by Ryan Casey
“I don’t think you quite understand, Brian,” DCI Marlow said. “You’re still on duty. Technically. And we need an officer down there to investigate the scene.”
“But Marlow, I—”
“I’m not asking you a question, Brian. Get yourself down to Ashton right this second and do your job. You’re a detective inspector. Act like one.”
Brian tightened his knuckles. Clenched his fists. He knew Marlow was testing him. Pushing his buttons. Looking for any reason to let him go, to push him over the edge. Fuck, to think he used to think of Marlow as a good guy. In truth, he probably was. Just under pressure. Under pressure to find a weakness in his team. An easy target to get rid of to save a chunk of his own pension. Dog eat dog world.
Brian took a deep breath.
Loosened his fist.
“I’ll get down there as quick as I can,” Brian said.
“Good,” Marlow said, as Brian stood and made his way towards the office door, pulling his phone out of his pocket so he could let Hannah know he was going to be a fucking let down once again.
“And Brian?” Marlow called.
Brian stopped. Bit his lip. Turned. “Yes, boss?”
“DC Arif visited me earlier about a strange parcel you received. What you believed to be hair.”
Brian’s heart picked up. Shit. The hair. He’d forgotten completely about it. “Oh. Oh yeah. Did he—”
“Kanekalon. Or in other words, doll’s hair,” DCI Marlow said, wry smile on his face. “Don’t waste our forensic’s time in future, especially on children’s toys. We’re strained enough as it is.”
Doll’s hair. Fucking doll’s hair.
Brian wanted to argue with Marlow. But hell. He couldn’t argue with the truth.
So instead he turned around and left the office.
Picked his phone out of his pocket and dialled Hannah.
Two rings and she answered.
“Who’s a good boy for his mummy? Who’s a—you okay Bri?” she asked. In the background, Brian heard his son giggling. “Sorry. Just—just a little busy. Still okay for—good boy!—for tonight?”
Brian clenched his jaw together as he walked out of the police station and into the windy June air. “About that, Hannah. I’m sorry but something’s come up.”
More giggling from Sam. “You—sorry, what’s that? You can make it, right?”
Brian rubbed his eyebrows. Walked down the steps of the police station. “Sorry, Han. I’ll try, but I’m gonna be pushed. Maybe another—”
“Why? What’s going on?”
Brian looked ahead at the traffic-filled Preston roads. Smelled exhaust fumes and takeaways drifting from a distance. Overhead, thick grey clouds holding a vice grip on Lancashire’s summer. “I’m not entirely sure yet,” he said. “But I won’t be too late. Done and dusted in no time. I promise.”
Hannah sighed and argued but eventually she gave in, let him go, hung up.
Brian made his way towards his car.
He should’ve learned by now not to make promises in his profession.
Eleven
It was an old fiction and movie cliché that it wasn’t the sight of bodies that made police officers heave; it was the smell.
But as Brian stood under the tunnel of the canal that ran through Ashton, he was reminded that the cliché existed for a fucking good reason.
Brian had made sure to bring some aftershave along to spray on his top lip. No use. The smell of the dead had a way of ingraining itself into the sticky mucus right at the back of your nostrils, didn’t budge for quite some time. One thing he wouldn’t miss when the day of retirement came.
But one thing he’d never forget; one thing no one would ever forget.
He looked down at the two bodies lying still on the white mat in front of him. The entire canal footpath had been cordoned off as a crime scene, but the discovery of the bodies in the water meant that they had to be taken out. Annoying from an evidential perspective—bodies left in situ were always better—if there was such a thing as “better” in a murder investigation. But just the nature of finding bodies in public places, especially water.
Brian twiddled with the sleeve of his protective clothing. Seemed so muggy wearing this. Long gone were the days where a detective could just wander into a scene and trample all over it. No, there were all sorts of formalities now. Right down to what you wear, who was logged as entering and leaving, access kept to a bare minimum, that kind of thing. And while it was good—again, from a technical standpoint—Brian wondered just how much better the police actually were at their jobs these days. ’Cause he’d seen no evidence of improvement over the last twenty-odd years. Only regression.
The photographer stood behind Brian, capturing the entire scene on video; shots of the bodies while they were still in the water, then after. A way of keeping track of the scene, of analysing what it looked like before in case any evidence slipped the net. Before and after, that sort of thing. Morbid. That’s all it was. Gotta question the integrity of a person who spends their life recording corpses in various states.
Especially in these states.
Lying on the ground beside James Phelps, the Divisional Surgeon, was a man and a woman. Both completely naked. Man a little older than the woman at a glance. It was hard to tell. Hard to tell anything with the state they were in.
“In all my years on the job I don’t think I’ve ever seen any shit like this.”
Brian looked at Harriet. Duty officer, first on the scene. She was a good cop—tough, in the job for years. Short hair. Pretty well built—no, not “for a girl,” let’s not get into sexist territory here. Well built full stop. Beaming blue eyes. Constantly serious expression on her face.
She’d seen some shit in her career, so to say this topped the pile was quite something.
The bodies were pale. Startlingly pale. So much so that Brian figured they had to be covered with a white film of makeup or something. There were bloody puncture marks all over their skin. In the wrists. In the joint between the forearm and the upper arm. In their necks, their throats, then right back down their chest and their stomach and their legs and ankles.
Deep puncture marks.
“Guessing it’s not just kids messing around after all,” Brian said.
“A-fucking-men to that,” Harriet said.
Every time Brian looked at the bodies, he noticed something different about them. This time, he noticed their eyes. Or rather, their lack of eyes. Not snatched away like in a certain morbid case he’d worked on. No, there was still residue in the eye sockets. White jelly. The eyes had been crushed. Pressed down.
He hoped to God these two hadn’t been alive when they’d met that fate.
But he knew by now that praying to God about one thing usually resulted in the opposite.
Brian crouched down, trying not to breathe in the stench too deeply. “What’s this on their stomach here?”
“Looks—looks like a scar of some sort,” James said. “I’m no pathologist but it looks to me like they’ve both been etched—etched in the—the exact same place.”
“You okay, James?” Brian asked.
“He stutters,” Harriet butted in. “Ignore him. He’s always like that.”
Brian suddenly felt very guilty and very stupid.
He looked at the pale torsos of both victims. Looked at the mark etched in right above their belly buttons. An “M”. Or at least that’s what it looked like. It was somewhat broken where an “M” would join. So maybe it was some kind of symbol. Something else.
“Witnesses?” Brian asked.
“Working on it,” Harriet said. “Doesn’t seem like this place gets too busy though. Just the two kids who found the body.”
“What did they have to say?”
“Both pretty shook up,” Harriet said. “Danny and Calvin Knowles. Danny’s ten, Calvin’s seven. Both biking down here when they found the pair of them floating in the water just here. Danny’s a shit though. One to keep an eye on.”
“Are you seriously suggesting a ten-year-old kid might be behind this?”
Harriet widened her eyes and shrugged. “Hey, weirder things’ve happened. Ain’t that right James?”
James turned and looked at Harriet and Brian as the light of the photographer’s camera lit up the scene. “Ye—yes. Yes, I suppose it—”
“Okay, okay,” Harriet said. “We get the point.”
Brian looked back down at the bodies, the smell of decay—always worsened by water—thickening in his nostrils. “Their bodies. They’re so pale.”
“Jesus, man. We ain’t all blessed with olive skin.”
“No. There’s something not right about these two. Nobody’s this pale. Nobody.”
Harriet jabbed Brian in his elbow. Made him flinch, just a little. “Who knows? Maybe they’re vampires. Maybe that’s what the ‘M’s” all about. It’s a ‘W’ really. W for Wampires. Wampires with a speech impwediment. James’ll get on with ’em just fine.”
James nodded and did his best attempt at the most uncomfortable damned smile Brian had ever seen.
Brian stepped away from the bodies. It wasn’t just the smell getting to him now; it was being inside this dark tunnel. The thick black water filled with broken glass and empty bottles. A murky abyss of infinite secrets. Secrets that he wasn’t sure he wanted to surface. That he wasn’t sure he was ready to engage with.
“I’ll get the SOCOs down here. Have them check every inch of the canal and the surrounding area. While I’m doing that, one of you have the body taken back to forensics. Not a lot we can do with them in the way.”
“What, are you SIOing this one then?” Harriet asked.
Brian felt his stomach sink. Senior Investigating Officer of yet another case. He’d been lucky enough to hold that position in the past as a “mere” DI. Not again. Not this time. “Probably just in charge of the inquiry teams.”
“Don’t wanna submerge yourself too deep,” Harriet said, teasing little smile on her face. “Hear the pressure can get to an SIO. Wouldn’t want you getting stressed again now, would we?”
Brian wanted to bite the bait and ask Harriet how the hell she knew about his past problems. But the spectre of disciplinary action loomed over him, large and terrifying. “You do your job and I’ll do mine.”
He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and was relieved for an escape route.
“Yeah?” he said, lifting his phone to his ear.
“Brian? How’s the scene looking?”
Brian’s stomach sank.
DCI Marlow.
Brian scratched his head and turned to the tunnel entrance, stared up the still canal. “Yeah. Well, no. Two bodies. Man and a woman. Naked. Stabbed multiple—”
“Alright, alright, I didn’t ask you to put me off my fucking soup. Some more news for you. From over Beacon Fell way. Found summat for you.”
“Beacon Fell? What’s Beacon Fell got to do with anything?”
“Kid called in. Found a car. A Jeep. Abandoned by the side of the back road. Y’know, the one where no one goes ’cept kids and doggers?”
Brian didn’t know the one.
“Yeah,” he said, for argument’s sakes. “I still don’t get what this has to do with—”
“The kid also found clothes. Some camping equipment. And blood. A lot of blood.”
Brian’s stomach turned. He still didn’t get the relation. It had to be a long-shot. After all, there were more than two murders in one given day. Right?
“We’ve got an ID on the car. Registered to Harry Galbraith.”
It was at that point that Marlow’s voice quivered ever so slightly.
“I—I happened to know a Harry Galbraith. Used … used to play billiards with him back when we were in college.”
“It could be a coincidence.”
“Had this fucking big mole on his chin. Used to call him Moley. Pretended the—the mole was in control of him, stemming its way into his brain, that sorta thing.”
Brian turned around. Looked at the two bodies lying there. Felt his palms clamming up. “Plenty of people have moles. We need a formal identifi—”
“Does he have that fucking mole, Brian?”
Brian opened his mouth to argue with Marlow.
Then he stopped.
Took a deep breath and regretted it right away as the stench of death filled his lungs.
Walked back over to the bodies, so pale, so covered in stabbings, so …
“Brian? You there Brian? Line’s breaking up.”
Brian heard DCI Marlow.
But all he could process for the moment was the man.
The huge marking on his pale, shaven chin—so big he’d dismissed it as a stab wound when he’d first seen it.
The mole.
“Brian? Are you—”
“I—I’m sorry, Detective,” Brian said, standing there in the darkness of the tunnel. “I think it … I think it might be your old friend.”
Twelve
For all the sensitivity DCI Marlow apparently held for his deceased friend Harry Galbraith, the words “Moley’s Murder” written on the whiteboard in the incident room hardly instilled Brian with much confidence.
Brian heard a few officers snigger when DCI Marlow held up his finger to the whiteboard. Underneath it, images of the bodies were pinned. Images of Harry Galbraith—or at least the man who Marlow was convinced was his old pal, Moley. Images of the woman with him; the woman who was as of yet unidentified.
Pale bodies. Covered in stab wounds.
And Brian’s colleagues were laughing.
Call it desensitisation, call it whatever you want.
Brian had a word for it.
Prickery.
“Okay, okay,” DCI Marlow said, waving his hand at the room, his voice booming against the recently painted walls. Used to be an old storage room but was not long ago turned into a new briefing area, specifically for use as an incident room. Better than the old one, which used to be stifling hot on even the coldest of days. But they still hadn’t nailed the temperature thing. Air conditioning was blasting so strongly that Brian was fucking freezing.
No happy medium in the police.
“Harry Galbraith’s body was found around twelve-thirty this afternoon by two little nippers,” Marlow said. “We still don’t know who the girl is yet, but we’re in contact with the Galbraith family to get final confirmation. But I can assure you, this is the man I used to play billiards with.”
“Sure your old eyes ain’t just getting to you?” DS Wellington called. He was a skinny little man with fluffy dark hair and a considerable gap between his two front teeth.
“Maybe it was the booze,” DC Cooper said. All the men laughed at the blonde goddess that was DC Cooper. Course they did. Like dogs.
DCI Marlow’s face turned sour. “I can assure you I can handle my alcohol.”
“Not what I’ve heard,” DS Wellington said, that smug little smirk still on his face.
“Alright, alright,” Marlow said. “Need to know when a joke’s had its moment. Fucking embarrassing, Wellington.”
A few of the officers whooped and laughed at that, but most of them went quiet.
Fortunately, Wellington was one of the ones who shut himself up.
DCI Marlow cleared his throat. “Two bodies found naked in the canal over Ashton way.”
“Sure you weren’t involved, boss?” DC Richardson said, twirling her short dark hair. “‘Billiards’ not some kind of euphemism or—”
“Do you lot want to lose your jobs? How old are you?”
“How old are you?” someone else called.
Brian just stood there, arms folded as the chaos of the incident room—a room full of people who were supposedly heading a double murder investigation—ensued.
“Right!” Marlow shouted, his voice echoing against the walls. “Enough. Didn’t want to go full headteacher but I will do if I have to. Two bodies found in Ashton canal. One of them’s Harry Galbraith. Still don’t know th
e identity of the girl. We’re in touch with Harry’s family so hopefully they’ll be able to shed some light soon. And when they do, I’d lovingly like to elect DS Wellington as family liaison officer on this case.
A few people laughed. “Wellington?” one said. “You want the family to top ’emselves while they’re at it?”
Wellington went red, nodded a few times, clearly unable to take the banter.
“We’ve got SOCOs at the canal and the road over Beacon Fell way where we found the Jeep. So hopefully we’ll be able to shed some light. Until then, we need to work at tracing Harry and … and this girl’s last steps. Finding out where they were going. Finding out how the hell they ended up in Ashton canal while their car’s up in the hills. McDone, you get started on inquiries. Get a house-to-house going around the canal, get some position teams set up. We need to find more about Harry and we need it …” He stopped. Lifted his phone out of his pocket. Turned around and muttered a few things while the rest of the room did its best to stay as quiet as possible.
“McDone’s such a fucking gopher,” Brian heard someone mutter.
And as Brian turned, he saw officers looking at him. Looking at him like he wasn’t part of their crowd, like they didn’t really know him. And he knew he had no one to blame but himself.
But fuck it. Maybe he was a gopher. Maybe he was a dogsbody. But it was going to earn him his full retirement package when the year came, so he couldn’t complain. Not like these fucking amateur saplings.
“That was Arif,” Marlow said. His face had turned pale, almost as pale as the bodies. “Got some info. The girl’s name’s Carly. Carly Mahone. She … she was Galbraith’s partner.”
“They were naked together,” Wellington muttered. “You don’t bloody say—”