Slice

by David Hodges

  Fulton released his breath like an explosive charge. ‘Phil, this is a bloody murder investigation. Has anyone in this nick cottoned on to that yet? All I’ve heard about so far is political correctness and human sodding rights.’ He waved a hand angrily in the air, as if clearing away irritating tobacco smoke. ‘Let’s just get to this PM, shall we? And when we get back, I’ll handle Mr John Derringer’s human rights personally!’

  The red-brick building was almost hidden behind a row of strategically placed conifer trees in the grounds of the local hospital and a big green van was parked outside, its rear doors open.

  Fulton recognized the undertaker’s wagon at once. These days ambulances no longer carried bodies to the mortuary, so the undertakers did the job with one of their less conspicuous vehicles, saving their sleek black hearses for the funerals.

  Two men in shabby suits were leaving the mortuary as he and Gilham approached. ‘Business booming then, is it, gents?’ Fulton grunted as he stood to one side of the double doors to let them pass.

  ‘Never better,’ the older man chuckled. ‘A drowning and a drugs OD in the last four hours. Things are looking up.’

  Gilham threw him a critical glance. ‘Wonderful,’ he replied as he followed his boss inside the building. ‘Long may your good luck continue.’

  Fulton’s face wore a tight apprehensive frown as they crossed the small foyer to the inner doors. He had never got used to post-mortems, even though in his line of business he spent a fair amount of his duty time in mortuaries watching them, and he was keen to get the butchery over and done with as quickly as possible.

  Abbey Lee looked up from the stainless steel examination table as her visitors walked in and gave a perfunctory nod. Her green overalls were spattered with dark stains and her gloved hands were carefully probing the chest cavity of the corpse in front of her. A number of bloody organs had already been removed from the cadaver and sliced into sections. The scalp had also been peeled back from the now opened skull to allow access to the brain, creating the horrific illusion that the face itself was just a mask, which could be removed and replaced with another whenever required, like some science fiction nightmare.

  It had always struck Fulton that the most terrible thing a post-mortem did was to destroy the human identity. What had once been an individual human being, with virtually unique facial characteristics and personality, was reduced to just an object – an android, which had suddenly stopped working and was about to be consigned to the scrap heap.

  ‘There are no rights in death, Jack,’ Abbey said, as if reading his mind.

  Acutely aware of the raw nauseating smell forcing itself up his nostrils and the dismembered organs littering the examination table, Fulton could not help thinking of his local butcher’s shop and his stomach heaved. ‘Started without us then, have you?’ he said in a strained voice, trying to shut his mind to what was going on.

  Abbey removed her hands from inside the corpse and nodded to the attendant hovering nearby. ‘You happen to be late,’ she retorted, peeling off her bloodstained gloves and dropping them into a waste-bin.

  ‘Other things to sort out,’ Fulton retorted without apologizing.

  She gave him a curious glance. ‘Been fighting with the cat, have you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve got some nice scratches on your face.’

  Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the sudden grin on Gilham’s face and his mouth tightened. ‘Just stick to business, will you, Ab.’

  She sighed. ‘Well, we’re all done here now anyway. Coroner’s officer and forensic photographer have been and gone.’ She retrieved a pocket cassette recorder from the corner of the table and tapped it with her other hand. ‘You’ll get my report just as soon as I can get my observations typed up.’

  Gilham watched the attendant unceremoniously dump bits of mutilated organs back into the cavity from which they had been removed and bend over the abdomen with a needle to begin the gruesome task of stitching it up. ‘Nice job, you lot have got,’ he observed, shaking his head in disgust.

  ‘We like it,’ Abbey replied, with a brief smile. ‘Interesting examination, too.’

  ‘Oh?’

  For reply she bent over the corpse and pointed to one of the arms. ‘See the pinch marks on the wrist? Dead giveaway.’

  ‘Yes, we saw them in the SOCO pics,’ Gilham said, missing her unintentional pun. ‘Ratchet handcuffs, we think.’

  She nodded. ‘And very tightly applied. The state of both wrists suggests that the circulation must have been almost cut off. There are also marks on both ankles, suggesting these were bound with some form of sticky tape – and then there’s this….’

  She went to the other end of the examination table, waiting a moment while the attendant skilfully pulled the scalp of the corpse back over the severed lid of the skull, then ran a finger lightly across the forehead of the corpse. ‘See?’

  Fulton and Gilham almost collided with each other in their eagerness to look closer, but it was not difficult to spot the indented band of bruising that seemed to encompass the head at this point.

  ‘Something was applied to the head almost as tightly as the cuffs on the wrists,’ she explained. ‘In my opinion it was some sort of clamp or restraint to hold it rigidly in position.’

  Gilham looked puzzled. ‘And what would be the purpose in that?’

  She shrugged. ‘I can only point out the physical marks I’ve found and what, in my professional judgement, is likely to have caused them. It’s up to you to decide the whys.’

  Fulton shot her a keen glance. ‘But you do have a theory of your own, don’t you, Ab?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘Well it’s pretty obvious your man was secured to a chair or something similar to severely restrict his movements, but the presence of the band mark to the forehead suggests to me that your killer wanted to ensure his victim’s gaze was focused on one particular spot – that he couldn’t look away.’

  ‘Like into a mirror?’ Fulton suggested.

  ‘So, you haven’t lost your touch after all then, Jack?’

  Gilham looked totally nonplussed now. ‘I have to admit I’m confused,’ he put in. ‘What are we saying?’

  ‘He wanted his victim to watch his own throat being cut,’ Fulton answered with brutal frankness.

  ‘Now that really is sick.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Fulton replied, ‘and so is chopping off someone’s balls.’

  Gilham closed his eyes briefly at his chief’s crudity, darting a reproving glance in his direction, then reddening under Abbey’s half-amused gaze. ‘Strange though,’ he went on quickly, ‘how our killer seems to have managed to kidnap and subdue his victim so easily.’

  Fulton raised his eyebrows. ‘We don’t know it was that easy.’

  ‘Well, there were no signs of a struggle at his home, were there? And I take it there were no other marks of violence on the body?’

  Abbey shook her head. ‘Not indicative of a struggle, no. He had some deep cuts – no doubt from the weapon – to his inner thighs, which I was coming to in a moment, but, apart from those and the other injuries I’ve already pointed out, nothing else that I could see.’

  ‘Yet you would have thought that a man like Lyall would have put up some kind of resistance,’ Gilham persisted. ‘After all, he was ex-army and probably quite a tough old bird. Any chance he could have been drugged in some way?’

  She nodded. ‘Very possible, I would think. I’ve taken the usual samples and we should know one way or the other following toxicological analysis.’

  ‘And the murder weapon? Any ideas on that?’

  ‘As I said to Mr Fulton at the scene, judging by the wounds inflicted, I would say it was a very thin blade with an extremely sharp edge – something like a cut-throat razor.’

  She frowned. ‘Your man was not that competent, though. Did a clean job with the throat – sliced right through the carotid artery – but he made a bit of a mess removing the testicles. Very much a hacki
ng job there, hence those deep slashes to the inner thighs where he evidently tried to manoeuvre the weapon.’

  ‘Our killer is a bit of an amateur, then?’ Gilham summarized.

  She treated him to a grim smile. ‘At the moment, yes, but we all improve with practice, don’t we?’

  The implication of the remark was not lost on the two policemen, but before either got the chance to pursue the subject further, all conversation was interrupted by the melodic ring-tone of a mobile.

  Gilham hurriedly jerked the offending telephone from his pocket, wincing his embarrassment.

  The call did not last long and after a series of nods and grunts, he rejoined them. ‘Someone wants to see me,’ he said.

  Fulton raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Someone?’

  Gilham glanced at Abbey and she took the hint and moved away. ‘We may have a witness,’ he went on.

  ‘Then we’d better get to him pdq.’

  ‘Sorry, Jack, it has to be just me this time.’

  The big man caught on in an instant. ‘One of your snouts, is it?’

  ‘Used to be when I was a DI here. Seems he found out I was back and wants to trade.’

  ‘You’d better get off then, but keep me informed.

  ‘But how will you get back? We came in my motor, don’t forget. Do you want me to call the nick for one of the lads to pick you up?’

  Abbey was obviously paying more attention than they had appreciated. ‘I can drop him back, Phil. I’m through here now anyway.’

  Fulton grunted. ‘What sharp little ears you have, Ab,’ he said. ‘I hope your eyes are as good if you’re driving me.’

  She smiled sweetly. ‘You can always walk, Jack.’ she retorted. ‘And you sure could do with the exercise.’

  chapter 7

  LENNY BAKER WAS the archetypal low life, the epitome of a petty criminal who would have delighted any caricaturist or film director looking for a suitable subject. In fact, he could not have looked more like a crook if he had tried. Built like a sparrow, with sparse ginger hair, gold-capped front teeth and sharp blue eyes which were always on the move, he wore a grubby fawn anorak and scuffed suede shoes that even Oxfam would have rejected, and carried a copy of a racing newspaper in one hand, which he constantly slapped against his thigh as if swatting some invisible fly.

  Gilham had just about tolerated the mouthy little cockney during his time as DI at the Saddler Street nick, even though he knew his principal source of information was breaking into houses at the same time as he was grassing to the police. Trouble was, Lenny’s information was usually pretty reliable, so he was someone to be listened to and that meant turning a blind eye to his own dodgy activities, where possible.

  The meet was at a disused cement works close to the railway line; dramatic enough for Lenny and his obsession with gangster movies. The little man looked a lot older than Gilham would have expected in the three years that had elapsed since he had last clapped eyes on him and he now wore a livid mauve scar down the left side of his face. ‘The O’Leary brothers,’ Lenny said with pride. ‘A warnin’ for poking me nose. Risky business I’m in, you know.’

  Gilham looked around him at the derelict machinery, black and stark in the watery sunlight, and nodded, unimpressed by the uninvited explanation. ‘So what have you got for me?’ he said with undisguised impatience.

  Baker grinned. ‘That depends on how much it’s worth.’

  Gilham shook his head. ‘No, Lenny, it depends on how much I think it’s worth.’

  The other moved away and lit a cigarette with as much Humphrey Bogart aplomb as he could manage. ‘A monkey is what it’s worth.’

  Gilham sighed. ‘If you’re going to be stupid, Lenny … For five hundred pounds, I’d expect to get the Queen’s telephone number.’

  Lenny chuckled. ‘I could give you the numbers of lots of queens, if you was interested.’ He hesitated. ‘OK, a ton then an’ no less.’

  ‘A pony and that’s only if it’s something we don’t know already. I don’t want to hear some regurgitated press report.’

  Lenny’s face darkened. ‘Listen, boss, what I saw is worth a lot more than twenty-five bleedin’ quid.’

  ‘OK, so forty then and that’s it – provided what you tell me is kosher.’

  ‘Now come on, Mr Gilham, would it be anythin’ else? I’ve got me reputation to think of—’

  The little man broke off and darted a swift frightened glance towards a ruined concrete building a few yards from where they were standing. ‘What was that?’ he breathed.

  Gilham followed the direction of his gaze. ‘I heard nothing.’

  ‘You sure you came alone?’

  ‘You know I did. You saw me arrive.’

  ‘And you weren’t followed?’

  Gilham sighed, used to Baker’s sense of the dramatic. ‘No, I wasn’t followed, Lenny,’ he replied. ‘And this isn’t the film set of The Godfather either, all right?’

  As he spoke, a ginger cat materialized from the shadows of the building and streaked off across the scabby concrete apron in front of them, disappearing into a patch of scrub several yards away.

  Baker gave a sheepish grin and relaxed. ‘Sorry, Mr Gilham, I’m a bit on edge at the moment. Goes with the job, see.’

  ‘Can we get on, Lenny?’ Gilham said, his impatience showing.

  The little man nodded. ‘Fact is, I was out for a walk two nights ago – the night your man got stiffed—’

  ‘A walk? Looking for somewhere to screw, you mean?’

  ‘Actually, I’d been to a mate’s house for a poker game, OK? Anyway, I decides to take a short cut across the rec. Then I sees this geezer sitting on one of the kiddies’ swings.’

  Gilham’s heart lurched. ‘You saw the dead man?’

  Baker shrugged. ‘Didn’t know he was brown bread then. Thought he was some nutter out from somewhere or a queer waitin’ for a punter. A lot of ’em gets down the rec at night.’

  ‘What – sitting on a swing stark naked?’

  ‘Well, there’s some funny people about, ain’t there? Anyway, all I saw of him was a sort of silhouette, ’alf buried in shadow. Didn’t know he was starkers ’till I read the papers.’

  ‘What time was all this then?’

  ‘I left Larry’s place at just after midnight, so it must’ve been around twelve-fifteen or twelve-twenty.’

  ‘And you weren’t curious enough to take a closer look at the man?’

  ‘No bleedin’ fear. I didn’t like the look of him – all still and hunched up like – and besides, he ’ad company.’

  Gilham’s heart was pounding hard now. ‘What do you mean by company?’

  ‘There was a motor in the car park, almost hidden under some trees.’

  ‘Anyone in it?’

  ‘Dunno, I just scarpered. Left by the side entrance into Milton Avenue.’

  ‘Why the panic?’

  ‘It was a cop car.’

  ‘It was a what?’ Gilham stared at him. ‘You sure about this?’

  The little man nodded, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. ‘Yellow and blue squares all over it an’ a nice police sign on the front an’ back. It was a cop car all right.’

  ‘And you’re positive about the time?’

  ‘Definite. I know I was home by twelve-thirty. I’d made a point of getting back for the start of one of them adult films on the telly. It was down for twelve-thirty-five an’ it started just after I hung me coat up. Thing is, papers are sayin’ some flatfoot found the stiff just after one a.m. So how come this other copper didn’t report it earlier?’

  Gilham was not in a position to answer that question, but the implications of Baker’s revelations sent an icy chill down his spine and after paying him off, he made his way to his car in a semi daze – which is probably why he failed to appreciate that his meeting with Lenny had not been quite as private as he had imagined.

  Abbey Lee lived in a neat mews terrace, which reflected taste and style – from the reproduction Picasso painting
s on the pastel-painted walls to the various sculptures positioned carefully in wall niches and glass-fronted cabinets.

  She poured Fulton a coffee from a stainless steel percolator after waving him to a chair. ‘Don’t you light that damned weed in here,’ she snapped over her shoulder, sensing his hand moving towards the packet of cigarettes in his pocket.

  He made a face as she set the bone-china coffee cup and saucer in front of him. ‘Haven’t you anything stronger?’

  She gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘I said we’d drop by my place for a coffee and this is it. You drink too much anyway.’

  ‘My business.’

  ‘Maybe, but this is my flat, so it’s coffee or nothing, OK?’

  He took a couple of sips and appraised her from under hooded lids. Out of the green mortuary overalls, she looked nothing like the sort of girl who spent most of her working life dismembering corpses. Although in her mid-thirties, she obviously looked after herself, probably through regular workouts in the gym. Her breasts were small and rounded beneath the thin white blouse and the tight black trousers showed off her narrow hips and firm rounded thighs to perfection. Even the shoulder-length black hair had a healthy vitality about it and the smile that could light up those big green eyes in a second now hovered uncertainly over the slightly crooked mouth, as if embarrassed by the focus of his gaze.

  ‘Do you have to keep staring at my boobs, Jack?’ she said, glancing down at herself.

  He jumped, startled at the directness of the question, and slopped some of the coffee from his cup into his lap.

  She shook her head with cynical amusement, tossing him a linen serviette. ‘You ought to have a bib, Superintendent,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry about your chair,’ he blurted. ‘Hand just slipped and—’

  ‘Bathroom’s first on the right,’ she cut in, indicating the short corridor to the front door.

  For several minutes he stood in front of the wash-hand basin, staring at himself in the mirror. The heavy-jowled face that stared back revolted him – particularly with Janet’s nail marks now adorning one cheek like some aboriginal self-mutilation. What had he become? A few years ago it had been rugby, football – any sport available. As a detective constable, he had even boxed for his department. But a lot of the muscle had turned to fat over the years, assisted by greasy takeaway meals and booze, and now he hated the sight of himself. No wonder Janet had lost interest in him. He was just an overweight nicotine junkie, married to a job that had wrecked his health and domestic life and now didn’t give a damn about him any more. Just for a second there was a tear in one eye, but then he blinked, tightened his jaw and it was gone. The machismo image was all he had left – no sense losing that as well.