The reason he had accepted the invitation to a black tie wine tasting he could not remember, but Julie had been keen and so, probably when he was being distracted, a moment of emotional weakness, he had agreed. When he said “no problem”, the date had seemed so far off, but now, regrettably, it had arrived. He smiled when he thought of Julie but the smile slipped when his eye caught sight of the envelope resting on the mantelpiece. It remained unopened and he was determined that was how it would remain, for the time being at least. He slipped on his overcoat, flicked off the light and left the house; his mood had not been improved.
Cyril stood on Prospect Place by the front door of the hotel and inhaled the menthol vapour from his electronic cigarette; he relaxed and admired the view. The town’s lights illuminated the road leaving The Stray, dark and mysterious beyond, delicately lit by the occasional old-style street lamp placed along the criss-crossing pathways. He turned to his right and looked down towards the town. At the bottom of the road the Cenotaph could be seen, illuminated by an ethereal, pale yellow light, in contrast to the dark sky. The taxi pulled up. Julie. He smiled and opened the door. He heard her say to the driver “eleven” and his heart sank.
The noise emanated from the room at the bottom of the stairs that swept round to the left, the subdued lighting giving a warm ambience. Cyril handed their coats to an attendant and received a ticket. He slipped it into his wallet.
“Rare sight, my love!” Julie smiled. “It’s all complimentary this evening.”
She collected two flutes of English sparkling wine. “All the wines we'll sample are produced in England, even this.” She touched Cyril’s glass but could not fail to see the disappointment on his face. “You could have said no. Hannah would have come and certainly Owen.”
“Pearls before swine giving this to Owen. Goodness, if it doesn’t come in a pint glass and have a head on it he’s lost. Besides it’s a wine tasting not a wine glugging.” He smiled. “I’m fine… uncomfortable talking English wine when I really know absolutely nothing about any of the vineyards.”
“You’ll be okay, stop worrying.” She leaned across and kissed his cheek. She then wiped a trace of lipstick away with her finger.
They moved through a lounge and into the cellar area. Once through the glass doors, the passageways were cool and the lights dim. They were shown to a table. The notepad placed before them listed the wines. Apart from the glasses in the centre of the table Cyril noticed small jugs of water, plates of wafers and a spittoon. He made up his mind that he would not be using that.
The hum of excitement grew, echoing amongst the shelves holding the hotel’s wine stock. The order and organisation of the event was beginning to suit Cyril; he was warming to the process. He watched how people held the wine to a light and swirled the contents in the glass, holding it by the stem before bringing it to their noses. He knew the process, he had read up on the Internet the dos and don’ts but still felt foolish trying to imitate their actions. He then saw them drink and perform some ritual of drawing air through their lips before holding up a spittoon.
The trowel cut the third hole of the evening. The sharp-bladed, curved edge made light work of it and soon the bag was lowered into the crevice, the cross was quickly tied to the line and the ritual was complete. The gardener brought his fingertips to his lips, kissed them before touching the cross. It would, he hoped, be for the last time. This was the final one he would leave, the ultimate offering. The others were now in situ, given out to await their fate; some buried, some exposed but all waiting to be discovered, some more easily than others. It would be God’s will as to whether they would be found or left alone, handed in or simply thrown away. To the gardener's mind, those disposed of or left meant that they were given to the devil. The ones that remained with him had a more important role to play.
As if on cue the forecast rain started to drift in waves visible only in the streetlights and on the pavement. The droplets slowly filled and darkened the tarmac until tiny puddles began to form, each showing the myriad droplets’ rings. He lifted his hood.
Julie was in deep conversation with a gentleman to her right about a red wine that she swirled around in her glass. Cyril read the bottle’s label that it was a Pinot Noir - early. Cyril had had enough wine and conversation and was desperate for a vape. He excused himself and went up the stairs into the courtyard garden. He moved to shelter under a large garden umbrella, checked his watch, shook his wrist and looked again. A waiter came towards him holding a tray above his head.
“Time flies when you’re having fun, sir,” he said in all innocence. “May I get you anything?”
How wrong could perceptions be? Cyril thought but did not need asking twice.
9
Owen looked down at the table on which he had witnessed the autopsy of more complete cadavers. The human remains on this occasion were being ordered into the correct position by the diener to make what appeared to be the original form. Dr Julie Pritchett stood and assisted. Even to Owen’s ill-informed eye, he could see that there were omissions. Dr Pritchett, hardly recognisable behind the safety visor and protective clothing, moved each piece with care but little reverence. Hannah looked up and smiled giving a small wave before photographing the objects. Owen listened to the conversation between the two women as they worked carefully and methodically. Julie paused, checking notes written on a pad at the head of the table.
“Morning, Owen. Drawn the short straw again, I note.” She turned and smiled. “Male, early to mid twenties. I know there’s nail varnish on the toes,” she said matter-of-factly. “It's my belief that our friend here was killed by a blow to the head; you can see the damage to this area here.” She lifted the skull. “There’s also evidence from toxicology of heavy heroin use. From what I see the body was dismembered shortly after death. The amputations are clean. That may answer the question as to why we see contradictions in the condition of the different body parts. There is still soft tissue attached to mummified skin and fibrous tissue present which has resisted putrefaction.”
“So the body doesn’t rot all at once?”
Julie smiled and paused before slowly turning to look at Owen. She was delighted that he asked questions; unlike Cyril, he showed a keen interest and had the ability to stomach an autopsy. She was more than happy to educate.
“In stages, Owen. Putrefactive changes occur in order but obviously depend on a number of circumstances.” She pointed to her own body areas as she spoke. “Larynx and trachea followed by stomach, intestines and spleen followed by liver and lungs then the brain, heart, kidney, bladder then uterus. Amazingly, a virgin uterus lasts longer. The prostate putrefies at the same rate as the uterus, then the skin, muscle, tendon and finally the bone. That’s the reason why we have this mixed evidence here.”
Owen raised his hand as if in thanks.
“No problem, Owen, delighted that you take a keen interest.” Julie returned to the table before looking back. Owen’s hand was still in the air.
Bless him, he wants to ask a question or permission to use the toilet, she thought. “You have another question?”
“So we’re looking at a murder?” Owen’s tone sounded less confident as he lowered his hand.
Julie lifted the section of the skull. “You might make that assumption. I doubt he cut himself into pieces and then died.”
Owen was unperturbed. “We know he was cut up post mortem but could he have overdosed and then fallen, the damage to the skull, or did someone give him a crack and apply…” He paused a moment trying to remember that French phrase Cyril had once used. “... the cut the grass? Can only remember the translation, sorry!”
Julie smiled. “That information cannot be discerned here and now. It will take much deeper investigation once we identify who this might be but right now my money is on the blow to the head.”
Stuart Park scanned two separate reports, the forensic results from the hair samples and the DNA results received from The National DNA Database. The results
were always returned directly to the force that had applied to the NDNAD. He had badgered both parties for their swift analysis but the results from Forensics posed more questions than offered answers. The hair was a collection, a mix, made up from people of differing ethnic origin. According to the report, the scarlet colour was unprofessionally applied after it was cut. There was even a list of possible hair colour brands that matched the analysis. How they discovered these details was anyone’s guess but he never questioned the accuracy of the findings. The results from NDNAD were a little more positive. Each packet, apart from one, showed no match to known stored DNA. He scanned down the page until he identified two names; one was a direct match whilst the other had been found using a familial search.
He printed details of both individuals and posted them onto a white board jotting down notes alongside. His mobile rang.
“DC Park.” He listened as he studied the images of the crosses and the bags attached to the boards. “Two? Where? Have they been removed? Okay. Right. You have full details of finders and the exact locations?” He grabbed a pencil and noted the information. “Thanks.” He looked again at the board before moving to another part of the office. He popped his head round a partition. DC Harry Nixon was cleaning the fingernails of his right hand with a penknife.
“Busy?” Stuart said exaggerating the sarcasm in his voice.
Harry cleaned the blade on a tissue, folding it and slipping it into his desk drawer. “Depends on what you have in mind.”
Cyril Bennett smiled as he studied the files from both cases and the words, No shit, Sherlock echoed in his head. It had not taken much nous to suggest that there might be a connection between the remains found within the sinkhole and the packets of hair found locally. Loose hair in packets and the discovery of a long-haired wig was too convenient and could only be a coincidence, he realised that, but it was not to be ignored. Neither the DNA nor the forensic details had been returned on the wig but he studied with interest the DNA results of the crosses and packets. It was as suspected; the crosses showed evidence that they had been weathered in different locations and made at different times. In one case the lettering and ink identified on it demonstrated that it was made pre 2001. For that year and subsequent years, the process had changed so accurate dating would prove impossible. However, considering the state of each cross it could be ascertained that they had been made a number of years ago and had been exposed to the damaging effects of the weather.
It was the familial DNA evidence that interested him. It was evident that hair from one person, trapped within the packet, was identified as a family member of Gideon Fletcher, a known petty criminal who had been arrested for GBH and racial offences between 2012 and 2014. After a short spell in custody, he had seemed to change. He was then better known in the town for dressing in the style of Jesus with long, brown hair, wearing only a rough, woollen tunic that went to his ankles. Cyril wrote a note “Chiton of the Lord”. That information had been dredged from some dark recess of his mind but where he had first heard the term he was unsure. Gideon also wore sandals with no socks and always carried a small banner stating, “Jesus lives. Sinners repent.” No matter what the season or what the weather he could be seen, wearing no other protective clothing, wandering and waving to anyone he saw around Harrogate. He was always ready with a smile. Not only was he a regular around the spa town but he was also known to walk miles, handing out pages from the Bible he stashed in a small canvas satchel. He was often seen in Masham, York, Knaresborough and Ripon. It seemed the sinner had somehow become the saint. People would give him food and shelter. He was genuinely liked.
Cyril read through the report. His last known sighting was on January thirtieth, 2016. The vicar of St John’s, Clipton, had found him leaning against the Telfer Pyramid Grave in the churchyard. It had been snowing and he had noticed the tracks leading between the gravestones and had followed, finding Gideon. He initially led him into the church before taking him home. The report detailed that he was fed and offered a bed for the night but he had demurred and had even turned down the gift of an overcoat. It was about nine p.m. when he left. Gideon had informed the vicar that he had family locally and would go there for a day or two.
Cyril rolled the mouthpiece of the electronic cigarette between his lips whilst scribbling some notes, enjoying the cool, menthol taste on his tongue:
The last known sighting, January 2016. Cold night, inappropriate clothing. Telfer Pyramid Grave (significant? What? Who?) Check for nearest family member.
Speak with Reverend Ian Fella.
He underlined the last sentence before looking at the only photograph they had on file of Gideon after his Road to Damascus moment. The old press cutting showed clearly the weather-beaten, grinning face. Cyril smiled at the plaited rope tied around the loose chiton, the one-piece garment. He carried no possessions other than a small, homemade banner and canvas satchel.
Cyril noted that the results from the tests showed only that the mitochondrial DNA demonstrated a maternal connection and so the owner of the hair samples could be Gideon’s own mother or one of his siblings. It ruled out the chance of belonging to any offspring he might have had. Cyril looked at Gideon’s mug shot taken in 2013 and compared the two images before attaching them to the white board and adding the notes “saint” and “sinner” beneath the relevant images. All Cyril had to do was to track Gideon’s family and that should not prove difficult. He made the necessary call. The tedious task was set in motion. The simple questions of by whom and for what reason they were buried might take a little longer to solve.
Stuart Park and Harry Nixon looked at the two objects that were trapped securely within protective, plastic bags; each was labelled with the information concerning finder and location. Park turned them over in his hands.
“Every one is numbered, on this one it’s scratched into the surface of the wood. This one, some kind of marker pen.”
Nixon picked one up and studied it. “Look bloody ancient, both of them. How long have they been dumped? Is that what I think it is in the bag?” He looked at Park, his face contorted by the quizzical expression.
“Human hair, dyed scarlet and not all belonging to the same person. However, these are not the first found. See, as I said, each is numbered. So far we have 1, 9,12, 13 and now we have 8 and 6,” Stuart Park said with a degree of confidence.
“Meaning?”
“Haven’t the foggiest. That’s what we’re here for. Could be someone buggering about and then again, it could be significant. Who knows what we might find next. Remember the jars of honey in that case last year? The clues made no sense at all until Flash came up with his theory? Well. Watch this space!”
DCI Cyril Bennett had acquired the nickname, Flash, early in his career. It was incorrectly believed that it was because of his neat and immaculate dress sense but that was far from the case. Initially he had been nicknamed Gordon after the wealthy benefactor of and lover of all things fast, initiating the Gordon Bennett Motor Racing Trophy, but then someone changed that to Flash Gordon, which then was shortened to Flash. It would be a brave acquaintance who would use this moniker now however.
Both officers went to the locations where the crosses had been found and inspected the immediate area for anything of significance. Nixon decided to take images of landmarks that could be seen from the locations. They were placed or buried for a reason, and anything that might shed light on that was worth pursuing.
Within the hour, each officer had interviewed the finders and was heading back to the police station on Beckwith Head Road. They now needed to prepare everything for the briefing planned for early the following day. Both were ready for home.
10
The rain had stopped temporarily but the sound of the occasional passing car splashed through the puddle-covered road. The Volvo estate was parked and the driver checked the rear view mirror. He dropped the glove box lid and ensured that the tablets and the condoms were there. A programme from the Asian network play
ed on the radio. He strummed along on the steering wheel, occasionally glancing at his watch. He had been assured that she would come and that she would be young.
Within minutes he spotted her in the wing mirror. She was smoking a cigarette as she approached while checking the parked cars that lined the roadside. He leaned across and opened the passenger door.
She took one long drag on the cigarette and dropped it in the gutter before climbing in. He opened his window to let the cigarette fumes dissipate, started the car and pulled away from the curb. Nothing was said.
His hand slid across and grabbed her inner thigh. She moved it.
“Fuck off, not until I get the stuff.”
A car pulled out within seconds and followed.
Cyril sat with his feet up. He pondered the events of the day before being distracted by the small oil painting illuminated by the spotlight. Next to it was a felt pen sketch of a line of flat-capped gents, each with their heads down and their hands searching their pockets. It was titled, ‘It’s not in my Pocket’ by the artist John Thompson. Cyril smiled thinking it resembled a group of coppers searching for a missing clue. He stood, studying it more closely and then switched off the light. He had a briefing first thing, and so an early night beckoned.
Within twenty minutes the car pulled onto the remote lay-by. The rain was now driving, almost horizontal. There was a slight glow of distant lights but nothing else. Rain ran in streams down the windscreen and the car rocked slightly when the wind blew.
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