A Dark Sin: Hidden Norfolk - Book 8

by Dalgliesh, J M

  "I'm well. Really. Thank you for getting in touch. I'm sorry I didn't—"

  "Detective Constable Collet!"

  A booming voice came from within. Eric smiled at Kerry once more and she returned it, her eyes dipping away from his gaze. He couldn't think why. Eric turned and headed inside. PC Marcus Weaver greeted him from where he stood in the kitchen. He was a bear of a man with a naturally intense stare that always aided him in gaining the upper hand in any given confrontation. He was the colleague everyone wanted by their side when policing the town on a Friday night, particularly when the pubs turned out.

  "Hi Marcus, what do you have for me?"

  Kerry Palmer remained at the door and Eric followed Marcus deeper into the house. The kitchen opened up into a vaulted living area, open up to the beams of the ceiling, with full-width glazing that opened out onto decking overlooking the beach. Eric's gaze was drawn to the horizon. They were in one of the few places in England where you could be standing in the east of the country watching the sun setting over the sea. The sun was beneath the cloud layer now and slowly slipping from sight. Eric was sure he would never tire of the view but Marcus wasn't facing the scenery. He had his back to it. Eric turned and stared.

  The living room was double height but to the rear of the property was a mezzanine floor, by the look of it accommodating a bedroom – open to the room below via a glass balustrade – and from here a man was suspended, hanging from a length of bed sheet, Eric thought, tied around his neck and then looped over a newel post. The body gently swayed in the breeze caused by the draught from the open door through the kitchen. His feet were dangling at head height, the sound of what Eric realised was the weight of the body pulling the material tight and flexing the wood of the newel post, a low groan murmuring with each sway.

  "You'd better come upstairs, get a closer look," Weaver said, gesturing to the staircase on the far side of the room.

  He led the way and Eric followed, not taking his eyes from the body. The excitement of getting out of the office and back into the field had dissipated now. This was the reality of what the job was. The sheet had been doubled over and knotted to shorten it, the body hanging from the mezzanine but the man's head was only a foot or so below the top of the newel. The length was immaterial, though. Eric had attended suicides where the deceased had tied a belt to a wardrobe handle and achieved terminal asphyxiation; it was about angles and the tautness of the material above all else.

  He leaned over the balustrade, eyeing the man's face. From the discolouration of the skin, Eric figured he'd probably been dead for a day at most, but no more than that. The smell of death was present but it wasn't that of a decomposing body, not yet at least. The house felt cold, as if the heating hadn't been on which slowed the process but, all the same, a dead body had a particularly distinctive odour to it. Either that or it was Eric's imagination. He never knew and hadn't ever asked anyone else if they felt the same.

  "Do you see the neck abrasions?"

  Eric focussed on the neckline where the sheet was tight against the skin. He immediately saw what Weaver was getting at. The material had been drawn across the skin before pulling tight under the man's weight leaving abrasions much as one might expect, red patches where it had forcibly scraped over the skin, but there was something about the angle of the injuries that looked wrong. Eric glanced at Weaver.

  "You're thinking he was choked prior to the hanging, aren't you?"

  Weaver smiled. "I always said you were smarter than most, Eric."

  Eric felt his pride swell but he refrained from smiling. It didn't seem appropriate somehow. He looked over the body again. The man was early to mid-thirties and Eric noticed his tan before anything else. The tan didn't look bottled, and the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes were pronounced indicating he spent a lot of time under direct sun. Wherever he'd been recently, it wasn't wintery Norfolk. His hair was sandy brown, short at the back and sides but longer on top, flopping to each side in a mix of waves and curls. He was dressed in a loose-fitting polo shirt and jeans. Again, Eric was surprised due to the nature of their recent weather.

  "Do we have a name?"

  "The property is registered to Harry Empson," Weaver said, producing his pocketbook. "I can see his wallet in his back pocket but I thought it best to leave it where it is until you guys got here."

  Eric nodded, looking around. The bedroom stretched to the back of the house, a window overlooked the parking area. There was a single door to an ensuite bathroom as well. The bed wasn't made and a rucksack lay atop it alongside a smaller sports holdall. Eric crossed to them. They were both fastened shut and he noted the airline baggage tags looped through the handles. They didn't look old, more likely recent which might explain the man's tan. Besides the barcodes, Eric noted the name Empson as well as the flight number which he recognised as a British Airways marker and an arrival point in the UK, Heathrow.

  "I wonder where he's been?" Eric said to no one in particular. From his vantage point on the mezzanine, Eric noted the roller shutters along the top of the wall of glass opposite him overlooking the promenade. He gestured to them. "Were the shutters down when you got here?"

  Weaver shook his head. "No, they were up. The old boy walking his dog stopped to pick up its mess and happened to glance inside. He got one hell of a shock; I can tell you. We haven't touched a thing."

  Eric nodded, looking directly out at the path along the top of the sea defences. The glass was coated with something, no doubt to keep some of the summer heat out but also to cloud the interior and offer a measure of privacy from passers by. That was understandable seeing as the property boundary butted up against the promenade and only the deck separated the interior from the path.

  "How did you gain entry?"

  "The same way you did. The door was unlocked. Closed, but unlocked."

  Eric rubbed at his chin, looking at the bags and the unmade bed before turning back to the dead man. He sighed.

  "We'll get the FME over to confirm but I'd say he's been dead for less than a day. Do you agree?"

  Weaver nodded. "No more than that."

  "Bed's not made," Eric said. "Yet to unpack. I'll check his flight info but my guess is he got here some time yesterday, maybe last night."

  "And died soon after," Weaver said.

  "Ever hear of a suicide where the guy travels to another country just to top himself?"

  "No… but people are strange."

  Eric smiled. "True. I'd better get Scenes of Crime out here." He took out his mobile and switched it on, making his way back downstairs. There was a flurry of beeps as voicemail notifications and text messages came through. He was relieved to see they were predominantly from Cassie along with a text from Becca asking him if he needed collecting from work. Becca was less keen on him going back out into the field than Tom Janssen appeared to be, so he quickly typed out a reply to say he'd get a lift home from one of the others. Then he called Cassie.

  "Cass—"

  "Where have you been, Eric? I had something I needed you to look into," Cassie said. "I've just got back to the station and they tell me you're off out and I've been calling."

  "Yeah, I can explain," he said, talking over her. "We've got something that—"

  "Eric, does Tom know where you are?"

  He chewed on his lip. "No." He could sense her frustration but she wasn't angry, more concerned. He was touched, until she spoke again.

  "He'll do his nut when he finds out you—"

  "I'm okay, Cass. I promise." He felt guilty. "I'm already tired of sitting behind a desk, you know?"

  There was a pause.

  "Okay, fair enough. Don't worry about Tom. He'll be fine, I should imagine. Eventually. Where are you anyway?"

  "Heacham. Suspicious death."

  "And is it?"

  "I'd say so," Eric said, glancing back at the body he presumed was Harry Empson. "Crudely made to look like a suicide if you ask me."

  "Great. That's all we need. I'll have to do m
y own leg work if you're tied up there." Her voice sounded lighter, relieved.

  "Did you have any joy with David Fysh's other half?"

  "No, he's gone off on business for a few days but she doesn't know where. For what it's worth, I believe her. But she has given me the name of an old school friend that he may confide in, so that's worth following up. Some bloke called Empson."

  "Sorry, what?" Eric asked, staring up at the body. "Did you say… Empson?"

  "Yes, why?"

  "Um… I think I know where to find him."

  "You do? Great! Where?"

  "I'm looking at him… but he's not going to have a lot to say for himself."

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The flash of camera bulbs going off momentarily distracted Tom as he knelt alongside the body. The crime scene technicians had brought the body down, laying it on a gurney on the lower floor in the centre of the living area, having been photographed prior to his arrival. The body bag was yet to be closed, allowing Tom a chance to take in the dead man's appearance. He cast a glance up at the mezzanine and then looked out over the sea. Dr Fiona Williams tracked his gaze.

  "I think Eric was spot on," she said. Tom looked back at her, offering her a half-smile. He saw Eric in his peripheral vision speaking to a forensic investigator at the top of the stairs. They hadn't caught up yet and Tom knew his detective constable was keeping his distance from him. Fiona Williams drew his focus back to the body. "You see the damage to the skin tissue from the sheet?"

  He looked closer to where she was pointing and nodded.

  "The width of the abrasion where the cotton was drawn tight against the skin is fifty millimetres, give or take, about what you'd expect from a sheet fashioned into a makeshift noose." She held a pen in her hand, moving the tip up and down to signify the start and end of the abrasion. "It moves in a V-shape, upwards from just above the larynx in an upward trajectory to the crown of the head."

  "As one would expect with a suicide by hanging."

  "Quite so," she said smiling. "Likewise, death was most likely by way of ligature strangulation. The petechiae we can see beneath the eyelids and at the corners of the mouth, as well as the bleeding within the mouth itself, are all indicative of constriction to the arterial flow of blood to the head. But here's the thing," she beckoned him closer still, pointing to a narrow channel in the skin of the neck moving width-ways across the neck, just above the larynx, "this line here was not caused by the sheet. It's too fine, too narrow, almost cuts into the tissue itself and moves horizontally."

  "He was strangled prior to hanging," Tom said quietly.

  "I'm absolutely certain of it," she concluded. "Whether he was dead prior to hanging or merely unconscious, I can't say. I should imagine he will have lost consciousness within a few minutes under the strain. You can also see these random marks to either side of the line."

  "Scratch marks," Tom said. She nodded. "He was clawing at it."

  "The attacker must have had some strength about him." She frowned, eyeing the body up and down. "He's in his early to mid-thirties, in physically good shape – besides being dead, obviously. You'd think he'd have managed to put up quite a struggle."

  Tom looked around. There were no signs of a struggle which surprised him. "You're sure he pushed back? I don't see any facial wounds. What about his hands?"

  She lifted one arm from where it lay at his side, examining the back of the hand and the fingertips.

  "Well, there are no cuts or grazes to the knuckles suggesting a physical confrontation, but I'd say that with the bruising to the tissue of the neck, he fought to free himself. There is some tissue under the nails but the lab analysis may determine it belongs to him. The scratching, as you said."

  Tom scanned the interior again. "What do you think was used?"

  Fiona screwed her nose up, thinking hard. "It won't be a length of wire, more likely a narrow cable. A length of electrical flex, perhaps? There are no patterns in the skin depressions, so that would make it smooth, so I think that's your best bet. But if I had to guess, I'd say he wasn't strangled here."

  Tom offered her a quizzical look.

  "I could do with some help," she said.

  "Eric!" Tom called and the DC broke away from what he was doing and hurried down the stairs to them. He smiled nervously at Tom as he approached.

  "If you could help me lever him up onto his side please, Detective Constable Collet," Fiona said. Between the two of them, they eased him up so Tom could see the man's back. "Do you see his backside?"

  Tom bent and looked, noting some vegetation and detritus caught in the metal studs around the pocket of his jeans. There appeared to be sand or dried mud in the seams as well. Eric and Fiona lowered him back down.

  "Eric, make sure forensics are searching the compound out back. He may have been attacked outside as he came home." Eric nodded and, as he turned to leave; Tom touched his forearm stopping him from moving off. "Good work, Eric."

  Eric smiled and made his way over to speak to the head of the processing team.

  "I've bagged samples for the lab."

  Tom nodded his thanks to Fiona. "Time of death?"

  She looked at the body. "Around midnight last night, I'd say."

  Tom sighed. "Okay, thank you."

  "One hell of a welcome home, isn't it?"

  He agreed, stepping away. Cassie bounded over to him, notebook in hand.

  "What have you got, Cassie?"

  "Passport found in the side pocket of his holdall matches the driving licence in his wallet," she said, scanning her notes. "Harry Empson, thirty-three years of age. This is his registered address, although," she glanced around, "it doesn't look like he spends a great deal of time here. He's unmarried, no dependents and as far as I can tell he has no family living locally either. There is a sister, though, living in Manchester but the address isn't current, apparently. Local officers are trying to track her down."

  "Right. Where's he been recently?"

  "Flew into Heathrow yesterday afternoon on a British Airways flight out of Lagos, Nigeria. He landed at six. What time did Fiona give us as time of death?"

  "Midnight."

  Cassie frowned. "Doesn't leave a lot of time before coming here, does it?"

  Tom shook his head. "Must have cleared customs and travelled. Does he have a car?"

  She shook her head. "There was nothing here. I'll check with the DVLA to see if he has one registered to him and, if he has, it may have been stolen."

  "Good thinking. Find out who has the airport shuttle contracts locally among the taxi firms as well, see if anyone had a collection booked for that flight yesterday."

  "Will do."

  "Any idea what Mr Empson did for a living?"

  "He had this in his wallet," Cassie said, producing a plastic evidence bag and passing it to Tom. Inside the bag was a credit-card sized photographic ID with an issue date eight years ago. The picture was undoubtedly Empson, only he looked fresh-faced and was sporting a goatee beard. The logo was one Tom didn't recognise, with the abbreviation W.o.B. in the top right-hand corner. He held it aloft with a quizzical look towards Cassie. "Without Borders," she said, raising her eyebrows. "It's a non-governmental organisation working in various locations across Africa, prioritising the development of health infrastructure to remote communities. Fresh water, access to basic medicines and vaccinations, that type of thing according to their website. I ran a background check on him."

  "Any hits?"

  She shook her head. "Clean as a whistle. I ran this place," she waved her hand in the air in a circular motion, "and it belonged to his parents. Both of them are deceased; killed in a traffic accident a decade ago. The ownership transferred to him following the completion of probate."

  "Check this out," Eric said, approaching them from the rear of the living room clutching something in his hand. Tom hadn't noticed he'd come back in from outside. Eric was excited, handing a book to Tom. It was a crime thriller. Tom opened it at Eric's insistence, finding a
handwritten dedication at the foot of the title page.

  To my fellow Musketeer,

  G.

  Tom's lips parted slightly and he looked at Eric, closing the book and passing it to Cassie. She opened it and leafed through to the entry.

  "What on earth is going on here?" she asked. Tom raised his eyebrows. Cassie quickly flicked further through the book with her thumb, and a slip of paper fell out onto the floor. She knelt, picking it up. It was a picture. Before rising she cursed under her breath.

  "What is it?" Tom asked.

  She stood up, reversing the photograph so Tom could see. He squinted at the faded image. It was tatty and dog-eared. He didn't understand the significance. Cassie smiled wryly.

  "I've seen this picture before." Tom and Eric exchanged a glance. Eric was in the dark too. "Gavin Felgate had this picture set as the background on his laptop."

  "Who are they?" he asked, taking it from her and examining it closely. Three boys were sitting side by side, smiling at the camera. Tom guessed they were teenagers. They were all wearing shorts and T-shirts, so he figured it was summer. Their clothing was nondescript but modern, as were their haircuts. Nothing was distinctive enough to identify the era or any particular location, but it did seem as if they were in someone's back garden; a wooden fence was in the background and a bicycle wheel had crept into the shot lying across a concrete path, the likes of which were commonly found in housing estates built in the twentieth century.

  "I didn't think much about it when I was going through Felgate's files, it was just a background." Cassie shrugged. "I figured they were nephews, his kid and friends or something."

  Tom clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "We need to know who they are.”

  Eric reached for the picture and Tom handed it to him. Eric smiled, appearing thoughtful.

  "What is it?" Tom asked.