"Gavin Felgate; a fifty-four-year-old male with no significant underlying health condition. However," Paxton said, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, "with that said, he was not exactly a supreme example of the species for his age." He looked at Tom with a sideways smile. "He was generally in a poor state of health; early signs of cirrhosis in the liver, indicative of being a man prone to bouts of overindulging."
"We are led to believe he drank a fair bit," Tom said.
"That would be my guess, but the lack of inflammation or swelling suggests he hasn't been doing so recently."
"That's interesting," Tom said. "How about on the night of his death?"
Paxton shook his head. "Sober. There was no alcohol in his blood at all. Fiona was correct regarding the time of death; I have set it at between midnight and one in the morning. The lack of cloud cover and freezing temperatures leave a little leeway to the timings, so that is my best guess."
"Cause of death?"
"The result of a single blow to the head," Paxton said with a forlorn expression, leaning in to Felgate's face and pointing to the man's nose which was depressed and very obviously broken."
"One blow?" Cassie asked, sceptical.
"Oh yes, my dear. Believe me, one blow can be more than enough and it doesn't even need to be a particularly forceful blow if delivered correctly. And when I say correctly, I only mean in a manner that could lead to this eventuality." Cassie frowned. Tom had heard it was possible but had never come across such an instance in his career. As he understood it, these outcomes usually resulted from a victim falling to the ground and suffering a severe concussion from their impact with a kerb or a wall as they fell, not likely in an open field, even if the ground underfoot was deeply frozen. Dr Paxton glanced between them, the beginnings of a smile edging up at the corners of his mouth. "Is this a day for forensic scepticism, Detective Inspector?" Tom shook his head. "Good. It isn't so hard to comprehend once you understand how the brain works in conjunction with the spinal cord and its protective casing – the human skull." He straightened up, holding his left hand out flat in front of him, palm up. He placed his balled right fist on the left. "Imagine the brain as a jelly on a plate. If you shake the plate hard enough the jelly will also shake, slamming back and forth into the surrounding bone of the skull, and after a time it will begin to tear. When the brain rattles around inside the skull in this way, like a bouncy ball in a small irregular space – the skull with its facial bones – the neurons and cells that make up the soft brain tissue can be damaged. In this instance, the trauma of the blow and probably an awkward fall caused the victim's brain stem – a small part of the brain no larger than your thumb," he offered them the thumbs-up sign to visualise, "to tear away from where it connects to the spinal cord."
"And that was enough to kill him?" Tom said, looking down at Felgate.
"Oh yes, easily enough to kill him. Among other things the brain stem is responsible for autonomic nervous system functions such as regulating the body's breathing, heartbeat and digestion. Such damage can be life threatening if not dealt with immediately."
"Fiona Williams didn't find any evidence of a struggle prior to death. Does that still hold?"
Paxton nodded his agreement. "I found no other wounds, bruises or abrasions, no cuts or visible damage to the knuckles on either hand to imply a trading of blows. Nor was there any trace evidence under the fingernails that might tell you who else was with him that night … sorry," Paxton said, smiling apologetically. "I would even hazard a guess that the first blow was the only one in this exchange," he paused, looking thoughtful, "although if it was the only blow, then it can't really be labelled an exchange, can it? Never mind. At any rate, one blow and he would have died shortly afterwards."
"Can you at least say whether he was struck with a weapon, and if so what type?" Cassie asked. The two of them were quite capable of remaining professional, setting aside personal feelings for the sake of their work. Paxton thought hard.
"I've considered this," he said, scratching absently at his chin. "I found traces of soil in the face wound and I did wonder if someone had picked up a branch from the ground and used it to strike him," he made a downward motion with his right arm, "but I put the presence of it down to him landing face down in the earth and rolling. If he'd been struck with a branch or log, a spontaneous attack, if you will, then there would also be minute splinters of wood in the wound. If he was struck with a weapon brought to the scene by the killer, it would need to have been heavy, smooth, and probably easy to conceal."
"Why do you think so?" Tom asked, his curiosity piqued.
"The lack of defensive wounds of any kind … the solitary blow … points to a surprise attack for me. I don't think this poor soul saw it coming."
"Lured there unawares, perhaps?" Cassie said.
"Conjecture," Paxton said, with no admonishment attached to the comment. "I couldn't say that either way but no one stands there waiting to be struck. If they do, then they are very foolish indeed."
"True," Tom said, "or they felt unable to act in their defence for some reason." Paxton inclined his head, acknowledging the logic. "Other than that?"
"Other than that," Paxton said, frowning, "I can tell you what Mr Felgate had for his dinner at approximately eight o'clock that evening – a tandoori chicken meal, vegetable fried rice – Basmati no less, if I had to guess – and a naan bread, but the fried aspect makes it rather less healthy than the boiled alternative."
That confirmed what they already thought giving the purchase of the takeaway meal added importance. They could do with finding the person who took the order or made the delivery.
"How much had he eaten?" Tom asked. Paxton looked at him quizzically. "We know a takeaway was purchased and consumed at his address the night he died, but if he ate alone then he—"
"Would have had a healthy appetite, yes I understand," Dr Paxton said, crossing to his desk and returning with his notes. He put his glasses on and began reading through his handwritten notes. "I'm sorry, I transcribed these from my voice recording only an hour ago and forgot some of the finer details. Ah … here we are." He stood in silence, his brow furrowing as he went back over what he'd written. "I would say he consumed an above-average portion. Bearing in mind what he was already digesting and what was left in his stomach I would expect there to be leftovers. Does that match with what you found?"
Tom shook his head. "Not from what I saw in the containers although we'll have forensics go through the bins and check it wasn't thrown away."
"That would be a waste of a rather tasty meal, if that was the case."
"Sacrilege," Cassie said and both men looked at her. "Throwing away a takeaway. I enjoy a decent Indian."
"So do I, young lady," Paxton said, leaning forward and addressing her over the rim of his glasses, "but a home-cooked one is far more preferable to that of a takeaway."
"I wouldn't disagree," she said. "My Butter Chicken recipe is a culinary delight."
"Be advised, though, you should always rinse the rice prior to cooking, whichever method you choose," Paxton said. Cassie raised an eyebrow in query. "Arsenic. The natural levels found in rice are rather high. Rinsing prior to cooking reduces it. Heavy metal content should be restricted to musical preferences for those desiring a longer life."
Cassie nodded slowly. "Thanks for the tip."
They left pathology, Dr Paxton promising to have the formal report completed and sent over to them as quickly as possible.
"Dr Death was even weirder than usual today," Cassie said.
Tom glanced sideways as they walked. "I thought the two of you got on better today, or was that just me?" She shrugged. "What is it with you and him anyway?"
"I don't know," Cassie said. "I guess I'd find anyone who seems to take so much pleasure in death quite creepy."
"I wouldn't say he takes pleasure in it, but he's diligent in his job."
"Yeah, exactly – creepy," she said, pushing open the door to the car p
ark and allowing Tom to go first. He smiled as he passed, shaking his head. The breeze was picking up but the skies were still clear. It was going to be another cold night. "Never trust anyone who surrounds themselves with dead people, that's what my old mum used to say."
"Did she?" Tom asked, his mobile ringing. He took it out of his pocket, looking at the screen and seeing it was Eric.
"Nah, not really," she said with a smile. "My mam would never be so profound. She'd probably recommend a good takeaway, mind you."
"Hi Eric, we're just leaving pathology and heading back in. What's up?"
"We've got forensics back from the crime scene. I thought you'd want to know as soon as possible. The rope – the one used to tie the noose with – the fingerprints have come back and we have a match."
"Excellent. What's the name?"
"That's just it," Eric said, sounding dejected. "One set of prints and they belong to Gavin Felgate."
Tom stopped in his stride, almost lost for words. Cassie looked over at him, curious.
"Okay, do me a favour would you, Eric? Can you tell me how much food waste was dumped in the kitchen bin, if any?"
"In the … um … right, hang on." The thump of the receiver being put down on a desk was followed by typing on a keyboard. Then Eric was back. "The bins hadn't been emptied for a few days based on what was in them. D–Do you want me to run through the contents?"
"Specifically relating to the takeaway food purchased on the night."
"Ah, right. Yes, of course," Eric said, his tone lightening. "Er … minimal. Is that what you were … expecting?"
"Someone was with Gavin Felgate at his house that night."
"Yes, we have more fingerprints taken from the cutlery, plates and a glass but there are no matches in the system for them."
"I want family members fingerprinted for comparison and dismissal. And I want to know who the mystery woman was who has been seen at his home recently."
"And every contact in his mobile phone call history, I'm with you," Eric said.
"That's it, Eric. Keep going."
He hung up. Cassie waited expectantly.
"Felgate tied the noose himself," Tom said, slipping his mobile back into his pocket.
"Say that again," Cassie said. "Why would he do that? You don't think he was going to kill himself, do you?"
Tom shrugged. "If he was, then why would someone try and kill him? Why kill a man about to kill himself?"
"You wouldn't, obviously," Cassie said. "How about accidentally killing a man when trying to stop them killing themselves? That's beyond ridiculous."
"And from what I've seen so far, Felgate doesn't strike me as a man looking to end it all."
"Weird," Cassie said, opening the car door and getting in.
Chapter Eleven
DCI Tamara Greave hesitated as she raised her hand to knock on the door. Never one to experience apprehension when summoned to come before a senior officer, this was unusual. The same could be said for the chief superintendent's tone when he'd called her shortly after the morning briefing. Taking a breath, she gently knocked and received a call to enter. Opening the door, she walked in purposefully; grateful to only see Chief Superintendent Collins present in the office, sitting behind his desk.
"Good morning, sir."
"Tamara, excellent. Come in," he said, offering her a warm smile by way of greeting. "Do sit down."
She picked up the nearest chair and set it down opposite him, feeling a measure of anxiety. Something about Collins was wrong, his demeanour, tone… something.
"What can I do for you, sir?"
He sat forward, resting his elbows on the desk before him, making a show of shuffling some papers on the desk. "I just wanted to … touch base with you on this suspicious death down in King's Lynn."
"Roydon Common?"
"Yes, indeed. How is the investigation coming along?"
The question was fairly open, not particularly probing but she sensed hesitancy on his part.
"Early days," she said, not wishing to pre-empt the direction of the inquiry. She was keen to hear what Tom and Cassie would have learned from their trip to pathology and the early forensic reports were intriguing, if a little baffling. They certainly weren't in any position to be definitive on any aspect at this time. The fact the chief superintendent was so interested was curious. "But we have several lines of enquiry to follow up on."
"That's good to know." Collins frowned, pursing his lips and absently touching the mouse next to his keyboard, moving it to the right. "It was … my understanding that this could well be a suicide gone awry. Is that a feasible hypothesis?"
She was curious as to how he came by this theory as it wasn't given serious consideration by her team. She shook her head. "Early signs would indicate that isn't the case. May I ask what your interest is?" The question was asked more directly than perhaps it should have been, particularly in light of the stern expression that came her way from Collins and she tried to recover by adding a smile. It didn't soften the look he gave her.
"I would like you to remember we took that case as a favour to our colleagues," he said pensively. "And when we do favours it doesn't pay to make a mess, if you follow."
"Not really, sir, no." Tamara's reply was genuine.
"Your team have been asking questions related to a former investigation, into the suicide of Ciaran Haverson. Why is that?"
Tamara was caught by surprise. How on earth did he know that? Her facial expression must have conveyed the unspoken question. "It may be related to the suspicious death of Gavin Felgate."
"Am I correct in thinking that he was a journalist?"
She nodded. "Yes, he was."
"And his interest in the Haverson case was what exactly?"
She shook her head. "At this time, we can't say, sir. But he was asking some questions and he died—"
"At the same location," Collins said, chewing on his lower lip.
She confirmed it with a nod. "It would appear so."
"That was a traumatic investigation for everyone concerned. It would be a shame to have to rake all of that up again."
"I agree, sir. We are still building a picture."
"Please … tread carefully, Tamara."
"We will, sir."
He held her gaze for a few moments, and just as she began to feel uncomfortable under his scrutiny, he slowly lowered his eyes to the papers on his desk.
"Keep me advised."
* * *
Hesitating at the entrance to the ops room, Tamara could hear Tom speaking with Cassie and Eric. The brief chat with the chief superintendent had left her with an uneasy feeling but she had no idea why. Her mobile beeped. It was a text message from her mum. She swiped it away from her screen without opening it and entered ops. Tom looked up, pausing, but she waved him on, perching herself on the edge of a desk at the rear intent on catching up.
"Right," Tom said, "we have two lines of approach I want to take at the moment. Eric, I want you to find out what Gavin Felgate was working on. His editor has told us what he was assigned to. In the meantime, Cassie and I will do the rounds speaking to the people he'd interviewed recently. Have you had Felgate's tech brought up from his house yet?"
Eric nodded. "We have his mobile, as you know, and I've already been onto his service provider. They're gathering his data together for us and sending it over later. I'll have his call and text message records going back three months by this afternoon. Anything beyond that and they'll have to access their archives but that shouldn't be a problem." Eric looked over his shoulder to where several archive boxes were set aside. "And I have the laptop from his house along with his work files to go through. What do you want me to focus on?"
"Look for the pieces he was supposed to be writing and also anything recent that no one else is talking about. His interest in the Haverson case may be purely journalistic or … he might have had a different reason."
"Hold on," Tamara said. The three of them turned to her. "Are you sug
gesting there could be another reason, other than investigating the suicide?"
Tom nodded. "I know it is easy to think he was investigating it afresh, as per Dr Langford's suggestion, but his fingerprints being found on the noose suggests his interest could have been something altogether different entirely."
"That he was what – involved somehow?"
"Possibly," Tom said. "What was he doing tying that noose to the tree?"
"Recreating it?" Cassie asked. "To experience the scene for the writing of his book—"
"Or reliving it," Eric said quietly, "before doing another one."
Tom pointed to Eric. "We can't rule anything out."
Tamara was perplexed. "What did Dr Paxton have to say?"
"He's of the opinion that Felgate was not alone on the common, and that he was most likely assaulted," Tom said.
"But there's no evidence to prove it," Cassie added, pursing her lips. "And he had some food safety advice." Tamara shot her a quizzical look. "I'll tell you later, if you're interested?"
"So, Eric," Tom said, returning his attention to assigning tasks, "I want a list of Felgate's contacts, who he was talking to and how frequently. Then I want you to cross reference them against the Haverson suicide: family, school friends, neighbours … if he had a paper round, everything you can find. How did you get on with the calls he made the night he died?”
Eric nodded. "No joy with the unregistered number. I called the taxi firm, though, and spoke to their coordinator. She told me a taxi was booked to pick him up from his home at ten-thirty that night."
"How far ahead of time?"
"Three days before, so it was planned and not booked on the fly."
"Destination?" Tom asked, eyeing the map pinned to the white board.
"Hunstanton," Eric said, shaking his head, "but no specific address, just heading to Hunstanton. She checked with the driver and he dropped him off on Sandringham Road just after eleven."
A Dark Sin: Hidden Norfolk - Book 8 Page 8