Deep Fear

  ‘The tongue has been surgically removed, almost down to the glossoepiglottic folds. It was done with something extremely sharp – my guess is a scalpel, and it was done well, probably post-mortem. The wound suggests lack of blood flow vitality at the time of the incision.’

  Kelly tasted bile in her oesophagus.

  Ted fiddled around in the girl’s mouth, and Kelly’s insides turned over a little. She regretted not having breakfast, and she could murder a coffee: anything to take away the metallic, vile smell. She shivered.

  ‘There’s no evidence of the tongue in the throat, so it looks like it’s been taken.’

  ‘Another trophy.’

  ‘Wait a minute. There’s something in there.’ Ted fiddled a bit more and pulled out a plastic bag. He opened it on the table and took out its contents with a pair of tweezers. Kelly moved closer.

  It was a piece of paper. Kelly closed her eyes, and waited for Ted to unfold the delicate dried-brown sample.

  ’And much it grieved my heart to think, what man has made of man.’ Ted read aloud, his glasses perched on the end of his nose.

  Kelly pulled out her phone and googled the lines.

  ‘It’s Wordsworth.’

  ‘I think you have your answer, Kelly.’

  ‘Oh, Christ.’

  Ted looked at her, wishing he could do something to help, unaware that he just had. She was desperately sorrowful that she’d come, but grateful too.

  ‘Anything else?’

  Ted focused on the body.

  Kelly’s foot tapped and she was freezing. She rubbed her hands and went from one foot to the other, wishing she had a jacket or at least a scarf. As Ted carried on, Kelly read about the poem on her phone. It was entitled simply ‘Lines Written in Early Spring’. It was depressing. She remembered what the reverend had said about the Lakeland Poets. She envisaged a man in a Victorian suit, sat uncomfortably on the bank of a lake, paper and quill in hand, pouring his despair into lines about birds hopping and twigs snapping. Perhaps he wore a top hat. Ted’s voice snapped her back to the present.

  ‘Clear evidence of asphyxiation with a strap of some sort. If memory serves, the marks are exactly the same as the ones found on Moira Tate, Kelly,’ Ted said. Kelly was surprised by the reference to herself and was caught off guard. She put her phone back into her pocket, and went to look at the marks, and confirmed the similarity. Ted measured and recorded the marks.

  A couple of maggots, not completely stupefied by freezing, still wriggled and dropped off the slab to the floor. Ted collected them as Kelly watched in horror. She was reminded of a trip she’d had to Coniston Old Man with her father when she’d found some caterpillars in a bush and insisted on collecting them, only to find, later that day, the little critters hatching into wasps.

  Ted turned to the girl’s hair, which was matted with river detritus and Kelly tried to concentrate. The perfume was wearing off. The girl wasn’t as tidy as Moira, but she might have been when she was dumped there. Nature had got in the way. Ted bagged various leaves, twigs and dirt, and he removed several hairs from her head. She’d been blonde, perhaps not natural.

  ‘The cold water of the river has delayed putrefaction and so we may not get an accurate time of death. Note, insect activity only in areas where body was exposed, this might be helpful,’ Ted said.

  He took a scraper and began working on her nails. He scraped each one carefully and reached for a magnifying glass.

  ‘Single fibre, looks synthetic, unlike a human or animal hair,’ he said.

  ‘Does it look grey?’ Kelly asked, excited by having something to distract her.

  ‘Now, now, Kelly. I’ll send it off,’ Ted said, wise and measured as ever.

  ‘There’s evidence of sexual activity, but it’s not overly traumatic. The river has taken much of the fluid usually found inside. Swabbing for DNA evidence now, but I doubt we’ll get a result,’ said Ted.

  Ted and his technician turned the girl over, and the body made a slopping sound as it settled. Her back was purple and black, and, even though Kelly knew that this was blood pooling, it still looked revolting; as if she’d been beaten to death.

  Happy with the external search, Ted asked for help getting the girl back on her back. They’d bagged a fair amount of material, including stuff from the eyes and nose, which Kelly didn’t have a clue as to its identity, along with some big fat juicy maggots. But the final straw was Ted reaching for his saw. Kelly told herself she’d see it through, but when the blades whirred and screeched, she decided she’d had enough.

  ‘Sorry, Ted, I need to make a phone call.’

  He looked at her through his visor. ‘Of course. I’ll come and find you.’

  Her last image of the girl, was of the saw entering her body, opening her trunk like a can of beans.

  Kelly closed the door behind her as the first rib was snapped.

  She took off her overalls and left the inner changing room. She walked as quickly as she could to the main entrance of the hospital, and the warm outside air hit her, taking away her chill slightly. She found a bench outside, sat on it, and regulated her breathing. She stared up at the sun with closed eyes and let her body calm itself. She felt as though she’d been smeared in fish guts.

  Moira’s crime was her hands – money grabbing, Ted had said it. This girl’s crime was her tongue. Perhaps she was a bully, perhaps she was a gobshite. Neither deserved to die.

  She called Kate Umshaw.

  ‘We’ve got another poem. The handwriting is the same, pending confirmation from our professor if he ever gets back to us. The girl’s tongue was surgically removed.’

  ‘Doctor Timothy Cole?’

  ‘Surgeon Timothy Cole. Has Emma got a name yet?’

  ‘She’s checking in every half an hour. I’ll call you as soon as.’

  ‘Right, I’m coming back now.’ She hung up. She couldn’t get warm, despite the sunshine, and she believed herself to be reeking of death. It was minutes before Kate Umshaw called back with a name.

  The girl was called Brandy Carter, and she’d had a minor op on her ankle a few years ago. The consultant’s list on which she’d found herself was none other than Timothy Cole.

  Chapter 24

  Kelly rummaged around the locker at the back of her office, looking for something suitable to change into to interview Mr Timothy Cole, eminent surgeon, trusted employee, public speaker and life giver. Narcissist and God complex came to mind too, but she knew the danger of presumption.

  After her shower, she felt ready and DS Umshaw had already prepared the room. Timothy Cole was on his way: a willing and graceful witness; thankful for the tact of the detective in choosing a private venue, thus enabling him to protect his family. Or that’s what he thought.

  Kelly was notified when he was inside the building, and he was escorted to the main interview room in Eden House. It was a comfortable enough space, in as much as the chairs were new and the blue upholstery was comfortable; not like the old brown plastic that perps had to sit on. Coffee and water would be on tap, within reason, but there was still no window: an old policy that still held true to the traditional belief that, if a suspect was allowed to feel too comfortable, they’d be less likely to make a mistake. An enclosed space without natural light was still deemed the best possible way to coerce.

  Kelly met DS Umshaw in the corridor and they spoke briefly. The interview would be recorded and videoed. Of course, Mr Cole was entitled to a lawyer present, but, as yet, he wasn’t aware that he might need one.

  DC Will Phillips and Rob Shawcross had been dragged in on their days off, and were tasked with searching the surgeon’s property, when – and only when – Kelly gave the go ahead. The circumstantial evidence against Cole was enough to get a search warrant, though it wasn’t quite enough to arrest. Kelly saw arrest without potential charge as a waste of her valuable time.

  They entered the interview room. Mr Cole stood up. It was a dated behaviour, showing respect to the two female detectives,
and Kelly noted it. They shook hands. A uniform stood behind the door – procedure.

  ‘Mr Cole, I am Detective Porter, and this is Detective Umshaw, we’ll be recording your witness statement today. Please sit down.’

  He did so, and Kelly was thankful because he towered above them. He wore an expensive dark navy suit, along with an immaculately pressed shirt, perfectly crafted tie and gold cufflinks. His shoes were polished and he smelled of pricey cologne. His skin was tanned; no doubt he could afford several exotic holidays per year. A glance at his earnings told them that the surgeon was in demand and earned the bulk of his money from private clients. His pad on the shores of Lake Ullswater was sizeable and boasted a pool and mature gardens and outhouses. He also owned a squad of flashy cars, including an Aston Martin DB9. They knew that the motive behind the killings wasn’t robbery.

  ‘Thank you for coming in voluntarily, Mr Cole.’ Kelly used the official title of a surgeon, rather than ‘Doctor’. She might use it later to annoy him.

  ‘Of course, anything to help.’ He looked down at his hands. Hands that had saved countless lives, and delved into the depths of hundreds of crippled and smashed bodies. They were large, manicured and strong.

  ‘For the record, Mr Cole, could you state your place, and date of birth.’

  The interview began formally. Kelly glanced up and down at her notes, remaining pedestrian.

  ‘I see you have water.’

  Cole nodded gratefully. Small beads of sweat sat on his forehead. The room wasn’t cool, and it was an unnerving position for anyone to find themselves in. They always made allowances for that.

  ‘Mr Cole. Would you like to explain to us, in your own words, your relationship to the deceased, Mrs Moira Tate?’

  Cole coughed and retrieved a tightly folded handkerchief from a pocket. Kelly noticed his watch. Rob had already told her that he wore an Omega Seamaster. Men and watches. He reckoned it was worth about four grand: not a huge amount for Cole’s wealth, but it was probably his work watch. Everything about the man smacked of success, wealth, measure and control. Apart from his reaction to this interview, which was way out of his comfort zone.

  ‘I met Moira casually, and we were friends.’

  It was going to be a long interview.

  ‘Friends? Were you having sexual intercourse?’

  Cole’s eyes widened, which Kelly found amusing. For a man who was engaging in an extra marital affair on a regular basis (who knew if it was just one), he was a veritable prude, a paradox that might be relevant.

  ‘Yes.’ His cheeks reddened.

  ‘Thank you. When was the last time you had sex with Moira?’

  ‘I don’t see what this has to…’

  ‘It has everything to do with it.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus, was she raped?’

  Clever boy.

  ‘We need to rule out your DNA, yes.’

  Cole put his head in his hands.

  ‘Mr Cole?’

  ‘Saturday. We saw each other on Saturday.’

  ‘The 6th?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We used a hotel.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘It’s a guesthouse on the outskirts of Town. It’s called The Mountain View.’

  ‘Was it ordinary sex?’

  ‘What?’ He looked between the two women. They could have been asking his if he liked sugar in his coffee.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Cole, if it’s a line of enquiry you weren’t expecting, and I appreciate your embarrassment. It’s a sensitive subject but we really need to know the details.’

  ‘Christ. Ordinary. Always.’

  ‘Thank you. So when you met, was she behaving normally? Was she planning to meet anyone else while she was in town?’

  ‘It wasn’t amicable. I finished the relationship. We argued.’

  ‘Was she upset?’

  ‘Yes, very. She called me constantly after that. Every day until Monday night, when I last spoke to her.’

  Kelly knew that Moira had called the same number several times on Monday night: the last calls she ever made. ‘Did you use an unregistered phone for your relationship with Moira?’

  ‘Yes.’ Now they had their explanation. ‘So, this number here is you?’ She showed him the print out of Moira’s phone calls, and he nodded. ‘That’s mine.’

  ‘How was she? What did you talk about?’

  ‘The same. I hung up in the end. I should have gone to get her. Oh God.’ He buried his head again and loosened his tie.

  ‘Where did she call from?’ The phone had pinged off the main Penrith mast, but it couldn’t pin point exactly where she’d been.

  ‘She was walking the streets.’ The desperation now apparent in the doctor’s voice was pitiful. He realised, in that moment, that it was shortly after he’d abandoned her, by hanging up his phone for the last time, that she’d come to harm. Unless he was involved.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Close to the hospital. She’d been to see her mother.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘At work.’

  ‘Until what time?’

  ‘Ten p.m.’

  Kelly looked at her print out. Umshaw scribbled notes and studied the doctor.

  ‘She called you just after ten.’

  ‘I know, I was getting out of my scrubs. That’s the last one.’

  ‘Where did you go after that?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Can your wife corroborate that?’

  ‘Yes, but I thought… my coming here would prevent her being involved. Detective, please, I…’

  ‘Mr Cole, I have a problem.’

  Cole looked between the two detectives again. His face looked panicked. And well it might.

  ‘Mr Cole, did you know Brandy Carter?’

  ‘Er…the name rings a bell. I’m not sure. There’s something about the name. Why?’

  ‘She broke a metatarsal two years ago, it wasn’t a significant break, but she needed a cast, and you were the consultant on her notes.’

  ‘Ah, there we go. Forgive me, I can see twenty people a day sometimes.’

  ‘Brandy was a regular visitor to The Penrith and Lakes. She suffered various ailments, including methadone addiction. Her last visit was for the treatment of gardnerella, a sexually transmitted disease.’

  ‘I know what gardnerella is.’ Cole’s eyes narrowed. ‘You said did I know her?’

  ‘Yes. Her body was found this morning, Mr Cole. She was murdered.’

  Cole’s eyes widened and his mouth moved: his composure was deserting him in treacherous ways, making his hands shake and his feet point towards the door.

  ‘Perhaps you took Brandy to hotels too?’

  Cole shot up, and the uniform stepped towards him from behind.

  ‘No! My God! What are you saying? You think I did this?’

  ‘Now you see my problem. Please sit down. I’ve obtained a warrant to search your property on Lake Ullswater, Mr Cole. Is anyone home?’

  ‘My wife. Oh no, oh please.’

  ‘Mr Cole. Is there anything you’d like to tell us now? If there is, this is the time to do it. We’re not accusing you, or charging you; we simply want to know your involvement with both deceased women.’

  ‘I need to get home.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, Mr Cole. You don’t have permission to be present at the search. However, if you’d like to call your wife, then of course, you are free to do that.’

  ‘I want a lawyer.’

  ‘You’re entitled to that, too. We’d like to request a voluntary sample of DNA and a handwriting sample, please.’

  Cole licked his lips; they were dry and he looked as though he might faint. He sipped some water.

  ‘Ok.’

  Umshaw went towards him with a swab and asked him to open his mouth, which he did. Next, Kelly gave him a pad of paper.

  ‘What shall I write?’

  ‘Anything. Try Wordsworth. Do you like poetry?�
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  Cole’s face grimaced. He took the pen and scrawled the name Wordsworth on the pad and shoved it back to Kelly.

  ‘I do, but not him.’

  ‘Thank you. You may call your wife.’

  Chapter 25

  Brandy Carter’s address was registered as Flat 2B, 24 Carleton Manor, Penrith. The flats were part of a 1960s drive to save space and move unfortunate souls into what would soon become ghettos of crime and tension. Why no-one predicted it at the time is anyone’s guess, but they were depressing places: perfect sites to hide, stay hidden and reoffend. They were any constabulary’s nightmare. Not as big as some, Carleton Manor was still notorious for gangs and the police, though they’d never admit it, hated going there. Overpasses, underpasses, stairwells and concrete; all encouraged endemic crime. DC Emma Hide was on her guard, despite having a burly uniform accompanying her. She pulled in to the car park, which smelled of piss. But at least they were in the shade.

  DI Porter had filled her in on some of Brandy’s background, and none of it had evoked surprise, just pity. The girl had dropped out of college almost as soon as she began. The Headmaster had spoken about her as a scourge on his record. He’d recalled a problem student from the get-go. Brandy Carter was a vicious bully. She’d got a record too: drugs and vandalism, which is why her prints had shown up so quickly. The mother, Sharon Carter, possessed a reputation similar to that of her daughter. And that was to whose flat they’d come to pay a visit.

  ‘Sharon Carter is a known alcoholic and general waster, so I’m not sure what we’ll find,’ Emma said to her companion. He nodded.

  ‘Come on, let’s see if she’s noticed her daughter’s missing,’ she added.

  The uniform knocked on the door of Flat 2B. There was no answer, so he tried again, harder. Emma looked around. They heard a male voice and, when the door finally opened, a waft of stale air escaped from inside. Emma introduced herself and the man’s brow furrowed. He was a big, strapping guy with a large belly. That was most likely beer-induced, given the smell. His clothes looked unwashed and his teeth were stained. He had mean eyes and looked at Emma in a way that a lot of male persons of interest did: repugnance that she was on the force, and shock that she was a woman. Emma Hide was a petite woman, not yet thirty, but her stature belied her skill and experience, which is why she’d been sent.