by Steven Dunne
Brook nodded. ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t take that chance but maybe they were desperate.’
‘They?’ enquired Noble.
‘Or he or she. But even a body that light needs lifting.’
‘It’s a low wall,’ observed Noble. ‘One person could do it, I reckon.’
After a further few minutes of unproductive examination, the two detectives continued north towards the second bridge spanning the railway line. A dirt-track drive for a farmhouse set back out of sight from the road had a sign warning trespassers about CCTV cameras. Brook raised an eyebrow at Noble.
‘We’ll check it out.’
‘It’s probably for show, but . . .’ Brook shrugged.
Crossing the railway bridge, the first houses of Station Road appeared. Jason Wallis, sole survivor of The Reaper’s attack on the Wallis family several years before, had lived briefly with his aunt further up the road. Brook tried to remember which house.
‘Didn’t young Wallis live on here?’ asked Noble.
‘I believe he did,’ Brook replied, but his mind had already moved on. He looked around, his gaze alighting on a stack of traffic cones on the pavement. ‘You were right, John. It is just one person. And he or she wasn’t desperate at all but very calm and rational.’ Noble looked at Brook, wondering if he was going to explain his reasoning. Instead, Brook walked over to the cones, counted them then looked back down towards the river. ‘This road goes south past Elvaston Castle, right?’
‘Right.’
‘And beyond?’
‘Through Thulston, then on to Shardlow or the A50.’
‘And beyond the A50, the M1,’ Brook remembered. He returned his attention to the cones. ‘Make a note to check with the Highways Agency when they last did any work here. It’s possible that whoever dumped our friend, faked a road closure.’
‘That’s a lot of forethought,’ said Noble.
‘That’s what worries me.’
‘And he’d need more than cones. Maybe a Diversion sign or something.’
Brook nodded. ‘Get DS Gadd and a couple of uniforms over here. We’re going to need a canvass of all the nearby houses as soon as possible before memory fades. See if anyone noticed anything.’
‘Not very likely if it was the middle of the night.’
‘No – but hold that thought, John. It’s time for a cup of tea. There was a café at the junction when I came past – might be open now.’ Brook jerked a thumb at the cones and made to set off along Station Road. ‘My treat as you’re guarding the evidence.’ Noble sagged on to a nearby fence and pulled out his cigarettes.
Brook removed the lid from his polystyrene cup and watched the ambulance depart. Dr Higginbottom squelched over from the river bank in his Wellingtons, fastening up his trademark leather bag. He removed his glasses when he stood beside Brook and Noble, and eyed their hot drinks.
‘Well, you were right, Inspector. He doesn’t appear to have any lungs, or indeed any internal organs. I didn’t want to poke around inside or disturb the stitching in case this turns into a murder inquiry . . .’
‘Why would there be any doubt, Doctor?’ asked Noble.
Higginbottom smiled. ‘There’s always doubt, until there’s certainty, Sergeant. Now, who said that? I can’t remember. But suffice to say, without a detailed examination, all I can do here is assure you that the subject is deceased and that he died before he went into the river. Keith Pullin seems to be in the right area for how long the body’s been in the water. Between one and three days, very roughly. The body has the right amount of cutis anserina.’
Like most of the medical experts Brook knew, Higgin-bottom liked to confuse his audience with a bit of Latin before explaining in layman’s terms. It was all those years they were forced to study a dead language and it had to be justified with a certain level of showmanship.
‘Which is?’ asked Brook deferentially.
Noble smiled. He was pretty sure Brook already knew.
‘Gooseflesh,’ replied the doctor smugly. ‘At a guess I’d say he died a couple of days before he went in the water, but don’t hold me to it. Do you want that tea, Inspector? I didn’t have time for a drink before I got the call.’ Brook handed his cup to Higginbottom and watched dismayed as the PS removed the lid, drained the contents, then handed the cup back with a contented sigh. ‘But as to murder, it’s impossible to be definite about Cause of Death without an autopsy. It could even be natural causes. One thing, he didn’t drown, even before his lungs were removed. There’s no haemorrhaging of the middle ear and no sign of cadaveric spasm. That’s when—’
‘We know,’ said Brook, dispensing with deference after the theft of his drink.
‘Oh,’ replied a miffed Higginbottom. ‘And do we know the deceased yet?’
‘Not yet,’ said Brook.
‘Well, it shouldn’t be hard to find out,’ continued the doctor. ‘Prison looks likely – he’s had a hard life. I suspect he’d be homeless and he’s a part-time drug abuser – probably alcohol too. His teeth were very rotten, worn down by the acids in alcohol, and there’s evidence of intermittent needle-marks. My guess, he took drugs when he could get them, but not as a matter of course, which probably means he couldn’t afford to buy very often – hence homeless, indigent, delete as applicable.’ He grinned. ‘Contrary to popular opinion, most regular addicts hold down jobs. Thanks for the tea, Inspector. I’ll let you have my report asap.’
Brook winced faintly at the assault on the English language as Higginbottom marched back to his car to remove his Wellingtons. His eyes followed the doctor, then moved to his empty cup, then settled on Noble’s untouched drink. Taking the hint, Noble hastily drained his own cup before it could be sequestered.
Back in his car, Brook didn’t turn towards Borrowash to follow Noble to the A52 and back to Derby. Instead he followed the road south towards open country and the parklands of Elvaston Castle. When the road turned sharply, Brook pulled his car to the kerb and hopped out. He did a quick search of the ground, both on the pavement and the road. In a patch of mud at the side of the road he saw a circular mark that might have been caused by a traffic cone being placed there. He looked back up towards the river bridge but it had been obscured by the bend.
Brook took out his basic mobile phone and switched it on. As usual, there were no messages – only DS Noble had the number. He spent several minutes trying to work out how the phone’s camera worked, then took a rather grainy picture of the mark in the road and, after storing it, turned the phone off again.
He jumped back in the BMW and drove on into the leafy hamlet of Thulston, looking all the while for a stack of road-traffic cones at the side of the road. There were none. Leaving Thulston, he arrived at a T-junction. He looked left then right.
‘So which way did you go from here?’ A car horn sounded behind him so Brook swung right to pick up the ring road back into town.
Five
AS THE MID-MORNING SUN STREAMED over his shoulder, Adam Rifkind pulled a hand through his tinted blond hair to move it away from his face and show his handsome features to best advantage. The thirty-five-year-old lecturer eyed the handful of bored-looking A-level students scattered around Derby College’s Media Suite, slumping in their chairs, exhausted from having to drag themselves out of bed at eleven o’clock in the morning for a seminar.
Few returned eye-contact. Some stared glassy-eyed into space, while others nodded their heads to iPods and texted friends they would see in an hour – assuming they weren’t already in the same room.
Though he prided himself on his youthful appearance and outlook, Rifkind experienced an unexpected stab of yearning for his own carefree youth. He knew most of his students would deny it, but they didn’t have a care in the world. No work, no marriage, no mortgage and no self-loathing – the bright futures they imagined for themselves were not yet behind them.
Rifkind looked at his watch and stifled a yawn. It had been a tough academic year, and finding time for his novel was getti
ng harder. Late nights didn’t help. At least that was one problem he’d finally solved.
He surveyed the apathy before him – Derby’s finest preparing themselves for the outside world with a gentle snooze in Media Studies, the course which always attracted the oddest blend of students. Half of the group were padding out a vocational timetable of bricklaying and construction with the easiest-sounding course they could find and, unfortunately, no matter how much the prospectus emphasised the opposite, Media Studies would always appeal to those who thought it consisted entirely of watching films and TV.
The bear-like Wilson Woodrow and his cronies were part of that crowd. Derby’s future builders, bricklayers and jobbing gardeners sat together on a row, riffing about whose parents had splashed out the most money for their offspring’s phone.
But it wasn’t all doom and gloom. The brightest members of his English Literature set made up the numbers and raised the level of debate whenever the need arose to discuss or, God forbid, write about what they had discovered during a particular unit of study.
Russell Thomson – Rusty, for obvious reasons – was one. A bright boy, he sat alone and seemed in no need of the distractions of his peers as he looked saucer-eyed at the blank screen dominating a whole wall of the media suite. He was relatively new to the area and had moved with his mother from Wales, for what reason Rifkind didn’t know – though he had heard a rumour about bullying at his previous college. He wasn’t surprised. Rusty was a strange and introverted boy who seemed to have very few social skills and held the majority of his conversations with himself.
Tall for his age but thin and stooping, his eyes were either gazing off into space or fixed on the ground as though he’d lost something. Rusty rarely looked people in the eye and this social failing was reinforced by a more tangible barrier – the ever-present digital camcorder which was always strapped to his hand, and invariably raised in front of his face on the rare occasions he lifted his head.
Strangely, he seemed to possess the intellectual skills of a more mature person when producing written work, and had an encyclopaedic knowledge of films which he unveiled at the most inappropriate times. On a recent careers evening, he’d informed Rifkind that his ambition was to work in the cinema, and the lecturer had been unable to stifle the unworthy thought that Rusty would indeed make an ideal usher. Naturally Rifkind hadn’t voiced this opinion. At least not in front of Rusty’s gorgeous young single mum – a MILF indeed.
In front of Rusty now sat the strikingly pretty Becky Blake conversing with Fern Stretton, her best friend. The pair chatted as though alone in the universe, about everything from boys to their annual X Factor applications. Becky was fixated on fame and fortune and she certainly had the looks, though her in-your-face attractions had never been a draw for Rifkind. Until recently her superficial charms had been twinned with that air of unabashed expectation that clung to so many of her peers – a serenity derived from unbroken dreams.
But Rifkind had the sense that something had shifted within her. He often noticed it with students around this age. For a couple of years in their teens the most promising carried that galling conviction that they owned the world, believing their lives would proceed exactly as they wished. Then, one day, an unforeseen setback would rouse them from their slumber and they were forced to face a future of hard graft and disappointment.
Well, Rifkind was convinced that reality had sunk its teeth into Becky recently because she carried with her now that slight bruise of knowledge that her life would not be quite as predicted, as though something in her carefully gilded future had been stepped on.
Rifkind looked at his watch again and fired up his laptop to register those present. Jake McKenzie hadn’t yet put in an appearance. McKenzie was a blue-eyed, dark-haired Adonis, as talented academically and athletically as he was handsome, and Rifkind had heard that every girl in the college had thrown herself at him at one time or another. And yet he seemed to be a thinker, rising above the petty obsessions of teenage life, absorbing himself in his studies and his sport, at which he excelled.
Rifkind didn’t mark him absent yet. Jake was in such demand that he was often late from some practice or other.
Kyle Kennedy, the other boy from his Literature Group, couldn’t have been more different from Jake. He was slim with delicate expressive hands, lightly built with feminine, stubblefree features, large doe eyes and long lashes. Despite being very shy he was a popular confidant of some of the girls and this, above all, made him the butt of most of the gay banter flying around. But academically, Kyle had a fierce and probing intelligence and was well on the way to an A* in Literature. Predictably, this only added to the resentment from the less talented.
Rifkind took a breath as Adele Watson walked through the double doors. He hadn’t expected to see her and she hurried to a chair, steadfastly ignoring his gaze. She was a talented, if naive writer and very beautiful. Next year she’d be studying English Literature at Cambridge – thanks in part to his own inspirational teachings.
He examined what he could see of her face. She’d been crying, he could tell, but the thought caused him no guilt. In fact, the idea that he could still arouse such feeling in the opposite sex was a rush. She’d get over it. At Cambridge, she’d blossom into a woman with many attentive admirers and she’d learn soon enough that he’d been right to end their relationship. They’d had fun. They’d had great, sometimes passionate sex – and what could be better than that? But now it was time to move on. She had her whole life in front of her. And Rifkind had bigger fish to fry.
‘Well, folks,’ opened Rifkind. ‘Half-term is looming and next Thursday’s Media Studies will be our last day.’
Russell Thomson looked up briefly. Last Day. A quasireligious ceremony from the film Logan’s Run, starring Michael York and Jenny Agutter. On Last Day, inhabitants of this dystopian future world reached thirty years of age and were put to death . . .
‘The end of another unit of hard work,’ continued Rifkind, ‘at least for the staff.’ He grinned at the dozing amphitheatre and permitted himself the merest glance at Adele’s dark-eyed beauty. ‘And, of course, Adele.’ At the mention of her name, her dark sleep-deprived eyes locked on to Rifkind for a second and she blushed.
Next to her, Becky Blake turned to give her a significant stare – you’re in there, girl – then pouted back at Rifkind to get some of that life-affirming attention for herself. Every man in Becky’s presence noticed her, she knew that much. But it wasn’t enough. Since her mother’s death from cancer, Becky had been at the centre of her father’s universe and had grown accustomed to total devotion; she demanded no less from all men. They had to be in orbit around her and she knew all the moves to make that happen. At school, she’d learned from a young age that she could separate any couple, with her shock of long blond hair, mouth-watering figure and the best clothes an indulgent parent could provide. And although Rifkind was a bit too smarmy for her, she saw no reason to change the habits of her short life and glowered suggestively at him.
But Adam Rifkind only had eyes for Adele so, with a disdainful sniff, Becky muttered under her breath, ‘You know he’s married, Ade.’
Adele, unable to look at her, reddened. ‘You don’t say.’
Becky missed the hushed sarcasm and expressed her surprise. ‘Didn’t you know, girlfriend? Yeah, he’s a sly fucker though. He takes off his wedding ring; you can see the line round the finger. And Mrs Sly Fucker is not much older than us, apparently.’ She rolled her eyes lasciviously at Adele then turned back to Rifkind to give him an appreciative onceover. ‘I would though,’ she grinned, and Fern on her other side broke into a fit of giggles. A moment later they returned their attention to their iPhones, not seeing Adele gulping back her emotions.
‘I see a good portion of the group are already exhausted and have decided to skip the last two Thursdays,’ said Rifkind. ‘No matter.’ At that moment the double doors swung open and Jake McKenzie strode into the suite. He looked around for an avai
lable chair.
‘Ah, Jake. Decided to favour us with your presence today. Hurry up and sit, please; the group are ravenous for knowledge to start.’
Jake smiled and hesitated. There were no chairs left except the one next to Kyle Kennedy.
‘There’s a seat next to Gay Boy,’ chuckled Wilson Woodrow, the overweight eighteen year old with the zigzag haircut and buzzing earphones. ‘If you don’t mind catching AIDS.’
‘That’s enough of that,’ admonished Rifkind as mildly as he could. He prided himself on his good relationships with students and didn’t like to play the authority figure.
To avoid Wilson’s confrontational leer, Kyle stared down at the floor through his John Lennon spectacles and buried his long delicate hands between tightly crossed legs. He wore the blank expression of the diplomatically deaf.
Jake made for the seat next to Kyle and sat down. Kyle looked up at him in greeting and then just as quickly returned his gaze to the floor.
‘Today and next week we’re going to be watching and critiquing a film so this morning we can sit back and chillax.’ Rifkind paused to make sure his comfort with the patois of youth had registered. ‘Today’s film . . .’
Wilson produced a DVD case from his baggy clothing and held it under Rifkind’s nose without having the courtesy to look at him.
The lecturer stared at the top of the boy’s head and ignored the offering. ‘Today we are—’As Rifkind clearly hadn’t noticed the DVD, Wilson waggled it in front of his face again.
In the end, the lecturer accepted it with a sigh. ‘Thank you, Wilson.’
‘Will,’ replied the boy gruffly, again without looking up from his iPod.
‘Oh, you managed to hear that over the Death Metal? Funny how I have to repeat things three times when I want your attention.’