Animal Instinct

by James R. Vance

  Sean had mixed emotions. What would he be getting into? “These students, then, who are they? You didn't say. What's this training stuff? Surely a sudden influx of so-called students, especially Irish, won't go un-noticed.”

  “They're not Irish.” Jimmy Moran finished his drink and turned to leave. “Think it over. We'll discuss it tomorrow.” He walked away and disappeared through the door marked PRIVATE.

  Sean remained at the table, attempting to digest what they had discussed. The man had talked a lot but explained very little. If he was to agree to his demands…it was hardly a polite enquiry.…his future at the Barleycorn and even beyond could be at risk. However, what would be the consequences if he refused?

  *****

  “I'm afraid you're going to have to wait until the results come back from the lab,” remarked John Nuttall. “The D.N.A. results may take some time, but I should have the analysis of the fluid on the bin bags and the metallic traces back by Wednesday or Thursday.”

  “Why so long?” asked Massey.

  “It's this bloody bank holiday weekend. We always seem to lose half a week at Easter.”

  “Any chance of a photograph of the watch and the inscription?”

  “No problem. I'll sort it now for you. Since I sent you the report, I've discovered something else that may interest you. The residue of the unknown liquid has traces of some kind of chemical, something caustic, which could be the cause of the obnoxious odour. There's evidence of it on both the plastic bags and the girl's body but predominantly on the girl's hands, parts of her legs and her heels.”

  “What do you mean by caustic.…like bleach?”

  “Similar to bleach but stronger. There are possibly other chemicals involved. I'll know better, when the results come back. In addition, from analysis of the stomach contents, I would say that prior to her death she had merely consumed a light breakfast. There was no trace of alcohol or drugs. She was clean.”

  “Breakfast?” queried Massey. “How long after breakfast did she die?”

  “I would say within an hour or so. I reckon she was suffocated sometime between eight and nine last Thursday morning.”

  “And dumped on the tip…when?”

  “Probably the same day, assuming that it was closed on Good Friday.”

  “But that would have been in broad daylight,” added Turner.

  “Could it have been dumped overnight?” asked Massey.

  “You'd have to be superhuman to heave a corpse over those gates,” replied Nuttall.

  “We need to check the CCTV at the gates,” declared Massey. “If there are only refuse carts using it on Thursday, she's come in on one of the loads.”

  “I'd go with that,” said Nuttall. “Crashing around with other rubbish in the back of one of those vehicles would account for the tears in the bin bags and the abrasions to her body.” He passed them copies of the watch photographs, which he had been processing on the computer.

  “What about fingerprints?” asked Turner.

  “Nothing so far to match the database. There are several different sets on the bin liners, but none ring any alarm bells.”

  “Thanks,” said Massey. “That's narrowed things down somewhat.” He looked at Turner. “Now for our second stop. I don't know about you, but I'm thirsty.”

  *****

  Little was known about the Crawford family. They had moved into the picturesque village of Moulton with their two cats and Border collie three years ago. There was a mother, accompanied by two children, Michael aged twelve and a daughter aged sixteen. They both attended the nearby comprehensive at Winsford until Lara left after completing her A-levels. Her brother still awaited that particular ordeal.

  It was rumoured that the father had died some time previously, a life-changing event, which had brought about the move to Moulton from ‘somewhere up north’. The family lived in a pretty cottage, which, along with several others, had been converted from a collection of farm buildings. The nine terraced properties surrounded a central courtyard. A private road was the only approach into the whole complex. The Crawfords had chosen a corner unit, the rear garden of which overlooked open fields and a public footpath leading to the churchyard and the nearby public house.

  Mrs. Crawford had made the choice herself as, in her words, it was ‘ideal for the babies’, the welfare of the animals seemingly taking precedent over the rest of the family. She had added a hexagonal Victorian-style conservatory to give them more living space. It also provided a separate area where the children could attend to their homework or amuse themselves away from the open-plan living room and kitchen.

  Michael tended to be rather withdrawn when in company but excelled at school in most academic subjects. Each morning during term time, he could be seen running to catch the school bus. His sister had completed her studies and had opted to pursue a career as opposed to grasping the opportunity to apply for a place at university. Despite her mother's protestations, she was determined to make her way in the fashion industry, combining her talents for design with her natural beauty by simultaneously pursuing modelling opportunities.

  Frustrated by the lack of offers following her myriad of applications to London fashion houses, she had finally succumbed to working in a trendy boutique in Winsford, much to her mother's displeasure. Lara argued that she needed the income to finance the purchase of a small car. This would enable her to pursue opportunities further afield, as her whole life currently centred on the intermittent timetable of the local bus service.

  Mrs. Crawford financed the family budget from her late husband's pension. She struggled to maintain the standards, which she had obviously enjoyed previously and often thought about supplementing her income with a part-time job. She decided, however, to keep that option on the ‘back-burner’ until Michael had completed his studies and set off for university. Hopefully, by that time, Lara would have eventually fulfilled one or more of her ambitions.

  *****

  The Barleycorn had been granted an extension of hours for the bank holiday Monday and consequently had organised several charity events to enable it to stay open during the afternoon and late evening. Despite its reputation as a ‘villain's pub’, it was also an entertainment venue and at weekends especially, a family pub offering a range of bar snacks.

  The car park had been turned into a large patio area festooned with pennants and a number of sunshades advertising Guinness sprouted from some of the tables. A temporary stage of wooden pallets had been erected in one corner where a country and western band were to provide entertainment for the expected hordes later that evening. Bales of straw, courtesy of a local farmer, stacked against the stage added towards the overall effect. The combination of warm weather, all day drinking and loud music was a guaranteed recipe for aggression and drunken brawls to end the day. Massey and Turner were not envious of uniform's role in the ensuing fall-out. They purchased their beers at the bar and elected to sit at one of the outdoor tables in the open.

  “We need to concentrate on the other rubbish,” said Massey. “If she was dumped there on Thursday, she must have been brought in on a refuse truck and there's bound to be some item close-by that can lead us to the source. What d'you think?”

  Turner nodded in agreement. “It's this business about the strange smell that's baffling.”

  At that moment, Sean, the licensee walked by collecting empty glasses from the other tables. Massey called him over.

  “Sean, what happens to all your rubbish from the pub?” he asked.

  Sean looked around, leaned across towards the two detectives and whispered, “It all goes back in the barrel, but don't you be spreading rumours now.” He grinned and winked at them.

  “No, seriously,” continued Massey. “Is it collected by the local council?”

  “Contracted out,” replied the licensee. “It costs a bloody fortune, to be sure.”

  “Is that the same for all the pubs round here?”

  “More than likely. Used to send bottles back when the
re was a deposit on them, but now they're mostly throw-aways so the bins get full pretty damn quick.”

  “Which company do you use?”

  “I.C.S…Industrial Collection Services.”

  “Is that just you or do all pubs use the same company?”

  “Most of the larger outlets use them. I suppose some of the smaller back-street pubs would still use the council ‘cos it would be cheaper.”

  “Thanks,” muttered Massey.

  Sean wandered off collecting more empties.

  “What was all that about?” asked Turner.

  “I'm just interested to know from where all the rubbish at the site originates. We need to check if there are differences between normal domestic and industrial waste collections.”

  “We're assuming that the private companies use the same infill site,” suggested Turner. “I'll check it out tomorrow, whilst I'm investigating the rotas.”

  “We also need to identify her a.s.a.p. Best bet's probably through her pregnancy.”

  “Maybe she's not from this area.”

  “If necessary we'll just have to widen the net, unless she pops up on a missing person list.”

  “Does Wainwright really expect us to have that sorted by this afternoon?”

  “What he expects and what he gets depends on how lucky we are.” Massey checked his watch. “He gave us a deadline of four thirty. We've four hours left. Let's grab a sandwich from the bar and head back to the infill site. I fancy having a poke around in the rubbish near that mattress.”

  “I thought forensics had sorted that.”

  “I just need to satisfy myself that they've not missed anything.”

  “Can I suggest we eat our sarnies first,” said Turner, not relishing the thought of mixing his cheese and tomato with last weeks leftovers.

  The two detectives purchased the sandwiches and returned to their car before heading for the infill site.

  “Maybe she worked in some kind of factory where chemicals are used,” suggested Turner, still thinking about the traces found on and near the body. “If Nuttall's right about her last meal having been her breakfast, maybe she was on her way to or even at work.”

  “Maybe we're placing too much emphasis on the smell,” replied Massey. “Perhaps it came from all the rubbish on site or from the refuse vehicle itself.”

  They parked the car near the mobile crime unit, which had been set up at the entrance to the former quarry. Massey asked to borrow two garden forks that the forensic team had been using. Once inside the infill site, the two detectives scrambled down to the cordoned off area around the mattress where the body had been found.

  “What are we actually looking for?” asked Turner. “I'd have thought that forensics would have carted off anything of importance. I'm claiming bloody compensation if I fall ill from this evil smell and these blasted flies!”

  “Stop bleating. You never know your luck. I bet any money that they've missed something. Let's face it, there's little else to go on at this moment in time.”

  They began to gently prod and overturn the various items of rubbish, meticulously concentrating on a specific square metre before moving on. Turner was unimpressed with his boss's compulsion to find the proverbial needle in a haystack, especially in a stinking one. It was unlikely, therefore, that he would be the one to unearth anything of value, considering his negative attitude. Life, however, is never predictable. His fork jammed between a length of wood and a rusted piece of metal.

  “Bollocks,” he grumbled as he twisted and tugged the prongs to release it.

  Massey crossed to him, laughing. “Got a problem? Gardening never was your forte according to your sister! Here, let me give you a hand.”

  As they both pulled to extricate the prongs of the fork, the piece of wood and the attached piece of ironwork lifted upwards revealing the rest of the structure to be the remains of a small rotten door complete with rusted hinges. They lifted it to one side and Massey kicked it free as Turner firmly held the fork.

  “Bloody hell, look at that,” he cried. The removal of the door had exposed a deep recess in the rubbish. They peered into the hole in which yet another soiled black plastic bin bag had lodged. Massey leaned over and sank his fork into the object to enable him to lift it up from the depths.

  “If this is from the same load, it's certainly been missed.” He used the fork to tear an opening to assess its contents, fully expecting to find another bagful of household rubbish. It contained items of clothing. They carried it across to firmer ground. On further inspection, they discovered a floral dress together with underwear and shoes, all in new or almost new condition.

  “Not the quality one would expect to find on a rubbish tip,” commented Turner.

  The inspector leaned over towards the bag and sniffed the contents. “That smell again. I know that smell…I've come across it before…God knows where. I'll guarantee that Nuttall will match these items to the mystery blonde. Obviously she was a smart young lady.” Massey stood back and looked at his colleague. “I told you forensics would miss something,” he said, triumphantly.

  Cocky sod, thought Turner. “You're a lucky devil,” he said aloud. “No wonder you made inspector! I suppose that's what you call playing a hunch.”

  Massey grinned. “Little voices inside my head…they nag me until I can find an answer. Stick with me and you'll go places.”

  These were prophetic words from the detective inspector, which one fateful day would come back to haunt him.

  *****

  “So, when are you going to tell him?”

  “He doesn't need to know,” snapped Lara.

  “How will you explain the inevitable lump which will hardly complement your sylph-like figure?”

  “There won't be a lump.”

  “I'm sorry, but there's always a lump, some larger than others I must admit, but believe me, there'll be a lump.”

  “I'm going to have an abortion.”

  Fiona took another sip of wine, lit a low tar cigarette, took a draw and blew a swirl of smoke upwards towards the slowly rotating ceiling fan suspended from the apex of the conservatory roof. The draught wafted the blue-grey swirl into the oblivion of the glass roof panels.

  “Well, at least I won't have to give up smoking when you're about, if you choose that option.” She stood up, walked towards the glazed doors and turned to face her friend. “You're mad. It's his baby as much as yours. Don't you think he should be consulted on this? He has some right to express his point of view before you go committing murder against his unborn child.”

  “Don't be so bloody dramatic. It's just a tiny foetus, a seed planted by mistake. It's no different than using a contraceptive. It's just a little late, that's all. What's the difference between that and the new morning after pill?”

  “Your mind's warped. Andrew will be devastated if he finds out what you're planning to do.”

  “Well, he won't know, will he, ‘cos you and I are the only ones who know and we won't be telling him, will we? Besides, I'm arranging to have it done at Easter when he's in Spain with his mates.”

  “What about your mum?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what about my mum’?”

  “How are you going to explain to her about popping out for a quick abortion?”

  “She's away with Michael at Easter. They're off to Derbyshire to stay with Aunt Caroline.”

  “You've certainly planned everything out, I'll give you that. However it doesn't mean I condone what you're doing.”

  Fiona Wilson and Lara had been friends since the Crawford family had first moved to Moulton. They had met originally whilst running to catch the school bus on Lara's first day at her new school. Fiona was a few months older and possessed a far more mature grasp of life in general.

  Lara tended to thrive on flights of fancy. Fashion magazines cluttered her room in the cottage; posters of current international models decorated the walls. Here she dreamed of one day modelling for the likes of Dior, Yves St Laurent or Versa
ce, elegantly prowling the catwalks of Paris, New York, London and Milan. Fiona, on the other hand, despite leaving school to accept a position in banking, had immersed herself in an Open University accounting course.

  Although very much at odds in their aspirations, they nevertheless remained close friends. Their common attributes were self-confidence, ambition and the ‘joie de vivre’ possessed by the majority of young women in their late teens. In their minds, they were indestructible.

  To some degree, Fiona could understand Lara's decision about her proposed termination. As her mind was set on a modelling career, giving birth before she had even set one foot on the ladder towards success could have had disastrous consequences. She was also aware that Lara's fling with Andrew Davenport was not as serious as most acquaintances in their circle of friends believed, including Andy himself. Though he was absolutely besotted by her, possibly on account of her stunning looks, she, in turn had no illusions about ditching him when opportunities eventually came knocking. Maybe an abortion was justified in Lara's case. With such thoughts, Fiona reconciled herself to the inevitable.

  “Without your support, Fi, I'm all alone in this,” pleaded Lara.

  “I assume you will be going to a private clinic, a reputable one.”

  “It's all arranged for the Thursday before Easter.”

  “How are you going to pay for it?”

  “I'm using the money saved for my holiday in the summer. So much for sunning myself in Corfu.”

  “Do you want me to go to the clinic with you?”

  “I'd like you to be there for me afterwards. I may need a shoulder…I don't know. It's all a new experience. I'll probably be okay but it would be nice to have you around, just in case… you know moral support and all that. The only favour I ask is that you pop round to look after the animals whilst I'm away. It'll probably be only for a day, maybe two. In fact, why don't you come over and stay for the bank holiday weekend?”

  They strolled out onto the patio and sat on a bench overlooking Mrs. Crawford's immaculate garden where a profusion of daffodils upstaged a scattering of snowdrops. March had drawn to a close, the days had lengthened and the mild spring weather was a welcome change from the bitter chill of the previous month.