Cleaver Square

by Sean Campbell

  CLEAVER SQUARE

  Daniel Campbell

  Sean Campbell

  Cleaver Square

  First published in Great Britain by De Minimis, December 2013

  © Sean Campbell 2013

  The moral rights of Sean Campbell & Daniel Campbell to be identified as the authors of this work have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Cover Art designed by Nadica Boskovska, © Sean Campbell 2013

  All characters are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First Edition

  CHAPTER 1: HACKNEY MARSHES

  David Morton was not a night owl. He firmly believed that nothing good ever happened between midnight and ten o'clock, and so the arrogant buzzing of his mobile phone shortly before quarter past eight elicited a sleepy groan. He squinted at the screen as its artificial light illuminated his haggard face. It was work. With a sprightliness belying his age, he threw off his half of the cover and leapt to his feet. A lesser man might have questioned why, at fifty-two years of age, he was still willing to jump at a moment's notice. It was not like he had anything to prove any more.

  Morton paused to glance down at his long-suffering wife then prodded her gently awake.

  'Sarah! Sarah, I've got to go. Can you reschedule our morning tennis game?'

  A hand emerged from underneath the marital duvet, gesticulated rudely then withdrew back underneath the warm cover.

  David took his wife's dismissive wave as a yes. A crooked smile crept onto his face as he relished the fact that he would not have to spend his Saturday morning playing nice with the in-laws. Being on call did have some perks.

  He dressed quietly, and then crept downstairs. Hunger surged through his stomach, and it took considerable effort to ignore the siren calls of the fridge. While he was the Senior Investigating Officer, he still answered to the Superintendent and the boss frowned on any delays getting to a crime scene. Morton blinked to clear the last bit of sleepy-dust from his eyes, and now that they were fully focussed, reread the text message from dispatch, "Body found encased in ice. Hackney Marshes. Near Kingfisher Wood. Bring wellington boots."

  ***

  It was almost nine when Detective Chief Inspector David Morton parked up on the north side of Homerton Road. A handful of cars passed him by, travelling much slower than the forty-mile-per-hour limit to avoid careering off the icy road.

  There were few pedestrians out and about, but the one man Morton did see studiously avoided eye contact, his head bowed as he passed. Morton reluctantly stepped out of his climate-controlled car, then slammed the door shut as his breath escaped in a cloud of water vapour. An over-the-shoulder beep confirmed that the car was immobilized. A brand new BMW 5 series wouldn't last long if left unlocked, and Morton still had three years left to go on the hire-purchase deal.

  He set off towards Kingfisher Wood, his posture hunched as he strained against the wind. A mist had descended on the Marshes, reducing visibility to less than twenty feet. He could see only the ghostly outline of willow trees looming in the distance. Morton navigated towards Kingfisher Wood by keeping the rushing sounds of the Old River Lea firmly on his right.

  After ten minutes of huffing and puffing, the crime scene tape emerged from the mist just past the East Marsh Bridge. Morton quickly ducked under the familiar blue and white tape and trudged towards the south end of Kingfisher Wood. He presumed the area had once been populated by swathes of kingfishers, but Hackney had long ago become too built up to sustain many of the jewel-like birds. These days, the open space was mostly used for sports and recreation rather than conservation.

  'Chief! Over here!' Detective Inspector Bertram Ayala would have been virtually invisible in the darkness if it were not for the hastily erected floodlights. In contrast to Morton's hastily assumed attire, Ayala was immaculately turned out in a pinstripe suit which made the blue slip-on evidence booties covering his loafers look all the more ridiculous. Morton smirked at the contrast.

  'Morning, Ayala.' Morton resisted the urge to wind up the junior officer by using his much-loathed given name. 'What've we got?'

  'Partial decomposition. Shallow burial. We've uncovered part of the body. It's face down. Getting it out of the ground is going to take a while as it's mostly frozen,' Ayala said.

  'That's January for you. Get a heater going, and stick up a tent. We don't want any looky-loos getting a peek.'

  'Yes sir!' Ayala spun on his bootie-clad heel, and disappeared into the darkness.

  While the body was still on ice, there was precious little Morton could do. He had thirty-two staff at his disposal. Every one of them would have been roused by the same text alert he'd received almost an hour previously, but it would probably be at least another hour before he had the whole team on-site. A full search of the woods could only be conducted once everyone had arrived.

  A peek at the prostrate body didn't reveal much, as muddy ice obscured Morton's view. Through the mud and grass, Morton could see several body parts. Heels, a single slender arm and a rounded skull protruded, a distance of only around five feet between heels and skull. Without context, that wasn't conclusive as the body parts could be scattered, but it looked likely that the victim might be on the shorter side.

  'Morning, handsome,' a lilting Welsh voice called out from behind Morton as he stared at the ground. Morton turned to see his second-in-command emerge from the mist holding a cardboard tray full of coffees. The nearest one had an 'M' for Morton pencilled onto the cardboard sleeve.

  'Ah, thank you, Tina,' Morton said. He took a sip, then immediately regretted it. The coffee was vile, the kind found in cheap vending machines. It had probably come from the twenty-four hour petrol station around the corner. At least it was hot.

  'Short victim. Reckon it's a woman?' Tina asked.

  Morton nodded appreciatively. 'Could well be. The body is short enough, but women are rarely murder victims.'

  Tina bent down to examine the corpse, being careful not to disturb the remains.

  'Who found the body?'

  'That guy.' Tina straightened up, then pointed through the fog. Morton followed her gaze to a bespectacled man wearing sodden wet clothes. He was barely visible despite being less than fifteen feet away. A uniformed officer stood by his side.

  Morton approached, and began to evaluate his witness. The man wore torn denim jeans and a rugged wool jumper that gave him a dirty, dishevelled look. In his left hand he held a metal detector, with a grip so tight that his knuckles had turned white.

  Morton didn't rate him as a potential witness in the courtroom. He had a weak chin, watery eyes and an untrustworthy demeanour. Morton introduced himself, and shook the man's hand. The weak handshake Morton received confirmed his suspicions.

  'Sir, what's your name?'

  Tina watched from the side as Morton began the interview. She had a notepad in hand, ready to scribble down anything pertinent. Morton didn't bother; his talent for remembering the smallest detail was legendary among the force. His memory wasn't quite eidetic, but with a visual memory retention rate approaching 90 per cent he never forgot anything important.

  'R-R-Robert Lyons.' His teeth chattered in the fierce cold as he spoke, forcing Morton to lean in close to understand him. Lyons was shivering fiercely, so Morton emptied the inside pocket of his overcoat before draping it around the man. He clipped his police-issue BlackBerry to a belt loop, and tucked his half-hunter pocket watch into his trousers before turning his attention back to Lyons.

  'What were you doing in the woods, Mr Lyons?' Morton continued once Lyons enshrouded himself within the tent-like overcoat.

  'Trying to f-f-find metal in
the ground. We do it every Saturday.' Lyon's statement would have seemed pointless without context, so Morton asked him to elaborate for the record.

  'The North London Diggers Association. We go out in public land with these,' Robert indicated the cumbersome Garrett metal detector, 'and see what we can find. Usually, it's just the odd coin or drinks can.'

  'But not today?'

  'No. Well, I was walking through the woods...' Lyons began.

  'Where from?' Morton interrupted Mr Lyons before he could start to ramble. If a witness built up a head of steam, it could be hard to get them to stop, and Morton needed the specifics.

  'The m-m-market.' Robert gestured through the woods to the east. New Spitalfields Market was just the other side of the river.

  'And where were you going?'

  'I was heading that way.' Robert gestured roughly due west. 'I found a couple of quid in the East Marsh, and then worked my way up through Kingfisher Wood. We're due to meet up back at the car park in about an hour, the one with the recycling bins. We get rid of all the scrap when we're done for the day so we don't end up digging it up again the next week.'

  'But today was different?' Morton prompted.

  'Yes. I hadn't been out long when the machine started beeping. I dug down a little, and the beeping continued. It took a while until I hit it,' he over-pronounced the last word, reluctant to describe the corpse.

  'How did you find the body?'

  'Just kept digging. It was about two feet down. When the detector went off, and I still hadn't found anything just under the surface I guessed it wasn't something small like the coins I typically find...' Robert cast a skeletal hand towards the body.

  'But bodies don't set off detectors. What was it you found?'

  Robert turned away, his face briefly sporting a sheepish expression. Morton held his gaze, letting the awkward silence do his interrogation for him. Moments later, Robert turned back to the detective but refused to meet his gaze. Instead, he kept his eyes firmly cast downwards as he thrust his hand into his bag, drawing out a chunky gold watch. Morton turned towards the uniformed officer and summoned an evidence bag with a snap of his fingers. He turned the bag inside out as a makeshift glove and reached for the watch.

  'No! It's mine. I call Treasure Trove,' Robert snatched the watch away, twisting his body to shield the watch, in a vain attempt to invoke a legal right that was essentially 'finders, keepers'.

  'Nope, it's evidence in a murder investigation. Besides, that watch isn't old enough to qualify as treasure trove. Hand it over.' Morton held out the bag expectantly.

  With a hint of hesitation Robert placed the watch in the palm of Morton's bagged hand. Morton inverted the bag, enveloping the watch in protective plastic. He then pulled the bag's adhesive tag to seal it and handed it to his second-in-command.

  'Tina, make sure this stays with the body. Get a uniform to pick up Mr Lyons so he can make a formal statement back at the station.'

  There was no cause to believe Robert knew anything more, but Morton wanted his details on record in case he needed to re-interview Robert in light of later evidence.

  ***

  If he could help it, Morton preferred not to assume a dictatorial style with his staff. In his days as a junior officer, he'd been barked at frequently and had soon come to the conclusion that you caught more flies with honey than with vinegar. The Senior Investigating Officer had a number of perks, not the least of which was the freedom to run his cases as he saw fit. To his credit, Morton had an above-par conviction rate, which meant that he was given a lot of latitude. But murder investigations have to be a 'by the book' affair. Morton peered through the mists as the team assembled. The mist was starting to clear, but his team still had to huddle in close to him. As well as his team, Morton was joined by staff from the canine unit and forensic services, so he had a sizeable audience to brief.

  Morton upturned an empty kit box to make an improvised stand, and began his briefing.

  'I want our area search completed first. We need to cover the whole of the Marshes.' A chorus of groans came from the assembled officers. With over three hundred and thirty-six acres to cover, it would be a considerable task. The composition of the Marshes would further complicate matters. An abundance of clay topsoil gave the Marshes their name, which meant that even a light drizzle might wash away pertinent evidence. The sky loomed a dirty grey overhead, threatening a much heavier downpour. They would need to work exceptionally quickly.

  'We're taking no chances here, people. The open land shouldn't take too long, so focus your attention on the scrubland and the trees. If you get tired, take a break. We can't afford to miss anything. The press are going to be all over this, and SO2 had better come out of this looking whiter than white. We'll start with the area immediately by the body, and then expand the grid horizontally and vertically. Photographers will lead at the front, while Canine Squad will stay one step behind.'

  The search order would be crucial. Photographs would help establish the scene prior to any disturbance, giving Morton a safety net. It would be impossible to secure such a large area for long, especially with opportunities for entry and egress along the river. Keeping digital records would let him revisit the scene in the same state as it was on the day of the search. Likewise, having cadaver dogs on hand should prevent any body parts going missing. As a secondary benefit the sheer size of the dogs would keep the public at bay. Crowds had already begun to amass near the eastern perimeter. Before the briefing, Morton had taken a few surreptitious photographs of the crowd using his mobile phone. Identifying a suspect or even a witness from such photographs was rare, but not unheard of.

  'This will be a standard large-area grid search.' This pronouncement elicited another groan. Morton could have allowed them to perform a more basic search where the group would walk in one direction, then turn and come back along the next section. The grid method meant going in one direction and then turning and going forward again. It meant that every inch of ground got covered twice, but would take twice as long.

  'Anything we find gets logged with GPS co-ordinates. Get the lot to Detective Vaughn, as she'll be inventorying all evidence today. The whole lot will go on the evidence map, so photograph everything in situ then log it in the evidence register.' The team should know the drill, but the churn of junior officers necessitated giving the whole spiel. Some of the old hands had heard Morton's briefing speech dozens of times before. Detective Inspector Ayala. Your team will begin the canvass. Start with the crowd, and zero in on anyone uncooperative. Don't forget to interview the rest of the North London Diggers Association.'

  A few junior officers laughed at the name, then blushed when Morton glared in their direction. While the officers attempted to display contrition, Morton fought to keep his own laughter in check. Ayala recognised his boss's irrepressible urge to tease the new officers, having been the subject of Morton's humour, and winked.

  It would be down to Ayala to identify any potential suspects so they could be located later on for re-interview. At this stage the interviews would be used only to garner initial leads rather than to record detailed information.

  The initial canvass was a delicate balancing act; the public had to be given the most basic information in order to question them, and to identify follow-up questions, but it would be inappropriate to release too much information too soon. Joggers, dog walkers and early-morning exercise groups often used the Marshes. With a squad of thirty-two, and just twelve working the canvass, it would be impossible to stop everyone attempting to go in or out; in fact, they'd need a team of thousands to secure the whole perimeter. Ayala would have to work with what he had.

  'Sergeant...' Morton frowned as he tried to recall the name of the short, balding officer opposite him, one of his newest team members.

  'Turing, sir,' the man volunteered.

  'Sergeant Turing, you've got babysitting duty. Assist the Forensics Department any way you can, and make sure you log the chain of custody for every sample the
y take. Once you're done, report back to Detective Vaughn.' Although not part of Special Operations 2, it would be down to the Met's Forensics Department to lift fingerprints and process all trace evidence.

  'With this much organic material, you might not find much. This is a standard locate and lift, so focus in on the obvious inorganics.' Forensics would focus in on lampposts, bridges and bins but Morton didn't expect them to yield anything. It was a relatively high-traffic area so many prints would be smudged, and until the body was excavated, they wouldn't know how long it had been since the murderer had been on the scene.

  'Get to it, people!'

  CHAPTER 2: CHARLIE

  Charlie Matthews sat in the back seat of his social worker's Mercedes, and fiddled with the buttons on his overcoat. He wouldn't have had to wear the coat, but the car's heater was broken and so they'd been forced to drive with the windows open to prevent their breath clouding up the windscreen. Apart from that minor fault, Charlie thought the car was the nicest he'd even been in.

  It wasn't a long trip, but congestion had hampered their journey, an inevitable consequence of driving in central London. There was no satellite navigation system calling out directions, so Charlie had no way of benchmarking how far there was left to go. It appeared his driver knew London well enough not to need directions.

  As they drove, bubblegum pop blared from the sound system, mitigating the otherwise awkward silence. Charlie's head bobbed along to the rhythm, and he was glad he didn't have to talk to the older man. Charlie had never been much of a talker. Social workers tried hard, but there was only so much they had in common with their young charges, and Charlie was no ordinary child.

  'Are we nearly there?' Charlie's tongue almost tripped over the words.

  Glacial blue eyes pierced the mirror, searching out the boy. Charlie recoiled as their gazes met, ice running through his veins. Hank had a pleasant, handsome face with high cheekbones and pearly white teeth, but something about him made Charlie's stomach churn.