by Jake Barton
In the gloom, Abbott fiddled about on his desk, looking for something, but palpably failing to find it. The wall-chart behind his desk was divided into days, weeks and months. Squad members and their current duties were entered in black, annual leave in green, sick leave in red. There was a lot of red, not much green. Abbott fiddled glumly, his expression grave, absently tapping the stiff spines of the files on his desk, arranging their edges neatly and precisely. He left his hand in place, pushing the files alternately to the left and then to the right. He grinned for the first time as he caught sight of Donna’s expression. "Dexter’s old office," he said. "Flashy isn’t it?" Not the word Donna would have chosen.
"It may not be his office anymore, but it’s still his squad. Didn’t do me any bloody favours, that’s for sure. Only one Guvnor ever sat in this chair."
Donna smiled. Despite the harsh words, he wasn’t being bitter. Realistic maybe, but not bitter. She could see his point. Following Dexter must be a bit like taking over from Alex Ferguson at Man. United. God help the poor bugger that takes that job on when the time comes.
"Superintendent Hawkes," Abbott said, the scorn he felt for his superior officer evident. "Never wanted him, Dexter that is. Not a good role model, too bloody stubborn." Donna nodded agreement. That much she’d noticed for herself. "Probably felt that Merlin was after his job. Can you see Dexter polishing a chair with his arse? Not very likely is it? Oh, Hawkes was glad enough to have him around when the clearance stats came out every quarter," Abbott continued. "Dexter could always be relied on to keep up with the figures, made Hawkes look good up at Division, but he was still glad to see the back of him. The only bugger in this building who was. Our loss is your firm’s gain."
She nodded her understanding. Hero-worshipping Dexter was obviously a cult around here. Perhaps it was something they put in the water.
Dexter returned with the report in his hand. He’d had to start a fresh notebook, after leaving his last one with Kate Davies, and Donna saw the first half dozen pages were now covered in his tight scrawl. He handed the report back to Abbott without a word and stood, looking out of the window. "I’ll need to see him, the Coroner," he said to Abbott.
"Bloody Hell, you want it all, don’t you?"
"I’ll ring him myself and organise it," Dexter assured him. "Although perhaps a word from you wouldn’t go amiss?"
Abbott waved an arm angrily at him, but grunted. "See what I can do," he said. "Now get out of here before anyone sees I’ve brought subversive elements into the building."
Dexter grinned, wolfishly. "One more thing," he said. "How about a quick look at the Incident Room?"
Abbott snorted. "I don't believe you," he said, as he turned on his heel and strode along the corridor. Dexter grinned and gestured for Donna to follow Abbott’s receding figure.
The Incident Room was a large windowless box with a single entrance and maps, photographs and diagrams pinned to the walls. Pictures of Celine and Paula Dobson, also Alex Melia, both in life and in death. A large-scale map, strung with coloured twine linking drawing pins, marked out points of interest: the house on Meols Drive, the ransom drop-off point and the sand dunes where Dexter had caught the lad on the motorbike. The last resting place of Alex Melia was also there. What wasn’t there was the address where the two women were being held. The maps could be works of art in any other context. Donna had seen worse in the Tate Gallery down on the Albert Dock. The room served only to mock their combined failure. Nothing in this room seemed a blind bit of use.
Dexter paced silently around, soaking up the atmosphere. Donna stood in the doorway and watched him. Abbott had left them to it. He’d overstepped the bounds, allowing them access, and Donna wondered why he’d taken the risk.
Dexter provided the answer when Abbott returned. "Good stuff," he said. "Is this your search area here?" He pointed to another map, dotted with pins and strips of paper sticking out at right angles from the surface. Abbott nodded. The two men stood together in front of the map, Dexter making a number of suggestions which, Donna noted with interest, Abbott treated as gospel, taking copious notes.
"Anything on the heroin found with Melia’s body," Dexter asked.
Abbott shook his head. "Not really. A big step up from his usual level, I thought that myself. I’ve looked through the Drugs Intelligence Unit records. Nothing down for Alex Melia, but I wouldn’t have expected it. He’s been low level up to now. We hardly ever get the top lads, and at street level its just scallies like Melia that get picked up. Mid-range wholesalers are the best bet, where there’s plenty of money involved, but they get careless occasionally."
When Abbott had finished picking the brains of his former colleague, he showed them out, shaking Dexter’s hand warmly and favouring Donna with a faint smile. Recognition of the company she kept.
"Useful," Dexter said as they stood on the back step. "Knowing where Abbott is concentrating his forces. No sense in duplicating our efforts, and for door to door enquiries you can’t beat the lads in uniform. We might ask the questions better, but where the uniform scores is in getting an answer at all. People open doors for the uniform, even if it’s only through simple curiosity. Looking at you or me on the doorstep, people think we’re Mormons or double glazing salesmen."
Donna said nothing, having problems viewing Dexter or herself being mistaken for Mormons. "Those I want to know about are the ones who won’t open the door to the uniforms, the ones hiding behind the settee. They’re the ones for me."
"I can see that," Donna said. "Simple when it’s explained."
Dexter snorted. "Got a bit of a treat for you now. You’ll enjoy meeting Mister Edwards. He likes to show young things like you how clever he is," he said, and led the way back down the stairs.
*****
Donna didn’t think she would ever forget that visit to the morgue. If she had imagined somewhere a million times worse than going to the dentist she’d have been halfway there. Dexter wasn’t too keen on the place either, she suspected, or the man himself. Thin as a rake with a great beak of a nose, he looked exactly like what she’d expected from someone who cut up dead bodies for a living. Not much sign of pleasure at their appearance, unless the scowl was habitual. Donna had to admit old beaky knew his stuff. Her only cavil would be that she didn’t understand most of it.
"He was dead before he was set on fire." Donna understood that bit at least. They’d had a few minutes of technical stuff that had passed clear over her head. Understanding something at last was one thing, making sense of it was another. Donna didn’t know what difference it made. Certainly it hadn’t made much difference to Alex Melia. Whichever the order in which these awful things had happened to him the result was the same.
"Stomach empty. Quite some time, a couple of days at least since he’d eaten, and a bit longer since he’d had anything like a square meal. Clear evidence of torture before death occurred. All fingernails forcibly torn out, two fingers removed at the second joint, the left eye pierced very violently by a sharp implement, almost certainly a knife, severe blood loss and massive trauma. None of these killed him."
Edwards turned to where a body, presumably Alex Melia, lay under the cover of a white sheet. "Despite the extensive burning, I found traces of a number of small asphyxial haemorrhages on the face which I regard as highly significant."
"Strangulation?"
Edwards looked at Dexter and frowned, and then to Donna’s horror, he turned to her. "What about you, young lady? Surely, with your education being more recent than this old fossil, you’ll know the difference between asphyxiation and strangulation?"
Donna shook her head.
Edwards sighed again. "The word asphyxia is derived from the ancient Greek and means without pulse. Not without breath. Remember that."
Donna glanced across at Dexter who rolled his eyes.
"No evidence whatsoever of strangulation, yet these facial haemorrhages are significant, as I say, because they suggest any amount of other possibilities. There
would undoubtedly have been evidence of blood clots in the eyes, which I am obviously unable to confirm owing to the fire damage. However," Edwards paused, presumably to check they were paying attention, and then continued, "I found evidence of clotting in the brain and also in the heart. I also found something even more significant, but I’ll keep that up my sleeve for now."
He looked across at Donna, eyes twinkling, obviously thinking himself a bit of a rogue.
"These blood clots are significant as they reveal conclusively that breathing had been restricted for a period sufficiently lengthy as to indicate a deliberate act of malice. Highly unlikely to be caused accidentally. Smothering is a distinct possibility, but again this was not the cause of death."
"But you have found the direct cause of death?"
"Of course. He was certainly killed with a sharp implement of some kind, possibly the same knife that was used for the eye stabbing. Slender and very sharp. Used in a very specific way. I’ve never personally seen it before. A method that would require clinical, almost surgical precision. In the left rib area, on the section of his body which had been least damaged by the fire due to his body position, I found a clear puncture mark. Hardly any chance of finding it anywhere else. He was found lying on his left side and the fire damage was much less there as a result. Do you see?"
Get on with it, Donna thought. He’s been talking medical gibberish for bloody ages and now he’s worried we won’t understand that the part of the body remaining in contact with the ground suffered less burn damage than the rest. Even she could understand that.
Is he married, Donna wondered, unable to check for a ring because of the latex gloves he was wearing. How can hands that probe and slice a body stroke living flesh? She shuddered at the prospect.
"It appears the killer slid a thin blade of some kind between the third and fourth ribs, piercing the main artery leading from the heart, that’s the aorta for the benefit of ignorant ex-coppers. That would release a vast quantity of blood under pressure into the body cavity. That was confirmed by my findings when I opened the chest cavity to examine the heart and lungs. Massive shock as the heart switched off to prevent further loss and damage. Resulting in massive trauma. The result would be suffocation, akin to drowning. Appropriate really as he would have been literally drowning in his own blood when the lungs were flooded. The heart would stop, and inevitable somatic death would follow almost instantaneously."
"What was that last bit? Sonatic death?"
Well done, Dexter, Donna thought. Glad to hear I’m not the only one out of their depth here.
"Somatic. All that means is the heart, lungs and brain shutting down."
"Isn’t that it, then? You’re dead, right?"
"Oh you’re dead all right, no return ticket, but certain bits and pieces hang on a bit longer. Brain cells shut down pretty quickly, but the heart is a viable piece of machinery for about fifteen minutes or so, and other body parts such as the kidneys are still able to function after as long as half an hour." Dexter merely looked slightly puzzled. Donna was way out ahead of him. Somewhere miles beyond the far side of baffled.
"What use is that, I mean, if you’re dead?"
"If you ever need a transplant, you’d be glad of it. That’s the time, just after death when donor organs are removed for transplants." Donna shuddered, knowing he was about to go into even more detail. It wasn’t so much her being squeamish about medical procedures. That would be bad enough, but this place was making her feel sick. The past half-hour had been bad enough, but now some white-coated ghoul had just wheeled in a blood-soaked trolley with a bag full of giblets swinging from his free hand.
Donna felt as if she were falling, plummeting out of control down a sheer cliff-face. Her chest tightened, her breath rasped in her throat. She reached out, hands shaking like a palsy victim. Every demon from her darkest dreams surfaced simultaneously, flying at her face despite the flailing hands. Fear spiralled out of control, seizing control of her limbs. What made it worse was her distinct awareness that the fear was irrational, with no basis in reality. Knowledge was one thing. Doing anything to re-establish control of her faculties was another.
She felt the weakness creep through her legs, travelling upwards to invade her entire body, her heart thumped against the constriction of her ribcage while pressure tightened its grip on her chest like an iron band. The sensation was that of drowning, and the rush of fluids coursing through the narrow passageways of her ears deafened her. Her mouth gaped, opening and closing like a trout cast onto the riverbank, but the air she craved so desperately continued to elude her.
Donna sat down, abruptly, hands outstretched, feeling the room closing in and pressed her head between her knees, sucking in great ragged gulps of air. The walls were encroaching, the ceiling lowering itself inexorably down, to crush the life from her body. Donna hyperventilated, eyes blurring as the room swam about her, and slumped to the floor.
~ Chapter 14 ~
Donna didn’t know who looked worse, her or Dexter. She knew she felt like shit, but hoped she didn’t look as bad as he did. If the soft old sod was going to keep on patting her hand like this, she’d have to tell him she wasn’t a fucking cocker spaniel.
Dexter’s Chief Coroner mate had been brilliant. Even Donna had to admit that. Getting her into a seated position with her head between her knees, blowing into a paper bag until her breathing settled down. Donna knew he’d had medical training and all that, but still reckoned he’d done well for someone who can’t have had much recent experience with patients who were still moving around. Not to mention thrashing around on the floor like a gerbil on acid.
"I shouldn’t have brought you here, Donna," Dexter said, looking at her as if she were in danger of snuffing it at any moment.
"Not your fault," Donna croaked. God, her throat hurt. Blowing up paper bags was pretty rough on the old red lane. "How long does it take before you get used to all this blood and guts stuff?"
"Speaking personally, a bloody long time. One of the least desirable aspects of the job, back when I was in the mob. Had to be done, but I never got to the stage where I looked forward to it."
"You came here a lot then?"
Dexter nodded. "Here or places like it."
"That would be the murder squad, I suppose."
"Yeah. Any sudden death requires a trip to the morgue. First step, once the coroner gets involved – the cause, circumstances and manner of the death. It all boils down to four possible causes: accidental death, suicide, natural causes and death caused by another person or persons. The last one meant a job for my squad, a one in four chance."
"Like Alex Melia?"
Dexter nodded. "I never should have brought you here."
"Not your fault I’m such a bloody wimp."
"Panic attack, Edwards reckons." Dexter made it sound like she’d contracted the Ebola virus. They were in an anteroom, comfy chairs and nice prints on the walls –probably a room for grieving relatives to recover in after identifying the remains of their nearest and dearest.
Donna nodded. "I’ve had them before. After my dad’s funeral, the next day in fact, I had a major panic attack – the first of many. Stress, the doctors said. Don’t know where they got that idea. All I’d done was find my dad’s hanging body. Sticking a stress label on just about everything seems to have replaced a full clinical diagnosis. I’ve got a headache, doctor. Oh, that’ll be stress. Can’t sleep properly. Stress again. We all need some stress in our lives. A little stress is good for you. What none of us needs is the bloody great chunk of it I got when I found my dad’s body. I flipped out completely – total system overload. Ever since I’ve had these panic attacks. God, I used to despise people who suffered from things like this. Pull yourself together matey, get a fucking grip. Now it’s different. What’s so frightening is I’ve no control over it."
Donna sat back, feeling totally knackered. Dexter sat with her a while longer, but when she caught him sneaking a peak at his watch, Donna realised she
should stop behaving like a wet lettuce and get back to work.
She stood up, feeling surprisingly good, and told Dexter he should get off his fat arse too. He stood up, grinning in relief, and walked out of the room without a word. Donna followed him down the deserted corridors and towards the bright sunshine of the car park. In a flawless blue sky, the porch was a regular suntrap. The air shimmied with heat, dust motes dancing to a silent samba rhythm. They walked in silence to the car, both deep in thought. Donna was thinking about the weakness she had recently demonstrated, and had an awful feeling Dexter was thinking the very same thing.
*****
"What do you have for me?" Kate demanded.
Lack of sleep had left its legacy of deep navy-blue shadows under her eyes, but the eyes themselves were as alert as ever. Dexter had the photocopied scene-of-crime report open on his knee.
He summed up the contents in a few pithy sentences. "Body severely burned, doused with petrol and set alight. Two fingers removed and found alongside the body. All fingernails ripped out, stabbed in one eye. The opinion here is that it was a punishment killing. A quantity of heroin found under a stone near the body. Documents recovered from the area suggest the victim was Alex Melia, the chief suspect in a case of suspected abduction and a known drug dealer. That’s about it as far as the initial report is concerned. Not that it tells the whole story."
Dexter continued for another two minutes, without notes, relating the salient points from their visit to the morgue and the discovery of the true cause of death. It was a considerable performance, both of memory recall and the manner in which he presented the most important details in such a concise manner. Donna knew she couldn’t have done it.