They lived in a new build on West Overcliff Drive, overlooking the English Channel. It was a pricey area, minutes from the beach. Despite the January weather, a few cars were still parked along the cliff top on the double yellow lines. Morton parked up next to an Aston Martin and felt a sudden rush of schadenfreude as he spotted a black and yellow parking notice affixed to the windscreen.
The garishly named Houton Manor wasn't visible from the road. It was concealed behind an eight-feet-high fence with a security gate. He hit the intercom button next to the gate, and explained the reason for his visit. The gate swung open, allowing him to proceed down a private gravel road towards the house. It wasn't truly a Manor, at least not yet. The house was surrounded by scaffolding, and there was a pile of bricks outside.
An assortment of builder's tools covered by tarpaulin suggested recent activity. The disappearance of their son had not hampered the Houtons' home renovation plans. If one of Morton's boys were missing, he'd be out there searching come hell or high water, not messing about with building work.
Morton glanced at the windows to make sure the Houtons weren't watching, and then pulled a penknife from his pocket to cut a quick sample from the tarpaulin, to test its chemical composition against the sheet the body had been found in. It wouldn't hold up in court, but if it proved to be a viable lead he could simply come back for a legitimate sample.
Matching his and hers 4x4s in baby blue and coral pink were parked in the driveway. The cars were adorned with a pair of vanity plates that made them look even more conspicuous, HOU73N1 and HOU73N2.
A few brisk strides later, Morton rang the doorbell and a chime rang out from inside the house. Morton had neglected to call ahead before ringing at the security gate. Given advance warning, most individuals would take the time to put on a veneer of respectability.
Mrs Houton answered the door. Morton flashed his identification, 'Good afternoon. Mrs Houton, I presume. I'm Detective Chief Inspector David Morton. Please may I come in?'
Mrs Houton silently led the way through to the living room, her buttocks jiggling despite the tight-fitting Lycra. The largest sofa was occupied by her husband, a behemoth of a man wearing a sweat-stained t-shirt, and loose-fitting trousers. The otherwise pristine cream-coloured leather sofa was ruined by the sweaty silhouette of Mr Houton. Morton took an opposing seat, and tried to suppress his gag reflex.
'Mr and Mrs Houton, I realise you'll have been through all the details with your local police several times already but I'd like you to tell me what happened to your son.'
'Rick is our only son.' Mr Houton chewed on a beef jerky as he spoke. With a pudgy hand, he proffered the packet to Morton.
'No, thank you.'
'He can be a bit of a loner. He's at a boarding school in West Sussex from Monday to Friday. We drop him up off at Christchurch Station every Monday morning at six, and pick him up on Friday evening at seven. When we went to pick him up on the twenty-third of November, he wasn't there.'
'Did he leave the school that day?'
'Yes. His peers saw him get on the train a little after school got out.'
'What about CCTV footage?'
'The police tried to track him. He definitely got on the first train, but they lost sight of him after that. They said it was a busy commuter train. It was standing room only, and the cameras are all ceiling mounted, so taller passengers obscured the view. They're still sifting through CCTV from the other stations along the route in case he got dragged off, but not all of them have complete coverage. We know he definitely didn't make it to Christchurch.'
'What's he like as a kid? You said he's a bit of a loner. Has he always been that way?' Morton hinted at the possibility that Rick might have changed recently, which could happen when teenagers became hooked on drugs, and one of the most common reasons for a teenager to become the subject of a missing persons report.
'Yep, never much liked to play nice with the other kids. When he was little, he used to hoard the toys,' Mr Houton said.
Morton resisted the temptation to roll his eyes; the kid sounded charming.
'How are his marks at school?'
'Exemplary. He's doing three languages.' The father huffed proudly.
'Except Physical Education, dear,' Mrs Houton interrupted, 'he takes after you that way.'
Morton realised that it was unlikely Rick Houton was Joe Bloggs Junior. The body belonged to a skinny child, not someone remotely like Mr Houton. Rick had only been missing since November and it seemed unlikely he could have lost that much weight so quickly.
Mr Houton looked like he wanted to say something, but a glare from his wife cut him off.
'OK. Can I ask what you both do for a living?' Morton quickly changed tack at the prospect of a marital argument interrupting his questioning.
'She's a housewife,' Mr Houton shot a dark look at his wife, 'I'm a day trader. Currencies, commodities, bonds. That sort of thing.'
'And where do you work?'
'I work from home. All I need is a laptop.' Mr Houton puffed his chest out proudly.
'Do you have a photo of your son?' There was a distinct absence of family photos in the sitting room. A few frames housed photos of people Morton presumed were distant relatives, while pride of place was given to a large portrait of Mr and Mrs Houton hung on the wall above the mantel. There were no images of Rick on display. Perhaps the Houtons had removed the constant reminders of their missing son.
'We gave our most recent print, one from his school, to the police already.'
'I see. Could you perhaps email me a copy?'
'Sure.'
'Send it over to [email protected] please. I'm also going to need a DNA sample from you.'
At his words, Mrs Houton tugged at her hair, freeing a solitary strand, 'Will this do?'
Taking the hair, David held it up to the light to check for the presence of a root. Not all hair could be used for DNA analysis. Out of the three stages of hair growth, anagen, catagen and telogen, only anagen hairs have roots, and only the root contains DNA. The specimen Mrs Houton provided had a white root clearly visible at the tip.
'That should do just fine.' David had hoped to obtain DNA from the mother. Using the father's DNA carried the risk of exposing marital indiscretion that would skew the results, and the tests all came out of the departmental budget. This way avoided any chance of a retest being required.
CHAPTER 5: NOTHING PROBATIVE?
In any large investigation, one of the senior officers had to take responsibility for collecting all the evidence. That meant that either Tina Vaughn or Bertram Ayala would have to deal with bagging and tagging it, then sifting through it all for relevance. This time, it was Tina's turn.
Every scrap, fibre, rock, bug or hair collected in the vicinity of the Marshes had been dumped into the recently set up Incident Room for Tina to deal with. From what she had found so far, Tina was disappointed. There were no bullets, guns or weapons. Only two items, both found with the body, had been covered in blood. Even the cadaver dogs had come home empty-handed.
Tina suspected that only the mesh net and tarpaulin found wrapped around the body would prove probative. Tina suspected the latter was used to carry the body, but the former was puzzling. Both were found near the dump site, and both tested positive when subjected to a Luminol Chemiluminescence Test, which was a fancy mixture of Luminol powder, hydrogen peroxide and hydroxide. When it was sprayed onto blood, the mixture caused the iron content to produce a blue glow under ultraviolet light. Both the mesh net and the tarpaulin had lit up, but that wasn't conclusive as blood wasn't the only reactant.
Anything containing iron like bleach or even horseradish could set it off. Tina hated Luminol. On her first-ever case, the crime scene had been liberally doused in bleach. Consequently, when she sprayed Luminol the whole place had lit up like a Christmas tree.
The sheer volume of evidence collected struck Tina as overkill. From the contents of the Incident Room, it would be easy to assume that ever
y scrap and fibre in the Marshes had been collected with little regard to what was germane. There was no way every item could be forensically tested; doing that would bankrupt the Met. All of it had been laid out on long tables in the Incident Room.
Every item from the Marshes came into the room inside an evidence bag. It was up to Tina to inspect the evidence, and then reseal it back inside another plastic evidence bag where it would be safe from contamination and labelled by Tina's fair hand. Documentation lay beside each item showing a photograph of the scene plus the evidence log, which was needed to document the chain of custody. Tina had separated the evidence out into several groups: biological evidence on one table, plastic on another. Geological samples nestled on the smallest table in the corner. The primary table held a large tarpaulin mat, one side of which was smeared with blood.
At the back of the room a set of four temporary boards ran along the length of the wall. One, intended to profile suspects, was empty. Furthermost from the door, the smallest board was plastered with key facts: the sketchy details about the victim, and the basics of the crime. The most pertinent document was a copy of the coroner's report. Of course, all documentation was available digitally, but sometimes holding a physical printout just seemed to work better.
The third board featured an A1 map of Hackney Marshes. It showed transport links, power lines and routes of egress in a variety of colours, and had been studded with pins demarking the location of each piece of evidence found.
The body had been dumped in a very public park, seemingly without anyone noticing. In her gut, Tina knew it must have been a night-time body dump. But why hadn't the body been found sooner?
The fourth and final board detailed the evidence that had been found, where it was found and what it could mean to the case.
Tina spoke aloud, holding a Dictaphone aloft to record her thoughts: 'DNA proves the blood on the tarp matches Joe Bloggs Junior.' She scribbled the reference code for the DNA report in her notebook to remind her to reference it in her Evidence Report.
'Garden variety, approximately eight feet by ten feet. It was probably used to transport the victim. The question is: why is blood present? The autopsy showed no signs of obvious trauma.'
***
'Sarcophaga haemorrhoidalis, like other calyptrate flies, go through four life stages: egg, larvae, pupae and adult,' Dr Hafiz spoke slowly. His choice of words was deliberate, even careful. It was a trait Morton often found when dealing with expert witnesses used to appearing in court. From Hafiz's use of technical terms without regard for his audience, Morton surmised that Hafiz felt more at home here, in the University College London lecture theatre in which they now found themselves, than in any courtroom.
'Give me a timeframe, not a lecture on biology.' Already irritated by the sizable chunk of change that had left the departmental budget to pay for Dr Hafiz's expertise, Morton's patience was running out.
'The complete life cycle of a blowfly takes about twenty-three days,' Hafiz drew out his speech as if he was enjoying teasing the detective.
'So, our body was in the Marshes for twenty-three days?'
'I didn't say that. There was a complete absence of adult blowflies.'
'So it's less than the twenty-three days then,' Morton concluded smugly.
'Again, I didn't say that either,' Hafiz admonished his overgrown student. 'Insect activity gives us a timeframe between death and the body's being frozen. If you combine that with the last night the temperature in Kingfisher Wood was above zero degrees, then work backwards, that will give us a timeframe.'
'The body was found on Thursday January the third, and the last day above freezing before then was around Christmas Eve. So if we work backwards, he was killed after December first, but before Christmas.'
'If we assume that he wasn't frozen before being dumped then yes, but a body could have been kept on ice.'
'Lividity did indicate a body dump, so I can't rule that out.'
'Well, I can't help with that, but judging by the average temperature the flies would have developed very slowly. At room temperature, between twenty and twenty-five degrees Celsius, it takes between seven and nine days to go from egg to pupae.' Hafiz held up two glass specimen jars. One held a fly, while an almost invisible egg occupied the smaller of the two.
'And at the temperatures we had in December?'
'Probably closer to twelve, but that is a loose estimate. There are only a small number of early stage pupae. Most of the insects are in their larval stage, with plenty of egg casings. Larvae have between one and three instars. That suggests between ten days and two weeks from death to being subjected to subzero temperatures.'
'Giving us a timeframe between the tenth and fourteenth of December.'
Hafiz smiled, please at how quickly Morton had cottoned on.
'That's about it. Blowflies can fly in any weather, so they're usually the first insect to land on a body. The lack of other entomological evidence can be associated with the inclement weather. We had a pretty balmy weekend at the start of December so I doubt I'm too far out, even accounting for the time it takes for flies to find the body.'
'Thanks, Doctor Hafiz.' Morton shook the man's hand. Perhaps it hadn't been an expensive waste of time after all.
***
'Ah, Mrs Lattimer. Thank you for coming in.' Charlie's form tutor, Mr Neil, had a cheerful Geordie twang that belied the seriousness of their meeting.
The office was barely larger than a cubicle. Mrs Lattimer had been forced to sidle in sideways in order to close the door behind her. A plastic seat, obviously intended for a child, had been provided for her. A flat-pack desk and chair filled out the rest of the room. With two adults present, it wouldn't take long for the minuscule window to steam up. It was a good job that Mrs Lattimer did not appear to be claustrophobic.
'It's not like I had a choice. You know as well as I do that Charlie's in the system. If I don't turn up to crap like this, I don't get paid.'
Mr Neil's face contorted, aghast at Mrs Lattimer's blunt reply.
Composing himself, he continued, 'Be that as it may, Mrs Lattimer, Charlie needs extra help. I've spoken to a number of his teachers. He has trouble with reading and writing, rarely volunteers an answer in class and just doesn't seem to be putting the effort in.'
'Of course 'e is. He's not the sharpest tool in the shed, you know.'
'Mrs Lattimer! Show some compassion. Charlie has excelled in his maths and art classes but a number of his teachers have told me they've had trouble communicating with him. His standard of written English is nothing short of abysmal. I believe he might be suffering from some sort of learning difficulty. With your permission, I'd like to send him to an educational psychologist.'
'He doesn't need no psychologist. What he needs is a bloody English teacher.' Mrs Lattimer knew full well that Mr Neil taught English, as her own son was in his class.
'Mrs Lattimer. You are in loco parentis. Are you going to sign a consent form, or do I need to talk to Children's Services about you?' Mr Neil slid an A4 sheet of paper across the desk, and held out a biro expectantly.
Grudgingly taking the pen, Mrs Lattimer mumbled, 'I'll sign the bloody form. That kid is nothing but trouble.'
CHAPTER 6: CANVASSING HACKNEY
Blisters were the least of Ayala's problems. He'd been walking for hours, stopping passers-by, and knocking on doors at homes on every side of the Marshes. He didn't have much to go on. A child's body had been found, but they had no idea who the victim was, let alone the killer. He had to give that snippet up to those he was questioning, but without additional details Ayala's questions were totally unfocussed. He was reduced to little better than asking if they had seen anything unusual.
Ayala stood on yet another doorstep and rang the doorbell. Curtains were drawn across the front window, but light bled around the edges. Someone was home. Ayala rang again and a hand thrust aside the curtain to look at him. Ayala held up his badge. His leg muscles tensed, half expecting the man to run fo
r the back door. Instead, the door opened hesitantly. It was kept on the latch.
'Lemme see that more closely,' a disembodied voice demanded.
'Sure,' Ayala held out his badge. A hand snatched it inside quickly. A few seconds later, the door swung open outwards. Ayala stepped back in surprise. Regaining his poise, he expectantly held out his hand, palm up.
'Whaddya want?' The homeowner returned Ayala's badge as he spoke.
'I'm Detective Ayala. A body was found nearby, and I'd like to ask you a few questions.'
'I don't know nothing about no body.'
Ayala ignored the double negative, 'It was a child. You got any kids, Mr...?'
'Blake. And no, I don't. Got a niece though.'
'How old is your niece?' Ayala sought to build rapport.
'She's ten.'
'The kid who died wasn't much older.'
'I'll answer ya questions; I didn't say I wouldn't, but I don't know nuffin' about no bodies.' Blake's tone shifted from angry to indignant.
'How long have you lived around here, Mr Blake?'
'All my life.'
'You heard of any children going missing locally?'
'Nope. Not summat I'd know about though. My friends ain't the child rearing sort, ya see.'
'Do you ever go into the Marshes?'
'Yeh. I jog through it every now 'n' again.'
'How about late last year?'
'Hell no. I like to jog when it's sunny. I ain't freezing my bloody balls off for a bit of exercise.'
'When was the last time you ran?'
'Mebbe October.'
'You sure?'
'Naw, might have been earlier. Been dead icy since then, so wouldn't have been after. Last few weeks, it's been arctic.'
'Did you go into the Marshes in November or December at all?'
'Hang on; I thought you said you're here about some kid? I ain't a grass.'
'What do you mean?'
'The muggings!'
'Mr Blake, I'm not here about any muggings.'
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