Mutilated: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate Book 2)

by Will Patching

  ‘Jack, we need to find her… I think… Harding said… Christ… I think it’s possible… The other woman in the pictures… It could be Judy…’

  ***

  ‘Calm down, Doc!’ Carver was standing outside St George’s Hospital main entrance with the phone pressed to his right ear, a finger poked in the other. ‘You knew he was gonna wind you up. Don’t let him get to you.’ He paused for a moment, then continued, the voice of reason. ‘We have nothing, not a shred of evidence even vaguely suggesting any of the victims we’re investigating, current or cold is —’ Another moment, then, his exasperation steeling his tone. ‘Judy Finch isn’t even officially missing —’

  DS Fielding stood patiently, observing her boss as he held the phone away from his ear, the words from Doc’s rant audible but indecipherable from where she stood, then silence for a moment before Jack put the device to his cheek again.

  ‘Listen to me, please. Just try to calm down and get over here asap without writing your motor off. We’ll talk about it then. I think you’re overreacting my friend, but we’ll see what we can do to track her down.’ He snapped his phone shut and marched through the doors. ‘Come on Sarge, Koch’ll be waiting for us.’

  Fiona half-jogged along behind him.

  ‘So who is this Finch woman? And why was Doc so upset, boss?’

  Fiona had heard enough to get the gist, but she had no idea about the woman’s history or relationship with the psychiatrist. She also could not grasp why this female was suddenly of interest, and wondered who would be on the receiving end of Jack’s promise to track her down.

  As if we haven’t got enough on our plate already…

  ‘Judy? Oh it’s a long story Fi, but let’s just say: Doc fell in love with her a few years ago, then her seven year old son died, not long after Judy’s mother and ex-hubby were murdered by a psycho who’d been let out on licence… Doc worked for the Parole Board at the time and played a large part in the decision to release the lunatic. Leech was his name.’

  ‘Peter Leech? I remember.’ It was a big manhunt, all over the news after he killed some of their colleagues. She sensed Jack starting to close down as she spoke, as if this was all rather personal for him too, but could not stop herself. ‘Nasty bit of work… But what’s this woman got to do with us, and our current enquiries? You said yourself, Doc’s overreacting. I know he’s your mate and —’

  She tried not to sound peeved but could feel some resentment brewing. It had been a long day already, and her own emotions were shaved raw by everything that had happened. Fiona could not help but wonder, why the bloody hell waste precious resources trying to trace Powers’ old flames? She didn’t join this team, sold to her by Jack as an elite unit, to end up as a dogsbody, aiding and abetting their consultant profiler’s love life.

  Carver stopped, whirled to face her. Fiona almost collided with his chest, the tip of her nose brushing his shirt as he halted. She took a pace back and saw a look of thunder in his eyes.

  Oh shit…

  Good job she had not vocalised that previous thought about old flames.

  ‘Sergeant Fielding. Don’t question my ethical approach to this — or any other investigation — ever again. Yes, he is a friend. He is also the best forensic psych I have ever worked with. My clear up rate is unbeaten in our division, and that is partly down to the partnership Doc Powers and I developed. Over the years I’ve learnt a great deal from the man and I continue to respect his judgement and insights, so please, keep your mind on the job. And just in case you are in any doubt, the job is whatever I tell you to do. Got it, Sergeant?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean anything by it —’

  ‘So, we don’t have a problem then?’

  ‘No, sir. Not at all.’

  ‘Good. Get your notebook out.’ He didn’t wait as she fumbled for her pad and pen, just fired more angry words at her. ‘Judith Amelia Finch. National Insurance number: YV010134B. Worked for the Parole Board for England and Wales until three years ago. Recent pictures: on file from her Home Office employment. You’ll find those and more in the top right hand drawer in my desk. Although not officially missing, she disappeared at the beginning of the year. Seems she couldn’t cope after her little boy died from complications after an RTA. That accident only happened because the lad ran into the path of an SUV while he was trying to get away from the same fucking bastard that killed four coppers — one of whom was a very close friend of mine. He also left a string of civilian bodies in his wake. And if it wasn’t for my mate, Doctor Colin Powers, he might still be out there causing bloody mayhem. Is all that clear, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, Boss.’

  He seemed slightly mollified as she scribbled the details, though she could still feel his wrath, almost telepathically transferred, his head craning forward, brushing hers, checking her notes, reading them upside down, his breath more rapid than usual.

  ‘Now, the last I heard, she was working as a volunteer in a church soup kitchen near Brixton Market. But she had no permanent address, just hotels. She sold up everything she owned, including her property, and gave most of it to Shelter and kids charities. Now go and find her, and Gerald Butler’s grandson, Harry. And see how they’re getting on with identifying who might’ve sold those hooks, pulleys and wires. I’ll meet Bob Koch alone and catch up with Doc when he gets here. I’ll see you back at base when I’m done.’

  Wow!

  Fiona was left standing in the corridor, pad in hand, stunned at the DI’s response. She had seen him flare up before, but he usually just calmed almost instantly, back to business in the blink of an eye. But this?

  It must be personal, surely. For him to be carrying round the Finch woman’s NI number in his head, and verbally downloading her details, just like that. A file in his desk drawer…

  For a person who was not even officially missing?

  She still had doubts about the necessity of locating this woman, but she would do as he said. If Carver had been trying to track Finch down already, it was not going to be a five minute job, that was for sure.

  She let out a troubled sergeant’s sigh signalling acceptance of her lot, turned and trudged to the exit. Then she remembered.

  Jack had been driving.

  She didn’t have her car here.

  Bollocks!

  Today is just getting better and better, she thought.

  ***

  ‘Thanks for volunteering to give us a hand on this one, Bob. I know you’re more used to meeting your clients on a slab downstairs or moribund at a crime scene, but I really could do with your opinion on this guy.’

  Carver shook hands with Professor Robert Heinrich Koch, the medical examiner most often consulted by the Major Crimes Command for cases involving suspicious deaths in the south east.

  ‘No problem, Jack. Glad to help.’

  ‘The reason is, we’ve got a few other victims that may be connected, and I want your input. Unfortunately, we only have photos to go on for two of them. You’re familiar with the other one. Diana Davies. Did you bring the file?’

  ‘Yes. I have her post mortem report here, from a little over ten years ago. I’ve refreshed my memory as best I can but it’s rather hazy I’m afraid. There really is nothing I can add. You really think the chap they found today might be linked to this butchered lass?’

  Koch handed a beige file to Jack, who could not help but notice the colour co-ordinated perfectly with the pathologist’s houndstooth jacket and waistcoat, and almost had the same hue as the bow tie, though that was a smidgeon darker. The man was invariably immaculately turned out, but always wearing garments more suited to a feature in a nineteen-fifties fashion magazine. A full head of hair settled like a snowdrift on his shoulders, the effect making him even more owl-like than his startling yellow-green eyes, magnified through thick lenses, and his predator’s stare. His intense focus was the perfect bedside manner for his uncritical patients, but Jack still found him to be an unnerving companion.

  Despite thi
s discomfort, Jack had enormous respect for the man’s professional opinion, and hoped that today he would not be disappointed.

  ‘It looks like Doc Powers is going to be late. I’d hoped he could join us.’

  ‘Powers? He’s retired from the Met, hasn’t he? Busy with his dreadful tabloid TV programmes from what I gathered. I thought he was well past his sell by date, in any case. I heard he’d admitted to mental health problems of his own. Breakdowns, memory loss and so on. You honestly think he can help with something like this?’

  Jack sensed the immediate chill and animosity in Koch’s tone, wondering what might have spurred that reaction.

  Probably no bad thing Doc’s late.

  He just nodded, then said, ‘Shall we go in?’

  They had met in the reception area reserved exclusively for the private rooms where their victim was being treated.

  Well, kept alive, for now, Jack thought, then said aloud, ‘Our victim’s in a very bad way and we suspect the person who left him expected him to be dead from exposure by the time he was found. Without round the clock nursing he couldn’t survive more than a few hours, even in here… Meet Mister M.’

  Koch approached the bed, eager, fascinated already. He turned down the blankets for a closer inspection, exposing the entire remnant of the man, much as he would with a corpse.

  Carver was no softie, no bleeding heart, but he had more humanity in his big toe than he’d ever witnessed from the pathologist. He cringed inwardly as he saw the victim being handled like a slab of beef, rolled on to its side with about as much finesse as he’d expect from a butcher, then blurted out, ‘He is still alive, Bob! He might not weigh much but he is still in there!’

  ‘Mmm. I’m aware of that, Jack… I assume these small dressings on his back cover a recent injury.’ A quick tug of the corner of one and a peek underneath confirmed it.

  ‘We found him suspended, with hooks.’ Jack explained and offered to show Koch the crime scene photographs, but the medic’s attention had already moved on.

  Koch tore away the hospital diaper from the mutilated victim’s lower body and rolled him on to his front.

  ‘Most extraordinary thing. His anus has been sealed. Look!’ He straightened up, took a square of blue cloth from his pocket and frantically cleaned his lenses, his head swivelling between Jack and the object of his fascination. He perched the glasses back on his beak, and continued his close examination of the man’s nether regions. ‘And just a small hole created for urination. I wonder why they used a nappy rather than catheterize him… There’s no possibility of faecal matter leaking.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, he’s not eaten solid food for some time, and as a result I would say many of his internal organs will be atrophied. His upper bowel and so on. Looking at the degree of healing, these scars where his anus should be, I’d say he has been like this for some months.’

  ‘Months? Like this?’

  ‘Uh-huh. The doughy, pallid flesh is most unhealthy, with muscle wasting and overall deterioration suggesting he’s been maintained in his current status for some time.’

  ‘Really?’ Jack had assumed the surgery, the amputations, the overall mutilation, had been inflicted more recently.

  Never assume.

  ‘I’m certain of it.’

  ‘So what about his other scars. The face? And limbs? Over what period was this done to the poor chap?’

  Carver’s stomach was threatening rebellion. He thought he had been prepared for the worst, but this was diabolical. He was literally sick to the stomach, then realised that unpleasant feeling was one the victim would never experience again.

  ‘I prefer not to say until I get him opened up, but based on a cursory examination like this, I’d suggest these wounds,’ he indicated the pink tissue lines in the flesh where the shoulder joints should be, ‘are older than the others. The degree the scar tissue has faded rather suggests the legs went next.’ He rolled the head and torso on to its back again, none too gently, then felt the flesh around the mouth wounds. ‘The houseman I met just before you arrived confirmed the teeth have been removed, the jaw immobilized and the mouth sealed, just like the anus. No mucus membranes remain exposed, with skin and flesh grafted where required. Mmm. Probably taken from the thighs before they were disposed of. This is stunning! A work of art, Jack.’ He actually grinned, his bulging eyes gleaming with the joy of discovery. ‘I have never, in thirty years of tending the dead, been presented with anything like this! The attention to detail, the work that went into it. It’s mind-boggling.’

  Jack didn’t feel much like applauding the sicko’s skill and creativity, and had never seen Koch so animated. Maybe it was the thrill of examining a not-quite-dead victim for a change. He wanted to get out of the room. Koch’s enthusiasm for the corpse-to-be was nauseating, so he thought it best to keep quiet as the waves of adulation washed over him.

  ‘This will make an intriguing case study for students involved in amputations and plastic surgery. The person who did this has a high level of skill in both. Look!’ Jack made a token movement of his head, as if really keen to see. The ME continued, finally offering up something of real value to the detective. ‘This demonstrates a great deal of practical experience in both fields. The ears were relatively easy to slice off with less repair work needed after removing the fleshy outer. But see how the eyes and nose have been removed, the wounds carefully sealed, apart from these breathing apertures. The contours of the face smoothed… The stitching, the tissue transplantation, the entire operation. Amazing! A highly skilled individual, with a qualified assistant. Nurses. An anaesthetist too, maybe —’

  ‘Hold on a minute, Bob. This needed a fully trained medical team to perform? Not a single surgeon, with all the mod cons, top notch equipment?’ The hospital medic who had admitted the victim that morning had been adamant they were looking for a qualified doctor without expanding on the subject. Koch’s comment could help narrow the field considerably.

  It was beginning to look like the Harry Butler lead was a dead end, though. His grandfather’s accusations merely the rantings of a man riddled with guilt, the shock of discovery dredging up memories of his own atrocities in Africa, convincing him his grandson was somehow punishing him, taking revenge for an abused childhood.

  Yet, it was an unlikely coincidence, the old man finding a mutilated body, with a history like his. Perhaps Harry Butler was a surgeon. That would make life very easy indeed, Jack concluded.

  ‘Yes, a team, Jack. I’m no expert on modern surgical techniques and equipment used on the living, but my guess would be three specialists as a minimum, plus a nurse or two… Probably. You really need to talk to someone who performs this sort of operation on the living and breathing. I can’t really help any more… Fascinating though it is. I’m looking forward to meeting your Mister M again, when he’s ready for me. Not long to wait from the look of him.’

  The owlish stare was back as Koch rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Jack wanted the man gone, but wondered if there was more relevant information he could provide in his current joyful state.

  ‘Is there anything else, Bob?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. The guy’s probably been hungry for months, since they started feeding him like this.’

  ‘Hungry?’ That seemed like a minor irritant compared to the state of his body.

  ‘Oh yes. Being fed intravenously merely sustains life but does not satiate. You remain hungry all the time. The brain won’t be receiving any signals from the stomach indicating it’s full. Quite tormenting for sufferers, I hear. A constant gnawing at your insides. Can you imagine?’

  Jack was a snack and go man, generally eating on the hoof, but he did enjoy his food, and loved nothing better than a pukka full English breakfast.

  Christ! Starving hungry, day in, day out, month after month…

  It was inconceivable to him.

  ‘This is all just so cruel. You really think he’s been without solid food for t
hat long?’

  ‘With no anus it would have nowhere to go, and he lost that many moons ago. And anyway, I can see these scars here, here and, most recently, here.’ His index finger circled a point between the collarbone and neck that looked like a bruise to Jack, with some scarring around it, and then a faded mark near where the cannula was now positioned. ‘The hospital had to access his veins here because the other sites have been compromised. I’d say, though won’t be able to confirm until I cut him open, that he had a series of infections around the points of access. Not uncommon with parenteral nutrition, but this chap has a limited number of locations to choose from, being a quad.’

  ‘A quad?’

  ‘Sorry. I do try to avoid jargon when I’m with you Jack, but occasionally revert to type. Quadruple amputee. You’re most likely to see quads who’ve served in Iraq or Afghanistan these days. IEDs usually.’

  IEDs. Jack knew what they were. Improvised Explosive Devices. The idea that the man might somehow have incurred these injuries as a serviceman had not occurred to him. The placing of the victim, hung out to die, had really narrowed his focus, and he chastised himself for the lapse.

  ‘So, this might not be a deliberate act, a case of GBH, but the results of prolonged surgery in the aftermath of an explosion? Are you saying an army medical team has put him back together as best they can?’

  As he asked, he realised it was an unlikely scenario as it failed to answer many questions, not least, why he had been left to die on Clapham Common.

  Or the letters to Doc.

  ‘Not a chance. Too messy. IEDs don’t generally remove limbs at the joints. You have ragged bits of flesh and bone to excise and repair. The stitching wouldn’t be fastidious like this either, if done by a field hospital. Shrapnel leaves numerous smaller scars too, but none of this chap’s wounds suggest a massive trauma like that. And his eardrums, burnt with acid… The anus… No. As I said, I’m no expert, but I am one hundred percent certain these grievous mutilations were not the result of an IED or similar… I’ll tell you who you should speak to. My old pal Dickie Maddox. He was a surgeon in the Army. We both served in Northern Ireland during The Troubles. Mind you, he’s a war hero and all that. Expert in explosive wound trauma. Also knee-cappings, by bullet and Black&Decker, probably undertaken more amputations than any other surgeon in the UK. And he became highly skilled in plastic surgery too… Well he was, before his accident.’