“Yes, well thank you, Charles, and please, my name, again is Gerald. I did well, as have quite a few former orphans and pupils from here. It's a pleasure to be able to come back and perhaps contribute a little to the spiritual welfare of the boys and girls.”
“I looked you up, Gerald,” said Hopkirk, looking pleased with himself.
“Did you now?” asked the priest. “And just what did you discover, I wonder?”
“Only that you arrived here, together with your ten year old sister, Angela, as a seven year old after your mother died, in nineteen sixty-one, with no other relatives left to look after you. Your father had died a few years earlier, finally succumbing to illness following years of ill treatment during the war in a Japanese Prisoner-of-War Camp and the two of you then lived in the orphanage and attended the church school here until you were both old enough to leave and make your way in the world. One particular note on your records really stood out, Gerald.”
“And what, I wonder, would that be?”
“Well, it was two things really. It said you were an outstanding sportsman, having represented the school, and Stanley House, at football, rugby and cricket, and that you also, even then, possessed a strong sense of spirituality, and had professed your intention of entering the priesthood as soon as you were old enough. It's nice to know you were successful in your ambition, Gerald.”
“Thank you, Charles. My life has indeed been one of enrichment and service to God, and I'm happy to be home again after so many years away.”
“And your sister, Angela? How has she fared in the big wide world since leaving us?”
A cloud momentarily seemed to pass before the priest's eyes and his shoulders appeared to droop as his demeanour changed for a few seconds, until he pulled himself together before replying.
“I'm afraid Angela died at a young age, Charles. I'd prefer it if we don't discuss the details. It was a painful time for me and remains so to this day.”
A look of genuine concern appeared on Charles Hopkirk's face. He'd looked up the original records of their new priest as soon as he'd heard that he was an 'old boy' of Speke Hill. Those records showed his sister Angela to have been a resident of the orphanage at the same time as Gerald Byrne, but obviously, those records ended when each of the children reached the age of maturity and passed out of the local council's care. He now felt he may have committed something of a 'faux pas' in mentioning what was obviously a painful subject for the priest.
“I'm so sorry, Father Byrne,” he said, returning to a veneer of formality. “I didn't mean to upset you.”
“It's okay, Charles, really. It's just that it all happened a long time ago and isn't something I care to talk about any more. My sister dwells with the Lord now, and I'd like to leave it at that, and, my name is Gerald, remember?”
Byrne smiled now, and Charles Hopkirk felt an instant forgiveness in that smile. Here indeed, he thought, is a good man.
“Right, well, I suppose you'd like to take a brief look around the old place eh?”
“That would be nice, thank you.”
“I hope you won't mind, Gerald, but, knowing you were coming today, I asked one of our teachers to give you a guided tour of the modern version of Speke Hill. A lot of things have changed since you were here, as I've said, but many things are still the same. It just so happens that we have another 'old boy' on our staff at the senior school, another lad from your own age group during your time here. You might remember Mark Proctor?”
Byrne's face almost betrayed an emotion he wouldn't have wanted the senior care officer to witness at the mention of Proctor's name. Mark Proctor, who the other children back then used to call 'Garibaldi' due to his lack of hair, even at such a tender age, had never been a particular friend to Gerald Byrne, who recalled him as something of a bully, always picking on those younger or smaller than himself and unable to defend themselves against his aggressive tendencies. He'd always felt that Mr. Pugh, the senior housemaster for Stanley House knew just what Proctor was like, but could never actually catch him in the act of bullying, so had tried to channel some of his aggression into boxing training, a sport at which Proctor excelled and in due course won a number of trophies for the school in local competitions. Byrne doubted very much that boxing would feature on the modern day sports curriculum, far too violent for today's passive and non-confrontational educational system. Keeping his dislike of the man, well, in fact the boy he'd known decades earlier, hidden for now, he replied politely to Hopkirk's minor bombshell of information.
“Mark Proctor? Yes, I do kind of remember the boy, Charles. What subject is he teaching?”
“Physical Education.”
“That makes sense. Proctor the boy was always involved in all things physical.”
Byrne tried hard not to let the sarcasm of his words transmit themselves to Hopkirk, who barely seemed to register the priest's reply as a knock on the door heralded the arrival of the former bully, now respected teacher of P.E at Speke Hill, and Byrne's thoughts turned to buried memories.
Chapter 4
Mortuary Matters
Andy Ross exited the car, leaving Izzie Drake to lock up and he was first to the entrance to the mortuary building. He'd just pressed the intercom button as Drake arrived at his side, and a familiar voice came through the little box on the wall.
“Please identify yourself and state your business today.”
“Peter, it's D.I. Ross and Sergeant Drake. Dr. Nugent is expecting us.”
“Ah, hello Inspector. You know the routine, please come in.”
The speaker pressed a button inside the building and Ross waited until he heard a 'click' and then pushed and the door swung open to admit the detectives. Ross and Drake soon arrived at the office, (Ross thought it more of a cubicle really, but politeness precluded him mentioning it), where Peter Foster, the senior mortuary receptionist was seated behind a small desk, protected by plate glass. A circular speaking outlet allowed visitors to speak through the glass, and a small slot at the bottom allowed Foster to pass the appropriate 'Visitor' badges to those authorised to progress into the main mortuary building. Ross could clearly remember when a younger Peter Foster had first begun working here, just before a complex case relating to the long deceased singer, Brendan Kane had reared its head some three years earlier. Foster had become a real asset to the department and had been promoted to the senior position some months earlier, much to the delight of Izzie Drake, who Ross had been surprised to discover had been dating the younger man for a few months by then.
“Good morning, Inspector, Izzie,” Foster said as the detectives smiled in greeting.
“Everything okay, Peter?” Ross asked.
“Fine, thanks,” Foster replied.
“Hello, Peter,” said Izzie Drake,
“You're looking good, Izzie,” he replied.
“Considering what we've seen this morning, I'll assume you're being very nice to me, Peter. I feel like shit after being in that churchyard.”
“Oh well, you know me. I know nothing about the cases when they first come in so I have to assume it was a bad one?”
“Very bad, Peter,” Ross interrupted, “and if you two lovebirds don't mind, I'd rather we didn't keep Dr. Nugent waiting while you discuss my sergeant's appearance.”
“Oh God, yeah, sorry, Inspector, he's in Autopsy One,” a flustered Peter Foster responded, pushing two visitor badges through the slot at the base of the window and pressing the entry button that allowed the detectives into the main corridor. Ross grinned at the man, who smiled sheepishly back at him. Ross still found it strange that his sergeant had found herself attracted to the younger man, though only by a couple of years, and he'd been surprised when she'd told him in his office one day that she'd met Foster in a pub one night, quite accidentally, and that they'd shared a drink or two and found they shared a number of common interests. Soon after, they'd begun dating on a regular basis and six months down the line, it seemed the couple were growing closer with the passa
ge of time. Ross was pleased for Izzie who'd always seemed to be beset by bad luck in her personal relationships in the past. Perhaps Peter Foster might be her 'Mr. Right' at last.
Izzie blew Foster a kiss as she and Ross disappeared along the corridor, and a minute later they found themselves in Autopsy Room Number One, in the company of William Nugent and his assistant, the ever-present Francis Lees.
* * *
The cadaver on the stainless steel autopsy table bore little resemblance to the living, breathing human being he had been up until a few short hours ago. By the time Ross and Drake had arrived, Dr. Nugent had already made a start, the customary Y incision not really necessary after the killer had virtually opened up the entire upper torso of the victim and he and Lees had clearly been hard at work on the remains of the as yet unidentified victim.
“Ah, Inspector Ross and Sergeant Drake, welcome. As ye can see, Mr. Lees and I have made a start without you. I thought you'd appreciate not having to watch the really grisly parts, as usual.”
The pathologist had a wry and at times wicked sense of humour. He'd long ago learned of Ross's aversion to the procedures of a post-mortem examination and he loved to occasionally wind-up the inspector a little. It was all part of a strange but mutual admiration that existed between the doctor and the policeman; not quite friends, but respected colleagues would be an apt description.
“Your thoughtfulness is amazing, Doc,” said Ross, a smile on his face. “Anything to tell me yet?”
“Quite a bit to tell the truth, Inspector. Look here,” he indicated the deceased's throat, and now, with the blood washed away, it was clear to Ross and Drake that the killer had not only cut the throat of the victim but had done it so viciously that the cut had almost gone through to the man's spinal cord.
“Bloody hell, sir,” Drake exclaimed.
“Bloody hell indeed, Sergeant,” Ross agreed.
“Cause of death, I presume, Doc?”
“In all likelihood, yes,” Nugent replied. “However, I have to admit that with the massive amount of 'work' your killer has carried out on this poor soul, any of the wounds to his lower abdomen could have led to death from shock and blood loss. If I had to hazard an informed opinion though, I'd say he cut the victim's throat first and then swiftly got to work on the evisceration of the body.”
“I thought the heart stopped pumping blood at the moment of death, Doctor,” said Drake. “So why was there so much blood at the scene if the first cut to the throat led to the man's death?”
“Quite simply, ma dear girl, because the killer didn't just stab or inflict wounds on the body he literally cut the man open, gutting him, to all intents and purposes, so all the blood contained in the abdomen and chest cavity simply flowed out onto the ground around the body. You and the inspector have attended enough autopsies here to know how much blood leaks from a body when cut open, hence the channels in the tables here for the blood to drain from. Don't forget, he also cut out virtually every major organ from the torso too, leading to even more blood being dumped rather than bleeding out onto the ground.”
“Yes, of course, sorry Doctor. I should have known that.”
“Don't you go beating yourself up about it, Sergeant. You had a real shock seeing that murder site this morning. Police officer or not, it had to have an effect on you, so it's no surprise if you're nae thinking straight right now.”
Drake nodded her thanks to the pathologist, though inwardly cursing herself. She'd seen enough bodies and attended enough post-mortems over the years and she really did think she should have been a little more 'on the ball' over the subject of the blood loss. It was Ross's turn to question Nugent.
“Doc, the other, er…mutilations? Can you tell us if they were carried out using the same weapon as the killer used on the man's throat? If not, we have to assume our killer used more than one weapon and as yet, we haven't located any weapons at or near the graveyard. I'm presuming at this stage that the murderer took the weapons away with him.”
William Nugent, used to seeing some of the worst that man can inflict on his fellow being over his many years as a pathologist, shook his head slowly before replying to Ross's question. He looked across the room to where his assistant, Francis Lees, was busily weighing the various organs removed from the victim by the killer, before placing them in sealed jars of preservative.
“Francis,” Nugent said, and Lees turned and waited for his boss to speak again. Bring me your clipboard will you, please?”
Lees nodded, and stepped across the room and handed the clipboard, containing various sheets of paper, including the notes he was making on the victim's organs, to the senior pathologist, who flicked Lees' notes over until he arrived at what he was looking for.
“Right, Inspector,” he began, “all I can say is that whoever perpetrated this damnable atrocity on the victim certainly wasn't medically trained. The poor man was systematically hacked open by what I estimate to be an extremely sharp blade of around nine to ten inches in length, almost certainly the same implement used to cut the poor man's throat. There are enough tell-tale signs on the body to show where he literally chopped at the torso in order to open the man up, almost using the blade like a saw, but, without a serrated blade, it got very messy. Look at the abdomen.”
Ross and Drake leaned over to see what Nugent was indicating.
“See, the flesh is hanging in shards around the cuts, and from the depth of penetration, I think you can assume great rage existed within the mind of your killer. There was no need to go as deep as he did to reach the organs, which were then almost chopped out of the body cavity.”
“Sounds as if this was very personal Doc.”
“Aye, well, that's for you and your people to determine, I'm pleased to say. My job is simply to tell you what killed the poor chap and I still have to determine that for certain.”
Izzie Drake rejoined the conversation.
“But, I thought you said the wound to the throat…”
“Aye, Sergeant, but I did qualify that statement by adding the words, 'in all probability' ye may recall.”
“So you're not certain?”
“Look, detectives, with the massive amount of damage the killer inflicted on this poor man, it's safe to say that any one of the wounds inflicted on the body could have been fatal, but in my opinion, I am leaning towards the belief that it would have been easier for the killer to ensure the man was dead by slitting his throat first before carrying out his series of atrocities upon the body.”
“So you don't think the poor sod was alive while he was being disembowelled?” Ross asked.
“Correct, Inspector,” said Nugent, who then hesitated before going on, “but, there is a possibility that one of the injuries was inflicted ante-mortem.”
Ross had a feeling he knew what the pathologist was about to say, and he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as he waited for Nugent to continue.
“With the amount of trauma, and copious blood loss in the genital region, I have to hypothesise that your killer removed the victim's penis while he was still alive.”
“Oh, God,” said Drake,
“That's fucking sick,” Ross added.
“Indeed it is,” Nugent agreed, “but it is highly likely.”
“And that would almost certainly confirm a highly personal motive,” said Ross.
“Aye well, that's your job to determine, not mine, as I said,” Nugent replied, “but one thing's pretty certain. You are, without doubt, seeking an individual filled with severe rage and also with sufficient strength to have somehow overpowered and subdued the victim in order to carry out this heinous attack.”
“Would he have placed it, his, penis I mean, in the mouth before or after killing the man?” Drake asked.
“I cannae be sure, Sergeant, but I'd say after if you wanted to pin me down. The way it was located so far down the throat, I doubt he'd have managed that with a living, struggling victim, as this poor bugger must have been doing at the time.”
&
nbsp; “Right, I see. Thanks, Doc. I think we'll leave you to conclude your examination in peace,” said Ross. “If you find anything else you think may be helpful…”
“I'll let you know, right away, Inspector, as always. Hopefully, that clever young detective of yours at headquarters may have a name for you by the time you get back.”
“You mean D.C. Ferris?”
“Yes, that's him. I had Mr. Lees here send a copy of the victim's fingerprints over there as soon as we'd taken them. I remembered the detective constable was your team's collator and you'd be anxious to try and make a rapid identification, so yes, he has them and if the victim is in the system, you may have a name for him very soon.”
“That's great, Doc, thanks” said Ross as he and Drake prepared to head back to police headquarters. Ross wouldn't wait to get back before contacting Ferris though. Once outside the building, he'd turn his phone on again and call Paul Ferris to ascertain what, if any progress he'd made with the fingerprints.
“I'll be in touch if I find anything else of interest,” Nugent called, as the two detectives were just about to exit the autopsy room, adding, as Ross's hand closed on the handle to open the door, “Oh yes, and how's your love life, Sergeant Drake?”
Izzie Drake blushed; having been unaware that word of her relationship with Peter Foster had reached the ears of the city's chief pathologist”
“It's, erm, it's fine. Thank you, Doctor,” she said, quietly.
“Aye well, I'm glad to hear it. Just go gentle on my poor receptionist, you hear me, Sergeant”
Nugent had a grin like a Cheshire cat on his face, enjoying his small moment of managing to embarrass Izzie in such a jocular way.
“Goodbye, Doctor,” she said, as she and Ross exited the room, her boss also grinning at her momentary discomfiture.
Chapter 5
Memories
In the few seconds it took for the door to Charles Hopkirk's office to open, admitting Mark Proctor, Gerald Byrne experienced one of those strange, almost out-of-body experiences, whereby his memory took him back in time and an entire scene seemed to play out in his mind, a reminder of one particular episode from his youth.
All Saints- Murder on the Mersey Page 4