Animal Instinct

by James R. Vance

  “Ah, the boss-man, himself,” cried Ricky. “I reckon ye can afford to buy me a drink now yer up there with the high-flyers. How about it, Inspector?”

  Massey smiled and ordered four halves of Marston's Pedigree.

  “A scotch wouldn't go amiss,” said Ricky.

  “Maybe when I reach Chief Inspector,” replied Massey. “In the meantime you'll have to slum it with the rest of us.” He motioned his two detectives away from the bar to a nearby table. “Any word on the street?” he asked.

  “Sod all,” said Roker. “Nothing seems to have leaked out in the town yet, which is surprising with two local bin-men making the original discovery.”

  “It's that bank holiday Easter bunny syndrome, where everyone switches off from the pressures of normal life and cracks open a few chocolate eggs,” remarked Turner.

  “Someone's cashed in. B.B.C. North West has already sent a crew down, so it will hit the TV screens any time now,” said Massey, glancing at his watch. “It's probably too late for tonight's Manchester Evening News, but the Sunday papers will certainly pick it up tomorrow morning. The D.C.I. has issued a brief statement for the media, but until we have a positive I.D. there's not a lot to tell.” He leaned towards Turner. “Anything yet from forensics?”

  “They're still at the site. Nuttall said there would be a preliminary report by tomorrow lunchtime. His main comment was that she reeked of a strange smell.”

  “I noticed that,” said Massey, “but I put it down to something in the rubbish.”

  “Maybe she was overcome by the stink and collapsed,” suggested Roker with a deadpan expression.

  “Yeah, then wrapped herself in bin bags and threw herself on the tip,” added Turner.

  “Joking apart, someone stuffed her into bin bags,” said Massey. “Find where that took place and we maybe have our suspect. The D.C.I's called for a full team meeting first thing Monday morning. Until then, let's have another beer and keep our ears to the ground. How about a game of 501?”

  They moved over to the dartboard and for the next hour, drank a few, played a few and mixed some banter with the growing number of locals who had drifted into the pub. However, no relevant information was forthcoming. The weekend was always a busy time as most of the regulars were out of work and received their dole money on the Thursday. By Sunday night, however, most were spent up and the early part of each week was much quieter.

  Several villains and petty criminals with form had appeared on the scene and, despite having spent time in Risley remand centre, Walton or Strangeways prisons, courtesy of having been nicked by the local C.I.D., they still had time for some repartee with the three detectives. A tolerant respect existed on both sides, but it was a constant game of ‘cat and mouse’.

  One particular loud-mouthed crook, Lennie Rourke, on the few occasions when he was not in prison, enjoyed goading the officers to the limit, causing a nuisance to the licensee, his staff and other customers. He spotted them at the dartboard and swaggered across, macho-style, carrying his pint of Stella.

  “There should be a law against dumpin’ slags on council tips. It's bad for the fuckin’ environment. It's a bleedin’ health risk.”

  Massey threw his third dart and turned to face his notorious adversary. “I agree with you entirely, Lennie. Scum behaving like that should be locked away permanently along with all the other filth which tarnishes our town.”

  “Who the fuck d'yer think you are….. Elliot fuckin’ Ness?”

  “There's a major difference, Lennie. I don't need a gun to bang them up. Enjoy your beer before we clear the town of all its rubbish. Anyway, what do you know about it?”

  “Fuck all.” Rourke walked back to the bar and ordered another pint.

  “Well at least we know it's public now,” said Turner.

  The detectives finished their drinks and left the Barleycorn and its infamous clientele.

  *****

  Massey was a Lancastrian. Brought up on the Fylde coast within a family immersed in the traditions of the Fleetwood fishing community, he inherited the same characteristics of his predecessors. His resilience, stoicism and single-mindedness were traits that set him apart from other colleagues. He was a winner, a survivor whose determination allowed him not only to succeed but also to gain recognition and rapid promotion in his chosen career.

  When his parents retired and chose to spend their latter years in the peaceful surroundings of the Cheshire countryside, he elected to accompany them by transferring to the constabulary of that area. He was immediately posted in his capacity as Detective Sergeant to the expanding district of Winsford. Here he soon gained respect for his no-nonsense but fair approach to policing, especially in a town that was receiving its share of dubious characters amongst the overspill intake from the larger conurbations of Liverpool and Manchester.

  He became the face of modern-style police methods, an example of a new breed of law enforcement. To him there were no grey areas; he saw the world as black and white, right or wrong. He welcomed change and technological advances that, not only assisted in the solving of crime, but also supported his belief in absolute justice for the victims of crime. He relied heavily on the accuracy of forensic science as opposed to the imprecision of psychological profiling. As his career progressed, however, he would find that both would play a part in some of his major investigations.

  His ‘work hard, play hard’ attitude made him popular with colleagues and his engaging nature won him many friends locally. It was no surprise, therefore, that he was soon promoted to the level of Detective Inspector. Despite losing both parents shortly after the move, he decided to remain in the area, believing that his immediate future lay with the Cheshire Constabulary, even though his ultimate goal was the Metropolitan force in London. He considered that such a transfer would challenge his expertise to the limit.

  Though ambitious towards his own career progression, he was also prepared to show an interest in more junior members of the force, where he could instil similar values if they showed sufficient initiative, talent and dedication. One of his current protégés was Detective Constable Chris Turner, who, in turn, accepted Massey as his mentor. The two detectives often worked closely together within the new team that had been formed at police headquarters in Winsford. Turner's youth, vitality and sense of humour blended perfectly with Massey's precise approach and work ethic.

  On hearing of his impending promotion, Massey and his wife had taken the decision to invest in the property market. They sold their modest terraced house to purchase a modern bungalow on a new development on the edge of the town using the additional salary to fund the move. They had taken possession shortly before the Easter period and had scheduled a small house-warming party for several close friends for the evening of Easter Sunday.

  Massey had met his wife, Helen, at the annual Chairman's Ball two years previously. At that time, he had vaguely known Turner from seeing the young police officer making his way through his probationary period and succeeding in his appointment to detective constable. During occasional conversations, Turner had referred to his older sister who taught at one of the local primary schools, but, until the social event at the Civic Hall, nobody had encountered her. The young woman captivated Massey immediately and within months, a bond had developed which led to marriage later in the year.

  However, the civic function was memorable for all the wrong reasons. Several weeks prior to the event, D.S. Massey, as he was at that time, gave a lift home to the newly appointed D.C. Turner, who lived at Middlewich, a short distance from Winsford. On his return, Massey visited Browns, a trendy new bar that had opened on the outskirts of town.

  The venue was empty apart from a small group of individuals, amongst whom he recognised a couple of faces…surveyors from the local council. They invited him to join them for a drink as they had also stopped on their way home following a nearby site meeting. He was introduced to a smartly dressed young man who appeared to be holding centre stage. He was a local councill
or, Royston Fox. Also present was an attractive twenty-something, Janice Taylor, a secretary in the surveyor's department. Gradually, members of the group drifted off homewards leaving Massey alone with the secretary and the councillor, who, before Massey departed, generously presented him with two invitations to the Chairman's Ball.

  As mentor and colleague to D.C. Turner, Massey offered him the spare invitation. They passed the evening at the Ball in the company of Royston Fox and his wife, Karen, who was a teacher at one of the town's primary schools. Turner's sister, Helen, a colleague of Karen Fox, also attended the function.

  For reasons that became apparent later in the evening, Janice Taylor, the secretary whom Massey had met at Browns, also joined their party. As the night became hazier and the music louder, Massey found refuge with Turner's sister, an unexpected encounter that would eventually lead to marriage. During these interludes, he was aware that Royston Fox was paying more attention to the young secretary than to his neglected wife. Though Karen occasionally engaged in conversation with Turner, it was obvious that she was far from content with the situation.

  Inevitably, a row erupted between husband and wife leading to his declaring that he was leaving. Onlookers expressed concerns about his incapacity to drive as he stumbled towards the exits. Helen stayed at the table comforting his distressed wife, who had refused to leave with her husband. Massey and Turner attempted to prevent him from driving and the situation was resolved when Janice Taylor, who had not consumed any alcoholic drinks, offered to drive him home and return with the car for his wife.

  Not an ideal compromise, thought Massey, but safer than him driving. The two police officers returned to the main dance hall, satisfied that their intervention had prevented a possible catastrophe.

  Twenty minutes later, uniformed police arrived at the civic hall. Before leaving the car park, Fox had snatched the car keys from the innocent young secretary. In her naivety, instead of returning for some assistance, she had leapt into the passenger seat in an attempt to stop the out-of-control but dominant councillor. Her actions were to no avail and the vehicle sped from the car park onto the main street, gathering speed as it headed towards the bridge over the river. In his drunken temper, Royston Fox smashed head-on into the cast iron ramparts of the bridge. The two occupants were killed by the immediate impact, their necks broken by its ferocity.

  The shocking news given by the uniformed officers was Massey's first encounter with man's frail but instant mortality. Though he had met his future wife at the event, the memory was overshadowed by the tragedy and his own portentous feelings. Massey's instincts were rarely wrong.

  He reflected on that ill-omened episode as he drove home from the Barleycorn. Unfortunately, the honeymoon period of the marriage had soon ended, as everyday pressures took their toll. The strain was noticeable on both sides of the relationship.

  “You're late,” snapped Helen, as Massey trudged into the kitchen. “Out drinking with your cronies again?”

  “We've had a meeting and you shouldn't class your brother as a crony. He's part of the team.”

  “Is that the darts team or the pool team?” asked Helen sarcastically.

  “Look, it's been a difficult day.…”

  “I don't suppose you remembered to pick up the beer and wine for tomorrow.”

  “I'll do the supermarket in the morning. It's no big deal.”

  “You arranged this party. It was your suggestion. Easter Sunday, you said. Everyone will have bank holiday Monday to recover, you said. Don't worry, you said. We'll have the whole weekend together to prepare, you said. I have hardly seen you. We were supposed to go shopping today, but oh no, not you. Out with the lads last night, a lie-in this morning and then an urgent call from the office. If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were having an affair with D.C.I. Wainwright.”

  Massey poured himself a whisky and sat down at the kitchen table. Unaffected by Helen's tirade he described briefly the distressing events, which he and his colleagues had witnessed earlier that afternoon. His wife calmed down and made some fresh coffee. Their altercations were becoming more frequent as the demands of Massey's job increased. The stress of moving house combined with work pressures were adding strains to a disparate relationship where Helen was attempting to build a home and eventually a family, whilst her husband was becoming more career motivated.

  *****

  The warm spring weather persisted throughout the weekend so much so that Massey purchased some food suitable for a barbecue whilst collecting the booze from Sainsburys. Later in the day their friends arrived, the previous night's differences were put to one side and the party mood prevailed. Apart from the adjacent neighbours, the guests comprised mainly of colleagues from Helen's school or the local police force. It was inevitable, however, that the main topic of conversation centred on the apparent murder of the mystery blonde.

  At one point Massey managed to drag John Nuttall from forensics to a remote corner of the garden. “Anything interesting yet?” he asked.

  “Considering that she was completely starkers, quite a bit,” he replied. “In actual fact she wasn't completely naked. There was a watch on her left wrist, a trendy Swatch-type watch with an inscription.”

  “A name?”

  “No, just initials. It read ‘All My Love Forever, A.D. ’ There may be some helpful mileage in the other interesting discovery. She was pregnant.”

  “Really. How far gone?”

  “Not absolutely sure. Maybe ten, possibly twelve weeks. Sexual intercourse had also taken place prior to her death, so you're possibly looking at a rape victim.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Still working on that. It's weird. All those lacerations and that bruise to her head cannot be attributed to cause of death. It's more likely that she suffocated.”

  “Strangled, then?”

  “Negative. Not a mark on her neck. There was little evidence of a struggle, which unfortunately would be inconsistent with the rape theory. However, there were minute particles of unidentifiable black stuff under her manicured fingernails and microscopic slivers of metal in the bruising on her head. I've sent them for analysis. We are also checking the bin liners for fingerprints and later in the week D.N.A. from the sperm samples. That weird smell is a mystery. I'm not sure whether it originates from her, the bin-bags or the site itself. I'll need to work on that.”

  “Can you get me a head and shoulders mug-shot of her or is it too messy?”

  “I'll clean her up in the morning and see what I can do. Do you want it with or without the bruise? I can brush that out if you prefer?”

  “Oh, without. Can you sort it for tomorrow morning? Wainwright's called a meeting. So much for party recovery day,” moaned Massey.

  “Why can't bloody criminals take a holiday like the rest of us?” commented Nuttall. “Anyway, I'll bring you up to speed as things progress.” He turned his beer can upside down. “It must be the heat. I fancy another beer if there's any left. How about you?”

  “Why not,” said Massey. They re-joined the party to the sound of Robbie Williams and ‘Angel’. Massey appeared deep in thought, still mulling over John Nuttall's report. Helen shot him a glance, which forced him to suppress any more reflection on the developing murder inquiry. This was not the moment to antagonise his wife further.

  *****

  The dying embers of the barbecue were still smouldering as Massey cleared away the last of the food debris and carried the remaining plates through to the kitchen. The sun had set, the air temperature had cooled considerably and all the guests had departed except Chris Turner who was helping his sister with tidying the kitchen.

  “Anyone fancy a coffee?” he cried out as his colleague headed for the lounge.

  Massey closed the patio doors, collected some empty beer cans from the floor and joined his wife and brother-in-law in the warmth of the kitchen. “Good idea,” he replied. “How about a Cognac to help it down?”

  “Do you two never give up?” asked
Helen.

  “I'll pour three out in the lounge,” said Massey. “Bring the coffee through and let's call it a day.”

  A few minutes later, they were relaxing together with their drinks, enjoying a peaceful end to an exhausting day. Helen curled up on the settee. The two detectives sprawled in the matching easy chairs.

  “If you had raped a young girl, why would you take the trouble to wrap her in bin-liners and carry her to the municipal landfill site…?” asked Massey, as though he was merely thinking aloud. “.…unless it would incriminate the culprit for the body not to be distanced from the scene of crime.”

  “You've been distracted by this case all weekend,” remarked Helen.

  “What did the ‘Nutter’ have to say?” asked Turner, referring to John Nuttall.

  “There's still more to come from forensics. He reckoned that she more than likely died from suffocation. He also said that she was pregnant.”

  “Poor child,” said Helen. “About how old was she?”

  “Late teens, no older,” replied her brother. He turned to Massey. “You said that she was raped. Is that a fact?”

  “It's a possibility. There was evidence of sexual activity before she died.”

  “Maybe she was involved with one of those sex games which went tragically wrong,” suggested Helen.

  “Oh yes!” said Turner. “And what sex games are those, then?”

  His sister blushed. “You know what I mean. You read about them in the newspapers…people with fetishes and strange sexual predilections.”

  “Hardly the norm here in Cheshire,” retorted her brother. “Here, it's more wham, bam, thank you ma'am.”

  They laughed together, engaged in more small talk and gradually wound down towards a good night's sleep. Turner decided to stay over in the spare room.

  *****

  The role of pub landlord was somewhat diverse at the best of times. The licence holder of the Barleycorn required additional strings for his over-worked bow. Its location in the town had cast it into the melting pot of overspill overkill. Three quarters of the surrounding area had welcomed several years flow of migrants from Merseyside who had, over time, integrated with the local indigenous population. The remaining stages of urban development had been mindlessly allotted to a comparative handful of Mancunians. As there was always rivalry between the two North West conurbations, it was scathingly rumoured that the original town planners were fond of cock fighting.