A Little Death

by A. J. Cross

  Activating the recording device she repeated the details she’d given Hanson, adding, ‘Initial examination terminated at … 2.23 a.m.’

  She stood, stretched, and called to her pathology technician in conversation with Watts beyond the tent’s entrance.

  ‘When we get back to headquarters I want her straight to a refrigerated body store. I’m going home for a couple of hours’ sleep before I start her post at seven thirty. If you arrive first, set the ventilation system to max. You can bring the body bag now.’

  Hanson left the tent and stood, her eyes drifting around the brightly lit field, pulling sharp night air into her chest. She glanced to Watts, his arms folded.

  ‘OK?’

  He avoided her eye. ‘Bloody awful, that.’

  She nodded. It wasn’t only the sight of such horror that jolted even veterans like him. Like everybody here, he had a life beyond policing. His adult daughter had been nineteen once. They stood together, Hanson looking straight ahead, listening to the low rumble of SOCO voices as they went about their tasks.

  A small movement some metres away at the perimeter of the field snagged her attention. She struggled with the contrast of scene lights and darkness beyond. A fox? Her eyes focused on the spot, straining against distance, she saw it was neither. It was human. Crouched in shadows, watching them. As if aware of her attention it stood and retreated a few steps towards tree cover. Hanson did not move.

  ‘Did you see that?’

  Watts had. He hissed to a couple of nearby officers. ‘Get over there. Now.’

  The distant figure had all but disappeared. One of the officers shouted a warning and both broke into a run, covering the ground at speed before they also disappeared from view. Watts and Hanson waited. Within a couple of minutes the two officers reappeared holding an unresisting figure by the arms, one officer bending to retrieve his hat which he’d lost during the pursuit.

  They came into the white light and Hanson saw that their captive was a heavy-set male, forty-plus, in jogging pants and a T-shirt despite the chill night, his face stubble-dark, breath laboured, his forehead shiny with sweat.

  ‘Got him, sarge.’ said one of the officers as they neared.

  Watts glared at the dishevelled man. ‘Who are you?’

  Silence.

  ‘Why’d you run?’

  Getting no response, Watts unzipped the forensic coverall, reached inside and pulled out his notebook.

  ‘Name!’ he barked.

  The man was still wheezing from exertion and possible shock. His two-word response was enough for Hanson to pick up the local accent.

  ‘Michael Myers.’

  Watts’s eyes were fixed on the man’s face. ‘Search him.’

  One of the officers held on to Myers as the other started a series of minimal but efficient pats from shoulders to ankles, then sprang upright.

  ‘Nothing, sarge.’

  Watts subjected the man’s face to close scrutiny. ‘Tell us what you’re up to out here in the middle of the night.’

  Myers straightened and squared his shoulders. ‘Running. Part of my SAS training.’

  Their eyes went to the paunch pushing against the soiled T-shirt and hanging over the waistband of the scruffy joggers.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Tired, out of patience, Watts turned to the officers. ‘Stick him in a car and give him a ride to headquarters.’

  Brows rising, Myers looked at him. ‘Why? I’m a responsible citizen.’

  ‘Then answer the question!’

  Myers’ eyes darted around the field. ‘I haven’t done anything but if The Sanctuary gets to hear that I’ve been arrested, they’ll bar me.’

  Hearing the name of the local community support facility, Hanson said, ‘Mr Myers, no one has mentioned arrest but you need to answer the officer’s questions.’

  He stared at her then nodded, giving Watts a speculative look.

  ‘Address,’ said Watts, pen poised.

  ‘Flat 1A, 24 Abbey Road, Bartley Green,’ he recited in a monotone.

  ‘Anybody there we can contact?’

  Myers merely gazed at him.

  ‘Do you live with anyone, Mr Myers?’ Hanson asked.

  ‘No. Just me. And the other people that live there.’

  Watts fixed him with a look. ‘I’ll ask you again. This time I want a sensible answer: what are you doing out here at this time of night?’

  ‘I come here most nights.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I’m a wildlife expert. I need funding.’ He swept a tattooed arm in the general direction of Genners Lane. ‘I’ve sent a research proposal to the college over there.’

  Watts heaved a sigh. ‘Yeah, yeah, ’course you have.’ He considered Myers.

  ‘Any idea why we’re out here?’

  Myers pursed his thick lips, his facial expression thoughtful. ‘Looking for me?’

  Hanson intervened. ‘Mr Myers, as a regular visitor to this area you may have information about an incident the police are investigating which occurred here this time last year.’

  He drew himself up. ‘I think I can help you there.’ He pointed to the dilapidated pavilion. ‘I’ve had that place under surveillance for—’

  ‘Hey!’ Watts raised a warning finger. ‘Stop messing about. If you were out here in this immediate area last June and you remember anything then tell us.’

  Myers looked from him to Hanson then scratched his head.

  ‘Last June … I got out of hospital on the twenty-eighth of May. I was in for a week because …’ He caught Watts’s frown and hurried on. ‘I started coming down here straight after.’ He patted the paunch. ‘For my exercise regime.’

  Watts turned away from him to the two officers. ‘Get him out of my sight and into a car.’

  Myers pulled against the young officers’ grip. ‘Wait! That’s probably around the time I heard it.’

  Silent, they looked at him.

  ‘What did you hear, Mr Myers?’ prompted Hanson.

  ‘A voice.’

  Watts shot her a look then back to Myers. ‘You heard voices.’

  ‘Just the one.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  Myers pursed his lips again. ‘Hard to say.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘Youngish male – or it could have been an older male. Or a woman.’

  Hanson studied him. He’d given scant details about himself but her impression was of a vulnerable individual. This didn’t mean he had no useful information. ‘What did the voice say?’

  Myers raised his arms and his face to the darkened sky. ‘“I’m here! Look me in the eye. Lo-ok at me-ee.”’

  In the bright field surrounded by the press of trees, the distant outlines of firs, needle-clustered branches stabbing the black sky, Hanson’s shoulders tingled.

  Myers was looking at her. ‘Or something like that.’ He started at Watts’s voice.

  ‘Right. We’ve got your details. We’ll be in touch. These officers will drop you home.’

  The officers walked Myers to one of the patrol cars and they followed towards the Range Rover. Hanson reached for the passenger door then turned to Watts.

  ‘Michael Myers.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘It might not be his real name.’

  He eyed her across the vehicle’s bonnet. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘When he said it, it struck a chord. For the last four years or so, as we approach the thirty-first of October Maisie and I have a difference of opinion. She wants to watch the film. I say no.’

  Inside the vehicle, he said, ‘Care to give me the merest hint as to what you’re on about?’

  ‘The date. The film. Halloween. Michael Myers is the name of the killer in it.’

  He stared at her. ‘You’re saying I just wasted valuable time listening to a bloke who’s head is in la-la land and styles himself on some crazed killer in a horror film?’

  Face set, h
e started the engine.

  In her low-lit kitchen, Hanson washed her hands then reached into a cupboard for cups, aware of a series of loud sniffs. She glanced at Watts holding his sleeve close to his face, then did the same to her own sleeve. Death odours cling to clothes and everything else.

  ‘What would you like?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m gasping for a cup o’ tea. Make mine a mug. Three sugars, ta.’

  She swapped one of the cups as he flicked open his notebook.

  ‘Michael-bloody-Myers. What’re the chances of running into the local nutter out there in the middle of the night?’ He gazed towards the tall glass doors at the end of the kitchen. ‘Although, having said it, it makes a kind of weird sense.’

  Waiting for the water to boil she watched him read his notes. ‘Who originally investigated the Williams disappearance?’

  ‘Officers local to that area,’ he said. ‘They did the usual checks with family, friends, appealed for eyewitnesses. Nothing. They searched where she was living for leads. Again, nothing. They boxed up her belongings and took them away. When the investigation wound down, they sent it all to headquarters for storage. I’ve requested the lot but I’m not getting excited that it’ll give us anything.’ He dropped the notebook onto the table.

  ‘What did the local children who found the remains have to say?’ she asked.

  He reached for the notebook again. ‘Not a lot. That field’s one of the places they play because of the space and the grass. They got there at about six. Didn’t notice anything or see anything until the girl tripped. When they saw the fingers sticking up, they legged it home, which is Genners Lane for most of them. I’ve got their contact details if we need them.’

  A hint of a new day had appeared beyond the glass doors.

  ‘Without knowing where Elizabeth Williams was killed and no cause of death, we’ve got the worst job possible,’ he said. ‘We need to know both and soon or we’ll be scrabbling for a way forward.’

  Hanson poured boiling water onto teabags then glanced at his slumped shoulders. ‘We’ll find one,’ she said.

  He broke the brief silence. ‘Myers doesn’t sound too swift to me. What’s your take on him?’

  ‘The Sanctuary he mentioned is a couple of miles from where the remains were found. It’s a drop-in centre for people with learning disabilities and difficulties with daily living. A lot of what he said suggests he’s also something of a fantasist.’

  She brought the tea and a plate of biscuits to the table. He took two and gulped the tea. ‘You’ll be seeing him again,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, but before I do I’ll check if he’s got form.’ He looked at her. ‘For all we know, hearing voices might be his thing.’

  She shook her head. ‘I didn’t pick up any indication that he’s psychotic.’

  He shrugged. ‘I want you there when I talk to him.’

  ‘Let me know when.’

  He closed the notebook and slipped it into an inside pocket. ‘Seen anything of Corrigan recently?’

  She pictured Joe Corrigan here in her kitchen, the dark hair and ready smile, his long legs crossed at the ankle as he leant against the nearby worktop.

  ‘He dropped in a couple of weeks ago to tell me that Roger Furman has gone,’ she said of the inspector who had managed the Unsolved Crime Unit since she’d become involved with it. Furman had done all he could to make her time in UCU difficult.

  ‘Good riddance,’ murmured Watts. ‘His replacement has arrived from Thames Valley. I know a couple of people at Thames who know Trevor Nuttall and they don’t rate him as an investigator.’

  ‘In which case, he’s likely to leave us alone to get on with the case.’

  ‘Don’t count on it. I reckon Rose Road Headquarters and UCU are his swansong to retirement, which means he’ll want quick results.’

  She studied his heavy face, the greying hair. She didn’t know his exact age but guessed he was in his early fifties, possibly a little more. Many officers were gone from the force by that age. She knew his views on retirement because it was one of the very few personal issues he occasionally chose to talk about. Watts wasn’t big on talk about personal matters although not averse to intruding on hers at times. His phone buzzed, interrupting her thoughts. He took it from his pocket, read words on the screen.

  ‘Chong’s got the DNA results: a match for Elizabeth Williams.’

  He gulped his tea and stood. ‘I’m heading straight to Rose Road to read through what we’ve got from the original investigation.’

  She frowned. ‘No offence, but you – we – smell of death. Before you do that I’d advise a shower.’

  He sniffed his jacket again and nodded.

  She followed him to the door, knowing that he was going home to an empty house. His wife had died very suddenly five or so years before.

  At the door he turned to look down at her. ‘You’re young, doc. Don’t be alone all your life.’

  His words took her by surprise. ‘I’m not alone. I’ve got Maisie.’

  Hanson’s eyes followed his to the folders and school textbooks on the hall chest, clear evidence if she needed it of change in the making. She suppressed the line of thinking.

  Stepping outside he said, ‘I’m hoping Chong will give us a cause of death and there’s the next of kin to visit pronto, before the news gets out. Will you have some time today?’

  ‘I usually find some.’ She thought of the member of Elizabeth Williams’ family who would soon be receiving the worst news.

  ‘Her mother?’

  ‘No. She died. It’s a paternal aunt.’

  Hanson watched him walk to his vehicle then closed her door. Double locking it and switching off the lights, she went upstairs and turned the shower to full force. Stepping out of her clothes she stood under the torrent, Watts’s observation on her life still in her head. Married for two years, now divorced, her life suited her. Being a single parent wasn’t easy for anybody but she knew she had it easier than many. She had full-time work, which was demanding but she loved it, and Maisie had never known what it was to have a stay-at-home mother.

  Taking a lavish palm-full of body wash she spread it over herself with vigorous strokes then took a similar amount of shampoo, applied it to her hair, then stood as soapy water coursed downwards and swirled around her feet, carrying away the stench of death. Watts and Corrigan were experienced police officers but they would soon want her psychological expertise and insight to help them establish the identity of Elizabeth Williams’ destroyer. She watched the last of the water disappear. It wasn’t that simple for her. Yes, she wanted the ‘who’ but it was the ‘why’ which drove her.

  She thought back to the field and her sudden rage at what they were seeing. Violence happens to men but most happens to women, females of all ages. Fact. Many murders remained unresolved if they weren’t clearly domestic-related ‘self-solvers’. Fact.

  From now, everything she did as part of the investigation would focus on the search for the ‘why’.

  TWO

  Gazing out on the crowded auditorium, Hanson drew her third lecture of the morning, ‘Profiling: Does It Work?’, to a close. Rows of mute faces gazed back at her.

  ‘I repeat: profiling does not apprehend rapists and killers. Sound policing in collaboration with forensic science does that.’ The silence was palpable.

  ‘OK, that wraps it up for today.’

  She came into her room at the university, dumped an armful of folders on her desk, then went to the window, pushing it open onto the early-summer campus. Cool air on her face, she looked at the Chamberlain Tower clock, feeling the lack of sleep catching up with her.

  A young woman with spiky blonde hair and lavish mascara emerged from the adjoining office. ‘I’m making coffee. How were they?’

  Hanson smiled at her assistant. ‘Their problem, Crystal, is that they picture themselves as forensic psychology Lone Rangers after they graduate, single-handedly profiling murderers at the humble request of the police. Th
ey weren’t thrilled to hear the reality.’

  ‘In the mood for some good news? You’ve just had this from the VC.’ Crystal grinned as she handed a printout to her.

  Hanson took the printed-out email and read it, brows rising. The vice chancellor had somehow heard about the Elizabeth Williams case and the Unsolved Crime Unit’s involvement in it and had transferred four hours of lecture time from her to the head of school. She looked up at her assistant.

  ‘A whole four hours of extra time per week so I can continue to assist the police with their inquiries.’

  Laughing, Crystal shook her head. ‘Bet you feel totally spoilt.’

  ‘Positively bratty. After coffee I’ll start on the admin you’ve been chasing me for—’

  Her phone rang and she reached for it. Seeing her caller’s name, she instinctively turned away. ‘Hi, Watts. What do you know?’

  ‘Chong will have the post-mortem results at two. How are you fixed?’

  She looked at her watch. ‘I’ll come now.’

  Entering the stark white reception area of police headquarters, Hanson saw Lieutenant Joe Corrigan standing at the desk. His arrival at headquarters two years before had caused a stir among its female employees. Judging by the look he was getting from the civilian worker sitting behind the desk, that hadn’t changed much. If he was dating anyone, as far as Hanson knew it was no one here. Right now, his face was serious, his arms folded high on his chest as he listened intently to an officer she recognised from the field the previous night.

  He turned and Hanson was momentarily stopped by the intense blue of his eyes. She nodded at him.

  ‘Watts tells me Chong’s got information for us.’

  He smiled down at her. ‘Straight to business as always. How about a little to-and-fro? Hi, Red. How’s it going?’

  She gave another quick nod, ignoring the use of his name for her. ‘Good, thanks.’ They walked the corridor together. She felt his eyes still on her.

  ‘Chong is expecting us in twenty minutes which gives you just enough time to get acquainted with the Williams case file,’ he said. She picked up subtle aromas of soap and cologne as he opened the door leading to UCU for her.

  Julian Devenish, Hanson’s PhD student was sitting cross-legged on the carpet. Tall, rail-thin, his quick wits and technological expertise had led her to choose him of all her undergraduates to join UCU at the same time she did two years before. He’d proved to be the right choice. As she entered he was totally focused on a massive electronic board she’d never seen now fixed to the wall, a laptop supported on his knees, a projector some distance behind him.