by Liz Mistry
Slipping and skidding his way down the crude uneven steps from the top of Ashwell Road into the woods, he hardly noticed his surroundings. A waiting constable guided him to his left into the depths of the woods where the body lay, now covered by a crime scene tent. Dotted around the area were a series of markers and floor plates placed to protect evidence. As the crow flies, he was a mere ten-minute, strenuous trek uphill to his own house at the top of the woods behind Shay Golf Course, on the back road towards Cottingley, but it seemed like a different world.
He shivered. Never had the prospect of his study with its huge open fire been so appealing. Feeling a tickle at his nose, he plunged his hand into his pocket withdrawing a linen handkerchief, with which he barely managed to contain the explosive sneeze. Glancing around, he had the satisfaction of seeing at least two of the officers had jumped at the sudden noise. He grinned. Good to keep them on their toes.
‘Sorry, boys.’ Folding the hanky, he wiped his streaming eyes and reconciled himself to taking off his overcoat and replacing its snug warmth with the thin crime scene suit he so detested. If he could work effectively in his coat, he would, but he knew he’d feel too restricted. Besides which, he wasn’t sure they had a large enough suit to cover both him and his bulky coat.
A young officer he didn’t recognise appeared by his side wearing a smile that was far too cheery for the weather conditions. Offering a suit and shoe covers to the Doctor, he said, ‘Body’s in there. We’re waiting for the DI.’
Fergus knew that ‘the DI’ would be Angus in his role as senior investigating officer, and he hoped his son had managed to get some rest since he’d last seen him at the morgue. He took his coat off and thrust it towards the officer before struggling into the overalls, saying, ‘Make sure you keep that dry, laddie. I’ve already got a cold, and if it turns into pneumonia because I’ve had to put on a wet coat after hours wi’ only a bloody bunny suit for warmth, I ken who I’ll be suing, okay?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The officer, looking apprehensive, bundled the coat in his arms and stumbled through the snow in the direction of a crime scene van that had managed to drive into the woods through the Park Drive entrance. In the process, no doubt, it had obliterated foliage, churned up turf and ground leaves and mud into unsightly whirls. The Heaton Woods Trust wouldn’t be happy about that, however, what was the alternative?
Pushing one wellied foot into the depths of the overall, whilst attempting to keep the rest of it off the muddy damp ground, was proving difficult. Cursing, Fergus hopped on one foot like a ballet dancing elephant in a tutu. He attempted to pull the suit up one leg to his groin before trying to shove the second in. Without warning, his rubber-soled boot slipped on a clump of squelching muck, and he skidded. Whilst maintaining a pincer grip on the body of his overall with one hand, he reached out with the other snatching at twigs on a nearby tree, and swearing as each one broke under his weight. At last, he managed to grab a sturdy branch and pull himself upright. Maintaining as dignified a stance as his ridiculous antics allowed, he ignored the giggles from the few officers who’d witnessed the event.
Leaning against the tree, his face hot with a combination of embarrassment and exertion, he manoeuvred his other leg inside, and with a series of wiggles, yanked it up over his rounded belly. Next, he thrust his arms through the sleeves, pulled it over his shoulders and zipped it up, before turning to face the still giggling men. ‘Shut up, you lot! Never seen a man fall before? Well, let me tell youse: if I’d landed on my arse, and you lot had just stood there, wi’ glaickit looks on your stupid puses, you’d be chortling on the other sides o’ yer faces now.’
One of the officers shook his head and wiped the laughter tears from his eyes. ‘That right, Doc? You and whose army?’
‘Och, away wi’ ye. You useless bloody galoot,’ said Fergus, laughing now alongside them. Well aware his capers would have lightened the darkness of the moment, he didn’t grudge them that.
As he’d been talking, the same PC who’d taken his coat approached. Taking two pairs of nitrile gloves and surgical mask from him, Fergus yanked the hood over his head, dangled the mask round his neck and pulled on both pairs of gloves. As he did so, he noticed Angus, dreads flaring out behind him, gambolling like a sure-footed lion down the very same steps he had traversed, somewhat less elegantly, minutes earlier.
Taking a moment to observe his son, Fergus was pleased to see his limp had almost gone. All his jogging and the hours spent at the gym were paying off. As the laddie neared, Fergus sighed. Shame the same couldn’t be said for the boy’s mental health. The lines in his forehead and his sunken cheeks showed he was clearly still wracked with grief, and his pallor indicated sleep had not been a large part of his weekend. Fergus would have been less concerned if he’d thought the lad had been out partying. How long could the boy continue like this? Still reeling from the loss of his best friend, Angus had been flung back into two traumatic cases, one after the other. What he needed was a holiday. A complete break away from all this for a while, but would he listen? Would he hell! He was as stubborn as his mother.
Raising a hand in greeting, he continued into the tent, knowing Angus would join him when he was suited-up and would, no doubt, be full of questions. He already knew it was the body of a young, naked Asian man, and what he wanted to ascertain was just how similar this scene was to the other two. Using the stepping plates set out already by the scene of crime officers, he approached the young man. What a tragic waste!
Straight away, he saw the body had been laid out like the other two men. The victim’s feet were crossed at the ankles and his arms extended out at shoulder level. His clothes had been folded in a neat pile near his head. Presumably, they’d been cut off him in the same way as the other two; however, he’d wait until he got to the lab to look at them properly.
He nodded to a nearby SOCO. ‘You can bag these now, if you like.’
He watched the SOCO open a plastic sheet onto which he placed the clothes. Opening each item, he shook it onto the plastic to catch any debris whilst another SOCO took photos of each part of the process. Didn’t look like there was much forensic evidence there, but you never knew. They might get lucky.
‘Sliced off, like the other victims?’ asked Fergus, as the SOCO held up a shirt.
‘Looks like it. Up the seams to the armpits and then along each arm.’ Placing the shirt in a paper bag, he moved onto the victim’s jeans. ‘These have been sliced up the outer leg to the waist. Belt’s here too.’
‘Any ID?’ asked Fergus.
‘No, nothing.’
‘Maybe DI McGuire will already have been notified of a missing person. That would certainly help speed up the investigation.’
As the SOCO repeated the process with each item, Fergus turned his attention to the prone body. Two scene of crime officers waited, one with a camera ready to document his examination, the other ready to assist, where necessary. Above their masks, their anxious glances told him they wanted him to crack on so they could get the body moved. Once they’d erected the tent around the body and searched the wider area, they were obliged to wait for him, before they could transfer the body to the morgue.
Kneeling beside the victim, Dr McGuire switched on his tape recorder and declared the victim dead. He then commenced his initial observation of the corpse prior to having it removed to the mortuary to await the post-mortem. ‘Naked body of an Asian male, probably early thirties, lying prone in freezing conditions. Significant bruising to the neck, torso and limbs. Groin area shaved, with a fresh tattoo of a swastika inexpertly applied, above the penis. Injection site on neck.’
As Hissing Sid, the Head Scene of Crime Officer, approached, Dr McGuire nodded. Together, the two men rolled the body onto its front. The pathologist examined the back. ‘Lividity is consistent with the body being moved here soon after death. Pressure marks in a grid type shape show the body lay horizontally elsewhere for a short time after death.’
He finished his examination, taking note
of body temperature and doing as thorough an external check as he could. The rest would wait until he was back at the morgue. As he struggled back to his feet, the insidious cold making his movements stiff, the tent flap was pushed aside, and Angus walked in.
‘Hello, Angus. Looks like we’ve got another one. Same puncture site on the neck; and the same swastika, inexpertly tattooed in groin area, probably ante-mortem; along with a similar dump site.’
Gus, his dreads covered by the hood of his ‘abominables,’ shuffled over and approached the body as Sid said, ‘Can we wrap and pack him, Doc?’
Dr McGuire rolled his eyes. He was used to Sid’s down-to-earth manner, although treating the victim like a slab of meat was really a wee bit too much. ‘No, but you can wrap him and transport him to the mortuary as respectfully as possible, if ye like.’
Sid grinned. ‘That’s what I said, Doc, ‘wrap and pack.’’ And bending over to help his assistant transfer the man into a body bag, he released a thunderous fart.
Taking a step backwards, Dr McGuire banged a fist onto his chest near his heart. ‘Your sensitive nature gets me here every time, Sid. You need to toughen up a wee bit, develop a thicker skin. Dinnae want you letting all this death get to you.’
As the noxious fumes filled the tent, Gus strode over to the door and opened the flap. ‘For fuck’s sake, Sid, get your stinking arse outside if you’re going to do that.’ As he spoke, his nostrils flared, and his lips tightened. ‘I’m not telling you again. It’s fucking vile … and while you’re at it, show some respect for the dead. I don’t want to complain to your line manager; however, if you don’t develop some professionalism, I bloody well will. Got it?’
Hearing the simmering anger in his son’s words, Dr McGuire exchanged a quick glance with Sid and shook his head, intimating that the other man should let it lie. Angus didn’t usually let the scene of crime officer get to him like that. He’d worked with the man long enough to accept his idiosyncrasies for the coping mechanism they were. His son’s short temper was another sure sign things were not good for him at the minute; however, he needed to control it. He couldn’t go mouthing off like that to his colleagues.
As Gus exited the tent, Dr McGuire laid a huge hand on Sid’s arm. ‘Sorry about that. Ye ken he’s no’ in a good place at the minute. He doesn’t mean anything by it.’
Sid sighed. ‘Yeah, I know, Doc. There’s only so much we can take, though. It’s not only me on the receiving end of his tongue, you know? He’s had a go at most of my staff, and I pity any officers working with him. Don’t know how Compo and Sampson cope. Get my drift?’
‘Aye, I ken exactly what ye mean, laddie. He’s no’ coping very well. Grief’s a hard thing to live wi’.’ He bit his lip and sighed, wondering when Angus would move through this.
Sid nodded to his assistants, who’d lifted the body onto a stretcher. ‘Yeah, well … he needs to get over it, for all our damn sakes.’
Chapter 13
12:15 The Fort
The February snow continued to fall outside the window as Gus, a mug of coffee in his hand, stared at the mesmerising swirl of flakes. The heat in the incident room was beginning to thaw out his frozen toes, and the coffee mug was doing the same with his fingers. He knew he’d been an idiot with Sid, and he’d noticed the exchange of glances between Sid and his dad. Shit, he was a complete arse, and he knew he deserved more than a few surreptitious glances for his behaviour. Sid did a cracking job in difficult circumstances, and he never ever moaned.
Sid’s somewhat unorthodox humour was a coping mechanism, and Gus knew that. He’d been completely out of order. The more he tried to subdue the venom that sprung to his lips, the less able he was to contain it. The bitterness burst out against his will. It was as if he was goading them to get a reaction. He did the same with his parents and Sampson and Compo, and there was no damn excuse for it. It had to stop.
Turning from the window, he thrust his fingers through his dreads and took a deep breath. The two-month delay before the funeral had affected everyone, not him alone, and when it had finally happened, he had felt like she’d broken his heart all over again. Being so close to her and knowing he’d never share a conversation with her again … or touch her … or breath the same air as her, was unbearable. He’d very nearly snapped.
His dad kept banging on about grief and adjusting and everything. Gus knew it was more than grief … it was guilt. And no-one knew better than him how destructive guilt could be. Hearing Sampson and Compo approach from the corridor, he moved to the coffee machine, refilled his mug and was ready by the crime boards when they pushed the door open and entered.
Pretending to ignore the nervous looks they exchanged, Gus attempted a smile, which, he noticed, made them look even more nervous. Shit! He really did have a lot of making up to do. Trouble was, he wasn’t sure he had it in him at the moment. Although Dr Mahmood had increased his medication, it made no difference. He barely had enough energy to function, never mind keep up with the niceties of being part of a team. He was no bloody motivational leader right now. Trying to ignore the flutter of palpitations in his chest, he sipped his coffee, hoping to get rid of his dry mouth, and began the briefing.
‘Uniform have been able to identify the most recent victim as Razaul Ul Haq, a British Asian of Bangladeshi descent, who has lived in Bradford for all of his 38 years. Although we’re still waiting for the PM, early indications show the same person is responsible for this man’s murder. We need to work out where the three victims intersect, for I’m sure they do. They must have something in common. A common link between them and their killer.’
‘You don’t think its random then?’ asked Sampson.
Biting his lip, Gus considered the question. ‘No. I don’t see how it can be. It seems pre-meditated to me. Like they’ve been targeted. The fact the abductions are so smooth, eliciting no attention from passers-by, smacks to me of organisation. Early reports indicate Ul Haq had been at the pub and was then taken from the alleyway behind his house. I’d say, he was followed.’
Sampson nodded and wrote a note on his pad, whilst Gus moved over and leaned against his desk. ‘Ul Haq has twin daughters but was estranged from his wife. Unfortunately, we are unlikely to get much information from her, as she is currently in Lynfield Mount, sectioned under the Mental Health Act. The daughters, however, are seventeen and their guardians, Ul Haq’s brother and sister-in-law, have given permission for them to be interviewed at their school, City Academy on Manchester Road. You’ll come with me, Compo.’
Compo, mouth filled with a half-chewed bacon butty, tried to swallow; instead, he started to choke, coughing so hard, his eyes watered. Sampson jumped to his feet and hammered on his friend’s back until Compo succeeded in swallowing the offending food.
Eyes still watering, he said, ‘Me? Me? You want me to go with you? No, surely not, Gus. Not me. I’m rubbish at that sort of stuff.’ He wiped the arm of his long-sleeved T-shirt over his still streaming eyes and shook his head.
Smiling, Gus said, ‘You’re a detective, Compo. I know your strengths lie in the techie stuff, nevertheless, I’d be doing you a disservice if I didn’t train you up in other areas.’ Gus could tell Compo was far from convinced. It made no difference; he was determined to extend the lad’s skill set. He realised it wasn’t only the change in role that was upsetting Compo. It was the prospect of spending time with Gus. Well, it seemed like he had his work cut out for him.
Splaying his arms in front of him and trying to smile in a non-threatening way, he said, ‘This isn’t a punishment, for Christ’s sake, Comps. It’s called ‘professional development,’ and you’re doing it, okay?’
Compo opened his mouth to reply, but before he could release the barrage of protestations Gus knew was on the tip of his tongue, the door was thrust open. It banged against the newly painted wall, reverberating for a moment before stilling. Flecks of paint floated onto the carpet from the dent in the wall where the handle had connected. Three heads turned to the
door to be greeted by a smiling face, followed by the diminutive body of their visitor.
Before he had a chance to respond to the interruption, Compo and Sampson, in a flurry of excitement, jumped to their feet and rushed over to greet the dark-haired woman. Incomprehensible chatter spouted from their mouths as they escorted her over to Gus’ comfy chair. Feeling bemused and uncertain, Gus followed behind. From nowhere, it seemed, Sampson produced a mug of coffee, and Compo relinquished one of his coveted supply of Mars Bars to their visitor. With a satisfied sigh, she tore the wrapper off, took a huge bite and chewed. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she watched them.
Gus ran his fingers through his dreads and bit his lip. A prickling sensation behind his eyes was making them water, and he didn’t know what to say. He tried to speak, but his throat was clagged up, as if he were the one chomping on the Mars Bar. Stepping forward, he studied the woman. Eyes raking her pallid face, he noted the newly formed lines that flared out across her forehead. His gaze moved down her body. The sight of her too-big clothes hanging on her skeletal frame made his heart clench. He was unsure of himself. How should he react? He moved his eyes upwards again and met her gaze.
Jumping to her feet, she yanked him into a hug with a strength contrary to her fragile appearance. Almost immediately, she pushed him away at arms’ length, and with a huge grin that lit up her entire face, Alice said, ‘You miss me then, Gus?’
Swallowing the obstacle that clogged up his throat, he sniffed, and ignoring the muscle that pulsed in his cheek, grinned back. This was the happiest he’d been in months. ‘Missed your damn cheek, that’s all.’
Frowning, he realised no-one had told him she was coming. This worried him for he was sure she wasn’t fit for a return to work yet. Guilt that he hadn’t visited her in hospital, like the others had, gripped him. He was such a fucking coward. He should have been there for her, instead of wallowing in self-indulgent guilt. What sort of friend was he? When he’d been hurt, fighting for his life, Alice had practically parked herself at the hospital. Yet, when she’d needed him, he’d cowered away like the spineless bastard he was. Even when she’d been released, he’d avoided her, despite his mum and dad’s nagging. Covering up his feelings made his voice come out all gruff and accusing when he said, ‘Should you even be here, Al?’