by Chris Dolley
AN UNSAFE PAIR OF HANDS
Chris Dolley
Copyright © 2011 by Chris Dolley
All Rights Reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
Published by Book View Café in July 2011
www.bookviewcafe.com
ISBN: 978-1-61138-110-8
Cover art © Gail Johnson - Fotolia.com
Cover design by Chris Dolley
www.chris-dolley.com
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictional or used in an imaginary manner to entertain, and any resemblance to any real people, situations, or incidents is purely coincidental.
CHAPTER ONE
The woman’s body lay face down inside the ancient stone circle, her long pale coat almost glowing in the early morning gloom. What colour was it? White? Yellow? DCI Shand moved closer, stopping at the edge of the circle. As the first detective at the scene, he had to take his time to observe and appraise.
His eyes were drawn to the woman. He’d never seen a dead body before. Not in the field. He’d lectured about them, he’d studied countless pictures, he’d taken raw recruits through every nuance of crime scene protocol. But that was all theory. This was the real thing. Only his second day in CID and already he had his first murder.
And it had to be murder. The way she lay there – arms down by her side, legs straight, clothes unruffled, her head turned slightly to one side so that her left cheek was resting on the grass. She’d been arranged. Was her head pointing towards the rising sun?
He looked up at the heavy blanket of cloud – no help there, not even the merest hint of where the sun might be. Perhaps he was being influenced by the situation. Everything about the location screamed ritual. A body laid out inside a stone circle. It had to be significant, didn’t it?
But if so, shouldn’t she be at its centre? Why position her to one side?
He ran his eye around the stones – more than a dozen of them, irregularly shaped, equally spaced, their heights ranging from four to six feet. The circle stretched to maybe forty feet in diameter. The body was about ten feet from the far side.
He shivered. There was something eerie about the scene. Everything so quiet. Nothing moving for miles around. The stones crowded around the body like silent mourners. The far side of the valley patchworked in shades of twilight grey, mist and smoke rising up from the valley floor. The smell of autumn everywhere – damp rotting leaves and wood smoke.
He looked across the field towards the road on his left. Was that the way she’d come? Up the winding road from the village on foot? Or had someone driven her here, pulled off onto that chalk track, and dumped her?
He turned back to the circle. He could see the slight outline of footprints on the grass, little more than rectangles written in the dew. They scuffed a braided path between the outer stones and the body. One set of tracks would belong to the girl who’d found her, another to the uniformed officer who’d called it in. Maybe they’d get lucky and find a third, but he doubted it. The dew was light, and probably formed only a few hours before dawn.
He shivered again, pulling his jacket tighter in a vain attempt to keep out the cold. Where was SOCO? He’d expected the Scene of Crimes team to be on site when he arrived, handing out gloves and white coats, and sealing off the crime scene.
He shouted to the lone policeman who was over on the chalk track talking to the girl who’d found the body. “Scene of Crimes are on their way, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir. They should be here any minute.”
Shand checked his watch, shuffled his feet, peered at the road, listened. He’d never been any good at waiting. There was a dead body yards away, valuable time ebbing away…
He stared at the body. What if she wasn’t dead? The girl had probably never seen a dead body before. The constable was barely out of his teens. Wouldn’t it be judicious to have a look himself?
He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and entered the circle, tracing a path well away from the footprints, each step slow and deliberate, his head bent scanning the ground. Whatever happened he was not going to compromise the crime scene.
A yard away now. He could see a darkened patch of matted hair on the back of the woman’s head. It didn’t look fresh. And, looking closer, her body appeared to be laid out on a slight mound. Was that why they’d chosen this site? Was it some kind of altar?
He bent down to touch the woman’s neck. No pulse that he could feel through the gloves. He checked her fingers, applying the slightest of pressure. They were stiff. Rigor had set in. He tried the wrist. Rigor there too. And at the elbow, though not the shoulder. Five to nine hours, by his somewhat rusty reckoning, which made time of death somewhere between eleven and four last night.
He took another look at the woman’s fingers. The nails were manicured. No cracks, no blood, no signs of defensive wounds. And nothing obvious under the nails.
No signs of sexual interference either. The hemline of the woman’s coat ran arrow-straight along the backs of her knees. And her coat was spotless. No blood, no dirt or grass stains, barely even a crease. It could have come straight from a shop window.
He leaned farther over the body to examine her face. Late thirties, early forties. No bruising, no cuts, make-up unsmudged. And her eyes were closed. The killer, perhaps? Someone who didn’t want the victim to stare at them while they arranged the body?
The sound of a car broke his concentration – the first real noise he’d heard for minutes. He looked up. Three cars had pulled off the road, and were bumping along the rough chalk track that passed within thirty yards of the circle. Shand rose quickly. What had he been thinking? He should have blocked the track off, had a word with the constable about finding an alternative car park while he determined the extent of the crime scene.
“Hey,” he shouted.
That’s when it happened. Something tightened around his right ankle. Something that felt like fingers and gripped like a hand. He jumped, a startled cry rising from his throat, but the fingers held firm. He looked down, panic-stricken. The woman had to be dead, he’d felt the rigor in her hands!
Time froze. He stared in disbelief. A hand had risen out of the ground beneath the body. At first he couldn’t take it in. He felt slow and befuddled. Where had the hand come from?
And then time catapulted the scene into needle-sharp clarity. There was someone alive down there. Someone buried beneath the corpse.
“Quick!” he shouted, waving frantically at the newcomers, his voice unnaturally shrill. “Over here! They’re buried alive!”
He bent down, broke the person’s grip, pulled back their fingers, wanting to squeeze that hand, give comfort, but not having the time. “We’re coming,” he said, throwing himself to the ground. “Hang on!”
And then he was digging, scrabbling wildly at the earth. How long had they been down there? How could they breathe?
He freed the hand to the elbow. Pulled hard. The body wouldn’t budge. He shouted to the others to hurry. Car doors slammed, people ran. “Help me move the corpse!” He thrust his hands under the dead woman’s shoulders, swung her off the mound, then dived back, ripping at the clods of turf that covered the grave.
Turf flew in all directions – and dirt – everyone on hands and knees, clawing at the ground. No shovels, no tools, no time. The earth soft to the touch. Another hand discovered, an arm, a leg. Soft flesh, feet kicking wildly, a frantic search for a face. Shand’s fingers found something smooth and flat – a box? The person’s head was encased in a cardboard box!
He swept the soil back, fast choppy strokes, dug his hands down and along the sides. People were pulling from the other side,
easing the person out by the legs. A head appeared. A woman, middle-aged, red-faced and gasping.
But alive.
CHAPTER TWO
The police doctor examined the woman while Shand took a few seconds to recover. He was shaking. How had the woman survived for so long? There wouldn’t have been enough air in that box. She should have been dead.
He took another look at the box, sliding his hand across the top. There was a hole, the size of a pea. Had there been a tube? Had he pulled it out in his rush to dig her free?
He found the tube buried amongst the pile of strewn turfs. It looked like a siphon – clear plastic and flexible. He bagged it, then hurried back to the woman.
She was in shock, her body still heaving between ragged breaths, tears carving channels down her dirt-stained face.
“I’ve given her something,” said the doctor. “She’s cold and terrified, but I can’t find any injuries. The ambulance’ll be here soon.”
One of the police constables removed his jacket and placed it delicately around the woman’s shoulders. She shivered, hunched up, her thin hands pulling the jacket tighter. She had to be in her late fifties. Maybe older. The doctor gently massaged her back and arms.
Shand squatted next to her.
“What’s your name?” he asked softly.
She didn’t appear to register his existence. Her eyes flitted vacantly over him.
“Cold,” she said. “So cold.” Her lower lip trembled.
Shand pulled off his gloves and wrapped her left hand in his. It was like ice. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Her focus began to wander again. She looked at her hands, the circle, the cars, then back at Shand. “Where’s George?” she asked.
“Who’s George?”
She didn’t answer. She looked confused. “Who are you?”
“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Shand. Who’s George?”
“My husband, of course,” she said, breaking into a smile. “He’s…” She stopped mid-sentence, her smile fading as her eyes widened. “No,” she cried, then louder, “No!”
“What is it?” Shand asked.
She struggled, pulling away. “You’ve got to save him. You’ve got to!”
“I will,” said Shand. “Where is he? What’s happened to him?”
Her hands flew to her mouth, her face crumpled. “George,” she wailed. “George!”
Shand turned away in frustration. One person dead, one buried alive and now George. Wherever he was.
He looked back at the sobbing woman. It could be hours before she made any sense.
He stood up. Where was the girl who’d found the body? His eyes flicked over the growing number of onlookers. Another five cars must have arrived since they’d pulled the woman out.
“Does anyone know this woman,” he shouted. “Anyone know who George is?”
A hand went up to his left. A teenage boy stepped forward.
“Helena Benson. George’s her husband.”
Shand ran towards the teenager. “Where do they live?”
“Ivy Cottage. It’s the first house on the right as you go down into the village.”
“Thank you.”
He was away and running. First towards his car, but it was blocked in. Shit! Cars front and back and nowhere to turn – a barbed wire fence on one side of the track, a ditch on the other. He looked back towards the road, more cars arriving by the second. He sprinted to the entrance, and flagged down a police car just as it turned into the track.
“DCI Shand,” he said, breathing hard. “Back the car up. You’re taking me into Athelcott. Now!”
He got in. The young police constable threw the car into reverse, loose chippings flying as it bounced back off the track. The car rocked to a stop, then flew forward, tyres squealing.
“It’s the first house on the right. Ivy Cottage,” said Shand.
The car raced down the hill, the road curving to the right and sinking between high banks and hedges. Shand clung to his seat, no time to belt up, his left shoulder pressed tight against the door as the car flew around the bend. He peered ahead, straining to see through the mist and hedgerows. The road swung left, Shand slid with it, gripping the seat with all his strength to keep him from colliding with the driver. Then there it was, a thatched roof on the right. A break in the hedge. A gate. ‘Ivy Cottage’ written in wrought iron to the side of the porch.
He had the passenger door open before the car stopped. “Follow me,” he said, running around the front of the car. “Don’t touch anything. We’re looking for a George Benson. He might be hurt.”
He slowed at the gate, his heart racing, not knowing if he was going to find a blood bath or a garden full of graves. He took a deep breath and drank in the scene. The gate was open. Was that significant? He walked through. A small front garden; cottage style – perennials and shrubs – a flagstone path to a trellis-framed porch. The front door ajar.
A bad feeling. He edged towards the doorway, glanced down at his shoes. His training told him to take them off. They were wet and covered in dirt from the circle. He’d contaminate the scene. His heart told him different. George could be bleeding to death inside. His first priority was to preserve life.
He quickly scraped the soles of his shoes against the edge of the stone step, rested the tip of his left elbow on the solid oak door and pushed. The door creaked open. It was dark inside. Low ceilings, huge beams, drawn curtains. And a rich smell. One he couldn’t place. Almost like pipe tobacco, but not. Was it the oak beams?
He called out. “Hello? Mr. Benson?”
No answer. Shand flipped on the lights. The front door had opened straight onto the living room – nut-brown beams, period furniture, inglenook fireplace, knick-knacks everywhere.
“You try upstairs,” said Shand, ducking under the central beam towards the back of the room. He wondered how tall George was. The clearance couldn’t have been more than five ten.
He checked behind the sofa, along the back wall. No sign of a struggle, no body, no bloodstains. Heavy footsteps reverberated overhead, the central lampshade shook in sympathy. Not a house someone could move about quietly in. He stepped into the kitchen. And stopped. The back door was ajar. Another bad feeling. He called out again. “George!” The sounds from upstairs stopped for a few seconds. No one replied.
Shand went outside. The back garden was huge – extensive lawns, fruit trees, vegetable garden, shrubs, a stone outbuilding. But no sign of George.
He stood for a few moments, scanning the lawn for any signs of recent disturbance, half-expecting to see a line of newly-formed graves.
Nothing.
He turned back inside. There was washing up in the sink. A single plate and a cup. One person?
Another door led off the kitchen into a back corridor. He took it, following it around to a downstairs bedroom. The bed was made. A slightly musty smell hung on the air. A spare bedroom?
A sound from the other side of the wall made him stop. He froze instantly, tilted his head to one side and listened. There it was again. A scraping sound coming from the living room. Not his colleague. He could still hear the creaks and heavy feet from upstairs.
Shand moved swiftly back along the corridor, up on the balls of his feet, treading as lightly as he could into the kitchen, across the quarry-tiled floor, pausing by the entrance to the living room. A floorboard creaked a few feet away. Shand pulled back and pressed himself flat against the interior wall. He could see the shadow now. An outline of a person caught by the living room light and projected onto the kitchen floor. Someone was standing on the other side of the doorway. Shand waited. A thousand thoughts running through his mind. Was this the killer, was he armed, should he call for assistance? Fifteen years behind a desk hadn’t prepared him for this. He’d never tackled a suspect in his life.
He swallowed hard and braced himself. Another creak, the shadow shuffled slightly, but still no closer to the door. Footsteps from above, the sound magnified in the tense silence. Shoul
d he wait for the PC to come down? Should he shout a warning? What if the officer ran downstairs into a hail of bullets?
He closed his eyes for a second. He had to take control. He was letting his imagination conjure gunmen out of shadows. Anyone could be in that doorway. A colleague, a neighbour, George. He was being ridiculous.
“Police!” he said, forcing his voice to resonate a confidence and authority he didn’t possess. “Step away from the door.”
The shadow jumped back. The footsteps overhead stopped. Shand took a deep breath and stepped into the doorway.
CHAPTER THREE
A middle-aged man stared back at him, eyes bulging in shock. A man in his fifties, slightly overweight, receding grey hair and a salt and pepper moustache.
“Who are you?” the man said, his voice trembling. “Where’s my wife?”
Shand relaxed. “George Benson?”
The man nodded. A thundering of feet on the stairs announced the arrival of the constable.
“Nothing upstairs, sir,” he said, eyeing George suspiciously.
Shand ignored him, keeping his eyes on George. “Detective Chief Inspector Shand,” he said, producing his warrant card, “I think you should sit down, Mr. Benson.”
George Benson swallowed hard and pulled out a chair from beneath a heavy oak table. He looked terrified. His hands were shaking.
“Your wife’s fine, Mr. Benson. When ... when was the last time you saw her?”
George rose from the chair. “Has something happened to Helena? Where is she?”
Shand placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and gently coaxed him back down. “She’s fine,” he repeated. “You’ll be able to see her soon, but I need to ask a few questions first, okay?”
George let out a deep breath and nodded. “You’re sure she’s all right?”
“Positive,” said Shand. “Now, when was the last time you saw her?”
George looked like several large weights had been lifted from his chest. “Yesterday evening,” he said. “About seven thirty. I spent the evening over at Sherminster. On a stag night.”