Killer on the Fens

by Joy Ellis

  ‘I don’t know how you can be so passionate about slicing up dead people,’ said Matt flatly.

  ‘Sometimes I despair of you, young man. Now, come here.’ The tall forensic scientist pointed to the body on the steel table. ‘Behold! All the complexities of the universe are contained within the intricate composition of this human body and you, Matthew, are one of the privileged few who get to see that miracle with your own eyes.’

  ‘All that’s as maybe, but at the end of the day it’s still slicing up dead people.’

  Rory raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Dear Lord, forgive me for asking, but if it’s not too much trouble, could my next technician have a soul, please?’

  Matthew, well used to the pathologist waxing lyrical over his cadavers, adjusted the microphone above the table and stood back. ‘If I were you, I’d just settle for one with a strong stomach.’

  Rory knew when he was beaten. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose. Let’s begin. File number 4725. Karl Daniel Shine. Here we have the body of a well-nourished, thirty-five-year-old white male. His weight is . . .’

  Later, as Matt began cleaning up and preparing for their next silent guest, Rory Wilkinson checked over the detailed description of the injuries sustained by the deceased. It was well known that a killer who chose strangulation as his method of dispatch usually used far more force than was actually necessary. In this case, having studied the body in situ, it was clear that the assailant had been concealed in the back of the car, and when Shine was seated, had thrown a length of nylon tow rope over his head, and yanked it backwards with more than considerable force. ‘Enough to practically behead the poor sod’, muttered Rory. The killer had crossed the rope behind the driver’s headrest, and simply hung on until his victim was asphyxiated. Amazing, thought the pathologist. The murderer strangled him most effectively, but never once touched him.

  ‘Can I take a break now, Prof?’

  ‘Certainly. Bring me back a Kit Kat when you come, will you?’

  ‘Sure. Oh, and congratulations on your discovery, boss. I now see your point about not assuming too much.’

  Rory laughed. ‘Even I did not expect that little gem, Matthew.’

  The young man left, leaving Rory to mull over the paradox. Someone had gone to great lengths to kill Karl Shine. They had risked being convicted of murder and incarcerated for life, when, if they had allowed the apparently fit and healthy Mr Shine to live, he would have died of natural causes in a matter of weeks.

  At the base of Karl Shine’s brain, in an area called the Circle of Willis, Rory had found a berry-like swelling. The aneurysm was at the branching point of an artery, and the weakness was such that it could have ruptured at any moment. The sub-arachnoid haemorrhage that would have followed would doubtless have proved fatal. It was indeed remarkable that it had not burst during his death throes.

  This would make jolly good reading in the case file. He hoped DI Galena would appreciate the irony as she hunted for the perpetrator of such a pointless killing. ‘Funny old world,’ thought Rory, as he checked to see who was next.

  * * *

  In the newly instated murder room, Nikki stared at the whiteboard that covered a large part of the far wall. There was not much on it yet, but in a matter of hours it would depict a full-blown case. There would be names, locations, victims, suspects and photographs. A few days ago she had found the blank surface irritating. She liked to be busy and had wanted a case to work on. Well, now she had one.

  At the top of the board was an A4 size photograph of Karl Shine. Next to it was one of Shine in his car that the police photographer had taken. It was difficult to believe that they were the same person. In the first, he was looking directly into the camera, slightly tanned with smartly cut hair and a satisfied grin on his face. In the second, his face and neck were swollen, the skin a purplish colour, with pinpoint haemorrhages around the eyes. His throat was badly damaged, with an almost horizontal ligature mark cut deep into the flesh. Even without the forensic report, bright blue fibres from the tow rope could clearly be seen protruding from the scorched skin.

  Nikki stood up and looked at the room full of officers. ‘Sorry. I know it’s getting towards the end of the day, but I want to make sure we all know what we’re dealing with.’ She pointed to the photograph. ‘This is Karl Daniel Shine. Thirty-five years old, single, lived alone in Martin Park, Greenborough. Murdered in his car, a red BMW, which was parked in his integral garage, at around eight thirty this morning. We obviously haven’t got the pathologist’s report yet, but as you can see, he was strangled, apparently by a person concealed in the back of the car. A set of spare keys were left on the back seat, so we assume the killer stole them earlier and locked himself in the car to wait for Shine.’ She paused and looked across to where Cat sat. ‘What have you and Dave dug up on this man?’

  Cat flipped through her notebook. ‘Not a lot more than we had before, ma’am. Seems to have been a bit of a loner. The house is mortgaged to the hilt, but it’s worth a lot on the market. I’ve yet to discover how he made his money, there is no visible source of income, but his lifestyle was pretty comfortable. He purchased the old Flaxton Mere airfield from the RAF about three years ago, but has pretty well sat on it ever since. I’ve got hold of his solicitor, who I have to say is not a happy man. If he mentioned the word, “procrastination” once, he mentioned it a dozen times. I’m seeing him at six tonight to talk to him about what intentions Shine had for the airfield. Other than that, I’ve hit a big fat zero.’

  ‘Parents?’

  ‘Sorry, but they are part of that zero I just mentioned.’

  ‘And you, Dave? Anything else?’

  ‘Nothing specific, ma’am. I’ve found nothing under Karl Shine on the police computer. In fact all his business dealings look clean. But,’ Dave rubbed at his forehead, ‘I was on a case about five or six years ago, and we had our eye on a bloke called Daniel Shire. We never actually nailed him for anything, but he kept turning up in our investigations. I reckon it’s the same man.’

  ‘What sort of investigations?’ Nikki asked with interest.

  ‘Fraud, deception and money laundering.’

  ‘Then check this Daniel Shire out, Dave, and while Cat is investigating his finances, see what else you can find out about our victim’s private life. Yvonne and Niall? You two stay with the William Pike and Anson Taylor area of the enquiry. I want to know if there was any connection, no matter how tenuous, between either of them and Karl Shine. Now,’ Nikki stared at them, her face hard, ‘I’m certain that Flaxton Mere is the key to everything. Shine owned it. Pike was found with a bagful of drugs on it. Taylor went missing presumably on his way to it. Pike’s missing grandmother lives close to it. Are we all agreed so far?’

  There was a murmur of assent and Nikki continued. ‘With that in mind, I’ve already got a team out at the airfield, but the super is very concerned about safety issues. Flaxton Mere is hazardous in the extreme.’

  Dave wholeheartedly agreed. ‘Especially if you aren’t familiar with it, ma’am. Can I suggest we involve the history society and their maps and plans right from the word go?’

  Nikki nodded. ‘I agree we need them, but the uniforms must do a sweep first. Then at first light, we’ll engage our History Boys and go in ourselves. Right now, go home and get your beauty sleep. We have an early start in the morning.’

  * * *

  Karl Shine’s murder made the ten o’clock news, making Monk a very happy man. He rang his boss’s mobile number and asked if he could meet with him the next day. As he had hoped, it was to be the usual place at eleven, and Freddie sounded in very good spirits. And so he should. It had been an efficient and professional hit, just the kind fat-man Carver liked.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A thin mist was still burning off the marsh, giving the watery landscape the unreal quality of a film set. Nikki half expected to see men in jeans and T-shirts moving the dry ice machine around.

  ‘Our mates found sod all
, then?’ Dave looked weary and he stifled a yawn. ‘I was half hoping they’d find something so we could skip this early morning jaunt.’

  ‘No such luck. I see the others are already here, and our historical helpers are on their way.’ Nikki watched as two cars and a motorcycle pulled into the parking area.

  Cat ambled across to them. ‘Morning, ma’am. Morning, Dave.’ She looked back to where the history society people were getting out of their cars, and sighed. ‘Oh boy! This should be fun.’

  Nikki agreed. She hated using members of the public, no matter how well-meaning they were. In general they were as useful as a chocolate poker. But as the police knew sod all about the airfield, she was forced to admit that this time they might actually be helpful.

  She nodded politely to the five men, then began allotting areas to be searched.

  For hours they trudged through the debris and wreckage of the main buildings and storerooms. The dust and grime stuck to their shoes and the depressing atmosphere clung to their spirits.

  Peering into a shallow recess off a long corridor beneath the watchtower, Nikki was haunted by the thought that her father might have walked this very route, alongside a woman called Eve.

  When her radio crackled into life, her father’s mysterious life was temporarily forgotten. The reception was poor and she knew that the further underground she went, the worse it would get. She listened carefully, and realised that Cat Cullen’s group had made some kind of discovery. They had located an exterior storehouse with footprints leading to it, and as it was nowhere near the area visited by the historians, Cat suspected they might have discovered Pike’s reason for being on the fen. A residue of white powder found on a shelf indicated a possible hiding place for a stash of drugs.

  Nice one, thought Nikki. Forensics would get a match on the sole markings in the dust on the floor, and it was highly unlikely that the deposits were icing sugar.

  For another hour they combed the buildings, and then Nikki decided to call everyone back to the rendezvous point. Apart from the footprints, they had found nothing.

  ‘Seems that’s it.’ Nikki stared down at the line of ticks on her search list.

  ‘Should we check the pillboxes around the perimeter?’ asked Niall.

  ‘Don’t see much point.’ Dave brushed a smudge of limey whitewash from his jacket. ‘If there’s nothing of import in the main buildings, I doubt we’ll find anything out there.’

  Nikki wanted to agree, but said, ‘We’re here now, and as we have the help of these good people,’ she indicated the group of civilians, ‘let’s do it properly.’

  Marcus Selby took a tentative step forward. ‘I think your sergeant is probably right, Inspector. Those pillboxes are just smelly little concrete huts.’

  Nikki thought about this, then said, ‘No, they need checking. Niall and Yvonne, see to that before you return to the station.’

  Joshua Flower raised a hand. ‘I’ll go with them. I’m in no hurry to get away. Even though I’m sure Marcus is perfectly correct.’

  Nikki thanked their guides, and said that she was satisfied that Flaxton Mere held nothing that was of use to them in the hunt for Karl Shine’s killer. Then, as they walked away, she wondered if that were true.

  * * *

  As she picked her way through the rubble of a collapsed wall, Yvonne decided that, sunny day or not, this miserable place was giving her the shivers and she would be very glad to be back in her police car and speeding towards the nick.

  The first pillbox was some way off and Joshua Flower fell into step beside her.

  ‘I get the feeling that you’d rather be somewhere else, officer?’

  ‘Make that anywhere else, sir,’ answered Yvonne grimly. She looked at the older man with interest. ‘Unlike you, I think?’

  ‘We are all different, aren’t we? Under normal circumstances, I couldn’t be happier out here.’

  ‘I know that you’re local, sir, but what’s your profession?’ enquired Yvonne.

  ‘I retired early, my dear. My time is my own, which I admit is something of a relief. I was an architect. I did not like working to deadlines, so I started lecturing on the subject, but I couldn’t take to university life either. Now the peace and quiet of being able to do as I please is most agreeable to me.’

  ‘And is there a Mrs Flower?’

  ‘No, sadly there isn’t.’ Flower shrugged. ‘Married life isn’t for everyone I suppose.’

  Yvonne silently agreed, then said, ‘I’m sorry, Professor. I think it’s the job. I’m too nosy for my own good.’ She changed the subject. ‘I’m not surprised you were a lecturer, sir. You have a wonderful way of speaking. So where does the interest in airfields come from?’

  The professor held back a bramble. ‘This county is jam-packed full of them, and with my love of architecture and history, it just happened organically.’

  ‘And Simon? He’s with the fire service, isn’t he? What got him into all this?’

  ‘He drifted along after me, and he loves the place because he’s a born explorer.’ He looked up at the clear blue sky, an almost wistful look on his face. ‘He was studying history, but gave up and helped our father for a while, then he went into the army. He was in the Royal Engineers, and abroad most of the time, but I think he missed home. When he came out, he joined the fire service. That suited him much better.’

  ‘I don’t think our paths ever crossed. Was he a full-time fire officer?’

  ‘Oh yes, he was with Boston’s Blue Watch up until about five years ago, and then the poor blighter developed a severe chest condition. He’s still with the service, but as you already know, he’s involved with fire investigations and safety issues now.’

  Yvonne was just about to ask more when she saw Niall beckoning to them.

  ‘I see what your mate meant about stinky, Professor!’

  The older man nodded. ‘I doubt we’ll find any useful clues around here.’

  They moved on, walking carefully around the perimeter, checking the uneven ground as they went, parting tufts of thick, coarse grass and holding back vicious blackberry branches with sticks in order to peer into shadowy clumps of overgrowth.

  ‘Last one.’ Yvonne looked at the ugly structure in front of her.

  ‘Allow me to spare your dainty nostrils,’ said Niall gallantly. ‘I’ll go it alone!’ He bent down and ducked under the concrete lintel.

  ‘Oh, smashing!’ His voice echoed. ‘You two don’t know what you’re missing!’

  ‘I know only too well, and I doubt you’ll need to spend too long in there, PC Farrow. Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.’ The professor was peering into the opening.

  Niall asked, ‘Why has this one got a great lump of concrete in the middle?’

  ‘They sometimes put a solid structure like a brick or stone wall in the centre. The idea was that if a grenade or a shot entered via the loophole, it wouldn’t ricochet around inside and wipe out the entire garrison. That other heavy mount near the front gun port was the mounting for the main gun, probably a Hotchkiss six-pounder. Those other smaller lintels by the remaining loopholes were for light machine guns.’

  Yvonne noticed that the man’s voice still had a professorial tone. He couldn’t help delivering a lecture.

  ‘Doesn’t matter how far off the beaten track you go,’ Niall was still muttering, ‘the bleeding lager louts will still find somewhere like this to use as a toilet. Ouch, bugger!’ The exclamation was followed by a clatter, and another oath.

  Yvonne stifled a laugh. ‘Are you all right in there?’

  ‘Banged my bloody head, dropped my bloody torch, and now I’ve cracked my bloody elbow on one of your bloody machine gun ports.’ Niall struggled out of the low entrance and brushed himself down. ‘Sorry about that.’ This was to Joshua. ‘But I pity the poor sods that had to get in there to protect the realm.’

  Yvonne reached across and rubbed at a dusty patch on her partner’s shoulder. ‘But nothing of interest?’

  N
iall was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Nah, nothing except some general crud and something sticky that I would prefer not to talk about.’ He looked across to the lone police car keeping watch on the sea-bank. ‘Time to give up, I guess.’

  * * *

  At ten o’clock, Monk called into a local estate agent and browsed their “properties for sale” boards. He didn’t know exactly how well he would do on this deal, but he enjoyed the window shopping. There was a smart, two-bedroom bachelor apartment, ready in two months, in a new build on Greenborough’s Granary Wharf. Very modern, very private, very nice indeed. Monk had had it up to his eyebrows with what his landlord had called a “bijou terraced character cottage.” He’d seen holding cells with more character than 14A, Cannon Place.

  He asked for the details and a wispy blonde girl with impossibly scarlet, high-gloss lips, removed a glossy brochure from a filing cabinet and offered it to him. ‘You would have to move fast on this property, sir. They are going like hotcakes.’

  He smiled at her and said that he would be checking his investments and would ring back later. He folded the brochure in half and slipped it into his inside pocket. Granary Wharf had a swanky sound to it. It would do very nicely, thank you.

  As always, Freddie was there ahead of him. He sat like a great over-dressed Buddha, the usual glass glued to his hand. On the table in front of him were two packages, one for him and one for Fabian, and Monk’s heart raced at the sight.

  Freddie waved a hand towards the other sofa. ‘So, there were no problems?’

  Monk sat. ‘None at all. Smooth as silk, Mr Carver.’

  ‘And quickly done, Monk. I am impressed.’ He nodded, smiling serenely. ‘And Fabian still believes that he was working for the Dutchman?’

  Monk nodded furiously and accepted the scotch that Freddie was passing him.

  ‘Good, good. An excellent job. I’ll have no hesitation in using Mr Fabian again.’

  Monk took a swallow, and nodded. ‘Absolutely, Mr Carver. He’s first class.’ He looked longingly at the packages, his deposit on Granary Wharf.