Denial of Murder

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘Dumped here?’ Vicary queried. ‘You don’t think he was assaulted here and his body left where he was attacked?’

  ‘Well …’ Shaftoe paused and looked about him, ‘that still has to be determined. Of course, this is very early days, but there is no sign of violence hereabouts … not that I can see, anyway … the hedgerows are clearly undisturbed, for instance. He must have bled profusely but there is no sign of blood splatter and, believe you me, blood would have splattered far and wide with this sort of injury … very far and very wide.’

  ‘One of his shoes, sir,’ Brunnie addressed Shaftoe, ‘was found a short distance away from the body. In fact, the milkman remarked that he saw the shoe lying in the road before he saw the body in the gutter.’ Brunnie then turned to Harry Vicary, ‘The shoe is in an evidence bag, sir, but it matches the other shoe that is still on his foot.’

  ‘I see,’ Vicary replied, and then turned to Shaftoe for his comment.

  ‘I still don’t think he was attacked here,’ Shaftoe insisted. ‘The shoe could quite easily have fallen off or have been knocked off when the body was removed from whichever motor vehicle was used to transport it here. No … no … I am certain, the complete absence of blood splatter and lack of localized disturbance means that this site is where the body was dumped. The murder scene is elsewhere. I mean … no doubt you’ll spray Luminol on the cars parked around here … and also on the pavement and the road surface … but as I said, my little naked eye cannot detect any blood spatter so I’m sure this is not the crime scene.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Vicary looked about him, glancing up and down the richly foliaged Lingfield Road, noting it to be long and straight. ‘No CCTV,’ he remarked. ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘The suburbs, sir,’ Frankie Brunnie replied. ‘It’ll be quite a while before the suburbs are covered by CCTV as thoroughly as city centres are covered.’

  ‘If ever,’ Vicary growled, sourly, ‘if ever. The professional middle-class citizenry won’t take too kindly to their every move being monitored. And quite frankly, even as a copper I don’t think I would much care for it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Brunnie cleared his throat, ‘Sir, with respect, I should notify you of another incident the police dealt with last night, also in this area.’

  ‘Oh?’ Vicary raised an eyebrow. ‘Connected, do you think?’

  ‘Quite probably, sir. It involves a car being set ablaze. Very non-Wimbledon, you might think …’

  ‘As you say, Frankie,’ Vicary nodded in agreement, ‘very non-Wimbledon. Very, very non-Wimbledon indeed.’

  ‘We will still have to determine whether the two incidents are connected but Wimbledon Police Station has been notified of the crime number for this incident and any information they might receive about the burnt-out car will be cross-referenced to the Murder and Serious Crime Squad.’ Brunnie spoke confidently.

  ‘Good man,’ Vicary smiled. ‘Where was it burned out? Far from here?’

  ‘Two streets away, sir,’ Brunnie advised. ‘No CCTV there either, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I see,’ Vicary replied softly. ‘So it seems that the villains of today are learning to avoid CCTV just as the villains of yesteryear learned to wear gloves when committing felonious acts … but …’ Vicary turned to the immediate location. ‘You see it’s a very good place to dispose of a body – you’ve really got to hand it to them. They did a recce … they very definitely did a recce, and found a leafy suburb with plenty of foliage to conceal their activity in discarding the body from view – that is, all but the closest of views, at any rate. They placed it in the gutter; if the milkman hadn’t found it, it would have been found by the first commuters later in the morning. So then, tell me, what do you do after you have dumped the body?’ Vicary looked first at Brunnie, then at Ainsclough, and then at Brunnie again. ‘What do you do? Well, I’ll tell you what you do … you drive your car slowly away to avoid the sounds of a racing engine and squealing tyres. You drive leisurely to a location just two streets away to avoid bringing the police straight to the body, then you torch the vehicle … then … then what you do is hide in the shrubs of someone’s front garden … not too close to the burning car … make sure you are a few streets away. Then you wait until daybreak and calmly walk away towards the bus station or the Tube station … which is?’ Vicary turned to Brunnie.

  ‘Wimbledon terminus,’ Brunnie replied. ‘A very easy walk from here.’

  ‘All right, so he or they then wait until folk start walking to the Tube station or the bus stops, mingling with them, and by their dress they ensure that they are not looking too unusual or too out of place.’

  ‘That’s certainly what I would do,’ Brunnie growled in the same sour manner in which Vicary had growled a few moments earlier.

  ‘And me,’ Tom Ainsclough added. ‘That’s exactly what I would have done.’

  ‘Likewise myself.’ Vicary paused, as if in thought, and then he said, ‘You know, gentlemen, I think that it would take at least two people to put this body into a car and then remove it and dump it at the side of the road like this. Possibly one person might be able to do it but, frankly, I would put money on two people doing the deed; at least two persons. I would also say that after torching the car they would have separated and, at dawn at this time of year … say about six a.m. and later, when the first commuters emerge, they would have made their own separate ways to the public transport system. Do we know if the police helicopter attended the burning car?’

  ‘We don’t, sir,’ Brunnie replied, ‘but I can easily check.’

  ‘Yes, if you could, Frankie, if you could,’ Vicary replied with a warm smile. ‘I was thinking that the helicopter’s infra-red camera might have picked up body heat from someone skulking in the shrubs in the locality and, if so, the local police might have investigated and taken a name, at least a name, and if they did they would have recorded it and told us. So I think we can safely assume the helicopter did not attend. But please check anyway.’ Vicary paused. ‘We’ll have to trawl through the CCTV on the nearest streets, on the buses and on the Tube trains and stations. Tom …’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Tom Ainsclough responded eagerly, promptly.

  ‘Can you organize a house-to-house inquiry, please? If someone saw something of relevance I am sure that they would have come forward by now, but a house-to-house will still have to be done, nonetheless.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Tom Ainsclough replied. ‘I’ll get on to that right now.’ He turned and walked away.

  ‘Good man …’ Vicary called after the withdrawing figure of Tom Ainsclough. He then addressed Brunnie. ‘Any ID?’ he asked.

  ‘No wallet has been found, sir,’ Brunnie replied. ‘But we still have to do a thorough search of his clothing. Some other form of ID may be concealed therein.’

  ‘Very good. So, the post-mortem.’ Vicary glanced at John Shaftoe. ‘When can it be conducted, sir?’

  ‘I’ll do it directly,’ Shaftoe replied. ‘I have completed my examination at the scene … if you’ve taken all the photographs you need to take …?’

  ‘All done,’ Brunnie advised, ‘black and white and colour, long distance, close-ups from every angle … all done … all done and dusted.’

  ‘Very well,’ Shaftoe rubbed the palms of his hands on his jacket, ‘I’ll arrange for the body to be immediately removed to the Royal London. Will you be attending for the police, Mr Vicary?’

  ‘Yes,’ Vicary replied with finality and nodding his head as he spoke, ‘I will be there for the police. For my sins, I will be in attendance.’

  John Shaftoe reached up leisurely for the anglepoise arm which was bolted into the ceiling above the stainless steel dissecting table. The corpse of the as yet to be identified male who had, that morning, been found lying in the gutter in a street in a leafy well-set south London suburb was lying face up on the table with a starched white towel covering his genitals. Shaftoe pulled the anglepoise arm downwards until the tip which held the microphone was level with hi
s mouth. ‘Dykk,’ Shaftoe mumbled with undisguised annoyance, ‘damn and blast the wretched man.’ Shaftoe turned to Vicary. ‘Do you know that he fought tooth and nail against my appointment here at the Royal London … tooth and nail.’

  ‘Really?’ Vicary raised his eyebrows. ‘No, sir … in fact I didn’t know that,’ he replied diplomatically, rather than giving the truthful answer of ‘yes, you’ve told me many times’. Vicary stood against the wall of the pathology laboratory in the Royal London Hospital, Whitechapel and, like Shaftoe and Billy Button, the mortuary assistant, he was also dressed in green paper disposable coveralls with a matching hat and slippers, also disposable after being used once.

  ‘Well, he did but he was jolly well overruled and, being the grossly immature half-wit he is, he took it personally and has resented me since the day that I arrived. This is one of his little games … one of his tiny-minded little games. He’s quite a tall man, you see, and I am short, and he likes to push the microphone up out of my reach.’ Shaftoe paused. ‘You see, he … the good professor, doesn’t think that the sons of Yorkshire miners, that is when the UK had a coal industry … he doesn’t think that the sons of colliers who had modest local authority educations should be permitted to enter the elevated ranks of doctors. He is a pain. He is poison. He is the bane of my life.’ Shaftoe paused again, drew breath, and then continued. ‘So … a case file number and today’s date, please, Helen.’ Shaftoe spoke into the microphone for the evident benefit of the typist who would, later that day, be typing up Shaftoe’s report on her computer. ‘The corpse is that of a person of the male sex who is Northern European or Caucasian in respect of his racial extraction.’ Shaftoe laid both of his fleshy hands with their stubby fingers on the edge of the table and studied the corpse. Vicary noticed with satisfaction that the fingertips of the corpse were blackened with ink, clearly indicating that the scene of crime officers had already visited the hospital and taken the fingerprints. He knew it meant that, if the deceased was previously known to the police, then the man’s criminal record would at that moment be on its way to his desk at New Scotland Yard. Vicary further pondered that if the man was not known to the police, he would certainly be known to someone. The trim figure, the usually clean-shaven face, the neat haircut; this man was no socially isolated down-and-out. Somebody would already be missing him; somebody somewhere would soon be walking into a police station and making a missing person’s report. If indeed, Vicary pondered, they have not already done so.

  ‘Immediately obvious is extremely severe head trauma to the deceased.’ Shaftoe continued to speak into the microphone in a soft yet authoritative voice with a clear Yorkshire accent. ‘The head injury caused massive blood loss and was probably the cause of death. It is certainly sufficient to be fatal. No other injuries are in evidence on the anterior aspect and the body overall appears to be well nourished and hydrated.’ Shaftoe turned to his left and glanced across the laboratory towards Vicary. ‘He didn’t experience hunger or thirst before he died … at least not for a long time beforehand.’

  ‘Noted,’ Harry Vicary replied. ‘Thank you.’ Vicary then looked across to where Billy Button stood. Vicary had grown to despise him, always finding Button to be a nervous, whimpering wreck of a human being, living in a state of permanent terror of his own death yet strangely, Vicary had always thought, working as a laboratory assistant in a pathology laboratory, rather than, as Vicary had further thought, pushing a lawnmower for whichever London borough he lived in.

  ‘Billy,’ John Shaftoe, whom Vicary had observed was always much more accommodating of the timid Button than he could ever be, smiled at the awkward man and asked, ‘could you take the feet, please?’ Shaftoe then moved to the head of the corpse and took hold of the shoulders. ‘Clockwise from your aspect as usual, Billy,’ he said, then he counted ‘one … two … three,’ and the corpse was turned to lie upon its stomach in a single, clearly well-practised manoeuvre. ‘No injuries are noted on the posterior aspect.’ Shaftoe spoke into the microphone. ‘So back again, please, Billy, one … two … three,’ and together he and Button rotated the corpse once more so that it rested face up on the stainless steel table. Button stooped unasked to pick up the towel which had fallen on the floor during the first rotation and replaced it neatly over the middle of the corpse.

  ‘I have a little problem here, Mr Vicary.’ Shaftoe turned to Vicary whilst once again resting both hands on the edge of the table. ‘I have to remove the scalp so as to enable me to examine the head injuries … That might cause the face to sag … and that is going to be a problem if the identification is to be done by relatives viewing using the old mark one eyeball method.’

  ‘We could always use familial DNA,’ Vicary suggested. ‘I think that destroying the man’s appearance is a risk we will have to take if we are going to establish the cause of death. It seems to me that it’s unavoidable,’ Vicary added as he noticed Billy Button wring his thin wrists, clearly nervous at the prospect of having to watch flesh being peeled back from the skull of the deceased.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Billy,’ Shaftoe winked mischievously at Button and grinned, ‘he won’t feel a thing. I promise. Scalpel, please.’

  Billy Button, thin of face, forced a meek smile by means of reply as he handed Shaftoe the requested instrument, placing it firmly, handle first, in Shaftoe’s palm. Shaftoe took it and confidently drew it around the head of the deceased, just above the level of the ears. He placed the scalpel in a stainless steel tray of disinfectant and then, using both hands, peeled the scalp backwards, causing a slight tearing sound as he separated the scalp from the bone of the skull. ‘Ah … neater than I thought,’ he said to himself. Then, speaking into the microphone, he commented, ‘Two linear fractures are noted, both of which caused significant and indeed life-threatening injuries. Would you care to have a look, Mr Vicary?’

  Harry Vicary stepped forward, padding silently across the brown industrial-grade linoleum in his paper slippers. He approached the dissecting table and stood next to Shaftoe.

  ‘See this here …?’ Shaftoe pointed to the skull and with his fingertips traced the line of a fracture which ran around the right side of the skull of the deceased. Shaftoe turned the head. ‘Rigor is establishing,’ he observed. ‘That will help approximate the time of death. I would estimate that he was probably assaulted about six to eight hours ago … so say no earlier than about two or three a.m. today but that,’ he added with a smile, ‘is very unofficial.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Vicary also smiled. ‘Understood. Clear as daylight.’

  ‘Good man. This line was the first blow to be struck,’ Shaftoe continued. ‘As you can see, it caused a very serious fracture which runs round all the way to the back of the skull, from the side above the ear completely round to the back of the head of the deceased. Then he was struck a second time on the top of the head … this fracture just here …’ Shaftoe put his fingertip close to the second fracture, which Vicary noted ran from the middle of the top of the skull to the back of the skull where it terminated at the line of the first fracture. ‘You see how it does not go beyond the fracture line which runs round the back of the skull?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Vicary replied promptly.

  ‘Well, thanks to this we can tell the order in which the blows were struck because a fracture line will stop if it meets an existing fracture. So the first blow he sustained was this one, running around the side to the back of the skull, then he was struck again on the top of the head, causing a fracture line which then ran down the back of his skull and stopped when it met the first, pre-existing fracture. Both caused extensive bleeding and either could have been fatal.’ Shaftoe paused. ‘All right … so we continue … let’s look inside the mouth. You know your average gob is invariably a veritable gold mine of information.’

  ‘The gob …’ Vicary grinned. ‘Haven’t heard that word for a long time.’

  ‘Yorkshire for mouth.’ Shaftoe also grinned.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Vicary replied. �
��It’s such a lovely word.’

  Shaftoe peered into the mouth of the deceased, having prized open the jaws which gave with a soft crack. ‘Well, I can tell you that he’s home grown … he’s one of us all right, a true Brit … or at least a long-term resident of our right little, tight little island. I note British dentistry, so he is not from North America or Continental Europe, or anywhere further afield like Australia or New Zealand. He’s a Brit. Or, as I said, a long-term, very long-term resident here and because of the British dental work we can use his dental records to establish his ID, they being just as unique as his fingerprints. I think I might have preserved the face and so if a relative does come forward they can view the deceased, identify him and obtain some measure of closure for themselves, but if a name is suggested then we can always use dental records … Nothing else of note is in his mouth. There is no food caught in his teeth so he doesn’t appear to have eaten just prior to being murdered.’ Shaftoe paused. ‘Speaking of food, let’s see what he had for his last meal.’ Shaftoe asked Button to hand him a scalpel as he patted the stomach of the deceased. ‘There has not been much gas build up as would be in keeping with such a recently deceased corpse and so there is no need to take a deep breath.’ Shaftoe placed the scalpel at the throat of the deceased and drove an incision down over the chest to the bottom of the rib cage. From that point he drove the scalpel to each of the man’s hips, thus creating an inverted ‘Y’ figure on the anterior aspect. ‘I am making a standard midline incision.’ Shaftoe spoke authoritatively to the microphone as he skilfully manipulated the scalpel. He then peeled back the folds of flesh revealing the ribs, stomach and other internal organs. ‘The stomach is not distended.’ Shaftoe spoke again for the benefit of the tape. He then punctured the stomach wall, and as he did so Vicary heard a slight hiss as what stomach gases had built up escaped but, as Shaftoe had predicted, the pathology laboratory did not fill with sufficient malodorous air to dislodge the heavy scent of formaldehyde, as Vicary knew would be the case if a corpse of about seven days old or older were being dissected.