by Steven Dunne
Brook’s lips tightened and he pressed again. He did have his warrant card for emergencies so he pulled it from his shoe and, after brushing the condensation from it, forced it against the glass. He pressed the intercom button again. ‘I’m DI Brook. Open the door now.’
Hendrickson shielded his eyes from a non-existent glare and opened his mouth in fake recognition. He buzzed Brook into the station. ‘I didn’t recognise you in that get-up. Sir. Been to a fancy dress party, have we?’ A PC whose name escaped Brook stood behind Hendrickson, smiling gleefully at the poorly disguised insubordination.
Brook made for the lifts. Hendrickson had never said anything to him that on paper would have been deemed inappropriate and Brook knew that to complain about a fellow officer’s attitude would lead to further ridicule. However, on an impulse he stopped and turned to face him. ‘I’m undercover, Sergeant – something you might have come across if you’d made the grade at CID.’
As Brook marched away, the expression on Hendrickson’s face turned to hate. ‘You fucking Southern cunt,’ he spat when Brook was out of earshot. ‘They should have left you in that loony bin and thrown away the key.’
Brook walked through the quiet station gratified to encounter nobody else capable of commenting on his appearance. In his office he changed into an old sweater and jeans and dumped his damp and dirty clothes in a bin bag for disposal. He’d only ever worn them on those rare occasions when he was forced to do a little garden maintenance but, after three days living rough, and with some of the substances now adhering to the fabric, they were better thrown away. He wouldn’t be running short of scruffy clothes anytime soon.
Brook sat briefly at his desk and read various notes left for him by Jane Gadd about The Embalmer. The Millstone House enquiries had proved fruitless. Only three vagrants staying during Tommy McTiernan’s visit had given full names, and none of them had been traced. Gadd had tried to find out whether Barry Kirk had visited the hostel but if he had, he’d done so under a false name.
Next Brook skimmed the forensic report on Kirk. His body had been in the water for eighteen to twenty days. But even with an approximate timeframe for the dumping of the body, they were struggling to identify any suspects at the site.
The few staff who worked at the sole security gate to the vast gravel pit road system had been interviewed. All were longtime employees and in the clear. Also, all the trucks and lorries captured on the only CCTV camera at the site over the last month had all been present on legitimate business, and although a couple of drivers had minor records, they too were beyond suspicion, according to their tachographs. The probe into ex-employees had also produced nothing thus far.
The list of anglers given to Noble by the man who reeled in Barry Kirk’s remains had not rung any alarm bells either. All were solid citizens with nothing more than parking tickets to their names.
Brook sent a text to Noble about the possible abduction of another vagrant and asked him to hunt up any possible CCTV around the Leopold Street squat then walked wearily out to the car park, tossing the bin bag in his boot. He cranked the heating up high and sped back to Hartington through the deserted roads.
After a hot bath and shave he staggered up to his bedroom and collapsed on to the soft bed, for once sleeping through until noon without moving a muscle.
The man switched off the headlights long before reaching the turn on to the overgrown drive and a few moments later glided to a halt near the black outline of the furthest building on the complex. He killed the engine and clambered out to unload his supply of jars and tools from the passenger seat.
Looking about the pitch-black site as he walked silently but purposefully towards the heavy timbered doors at one end of the building, the man smiled in contentment. The gods favoured him. Nut, the Goddess of the Sky, had sent a canopy of clouds to cover his arrival. With the nearest artificial light a quarter of a mile away on the estate, no one would know he was there. Kids would sometimes roam by in daylight, but without windows to smash, they rarely lingered long enough to discover his lair. Besides, the building was on the edge of the countryside, with only a ploughed field between the derelict buildings and the river. The off-licences, pubs and shops that kids loved to hang around were in the opposite direction.
The man put down his load in front of the boarded doorway and felt behind one of the large shrubs growing out of control off to one side. He pulled out a small aluminium stepladder, with its camouflage of green radiator paint, set it against the right-hand doorjamb and climbed level to the swallow’s nest wedged between the doorjamb and the wall. With a final look round, he put his hand inside an aperture behind the nest and pulled on a lever. A loud click sounded and the large timbered door on the right shifted slightly.
He jumped down from the ladder and returned to his vehicle to fetch his human cargo.
Eleven
BROOK REACHED HIS OFFICE JUST before two o’clock in the afternoon. With him he carried two bacon sandwiches and a polystyrene cup of tea. He finished the first sandwich while writing the report on his encounter with Phil Ward. He was unwrapping the second as Noble walked in.
‘Welcome back to the land of the living. How was it?’
Brook smiled without humour. ‘It was terrible. Don’t ever let anyone tell you the homeless are having it easy. I’m not one for soft living, but after one night . . .’ He shook his head. ‘And if I ever suggest doing something similar in the future, John, I want you to have me sectioned.’
‘What, again?’
Brook eyed him in mock censure and bit down on his sandwich. ‘Forget I said anything. Where are we on McTiernan and Kirk?’
‘It’s going nowhere. Still no useful feedback from any funeral homes or medical schools. Same answer from local hospices. No missing bodies. No suspicious employees. Nothing.’
‘What about Jock?’
Noble shrugged. ‘I could put out an alert, but without a photo and even a real name . . .’
‘Any film?’
‘There are no CCTV cameras on Leopold Street. Jane’s going to sift through any film for the Normanton area between two and three this morning.’
Brook took another bite. ‘We might have to take the inquiry up a notch if we want to shake something out.’
‘Charlton won’t buy into that.’
‘Probably not.’
‘So the tip about the squat panned out.’
‘I think so. The place is being used as a body farm, John. Tommy McTiernan and Barry Kirk were there. Somebody’s supplying lots of drink to keep a stock of vagrants in one place. There was a case of whisky. Barley wine too. I just missed Jock’s abduction.’
‘You didn’t actually see it happen then?’
Brook looked up. ‘No.’ Before Noble could comment, he held up a hand. ‘I know, I know. He’s a vagrant. He could’ve just wandered off. But somebody turned up to deliver alcohol in the early hours of the morning and I don’t see an alcoholic tramp wandering away from that.’
‘Maybe,’ said Noble. ‘You should brief Jane. She’s working The Embalmer solo for now.’
Brook paused over his next bite. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s your other case. It’s pretty labour intensive. Me, Rob and Dave have been—’
‘Other case? What are you talking about?’
‘The missing students from Derby College,’ explained Noble. Brook narrowed his eyes in confusion. ‘I thought you knew.’
‘I’ve been living rough for the best part of three days, John. How would I know?’
‘Well, you’re logged as the SIO.’
‘I’m what!’ exclaimed Brook.
‘You were there at initial contact with the parent. You even took charge of a piece of evidence, so Sergeant Grey put you down as Senior Officer.’
Brook stared into the distance and closed his eyes. ‘Deity.’ He opened them again and pulled out the leaflet left by Alice Kennedy. He handed it to Noble. ‘I just picked it up. I forgot all about it. Grey – that
sneaky . . .’ Brook omitted the noun he wanted to use. ‘That’s just great.’
‘Live Forever. Young. Beautiful. Immortal,’ read Noble. ‘Nice idea. This was at the parents’ house, right?’
Brook nodded, suddenly feeling very tired. ‘The mother . . .’ He looked up to Noble for a prompt.
‘Alice Kennedy.’
‘She found it in her son’s room – didn’t she?’
‘She did.’
‘That’ll teach me to take an interest.’
Noble typed the Deity web address into Brook’s computer. ‘Closed for refurbishment.’
‘Same as last time.’ Brooks sighed. ‘So The Embalmer . . .’
‘Sir, the Chief Super was very clear. As it’s not a murder case, Jane’s flying it solo at the moment.’
Brook shook his head in frustration. ‘I read the Kirk Forensics note. No other developments?’
‘That’s it. It looks the same MO as McTiernan. There are traces of make-up on the loincloth. The fabric is Egyptian cotton – identical to the cloth we found in the Derwent.’
‘Egyptian cotton,’ repeated Brook.
‘It’s pretty common. You think it’s significant?’
‘Who knows? What else?’
‘The rest you know. The heart was chronically diseased – it was removed then put back; the rest of the organs and the large intestine were gone and the blood drained. There was the same stitching on the gash in his side. His remaining hair looked like it had been cut – it’s hard to tell. What fingernails Kirk had left were tidy and might have been clipped but they can’t tell if the body was cleaned after so long in the water.’ Noble shrugged.
‘And still no COD?’
‘The lab’s working on it. It’s tricky with an even longer immersion.’
‘So it could still be murder.’
‘Habib thinks not, but they’re still doing tests.’
‘What else?’
‘The scars below the nostrils were also caused by some kind of sharp tool pushed into the nose to puncture the membrane on the brain and let the fluid drain away.’
‘Same as McTiernan.’
‘Right. One difference: Habib said Barry Kirk’s brain was more cut up and the scarring was much deeper. The right upper lip was almost sliced through.’
‘Did you run the MO through HOLMES and the PNC?’
‘No hits on either database. Nothing even close to this MO came back.’
Brook fired up his computer and logged on to his internal email account. ‘Ancient anatomy,’ he muttered, narrowing his eyes.
‘Sorry?’
‘Something Dr Petty said. Is Egypt a member of Interpol?’
‘I think so. I can check.’
Brook took a sip of his tea and ran his eye down the list of contacts. He clicked on Habib’s email address and typed a few words and numbers, then sent it off to him marked for Dr Petty’s attention. ‘If they are, run the MO past the Interpol database.’
‘You mean . . .’
‘Yes, I mean ask Jane to do it,’ replied Brook testily.
Noble raised an eyebrow. ‘Because of the cotton?’
‘No, because they have an ancient culture of embalming the dead.’ Brook sighed. ‘We have little enough to go on. The chances are the Egyptian police are still in disarray after the revolution, but it might be worth asking the question. Also . . .’ Brook blinked and turned to him.
‘What is it?’ asked Noble.
‘Kirk’s upper lip was almost sliced through, you say.’
‘Yes.’
‘Worse than Tommy?’
‘That’s right.’
Brook pushed his chair back and stood. ‘Kirk was dumped at least fifteen days before McTiernan.’
Noble’s face wasn’t registering enlightenment. ‘Maybe longer.’
Brook smiled. ‘My God, John. He’s practising.’
‘Practising?’
Brook nodded. ‘Practising on the bodies.’
‘For what?’
‘When we know that, we’ll know who we’re looking for. He’s removing all the organs, including the brain, and trying to leave the corpse cosmetically intact. But he’s having the most trouble extracting the brain without leaving a mark, so he needs more bodies. With Kirk he was clumsy and almost sliced through his top lip but with Tommy, his technique had improved; the scarring wasn’t as pronounced.’
‘And you think Jock will turn up with less scarring than McTiernan under the nostrils because The Embalmer’s improving his technique – interesting.’
‘We should speak to Charlton.’
‘We can’t.’
‘We must. Suppose the vagrants are just the first? Suppose he perfects what he does and gets ready to show us what he can really do.’
‘Hasn’t he already?’
‘I don’t think so. He’s barely started. He’s honing his skills, getting better, but he’s still not good enough. Once he’d cut McTiernan’s upper lip, he stopped hacking at the brain. He needs to leave the body without a blemish. That’s why he didn’t try to hack up his brain as much as Kirk. He’d already ruined him. We’ve got to convince Charlton to—’
‘Sir, Charlton’s not here. He’s at a conference until next Monday.’
‘A conference?’ Brook was annoyed but then started to smile. ‘A conference,’ he said again. ‘Okay.’
‘Sir? I know that look . . .’
‘We have no choice, John. This is urgent. The Embalmer needs more bodies to practise on. He got Jock last night in Leopold Street.’
‘You’re not certain of that.’
‘As certain as I can be. He was grabbed before I could get to him.’
‘And the missing students?’
‘Students? You mean we’re missing more than one?’
‘As of yesterday evening we’re missing three – two girls and the Kennedy boy, Kyle.’
‘How do we know they’re one case?’
‘We don’t, for sure. But apparently they were all at the same party last Friday night and no one’s seen them since.’
Brook raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘A party? How old are they?’
‘They’re eighteen, all attending Derby College, all very bright –’
‘– and all old enough to please themselves,’ finished Brook. ‘They’ve been to a rave, John, and got wrecked.’
‘Or Ibiza. Or a festival,’ Noble said. ‘I know. Nevertheless, it’s been reported and you’re SIO, so until we find them . . .’
Brook sighed. ‘Anything gone out to the press?’
‘Not yet. There’s no evidence of foul play or violence. Think we should?’
‘For once, yes. They can do our job for us.’ Then Brook changed his mind. ‘But I suppose we can’t let them run with it until we have a few facts.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Okay, John. For your sake, we’ll do it by the book. Round everyone up, DS Gadd included. We’ll have a joint briefing in two hours – both cases. Meanwhile, you can bring me up to speed on these students. I promise, tonight we’ll talk to the parents.’
As Brook finished his account of the episode in the Leopold Street squat he looked round the Incident Room, hoping the rest of his detectives were feeling the same urgency. ‘And the chances are we’re not going to find Jock alive unless we can work out who’s taken him. We don’t have a picture, we don’t have a surname and even “Jock” could be a nickname. On the other hand, we do have a name for whoever’s dropping off the alcohol. His name is Oz or Ozzy. He’s not Australian. He’s early middle-aged and powerfully built.’
‘Is that all there is to go on?’ asked Cooper.
‘You have to remember who’s giving the description,’ replied Brook.
‘Ozzy. Do we know if that’s a real name?’ asked Gadd.
Brook shrugged. ‘Unlikely. But even if it’s an alias maybe it’s a nickname he uses at work, maybe even at one of those funeral homes or hospices we spoke to on Sunday.’ Brook looked around to see if the name rang any bells. ‘No? Well
, make a note of the name for any follow-up. We may have to do it all over again, this time face to face.’ Brook tried to ignore the groans and turned to the large map of the Derby area.
‘But for now, we concentrate on the house where Jock was abducted. It’s our only active lead.’ He pointed to Leopold Street. ‘It’s derelict, with no power, no heating, and it’s home to about ten vagrants, though obviously that number is fluid. We’re going to be doing surveillance ourselves, starting tonight.’ More groans. Brook raised a hand. ‘When Charlton gets back, I’ll make sure we get more bodies on this, but until then it’s down to us.
‘Now, it’s a tight road, so position your car with care. Our suspect has transport and we don’t want to scare him off. You’ll take two four-hour shifts. Rob and Dave, you’ll take ten till two, so go home now and get some rest. John and Jane, you’ll relieve at two tomorrow and stay until six. I’ve been out there three days so I’ll take tonight off,’ he added, unable to meet eyes. ‘Remember, our guy’s a night owl so he’ll only come when the streets are deserted. This morning it was nearly three before he showed up.’
‘You think he’ll be back so soon?’ asked DS Gadd.
‘If he really has got Jock, probably not, but as it’s our only solid lead, we can’t take the risk.’
‘And don’t forget, if we’re right, he has to keep the occupants happy or they might move on,’ added Noble. ‘So he might turn up just to deliver more booze.’
‘Exactly. If he makes a delivery, try to follow him but it will be almost impossible for him to miss you at that hour. So if he’s leading you round in circles, you’ll have to bring him in and hope we can take it from there and get him to fess up.’ Brook smiled and looked around the ring of four detectives who stared sombrely at the floor. He wished their expressions were an indication of the investigation’s gravity, instead of regret at losing a night of TV and a warm bed. ‘Finally, until Forensics puts us on the right track, we get stuck into the legwork. Jane, I want you to check out off-licences and bulk suppliers of alcohol tomorrow. You’re looking for anyone buying large amounts of whisky and barley wine.’