The Body on the Island

by Nick Louth

  Cottesloe could hear from where he was standing that the woman was hysterical but couldn’t make out exactly what she was saying. Babbage waggled the biro between his fat fingers. ‘And you just received this today? So what did it actually say?’

  Babbage rolled his eyes at Cottesloe as the torrent of words poured into his ear. ‘Well, it’s not exactly threatening in its own right is it? It’s the kind of thing you say to children.’

  That was clearly the wrong thing to say. The woman’s reply caused Babbage to remove the receiver a couple of inches from his ear. ‘Ah, I’m afraid the control room didn’t pass that element of it across to me. Yes, I see what you mean now. And your name is? I’m sorry, I know you told them, but they didn’t tell…’ He wrote down what she said. ‘And how many years ago was that?’

  Cottesloe could see a certain element of contrition in the way that Babbage was now speaking to her. The constable decided to retreat to a bench, where there was a copy of the Sun beckoning. He hadn’t even reached a juicy story before Babbage had ended the call.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Cottesloe asked.

  Babbage blew a sigh. ‘Some poor old dear has had what she considers a threatening letter. Naturally, it’s unsigned. Her son went missing back in the 1980s, never been found, and she thinks it’s relevant to that, because of the impending release of Neville Rollason.’

  Cottesloe shook his head. ‘Everyone’s got an opinion on him.’

  ‘You couldn’t print mine, even in there,’ Babbage said, indicating the tabloid newspaper in Cottesloe’s hands. ‘Life should mean life.’

  ‘What did the letter say?’

  ‘All it said is—’ Babbage held out both his arms and bugged out his eyes—‘“Are you afraid of the Bogeyman?”’

  Cottesloe rolled his eyes. ‘For God’s sake, is that all? It could be anyone.’

  ‘I said I’d follow it up,’ Babbage said. ‘Like we need another wild goose chase, given the body found in our patch.’ He mimed screwing up the report just written and chucking it over his shoulder. They both laughed.

  * * *

  Rainy Macintosh sat in the cramped lounge of her one-bedroomed flat in Reading, her laptop balanced on her knees, and a cup of coffee getting cold on the end table next to her. It was eight p.m. and she was frustrated. Her fourteen-year-old son Ewan was upstairs in his bedroom playing computer games. She wasn’t entirely convinced by his claim that his homework was finished, but she had too much of her own to start policing him. She’d been working away all evening on Gillard’s project, trying to figure out the types of industrial machinery that could cause compression asphyxia. She would have preferred to work on finding the culprit, the ‘who’, rather than embark on this wild goose chase about ‘how’. Her boss was convinced that cracking the second would lead to a breakthrough on the first. She wasn’t so sure.

  She had twelve search tabs open, covering everything from industrial cranes, statistically the most dangerous type of construction equipment, right through to stamping machines for car panels. Her initial calls that afternoon to the Health and Safety Executive hadn’t been much help. They didn’t have statistics sorted by machine type, only by industry. As far as accidents were concerned the construction industry was clearly the most dangerous, but again that didn’t help her. A really well-designed, modern machine was only safe when it was used in the way it was intended. If a bunch of people decided to use it as a weapon against a helpless individual, then that was different. The only progress she had made was on the size of equipment. An image search had allowed her to disregard many different types of presses, moulders, extruders and so on as not having the scope to accommodate anything as large as a man’s torso.

  Perhaps a bit of outsourcing would be useful.

  She got up and made her way to Ewan’s bedroom door. It was quiet, but there was still light coming from inside. She tapped on the door and walked in. The place was an absolute tip, but she knew she had to bite her tongue if she was to get what she wanted. The boy, all gangly arms and legs, was lying on his bed in shorts and T-shirt, looking at his phone.

  ‘I’ve got a wee project for you, son,’ she said. His bright blue eyes flicked up to her briefly before returning to the video he was watching. He made no reply.

  ‘A little bit of detective work.’

  That seemed to grab his attention. ‘What?’

  ‘A piece of Internet research, right up your street. I want your ideas on the types of industrial machinery that could be used to kill people—’

  He launched right in: ‘Drill through the head, burned in a steel furnace, crushed by a bulldozer…’

  ‘Whoa, hold your horses. It’s quite specific. It must be capable of gradually suffocating someone by pressing their chest, so it must be big enough for a person to fit inside.’

  His eyes widened. ‘Wow, like a horror film.’

  She gave him the minimum context, knowing that the idea alone was enough to inspire him. She returned to the lounge and looked at her home with fresh eyes. She needed somewhere bigger, where she didn’t have to sleep on the settee. But she couldn’t afford a place with a second bedroom, since she hadn’t got a penny of child support money from Ross. Ironic that her former partner, a paediatric critical care consultant, was blind to the needs of the one child he was truly responsible for. He just couldn’t stand it that she’d decided to put her own life first. For a decade she’d followed Ross, moving round Scotland from one hospital to another, always several rungs lower, always having to do the killer hours and the childcare while he got the glory and the money. Now at least she was her own mistress.

  Poor but happy, and finally appreciated for her work.

  She went into the kitchen, to the fridge, and helped herself to a glass of wine. Her first of the evening. Now that was a success. When she’d been working eighty hours a week in Glasgow it had often been a bottle at the end of a shift. She had frequently gone back to work in the morning a little tipsy. Not now.

  ‘Here’s to profiting from murder,’ she said to herself, raising her glass.

  * * *

  On Wednesday morning, just after eight, Gillard was sitting in his office when he spotted Rainy Macintosh walking into the CID block. As always, she was in a generously cut dark trouser suit that hid her plus-size figure. She had a Thermos flask in hand, which she set on the desk while she shrugged off her jacket and hung it on the back of her chair. He stood in the doorway and watched as she logged on, skimmed her emails, then helped herself to a coffee from her flask. He knew, from previous observation of the crumbs on her jacket, that she would have eaten a croissant sitting in traffic on the congested route from Reading to Guildford. Not the best commute in the world. He had sensed real potential in her right from the beginning. Something about the way she could turn round a problem in her mind and examine it from different directions. She had been allotted Colin Hodges’ old workstation, with its smeary screen and crumb-filled keyboard, and the dubious pleasure of sitting next to Carl Hoskins. She had gelled pretty well with Carl, which was more than could be said for most of the female members of his detective team. She could match him filthy joke for filthy joke, swearword for swearword. For all that, there was some melancholy in her, some dent in her confidence. He had asked Claire Mulholland to act as her mentor, woman to woman, and make sure she could ride out any early difficulties.

  ‘How was the homework, Rainy?’ he called.

  ‘Dog ate it, sir,’ she said without even turning round. Gillard made his way over to her desk, a great deal tidier these days than it had been in Hodges’ day, notwithstanding the croissant crumbs.

  ‘What have you got?’

  She rotated on her typist’s chair, feet off the ground. She was wearing tiny black patent leather shoes, with little bows on them. She pulled them in just before she scraped his shins.

  ‘I put the problem on the family supercomputer and ran it overnight.’

  Gillard laughed. ‘Glad to hear you have that kind o
f resource.’

  ‘Yes, my laddie Ewan. As long as it involves murder and death, he’s onboard. I’ve now got a list of fifty manufacturers of hydraulic presses, non-heat based moulding, and other kit. He’s pulled together 150 pages of photographs of machinery big enough to contain the human body, and eliminated many others. He’s dug up the contact details of the companies that maintain and service them, so we should be able to get a client list pretty quickly.’

  ‘Fantastic work. How old is he?’

  ‘Fourteen. He loved it. He’s been badgering me since then to know what the case is. I said I’d tell him at the end, when it’s solved.’

  ‘Hope he won’t be boasting about it to his friends.’

  ‘Aye, well he’s got nae friends. Just like his mam.’

  The revelation took him aback. ‘I’m sorry to hear about that, Rainy.’

  ‘Mine or his?’

  ‘Both, actually.’

  ‘Forget I said it, sir. I’ve got a big gob and stuff just falls out.’

  A text to Gillard’s phone drew his attention. Dr Delahaye had forwarded the results from the textile analysis. He made his excuses to Rainy, and returned to his office to look at the report on his screen. There was real progress. A series of cotton fibres, recovered from the mouth and nose of the dead body, had produced some interesting results. Though the fibres were of fairly generic manufacture, they were contaminated with two human DNA traces, only one of which matched the victim. Under a microscope, the presence of dust mites was noted, and a separate DNA test confirmed it. A couple of hairs in his mouth yielded a third DNA trace, also human. Bar the victim’s, none of the DNA was on the national database.

  Gillard picked up the phone, punched out his number and got straight through.

  ‘Craig. I’m in the car.’ The background roar confirmed it. ‘Well, we seem to be back in more familiar asphyxiation territory, don’t we?’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘Yes. Dust mites. Indicative of the involvement of bedding or a pillow. At this concentration, those textiles had been in use for some time. However, I would be cautious about linking the pillow to the death. He could simply have been sleeping in someone’s spare bed before the attack on him took place.’

  ‘Am I missing something?’ Gillard asked. ‘I don’t see it helps very much.’

  ‘No, I agree. But any extra data is a help.’ There was a noise in the background and some uncharacteristic cursing from Delahaye.

  ‘You all right?’ Gillard asked.

  ‘Got to go, Craig. I’ve just knocked a cyclist off.’

  ‘Ambulance required?’

  ‘For me, possibly. The guy is huge and seems really quite upset.’ The call ended.

  Gillard punched out the control room number and reported the incident, telling them to trace Delahaye’s mobile number to get a location. From memory, the forensic scientist always used a hands-free set in the car. There would be serious trouble if he hadn’t.

  * * *

  Leticia had arranged to meet DI Graham Morgan in a cafe on the corner of Wexford Road in Staines.

  She was ten minutes late because of the difficulty of finding somewhere to park in the crowded terraced streets and had in the end squeezed her Mini into a small space, half of which intruded on a single yellow line. There was no sign of a traffic warden, and she hoped she would be in and out within half an hour anyway.

  Morgan was already there, reading a paper, dressed in a rugby shirt and jeans, his greying hair neatly combed. He pointedly looked at his watch. ‘We’ve got official permission for a bit of subterfuge here,’ he said, as his coffee and bacon sandwich were brought to the table. ‘When we meet the landlord’s agent, we will explain that the new tenant is my brother, who is just emerging from a period of mental health difficulty. I’ll do the talking, though we shouldn’t encounter any difficulties because they’ve already got copies of all the relevant paperwork.’

  ‘What’s my role?’

  ‘You don’t really have to say anything.’

  ‘Okay, but who am I actually meant to be?’

  ‘I was thinking that you are my girlfriend,’ Morgan said, with a smile that was intended to be reassuring. ‘I know there’s a bit of an age difference – it’s not too much of a stretch is it? I’ve always liked black women.’

  Leticia tried to wipe the revulsion from her face. Morgan wasn’t her type at all, and she didn’t like him even imagining them as a couple. He wasn’t exactly creepy, not like the shrink Golob, but a bit too cocksure. The kind to boast of imagined conquests to his mates down the pub. Quite apart from that, he looked at least a decade older than she was. ‘All right, but don’t try too hard to make it convincing, okay?’

  Morgan held up his hands. ‘I’m not the affectionate type, don’t worry.’

  Once she had finished her coffee and watched him demolish the remains of his sandwich, they headed round the corner to the Victorian terraced house. It was quite a neat place, with a small bay window overlooking a tiny patch of paved front garden. The agent, a woman of perhaps twenty-five with her dark hair in a ponytail and a navy blue trouser suit, was waiting outside and greeted them enthusiastically.

  ‘I think your brother is really going to enjoy this place,’ she said to Morgan, with vowels as polished as her patent leather shoes. ‘I know the rent is a little bit high for the area, but there are quite a lot of extra facilities. There is even a secluded garden to the rear, which catches the evening sun.’ She selected a key, unlocked the front door and let them in. The house was light and open-plan; there was a modern kitchen with fan oven and microwave. The agent showed them throughout the house. It looked like a perfect home for a small family.

  ‘It’s very nice,’ said Leticia. ‘I’m sure he’ll like it.’ It was way better than any of the halfway houses, hostels or other accommodation that she had ever seen offered to newly released prisoners.

  ‘The landlord is quite relaxed about some of the… special situations, especially as you’ve been kind enough to act as guarantor,’ the agent said. ‘The references all seem to be in order.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Morgan.

  Once they were out on the street again, and the agent had returned to her car, Leticia turned to Morgan and said: ‘That is bloody luxurious. It’s way better than my house. It’s massive. I’ve seen entire hostels to sleep half a dozen that are smaller. And none are this well equipped.’

  Morgan held up his hands. ‘I know, I know. If the tabloids ever get hold of it there will be hell to pay. I looked initially at a flat in a conversion. But the guidance is clear that we can’t have him sharing a hallway with some unwitting family. Besides, we’ve got valuable information for the families of the victims, to ease their pain and give them closure. Rollason held all the trump cards and knew how to negotiate. Sometimes you just have to hold your nose and make the deal.’

  Leticia shook her head as she walked back with him to her illegally parked car. ‘I’m meeting him this afternoon at the prison for the first time.’

  ‘Be careful. He’s very slippery, and deceptively charming. I would come with you but having two of us there would just draw attention to him among the other inmates. We’ve got to keep it low-key, understand?’

  ‘I know. But I’m really nervous.’ She pressed her key fob and the orange light of her Mini flashed its greeting.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said, resting his hand lightly on the small of her back. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her, and she ducked rapidly into the safety of the car.

  * * *

  Leticia sat down opposite the anonymous-looking prisoner and wondered if she had been paired up with the wrong offender. The man, perhaps only five-six, balding and skinny, looked utterly harmless. He had trendy red-framed glasses, a sparse swirl of fluffy white hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He looked considerably older than his true age of sixty-three. Though she had been emailed a picture of Neil Wright’s face, in the flesh she had still expected to detect an aura of evil
and had fully anticipated being unnerved by the man, given his reputation. But Neville Rollason now seemed transformed into Neil Wright, as if the pseudonym was actually a whole new personality. She introduced herself, and with a smile he held out a hand to shake hers. She made brief contact, and it was nothing remarkable. Soft, dry, warm skin. She could have been shaking hands with a colleague at work.

  ‘I’m very glad to meet you, pet,’ he said, with just a trace of a north-east accent.

  ‘And you, Neil,’ she said. ‘So how are you finding it here?’

  They were in a bright and airy interview room at HMP Spring Hill. It was painted in pastel blue and yellow, with matching plastic furniture and a potted plant in a corner. She could see a prison officer in an adjacent office through an internal window, but there was no one else in the room with them.

  He laughed, showing what were clearly bleached as well as reconstructed teeth. ‘A proper soft bed, much less racket from the corridors and a civilised class of neighbour. Even the screws are nice and young, with downy little moustaches and lovely long blond eyelashes.’ He licked his lips. ‘And they call us men, not prisoners.’

  Leticia felt a pulse of anger at this man’s sense of entitlement, the way he felt he could still broadcast his proclivities even to a probation officer. She suspected he knew he had more power than she did. Even if she recommended that he not be released, at this late stage she would probably be overruled. The Parole Board machinery had ground out its decision after considerable deliberation and wasn’t likely to reverse it easily, especially as DI Morgan still had hopes of extracting from him the location of the final victim.

  ‘I’ve been made aware, of course, of your full background,’ she said. ‘We’ve no need to go into any of that at this meeting, which is mainly about the practical arrangements of your release plan. We will however still need to see you quite regularly to assess how you are meeting the objectives we set in this, and to action any additional requirements.’ She tapped the document in front of her.