‘What the bloody hell are you on about, Doc? What email? And what images? And how did you hear about Mister Mutilated so quickly? Don’t tell me it’s all over the internet already! Jesus! And Celene who?’
Now Doc was confused.
‘Mister Mutilated?’
Before he could say more, Carver, calmer now, answered.
‘Yeah… I think we need to rewind a bit, Doc. I’m actually calling you about a case I think you might want to help me with. Not a murder. At least, not yet…’ Doc sensed Jack was reluctant to expand on what it was he needed help with as he went on. ‘But before we talk about that you’d better explain to me what you meant about an email and mutilated victims. I’ll tell you what. I’m only ten minutes away from you, I’ll drop by and you can make me a piping hot coffee with that fancy machine of yours. I’ll grab a couple of bagels on the way.’
As Doc opened his mouth to answer, to try and fend off his friend, the line went dead. He swallowed back his frustration, cursed his bad luck, and wondered if he would ever get his work done.
***
Detective Sergeant Fiona Fielding, known affectionately to her mates as ‘Fifi’, made her way through St George’s Hospital to the Accident and Emergency Department, though she still thought of it as the ‘Casualty Department’. The nurse on Reception had corrected her when she used the old term but Fiona had just smiled and shrugged, admitting, ‘I was a big fan of the TV programme. It’s not my fault you lot changed the name!’
As she arrived at her destination, she had to admit, real life was pretty similar to the on-screen version, albeit with a few significant differences. That unique hospital odour for a start. And of course, the people in the waiting area were all actually suffering to some degree or other, either as a sick or injured party, or as a friend or relative of the poorly person. Most were sitting, some sleeping, while a dozen or so others, unable to find a spare seat, were leaning against the walls in various states ranging from somnolence to outright distress. Other patients were on gurneys, seemingly abandoned, their temporary beds pushed up against the walls of the passageway to ensure they did not impede access.
Budget cuts. Austerity. The big government lie, Fiona thought, her mood souring as she saw the degree of misery, the result of pampered politicians’ misguided actions.
Bastards.
The same had happened with the police budgets, and even the Fire Service had not escaped unscathed. Fifi had first-hand experience of the dreadful results of the latter idiocy…
She shook her head, dislodging the thoughts as she focused back on the task in hand. A quick scan of the crowded room and she spotted her likely target. A pale, gangly youth, still dressed in his running vest and shorts, hugging himself as if chilled by the aircon, perhaps unaware he was standing right under the vent, its cooling effect aggravated by the sweat from his run.
Maybe not the sharpest tool in the box, she thought, then mentally berated herself for allowing such an uncharitable first impression.
No, he’s probably suffering mild shock, she decided.
Fiona strolled over to the young man, estimating his age at late teens as she matched his description to the one she had been give earlier. She smiled at him as she asked, ‘Are you Piers Reid? I’m DS Fielding. Can we have a word in private?’ She flashed her warrant card and watched as he perked up, his eyebrows lifting in surprise as he looked down at the diminutive detective.
‘Really? I was expecting someone... else...’ His words tailed off as he finished, then he stammered in embarrassment, probably in response to the scowl that had replaced Fifi’s smile. ‘I’m sorry… I didn’t mean… Er...’
‘What?’ She was pretty immune to people’s reactions, but had allowed her face to react, an automatic defensive response, more to put him in his place than anything else, then she relented. A grin appeared and her harsh tone softened. ‘Is it ’cos I is black?’
Fiona uttered the words quietly, just for his ears, mimicking the accent of the comedian who had made the phrase famous. Although she wondered if he was too young to get the joke, it was one she often used to break any initial tension with her ‘clients’. She chuckled and took his arm, leading him outside to where the air was warmer.
‘No! Not at all.’ He giggled, a little nervously it seemed to Fiona, as he added, ‘They told me to expect someone called Jack, so I wasn’t expecting a lady detective. That’s all… Honest!’
Although the storm had passed, the air was humid and the tarmac glistened with rain. An ambulance swerved into the unloading area with a splashing of tyres and screeched to a halt, so Fiona and Piers moved further from the entrance, found a quieter spot under an awning.
‘Doesn’t look like it’ll rain again just yet,’ she said, then pulled out her notebook. ‘I need to ask you a few questions about this morning. Thanks for waiting for me — well Jack. He’s my boss, so I’ll make sure anything you tell me gets to him.’
Piers nodded, clearly warmer now, no longer trying to generate some heat by rubbing and hugging his bare arms, more relaxed than the tense bundle he had appeared to be when she first saw him.
‘Yeah, sure. Bloody nightmare. I was just out for a run through the Common… Didn’t expect anything like this.’ His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed, highly visible to Fifi even though it was well above her eye level.
‘You found the old man. His name’s Gerald Butler. Do you know him?’
‘No. Though I have nodded to him on occasion while out running. He’s a regular and so am I… Never spoken to him, other than Good morning! or Alright mate! Stuff like that. Poor old bugger. He was in a right state when I found him.’
Piers shivered, but Fiona guessed it wasn’t from the cold.
‘So, can you describe what happened?’
She already had a brief verbal description from the first uniformed copper on scene, but wanted a first-hand account, like any good detective. And, she thought, I’m a bloody good detective. She also knew how this repeated questioning irritated a lot of witnesses and suspects, both innocent and guilty, but it was just part of the job. An essential part, as each interview might yield something new, seemingly insignificant, but sometimes very important.
The lad was no trouble though, keen to help. Shocked, but not in shock, she decided.
‘His dog. Name’s Smudge. Spotted me a couple of hundred metres away, running on the grass. At first I thought he was chasing me, had gone loopy and wanted to bite me. I put on a bit of extra speed but that mutt can run! He just started leaping up and down as he ran beside me, yapping like crazy, then sprinted off the way he came, stopped, looked back and barked at me, and started running for the trees again. I almost carried on jogging away, but thought it odd he was running free like this. Never seen him without the old boy in tow.’
‘So you followed him. What time was this?’
‘About six ten I reckon. Hang on.’ He plucked his iPhone from the pouch on his upper sleeve and checked the screen. ‘I dialled the emergency number at six twelve so, yeah, took a couple of minutes before I called. The old boy was lying there, in absolute agony. I could see he had dragged himself from the bushes almost back to the path. I didn’t see that… hideous thing. Not at first.’
Fiona gave him a moment as Piers’ right hand massaged his eyes, thumb and forefinger pulling at his closed eyelids, then the palm wiping down his face, his cheeks crumpling as if he was in pain. His other hand was on his hip so she reached out, gave his forearm a reassuring squeeze.
‘Go on, Piers. I know it’s difficult but it’s important you tell me what you saw.’
‘Yeah.’ His hand shifted to his forehead, thumb on his temple, the four fingers rubbing back and forth, digging into the flesh above his eyebrows. He took a deep breath and added, ‘I tried to make him as comfortable as I could, used my sweatshirt to cushion his head. Forgot to grab that before jumping in the ambulance with him. By the time it arrived, he wouldn’t let go of my hand. Broke his hip they reckon, made it worse tr
ying to crawl. Internal bleeding apparently. He might die…’
The forehead rubbing became more pronounced as his distress increased, but Fiona wanted to plough on. She’d been too late to interview Gerald, had arrived at the hospital as he was being wheeled into surgery so had to make do with the lad’s account of the victim’s discovery.
‘Let’s hope he pulls through Piers. How about we grab a coffee, eh? There’s a Costa just around the corner. Come on son.’ She tugged his forearm and led him away, thinking he was a good lad, kind and thoughtful. So different to many of the nineteen-year-old scrotes she’d had to deal with. ‘My treat. Might even manage a sarnie if you’re up for it. Dunno about you, but I’m starvin-Marvin!’
***
‘This coffee’s good.’ Carver’s exaggerated sniff as he inhaled the aroma preceded a yelped moan accompanying his first slurp. ‘Bloody hell, that’s hot! Burnt me tongue.’ He glanced up at Doc, standing impassively by the espresso machine, his back to the detective, waiting for his own brew to dribble through the roasted grounds. ‘And scalded me throat too! Are you trying to kill me Doc?’ He waited a few beats but Doc was silent. ‘Not very welcoming today, are you?’
‘Uh?’ Doc turned his shoulders to the detective, murmured something indecipherable that sounded like Hardly, then returned to making his coffee.
Carver, impatient as he was to get on, had to wait for Doc to finish, so idly asked, ‘You heard anything from Judy since we last spoke?’ An awkward silence greeted that enquiry.
Jack was about to speak again, to probe some more at the unhealed wound of his friend’s love life when Doc, still facing the machine, spoke.
‘So, what are you doing here, Jack?’
‘Bringing bagels to my old mate! What d’you think?’
Carver had been determined not to bite, but his grouchiness had only worsened as he sat, waiting in Doc’s show home kitchen, wearing a soggy jacket and damp trousers, without even the offer of a towel. His voice had seemed over-loud to his own ears but he couldn’t help thinking, What the hell’s up with Doc this morning?
‘Can I have a towel? I’m soaking wet.’
Doc had been preoccupied since Jack had arrived, had not noticed his discomfort.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, my friend. I didn’t mean to be rude. Hang on.’ He ducked out of the kitchen and a moment later reappeared with a giant fluffy bath towel, a dry shirt and some slacks. ‘Here you go. Should fit, now I’m back to my former slender self.’
There was truth in Doc’s words, Jack thought. His old friend had been decidedly podgy a few years ago, having hit the bottle after his wife had died. Then came the event that shot him to fame, followed by over a year of recovery, firstly in hospital, then rehabilitation and physiotherapy clinics, at the end of which he was a gaunt, hollow remnant of his former self. Since then, yoga and a relatively healthy diet had helped him recover, so now he looked in excellent shape, despite nearing a major milestone — his first half-century on the planet.
Fitter than me, that’s for sure, Jack decided, though he would admit, he had been pretty lucky in the gene department, and didn’t need to work out to keep himself in shape. He even had an on-off love affair with nicotine that had done him no harm. He was a good few years younger than Doc, and his job kept him on the go, especially as his role allowed him to fob off most of his admin to his subordinates, along with much of the grunt work.
‘Cheers, Doc. I only put these on a couple of hours ago, but I got soaked three times already, just getting to and from my car in the pissing rain…’
He stripped off in the kitchen, down to his damp underwear, and dried himself off before dressing in Doc’s clothes, totally unfazed by the fact that his ex-colleague was watching him. He just asked, ‘What were you on about, when I rang you? You tell me all about that, and then I’ll share with you the details of the case I’m working on. I promise you, you will find it intriguing. Maybe enough to join me working on it.’ Stony eyes were the only reply, so Jack added, ‘You know, consulting. Never seen anything like it. And I guarantee you haven’t either…’
Doc, having finished making his coffee, had settled his rear on one of the designer stools surrounding the kitchen’s central island, propping himself there facing Jack, arms folded.
‘I told you, Jack. It’s not going to happen. But let me show you what arrived in my email this morning. I honestly thought that was why you called.’
Once again Doc popped out, and by the time he returned Jack was fully dressed and back on one of the stools gulping at his coffee.
‘Here you go.’ Doc had the Macbook open and swivelled it round for Jack to view Celene’s email. ‘Just scroll down and by the time you get to the bottom you’ll know as much as I do.’
‘What the bloody hell..? Harding?’ He glanced at Doc’s expressionless face before turning back to the email, simultaneously realising what Doc had been muttering about while he’d been making coffee. As Jack scrolled through the photographs he said, ‘Jeez! We both know this girl! Well, not personally, but she’s that cold case from the show, the victim we dismissed as we had nothing to relate her to the other unsolveds…’
Jack noted Doc’s reaction, a reluctance, almost as if he wanted to back out of the room, while simultaneously being drawn into an intriguing case. Like the poles of a magnet, attracted or repelled by another, depending on how it was approached.
‘I thought… Well, I hoped this was just a crank trying to wind me up. That the pictures weren’t real… But then I realised who she was.’
‘This photo’s about ten or eleven years old. She did her business at King’s Cross. Prostitute called Diana Davies. Apparently, her mum named her after the princess, which was a bit optimistic… Then life did this to her. Poor kid.’ Jack was thinking about his boss who had mentioned this unsolved murder while assigning this morning’s case to him, and how strange it was that Doc had received the victim’s photograph in amongst the others. He began scrolling between the three images on the screen, flicking back and forth, then focused on the letter that accompanied them. ‘Nutter. Total bloody nutter. Secrets? What bullshit! These all look like ancient crime scene photos. Probably found them on one of those crappy serial killer websites.’
He did a quick impression of a bullfrog, puffing out his cheeks then exhaling with an exaggerated burp. His verbal outburst had, like many of his instant judgements, reached his tongue before he had properly considered all angles. Although he was correct about internet availability of police documents, illicitly obtained and posted online, he knew the timing and content of this lunatic’s message to Doc was unlikely to be pure coincidence.
‘Hang on a second, Jack.’ Doc fiddled with the Macbook and found the file, extracting the information about Diana Davies from his TV series database, and then pulled up the official images. ‘Compare the background!’
‘Bloody hell! The photo sent to Broadmoor ain’t from the crime scene.’ The images were side by side and there was no doubt. He tapped the screen. ‘Only the killer or an accomplice could’ve taken this… The guy who sent you the letter.’
Jack’s mind hit overdrive. A mutilated victim on Clapham Common, discovered at roughly the same moment Broadmoor received Doc’s letter, sent by someone involved in the Diana Davies murder. But how were they linked? And Harding? What about that piece of human excrement? A sicko with a self-professed history of dismemberment…
Before Jack could share his thoughts, Doc pushed himself upright, an audible click from his stiff joints bringing forth a mild curse before he limped the few steps to his coffee machine again. ‘Bloody weather…’ The jet of steam, bubbling milk to a foam, filled the room with white noise, leaving Jack straining to hear Doc’s words. ‘My first thoughts were that it was not serious, though obviously the local bobbies would have to check it out. You know, since we did that TV series I’ve been getting a crank letter, email or phone call every couple of weeks, but so far they’ve amounted to nothing more than just that. Cranks.’
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The hissing of steam stopped as Doc turned to face Jack, leaning his hip against the worktop, his right hand plucking at his chin, thumb and forefinger squeezing the flesh before letting go, then repeating the action.
‘And now?’ Carver could sense the excitement starting to emanate from his friend, and hoped he would convince himself to get involved in the case.
Doc’s intent stare settled on Jack, his eyes lively, challenging.
‘Why send this letter, like this? Obviously in the hope of drawing me back into the investigation, but for what? This is no random stalker, disgruntled at my short-lived moment of fame. Seems way too elaborate for an ex-con’s revenge plot… It’s some sort of sick game this psychopath wants to play.’
‘I think there’s more to this, mate…’
For a moment, it seemed to Jack as if Doc had drifted away before snapping back, his brown eyes sparking, his voice stronger, more determined.
‘This thing with Harding. That’s got me thinking too… Why send a copy of the letter to the man who murdered my father?’
***
Fiona and Piers had found a discreet corner in the coffee shop, even though it was already humming with customers queuing from the doorway, all desperate for their morning caffeine fix. Both had large bowls of hot latte in front of them, with the lad wolfing down some carrot cake, despite having already scoffed a ham and cheese toastie.
Fiona’s plate was empty other than a few crumbs of burnt bread, but she waited patiently, happy to see him unwind, released from the tension he had exhibited earlier. As he finished his breakfast he muttered a mumbled, ‘That was awesome, thanks,’ through a mouthful of confectionery, then gulped his milky drink.
He looked a lot better, the paleness of his cheeks, something she had noted outside, was now gone. She opened her notebook again.
‘Okay. So you found Gerald, made him more comfy and called for an ambulance. Then what happened?’
‘I was standing in the bushes while on the phone, and just wandered back the way I could see he’d crawled. I wasn’t really thinking. Just an automatic reaction I s’pose. Then I saw it…’
Mutilated: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate Book 2) Page 3