“Yes, you know, that internationally famous woman that we’re down here investigating the disappearance of?” Rudovsky had no humour in her voice whatsoever. This DCI looked like he was struggling to recall what Kathy Hopkirk even looked like.
“I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with…”
“Does the dead body look like this person?” Kenyon held out his phone and showed the senior officer a photograph of the missing woman.
“No. No I don’t think so.”
“Can we come and check please?”
“I’m afraid that’s not really…”
“I will put it on the news that you might have found Kathy’s body, but you are deliberately obstructing us from finding out…”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Did you drive here, Sir?” asked Rudovsky.
“Yes, I did, but what the hell…”
“Well, you seem pretty pissed to me Sir, and that’s an instant dismissal, regardless of rank. So let us past and stop being a pain-in-the-arse, or I’ll demand that one of these uniformed officers organises a breathalyser, and I’ll film it all on my phone and post it on Youtube, you smug, greasy haired, irredeemable old knob-head.”
The DCI was offended, but it was as though he was working to some kind of a delay system. Maybe Rudovsky had hit the button, and the DCI was under the influence. Whatever it was, he suddenly jerked into life.
“For fuck’s sake, come on then.” The DCI looked crest-fallen as he led the way into the cordoned off stairwell. He had no choice, and he looked ashamed as he led the way up the stairs, coughing uncomfortably as he went.
Once the three detectives reached the doorway, Rudovsky stepped past the DCI and walked into Janet Croft’s flat. That scent which she had picked up was certainly stronger, and much more pungent now.
“Hey, watch it, this…”
“I’ve entered a crime scene before, Sir.” Jo didn’t hide her contempt for the bedraggled senior officer. “I know I’m a northerner, and I’m meant to be as thick as pig shit. But you’re the one that’s leaning against the door frame, probably wiping prints off there with your grubby coat.”
The Met DCI was beginning to hate this cocky little Manc madam, and the strikingly obvious fact pleased Rudovsky very much. Both her and Kenyon turned away from the senior officer and began walking into the dark, depressed looking flat. The red and yellow carpet looked like it had been down since the seventies, and the paint-work on the skirting boards and door frames was also very dated. Everything seemed to be either beige, orange or brown, colours that hadn’t been in home-décor fashion since Bullseye was on telly on Sunday afternoons, and the star prize was a coffee-coloured Mini Metro.
The smell inside the flat was getting stronger with each step forward, there was no mistaking the pungent, morose scent of a decomposing human being.
“Right, what have we got?” asked Rudovsky of two white boiler-suited SOCO officers who were taking photographs and making notes in the living room.
“She’s been here for about a week.” Said the female SOCO officer, in a broad cockney accent. “The smell’s been contained because this internal fire-door was shut. As soon as it was opened, it smelt like an open grave in here.”
“What makes you certain that it’s a week?” asked Kenyon, holding his hand in front of his nostrils, and silently fighting back his gag reflex. He and Rudovsky were stood around the back of the body, and could only see the back of its head.
“See how her skin is blistering? It’s ready to fall off. That usually occurs within six to eight days at normal room temperature.”
The two detectives stepped around the settee, and were shocked by the sight of the dead woman. Her eyes were bulging out, and her tongue was also stuck out of her face. Her skin was a dark green, but with a purple tone, in her extremities, such as her fingers, ears and nose, it was a very dark purple, and it looked as though it was getting darker still.
“Why are her eyes popping out like that?” asked Kenyon, sure that it had something to do with how this person had met their end.
“Have you not seen a decaying corpse before?” asked the SOCO officer in her broad East End accent, talking so matter-of-factly that she might have asked if Kenyon had ever been to WHSmiths.
“Not this advanced, no.”
“Well, this is the most active time of decomposition. All of the internal fights and wars between billions of different bacteria have all been fought now, and much of the bacteria is dying off, at a rapid rate. There is very little value left in this corpse, most of the gases have escaped now. The biggest clue is the advanced state of the decomposition. It’s going very nicely. Once we reach this rotting egg smell, mixed with that unmistakable whiff of tooth decay and a bold hint of vomit and diarrhoea, we know that at least six days have passed for the body to have become so putrefied.”
“Lovely.” Said Rudovsky, trying very hard to breath through her mouth and not allowing the overpowering smell to penetrate her nostrils. It was no good, and the SOCO officer kindly handed Rudovsky and Kenyon a face mask each.
“That’ll help, but it won’t block it out completely,” she said, once again displaying a complete disregard for how grotesque, and unsettling this situation was for the two detectives.
“Cheers.”
“Thanks a lot. Good of you that.” Said Kenyon, who couldn’t put the white nose and mouth cover on fast enough. He just pressed it against his face, in too much haste to put the elastic round his head.
“Any thoughts about the identity? This person looks a lot fatter than the description we have for Janet Croft. Her GP’s notes state that she is of a very small, frail build.”
“We’re waiting on a pathologist. Should be here soon. We’ll have a better picture once they’ve done their stuff. We’re pretty confident that this is Janet Croft, though.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And that’s not fat you can see, it’s just bloating, it’s all the gas in her body looking for a way to escape. It blows you up like a balloon. The smell gets much worse once that gas finds an outlet.”
“What’s the fastest way of finding out the identity?”
“Finger-prints. We’ve already had a go, just waiting on a match. It looks like we haven’t had any dealings with this person before.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Why, what’s wrong?”
“Well, Kathy Hopkirk has had several altercations with the police. Mostly for theatrical effect or to get on the news. We’ve got her prints on the PNC.”
“So…” The SOCO looked lost.
“Well we were kind of hoping that this was Kathy Hopkirk, and not Janet Croft.”
“I think it’s fair to say that this is Janet Croft… I’d bet you those nose protectors.”
“How can you be so sure?” asked Kenyon.
“Her bus pass is in her pocket.”
Chapter 43
Saunders and Grant were in Busaba, the Bangkok themed restaurant inside The Printworks. The plan was to eat, and then watch the latest Tarantino film next-door in the cinema. The Friday-night atmosphere was buzzing in the venue. The loud oriental music, the stylish eastern decor and the mouth-watering smells of the food really made this place feel like it was a million miles away from Manchester city centre. The SCIU colleagues were smiling like teenagers.
“Okay, so the rule of date night is, there’s no talk about work allowed.” Grant was sipping at her glass of prosecco and realised that she’d used the wrong word there. Shit.
“Date night?” Saunders grinned awkwardly and began blushing.
“Well, you know… not date night, but… you know…”
Saunders coughed and looked down at his lap. Shit.
“Tell you what, let’s cut the crap, and just be honest about it. It is a date night. We can both pretend its not… but it is.” Grant surprised herself by the forthright nature in which she took control of this situation. She’d normally
try to giggle something like this off. Maybe it was courage from that glass of fizzy wine. Whatever it was, she kept going. “Look, I like you, and you very clearly like me. So let’s stop hiding behind this work relationship. Let’s stop pretending that we’re here because we share a mutual appreciation for Quentin Tarantino’s work. Let’s just cut the crap! It’s a date night, and I’m here because I really like you.” Grant was staring at Saunders who was sniggering and looking down at the floor. This was torture. Grant sensed the cringe-factor was on full power, so decided to push it off the edge. “And I just wanted to add, I think you’re really fit.”
Saunders burst into laughter, slapping his leg as he did so. God, that was just about the most cringe-worthy moment of his life, but he’d loved every single second of it. He knew that Grant was being mean on him, she could see him squirming, and she’d kept going. Saunders decided to bat it back, and make his colleague cringe for a moment.
“Ah shit, this is really… I don’t know how to say this…” Saunders’ face was bright red, you could warm your hands on the heat from his cheeks. Grant was smiling as he spoke, her flirty, provocative stare was inescapable. She really was the dominant one here, a casual onlooker would never guess that she was sat with her boss.
“See the thing is Helen, you’re a nice enough girl…”
The carefree look on Grant’s beautifully made-up face suddenly began to harden. What was Saunders about to say? This wasn’t in the script. Shit.
“…and I really like you, you know, to get a long with. But I’m just not sure about dating you and stuff. You’re just not my type…”
Grant’s eyes began to well up, and the scorching shade from Saunders’ cheeks was very quickly transferring across the table. Now it was Grant who looked embarrassed, and scared, and vulnerable. She opened her mouth to speak, and the look of mortified devastation washed her assured, confident expression away.
“I’m joking! I’m joking!” Saunders laughed loudly, and Grant juddered visibly as the penny dropped that he’d been having her at it. “You seemed to enjoy taking the piss out of me before… I thought I might make you squirm for a minute!”
“You little bastard!” Grant laughed and took a greedy slug of her wine. She laughed again at Saunders’ smug expression. He was extremely pleased with himself, and Grant was just relieved that it was a prank after-all. That could well have been the most embarrassing moment of her life if it had been for real.
“I think we’ll call that one-all. Fancy another?” Saunders pointed at Grant’s glass.
“Yes, I bloody need one!” Grant threw the remainder of the wine down her throat.
Saunders decided to be a bit nicer. “So, it’s a date. I feel very privileged. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Grant tapped her empty glass against Saunders’ beer bottle.
“And we’re going Dutch… yeah?” Saunders waved his arm and caught the waiter’s attention. He gestured for a re-fill.
“No. You can definitely pay after pulling that trick. You tight sod!”
“Hey, do you mind? That’s an urban myth about me being tight. I’m very generous I’ll have you know.”
“Give me an example.”
“What, how can I give you an example that I’m generous.”
“Okay, what was the last amount you donated on Just Giving?” Grant’s confidence was back now. That charming vulnerability from a few minutes earlier was all gone.
“I don’t think I’ve got Just Giving.” Saunders had been nut-megged. He coughed and looked away.
“Bullshit! Everyone has Just Giving. Everyone has a mate, or a relative, or a colleague who sends a link to their fundraising page. Now at least if you said you’d donated a fiver I could call you a mean, tight-fisted old scrooge. But the fact that you haven’t even managed to donate a bloody fiver to one of your mate’s sponsored runs or swims leaves me speechless!”
“I wish it would!” said Saunders, pleased with his wise-crack.
“So, you have never sponsored anybody’s Just Giving page. Okay, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”
The waiter arrived and filled Grant’s glass. Saunders still had more than half of his bottle of beer left, and declined the offer of another. He looked slightly nervous about this tightness interrogation and was trying to think of a subject that he could segue into.
“Thanks a lot mate,” said Saunders as the waiter turned to leave. “Hey, I’ll tell you what, that guy has probably only lived in this country for a matter of weeks and he still speaks better English than half of the students at Manchester Met!”
“Ooh, that’s not a very effective attempt to divert me away from the business in hand!” Grant raised her glass and smiled smugly. “I’m offering you the opportunity to prove that you’re not a tight-wad, and your response is to change the subject! I’m beginning to have very serious concerns about this date night!”
Saunders smiled. He didn’t know why he’d acquired the “tight” tag. He preferred the words “careful” or “thrifty.”
“What’s the most generous thing you’ve ever done?” asked Grant, playfully. Saunders groaned and rolled his eyes to the heavens which made his date laugh loudly.
“What’s the most generous thing you’ve done?” he asked.
Grant began to blush. She looked a little bit embarrassed as she spoke, and it seemed as though she suddenly regretted asking the question. Saunders was definitely intrigued.
“Well, do you remember that massive earthquake in Haiti? It was awful, it wiped the capital city out, killed about two-hundred-thousand people?”
Saunders looked serious now as well, he nodded sombrely.
“I’d been out with some mates, and I came home and it was on the news. I was pissed, and I was watching the footage, this total devastation. Three million people had been made homeless in the blink of an eye. I sat there bawling my eyes out, it broke my heart.”
“Yes, it was awful that. I remember thinking, what the hell would we do if something like that happened in Manchester.”
“I know! Exactly! So, anyway, I was watching it, crying at all the people stood next to the rubble of their homes when this number came up on the screen, it was an appeal for the survivors. So before I knew what was going on, I was on the phone, reading out my long card number.”
Saunders raised his eyebrows. He was beginning to realise that this generosity story was about to nuke any ideas he had for his. “Go on…” he said, eager to hear the end of the story.
“So, next thing I know, I wake up on the sofa. My head’s banging. It was daylight, I open one eye and see a bottle of wine that I’d opened when I’d got home. It had about a glass left in it. I groaned, knowing I was already hammered when I’d got in. I started wondering how long the hangover was going to last. Then I was desperately trying to work out what day it was, trying to figure out if I was working. No, it’s Sunday, calm down, I thought. I closed my one opened eye and tried to get comfy and that was when I had the biggest ‘aw no! what the hell have I done?’ of my entire life.”
Saunders smiled widely, enjoying the animated expressions which accompanied Grant’s drunken tale. “Come on, seriously, I’m desperate to know. What had you done?” He didn’t know if it was okay to laugh, or not. He didn’t. But he really wanted to, just because of the look of utter horror on Grant’s face. It was years ago, surely she should be at peace with herself by now. He could feel a grin forming.
“So I looked in my phone, the last number I’d called, it was at half two in the morning. I’d been on to them for six minutes. I had this panic, I started sweating and shivering. I’m thinking ‘oh shit, oh shit’ I just knew it wasn’t a tenner I’d donated. The other part of my brain was going ‘don’t worry, it’ll only be fifty quid.”
“You piss-can! How much did you donate?”
“Well, that took me a while to find out. I had to get my shoes on and go down to the cash point. I stumbled out of my fl
at, praying I’d donated a tenner. Praying that fifty quid was a worse case scenario… I was saving up for a mortgage at this time. But deep down, I had this feeling that I’d donated a wee bit more.”
Saunders took a long, meaningful swig from his beer. It was all he could do to stop himself laughing at Grant.
“So, I got down to the ATM at Spar. I was shaking, my fingers were trembling. I didn’t know if that was because of this or just the amount of booze I’d had the night before. Then I couldn’t remember my pin number!”
Saunders finally cracked and laughed loudly. A few customers looked around, the ferocity of his laugh had made them jump.
“Finally, I calmed myself down and put the pin number in, and then I fell to my knees in shock.” Grant looked down at the table-top and shook her head. “I’d donated all my savings to the earthquake appeal. Three grand!”
“Holy shit!” Saunders stopped laughing now. “Wow! Shit!” he said again.
“I wandered home in a daze, couldn’t believe I’d done it. I phoned them back up and explained what had happened, but they just fobbed me off, said that there’s nothing you can you do. But I wouldn’t take no for an answer. I got put onto the manager, and he agreed to refund me. I said I meant thirty quid, not three grand!”
Saunders did his loud laugh again.
“So, luckily, they refunded me, and I said I’ll phone back and donate the thirty quid once the funds have cleared in my account. It was the most excruciating phone call of my life. I could tell from his voice that he didn’t believe me. I started panicking, thinking I’d lost my deposit. Luckily, my last throw of the dice was to mention that I was a police officer! That was what swung it, I think.”
“And did you ring back, and donate the thirty quid?”
Grant looked down at her glass and shook her head. “No, I forgot.”
There were tears running down Saunders’ cheeks, he was laughing so much. Grant look confused, she didn’t think it was a particularly funny experience.
“What’s tickled you?” she asked as Saunders eventually started to simmer down.
“Aw, that’s just the best thing I’ve ever heard. And once this gets around the office… I think it’ll be you who takes over the role of the tight bastard! The woman who donates her life savings to a disaster fund, and then demands the money back the next day! Bloody hell Helen, you’ll never hear the end of this, I’ll make sure of it! Swear down!”
Gone Too Far : DCI Miller 4: Britain's Most Hated Celebrity Has Disappeared Page 23