac asked.
‘Who else?’
‘Say no more. Anyroad, get this down you.’ He dangled a paper bag in her air space. ‘Guaranteed to stop the pangs.’
Bacon bap? Sausage sarnie? Lashings of butter laced with Daddies sauce? Saliva flowing, she snatched the bag. ‘I think I love you, Tyler.’ Peeked inside. A honey and oats granola bar. And a banana. ‘What d’you call this, mate?’
‘A new leaf.’
She snorted. ‘Why not go the whole hog and throw in a lettuce?’
‘You may scoff—’
‘Scoff? I should be so lucky.’
He shrugged. ‘Either way, we’re going on a health kick.’
‘We?’
‘Yeah, no more pigging out on rubbish. Time we—’
‘What’s with the “we”? Speak for yourself, Tyler. And where’s your grub, anyway?’ ‘Ate mine on the way back.’ Grinning, he patted his paunch. ‘Couldn’t wait.’
‘What’s that?’ Eyes narrowed, she pointed to a shiny red stain on his shirt front.
‘Dunno.’ He gave both her and what looked like a splodge of ketchup the brush-off. ‘Come on, boss, eat up.’
She cast him a suspicious glance but started making inroads on the granola bar. Where’d this clean living guff spring up from all of a sudden? It was bad enough Frankie banging on about it all the time, but Mac didn’t know Bev was pregnant. Did he? She might’ve broached the subject had she not spotted Chris Baxter, still togged up in his white suit, heading their way.
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