A Dark Sin: Hidden Norfolk - Book 8

by Dalgliesh, J M

  "Um… do you have children yourself?"

  "Me? Certainly not. Very impractical little things… fiddly," Paxton said holding up his hand and squeezing thumb and forefinger together momentarily.

  "Right, yes of course." Eric pursed his lips. He was spent. "Harry Empson?"

  "Mr Empson, absolutely," Paxton said, grasping the sheet and gently drawing it away from the head and revealing the upper torso down to the waist. "As you guessed at the scene, it was a rather amateur attempt at staging the scene and attempting to pass it off as a suicide. You're either dealing with inexperience or basic incompetence. This would never get past even a cursory examination by a professional."

  "What can you tell me that I didn't already know?"

  "Patience, young man. Please don't steal my moment," Paxton said. "I live for these days; they validate my years of academic study."

  He crossed to retrieve his notes from his desk off to one side, returning and reading through them as Eric cast an eye over Harry Empson.

  "I can confirm that it was not a death by suicidal strangulation. In a hanging the signs of venous congestion are very well developed above the ligature and are also especially prominent at the root of the tongue, most likely due to the slow tightening of the ligature as well as the fact it remains in place after death – until you arrive or some poor soul who discovers them. Now, if you'll look here," he encouraged Eric to look at the neck, pointing to the abrasions clearly visible, "you can see this yellowing of the skin but there are no signs of vital reaction." He read Eric's expression, sighing. "It means he was already dead before this particular ligature was applied. You can also see these other marks here and here," he pointed to them with the tip of his finger, "where there are more than one ligature mark demonstrating he was attempting to free himself from his assailant or his attacker was attempting to tighten the ligature. Neither of those marks come close to fully encircling the neck and they are mostly prominent at the front of the neck which is indicative of the main force of the pulling coming from behind. This would also explain the lack of defensive wounds."

  Eric met his eye. "He was jumped from behind."

  Paxton nodded. "I did find trauma to the abdomen, tissue damage that didn't have time to bruise seeing as he was dead shortly after."

  "So, he was in a fight?"

  Paxton nodded. "Oh, I would say so, yes. I think he was fighting for his life and he knew it but, sadly, which is the way with these things, he wouldn't have had a great deal of time to react. One can slip into unconsciousness rather quickly once a cord is around the throat. I found macroscopic bleeding of the laryngeal muscles which is seldom found in suicides."

  "Why is that?" Eric asked, doing his best to remember his biology classes at school and the layout of muscles in the throat.

  "As is often the case, the murderer applies a little too much overkill. In their desire to finish the victim off, they deploy far more force than is required for the kill, often as a result of blood lust or adrenalin as the thrill of the kill takes over. I noted there were also two hairline fractures to both his second and third ribs on the right side of the cage to the front, which back up the evidence of there being a struggle."

  "But no defensive wounds to his hands that I could see," Eric said, looking down at the body.

  Dr Paxton put his folder down and lifted the right hand, splaying the fingers wide and encouraging Eric to look closer. "No scratches, you're quite right. But you see here," he held the index finger, "the fingernail is split and that was most certainly recent as it hadn't hardened or discoloured. I also removed detritus from beneath several fingernails. I've sent the samples off to be tested but I would expect a healthy DNA sample to come back to aid you in narrowing down his attackers."

  "That's great."

  "Don't be too excited, young man. There's every possibility it was his own skin deposited there as he clawed at the cord around his neck, but you never know."

  "Why did you say plural just then?"

  Paxton shot Eric a look as if it was the most obvious statement he could have made. "Logical, I think you'll find, Constable. How tall would you say Mr Empson is?"

  Eric looked him up and down. "Five ten—"

  "Very good, that's almost spot on. You have a keen eye. Weight?"

  "One hundred and eighty to ninety pounds?"

  "Close. Two hundred and five pounds, to be precise." Paxton produced copies of photographs taken at the beach house with Empson still hanging from the mezzanine. "My conclusion is that the man was dead prior to his suspension. If you look at the photos you can see where he was hanging. In order to lever a man of this size over the edge while he was unconscious would take an incredible amount of strength. The dead weight, if you'll pardon the expression, of a man this size may as well be three or four times his actual weight when you consider getting him up the stairs and into position. Now, remember the yellow skin around the ligature caused by his post-mortem hanging, there is no movement in the positioning of that ligature. Do you see?"

  Eric smiled, nodding along but he didn't see it at all. He felt a little embarrassed to ask. Fortunately, Dr Paxton realised and waved away Eric's blank expression.

  "I suspect they were worried about the makeshift noose holding and carefully lowered him over the edge. Maybe they thought his weight alone might pull the newel post down with him or yank his head clean."

  "Yes, thank you," Eric said, holding up a hand. He could already feel his breakfast churning in his stomach and didn't need further detail to colour his imagination even more.

  "Well, anyway, I think he was lowered over the balustrade just in case it didn't hold. Otherwise, I would expect to find a more deviated pattern as he swung back and forth."

  Eric gagged, grimacing.

  "Are you all right, Detective Constable? You're looking a little green."

  "I'll be fine," Eric said. "And I get the picture. There must have been more than one. But are you sure one man couldn't do it?"

  Paxton's brow creased in concentration. "I suppose if your killer has superhuman strength… no, that's not fair, if he works a physical job or spends a lot of time lifting weights in the gym, then it is plausible that he could have acted alone but I would be impressed."

  "Impressed?"

  Paxton smiled. "Poor choice of phrase." He inclined his head. "Sorry."

  "And what do you think was used? The FME thought it might be an electrical flex of some kind, smooth, rather than a rope."

  "Yes, I should say so. There is a consistent groove pattern in the skin, too thick to be a wire and seeing as it left no pattern it is unlikely to have been a rope. Electrical flex would do the trick, right enough."

  Chapter Thirty

  "So, what are you thinking?" Tamara asked Tom, standing in front of the information boards in ops, scanning the photographs.

  "From what Mikey, the sous-chef I spoke to this morning, says, David Fysh and James Cook go way back." His forehead furrowed as he tried to see the link that remained tantalisingly out of reach. "But, according to Cook himself, he was just an employee and they barely knew one another. Cook also told us that Gavin Felgate only spoke to him and Fysh in relation to the article he was supposed to be writing but Mikey was also interviewed at the time."

  Tamara sighed. "He may not have realised… or he plain forgot." Tom glanced sideways at her, completely failing to mask his dismissal of the suggestion. She smiled. "I know, I know, but it's the first thing a decent solicitor would throw at us. Admittedly, I think it unlikely. He was lying to us. The question is why? What do we know about James Cook?"

  Tom shook his head. "Nothing yet. He isn't in the system but Cassie is looking into it." He looked over to her sitting at her desk, phone clamped to her ear by her shoulder and scribbling away in her notebook and apparently surfing the internet at the same time.

  "How can that be? Fysh employs ex-offenders and didn't Cook himself say he'd most likely be in jail if it wasn't for Fysh giving him a chance?"

 
; Tom nodded. "Yes. So, you're right, he should be in the system, even if it was just a caution."

  "Unless it was a juvenile conviction that has already been expunged from the record?"

  "You don't understand," Tom said, shaking his head, "there's no mention of James Cook at all in the system, prior to four years ago anyway."

  Tamara looked at him, perplexed.

  "Exactly," Tom said, his frown deepening further. "James Cook appears on the electoral register four years ago and that's the first official reference we have for him so far. We looked into social media accounts and he's there, sharing pictures and jokes but—"

  "Only going back four years?"

  Tom nodded. "Now, it's possible he was inside and after release landed the job locally which would explain it to some degree but we'd still expect to find his record."

  "And if they go way back that would suggest they knew each other for more than just the last four years."

  "Agreed," Tom said, indicating the photo of the three boys they'd recently found to be of significance. "What if he's this one here," he said, pointing to the boy Greg Beaty failed to identify. Tamara moved closer, examining the picture.

  "Ciaran Haverson."

  "What?" Tom asked.

  "That's Ciaran Haverson," Tamara said, pointing to the boy in question and tapping the picture with her forefinger. Tom leaned over, his gaze narrowing. "That's the third boy. I'm almost certain."

  "Really?" he asked, looking closer. Imagining the boy without the glasses, he could see the resemblance. Although, his hair looked lighter than it had in the crime scene photographs of the day.

  "But the hair…"

  "Summer's day, lots of sun… take it from me, your hair can be bleached and look totally different at the end of the season," Tamara said, her eyes flitting to Tom's hair. "It's not something you'd understand being so fair already. If yours lightened further, we'd think you were turning white!"

  "Thanks very much. Why didn't I see that?" He was irritated.

  "That's why I'm in charge, Thomas."

  Tom offered her a sideways smile, still peering over the picture. The revelation, however, did little to help him understand the relationship with James Cook.

  "So, does Cook have a hold over Fysh?" he asked.

  "What sort of hold?"

  "I don't know. I'm just thinking out loud."

  Cassie said her goodbyes, drawing their attention as she thanked the caller and hung up. Spinning her chair to face them, her face split into a broad grin.

  "Now that was illuminating," she said.

  "Well don't keep us in the dark, Cassandra," Tamara said.

  "That was our human resources contact for the NGO Harry Empson works for in Africa." She looked at Tom. "Scrub what I said earlier about corporate interests slowing stuff down, she was the complete opposite. Harry Empson has been working for them in Benin, West Africa, fairly close to Massè which is close to the border with Nigeria."

  "Which explains why he flew out of Lagos," Tom said.

  Cassie smiled. "You know your African geography."

  "I got good grades at high school, it's true."

  "Where it gets interesting is Empson is at the heart of a project improving schooling which is of little interest to our case, but he was due to head up a presentation to several high-profile visitors in the coming days but requested compassionate leave to return home." Tamara exchanged a look with Tom. "Apparently, Empson's father has been taken gravely ill and Harry had to return. The thing is, I checked and both of Harry Empson's parents have been dead for years. The only living relative we know of is his sister."

  "And they are sure?"

  "Absolutely positive. Harry Empson wasn't due to return to the UK until January. In fact, she confirmed the last time she knew of him leaving his post to come back to the UK was over two years ago. So why now?"

  "That is the repeating question at the moment, isn't it?" Tom said. "Did they give us anything else?"

  "He has a company mobile that they pay for and she's going to get me all his records relating to it. It is part of their policy to monitor usage as well as tracking where it goes via third party software."

  "That's a little 1984, isn't it?" Tamara asked.

  Cassie shrugged. "Following those cases a couple of years ago where aid workers were caught exchanging food and supplies for sexual favours, they seem to have taken things more seriously. We should have his phone records by the close of play today."

  "Good work, Cass," Tom said. "Now can you find me James Cook?"

  "I'm on it," she said, turning back to her desk.

  Eric bounded into the room.

  "Dr Dea—"

  Tom and Tamara looked in his direction.

  "Dr Paxton had an interesting take on Empson. He confirmed much of what we already suspected, a murder crudely disguised as a suicide, but he believes there to be more than one assailant. At least, he thinks it would have taken two people to hang him in the way he was found. Paxton says death likely occurred prior to his hanging by way of manual strangulation but, and this is interesting, he says Empson put up a fight. His body showed signs of trauma, a couple of cracked ribs and so forth that were so fresh that bruising hadn't been able to form. Most likely in the struggle. He says it would have been over fairly quickly, Empson losing consciousness rapidly, because the doctor thinks he was jumped from behind. Had the attack been from the front, he'd have seen it coming and therefore his injuries would be greater to reflect the longer struggle."

  "Did he give us anything to work with?" Tom asked.

  "Trace evidence beneath the fingernails that is being processed that will give us a DNA sample, but with the caveat that it could be Empson's own, left while he clawed in vain at his own neck, trying to free himself. But two attackers suggests a conspiracy of sorts, doesn't it?"

  "If you have more than one person, then by definition, you have a conspiracy," Tamara said.

  Tamara turned back to the board, looking at the same picture as before. "Something tells me the answer lies with these boys."

  Eric came alongside them. "I've been thinking about that since we left Beaty's place last night," he said, looking at Tom. "Beaty said he was given his first camera when he was a little boy, didn't he?"

  Tom nodded. "Yes, around nine years old, I think. He said it ignited his interest in photography and he carried a camera everywhere since."

  "Then it's quite possible he took this picture, right?"

  "If they were all friends, then it stands to reason that's plausible, yes," Tom said.

  "And Ciaran's dad, Ian, talked about how his son just wanted to fit in with the other kids at school." Eric was working up to something and couldn't seem to stand still. "And that he was unhappy, possibly even suicidal, because he couldn't do it."

  "Yes, that's right. He said they bullied Ciaran," Tom said, pointing at the picture, "and we think the unidentified boy is Ciaran."

  "Of course," Eric said. "Beaty, Fysh and Empson… old school friends. What's the betting if we check their year group, we'll also find Ciaran Haverson was there at the same time? Maybe some others, who knows?"

  Tom ran his hands through his hair to each side of his head, interlocking his fingers when they met at the rear. He exhaled softly. "Do some digging, Eric."

  Eric grinned, hurrying over to his desk and turning on his computer.

  "So, what are they hiding?" Tamara asked. "And whatever it is, if we're right, Gavin Felgate found out about it and everything that's followed has been about keeping it quiet. Do we know if Felgate sought to interview Empson as well?"

  "No," Eric said, over his shoulder. "I checked with his editor and Harry Empson's name didn't come up at all."

  Tom inclined his head to one side. "Although it is fair to say Felgate was playing this very close to his chest. He didn't tell his boss or his girlfriend."

  "I wonder if the interviewees cottoned on to it, though?" Tamara asked. "If they were keeping a secret and someone randomly starts aski
ng you questions relating to it, then they might have put it together without him realising."

  "They got to him before he could run the story and expose them?"

  Tom perched himself on the edge of the nearest desk, his face a picture of concentration.

  "What is it?"

  "Empson," Tom said, “working this through logically, I see Felgate." He wagged a finger at the journalist's picture. "He uncovers something and, I know it's an assumption but let's run with it for a minute, it's related to Ciaran Haverson's death. Let's not get carried away and start calling it anything other than an unexplained death at this point." Tamara nodded. "But it's something these guys don't want in the public domain because they each have something to lose, so one or more of them take it upon themselves to silence Felgate. We'll have to put aside Felgate's apparent motivations for stringing the noose up on the common like he did, for now."

  "Right," Tamara said. "Even if it's just one of them, the others are committed to silence by association and have to go along with it or everything comes out."

  "So, David Fysh falls out with James Cook about something, we don't know what, and Cook then denies being friends with Fysh—"

  "Who subsequently disappears himself," Tamara added, "followed closely by Cook."

  "So where does Empson fit in?" Tom asked. "He comes back on short notice with some cock and bull story about a sick relative, only to be killed as soon as he gets here. Why come back at all?"

  "Who knew?"

  "Say again?" Tom asked.

  "Who knew Empson was coming home?" Tamara said. "He wasn't expected back and is killed before he can even unpack his bags. He's either the unluckiest man in the world or someone knew he would be there."

  "He didn't drive himself back to Heacham. At least there's no car at his place and there was no evidence of a rental car in his name at the airport."

  "Then someone picked him up from the airport," Tamara said, "or from the nearest train station, whatever. And whoever it was, Empson was relaxed enough in their company to let his guard down."