by M. W. Craven
If he were going to find anything, it was below ground.
He sat down to wait. He checked his watch. It wouldn’t be long.
The environmental health officer was called Freya Ackley. She had a shock of ginger hair and spoke with a Newcastle accent. She seemed relieved someone had been there to meet her. ‘DS Poe?’
Poe showed her his ID. ‘You have things to do before the circus starts?’
She nodded. ‘I’m supposed to get five days to do my checks. I was woken by South Lakeland District Council’s director of environmental health two hours ago and told the Ministry of Justice had a job that couldn’t wait.’
She wasn’t moaning; she was nervous. Poe could tell it was the first exhumation she’d officiated. She removed a large file from her rucksack and went to the summary sheet.
‘I need to find the grave,’ she said.
‘Over there,’ Poe pointed. ‘New one on the end.’
Ackley removed a document from the file’s inside pocket. It was the same one Poe had. She walked over to the grave and shone her torch down onto the wooden plaque. She checked it three times then called Poe over.
‘I can confirm that this is the grave on the exhumation order.’
‘Agreed,’ Poe said.
‘And can you confirm the reason for the exhumation?’
Poe read it off the fax he was holding. ‘To assist in an ongoing serious investigation.’
‘And the reason for urgency?’
It was the same reason. Poe repeated it. She stared but Poe didn’t elaborate.
Ackley went back to her form. ‘As the body’s a John Doe there isn’t a family to seek permission from and I can confirm that this section of the cemetery is neither consecrated ground nor a registered war grave. I can also confirm that the body can be disinterred without disturbing other remains and that the authority controlling the cemetery has no objection.’
‘We ready to go then?’
‘We are, DS Poe. My people will be here soon. We’ll start at eighteen minutes past five.’
Poe looked at her quizzically, he’d noticed the weird time on the exhumation order earlier.
‘It’s the official time for sunrise. If we do this during daylight we don’t need specialist lighting. And that means I don’t need health and safety to certify the generator, the lighting rigs and the cables. Reduces the paperwork and the amount of people who need to be here.’
A council employee who didn’t like bureaucracy? Poe liked Freya Ackley.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
At four-thirty, the gravediggers arrived. Three of them. They were prepared for the task in hand. They moved floral tributes from the adjacent graves and erected blue plastic screens to ensure privacy. With the preparation done they disappeared, returning with protective clothing for everyone. There’d be no more people coming; there’d been a thorough forensic post-mortem completed so Poe hadn’t needed – and wouldn’t have wanted – crime scene investigators. This was all about satisfying his curiosity; if he spotted anything out of the ordinary, he’d stop it all and call Flynn.
As the exhumation order only gave authority for a graveside examination of the remains, two of the gravediggers went for Tollund Man’s new coffin, a large casket called a ‘shell’. It was made of wood and tarred on the inside. It had a zinc liner and a leak-proof plastic membrane. The remains of Tollund Man, his coffin, and anything else found in the grave would be placed inside the ‘shell’, sealed, and reburied in the original grave.
Ackley was required to approve the ‘shell’ – a task that would ordinarily have been completed in her allotted five days. She checked the new nameplate on the lid to ensure it matched the one on the grave and the exhumation order. She asked Poe to double-check. He did. They matched.
They were ready. They only needed to wait until daylight. Ackley took the time to deliver her required briefing. As the environmental health officer, it was her job to ensure that respect for the deceased was maintained. More importantly, it was also her responsibility to ensure that public health was protected during the exhumation. She briefed Poe and the gravediggers on the risk of infection from human remains and the soil surrounding graves. Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, tetanus, even smallpox were transmittable and were still viable after interment. Ackley was reading from prepared notes and Poe was paying as much attention as he would a pre-flight safety demonstration; Tollund Man had been buried in salt for decades and had been tested and autopsied – there was no risk. He doubted he’d been in the ground long enough to even start decomposing.
Poe glanced at his watch. It was officially morning: five-eighteen had happened. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. Tried not to imagine ‘Ex-cop Reduced to Grave Robbing’ as the lead in tomorrow’s newspapers.
It was at that point that someone leaned into him and snarled, ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Poe?’ into his ear.
Poe’s eyes snapped open. Flynn was glaring at him. He’d never seen her so angry.
He started to speak but she cut him off.
‘How dare you!’
‘Steph, listen—’
‘Don’t, Poe,’ she snapped. ‘Just fucking don’t.’
Poe did. ‘I spoke to van Zyl last night. He authorised it and chased everyone to get it done quickly,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry but here we are.’
‘You went above my head?’ Her voice was low.
Poe shrugged. ‘I’d hardly call it that.’
‘What would you call it?’
Poe didn’t have an answer and he had no intention of hiding behind banal platitudes. He’d have been furious if the roles had been reversed, but the Immolation Man hadn’t carved her name into someone’s chest. He didn’t have the luxury of kowtowing to procedural niceties. ‘It’s me he’s taunting, Steph. Not you, not Gamble. And you know who I am, why van Zyl wanted me in the first place – I go where the evidence takes me. And it’s taken me here.’
‘Fuck off, Poe,’ she growled. ‘That’s binary thinking and it’s unworthy of you. It’s not as simple as that. There’s a right way and a wrong way to do things and this is absolutely the wrong way. What’s DCS Gamble going to say when he finds out the NCA has exhumed a body in his investigation without telling him? He’s going to go ballistic.’
‘Blame me,’ Poe replied.
‘Blame . . . who the fuck else would I blame?’
Fair point. This was the Peyton Williams case all over again; even when he was right he was wrong. He handed over the faxed copy of the exhumation order.
‘And van Zyl was OK excluding me from my own investigation?’ She seemed to have softened slightly. Probably recognised they were going to exhume the body whether she liked it or not. Professional curiosity was blunting the indignation.
‘Honestly, Steph, I don’t think he realised. I think he assumed I was acting on your instructions.’ Poe didn’t think that at all. Van Zyl was an intelligent and pragmatic man – if he hadn’t mentioned Flynn it was because he hadn’t wanted to mention her. He hadn’t wanted to hear Poe lie. He’d almost certainly realised he was going rogue and was probably glad Poe hadn’t dug up the grave himself. But he wouldn’t want to subvert the chain of command too much; there would be repercussions. He’d have to come down on Flynn’s side when the body was back in the ground. ‘I’m assuming van Zyl called you?’
She nodded. ‘First thing. Told me my exhumation order was down in reception. You could imagine my surprise.’
Poe could. He almost smiled but held it in. Now wasn’t the time to be conciliatory; Flynn needed to stay mad at him for a bit longer.
She said, ‘Look, Poe, when all this is over you could very well be back in charge. And if that happens, it’s fine; I’ll be glad to be your sergeant again. But until that happens can you please, for the love of God, just give me the respect I gave you?’
Was that what she really thought of him. That he’d circumnavigated her because he didn’t respect her? That he was struggling reporting t
o a former subordinate? He hoped not, because nothing could be further from the truth. Flynn had been an awful sergeant but she was shaping up to be a great DI. She had the potential to be the best boss he’d ever had. It was right that she was angry.
He told her as much and was happy when she reddened. ‘This is all on me, Steph. When Gamble finds out I will hold my hands up. Tell him you weren’t involved.’
‘Fuck you, Poe,’ she sighed. ‘We’re in this shit show together.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Come on. It’s time.’
The earth was soft and damp and the gravediggers made it look effortless. With their over-long spades, they moved the dirt in quick, economical movements. Poe had no idea how deep graves were supposed to be. ‘Six feet under’ sprang to mind but he didn’t know if that was from the top or the bottom of the coffin, or just a phrase with no bearing on modern graveyard regulations. After ten minutes of digging they’d ditched their spades and one of them had got in and was moving the last of the mud with his hands. After a few moments he’d exposed wood. The webbing straps used to lower the coffin were wet and dirty but still in good condition – they hadn’t been in the ground for long – and he passed them up to his colleagues. No point fitting new ones when the ones in situ were perfectly serviceable.
‘We’ll lift it out and place it directly into the shell, Sergeant Poe,’ Ackley said. ‘You can remove the lid and examine the contents from there. When you’re finished we’ll widen the grave slightly and reinter.’
The man who’d cleared the coffin and located the webbing straps grabbed the hand of his mate and climbed out of the grave. As he did so, part of the webbing caught on his leg. It caused him to slip and he banged against the side of the coffin.
The lid moved.
That was odd. Coffin lids weren’t simply popped on like the top on a tube of Pringles, were they? Weren’t they supposed to be nailed down?
‘The lid. It’s loose,’ Poe said.
They all peered into the grave.
A sickly sweet stench of putrefaction wafted up.
Flynn’s nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘What’s that?’ She removed a handkerchief from her pocket and held it across her mouth and nose.
There was something wrong with the smell.
‘I don’t know, but it’s not coming from someone who’s been in salt for about thirty years,’ Poe replied. It was too . . . organic.
The man in the grave reached down to remove the coffin lid.
‘Stop!’ Poe yelled. He reached down and grabbed the man’s hand. Hauled him up. He faced the three gravediggers. ‘I need you all to put down your spades and remove your protective clothing.’ He turned to the environmental health officer. ‘You too, Freya. This isn’t an exhumation site any more, it’s a crime scene.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The body in the coffin wasn’t the dried-out husk of the unidentified male they’d been expecting – it was another victim of the Immolation Man. Judging by the smell, it wasn’t a new victim. It was as badly burned as the body Poe had seen in the circle at Cockermouth, but whereas that body had smelled disgusting but fresh, this one smelled disgusting and rotten.
‘It’s the fifth victim,’ Poe said, ‘or the fifth one we’ve found anyway.’
Flynn didn’t seem to be able to tear her eyes away from the blackened corpse in the grave.
‘I take it you believe me now when I say the two are linked?’
‘What the hell’s going on, Poe? And where the hell’s Tollund Man?’
Poe didn’t have a clue.
But Flynn had hit the nail on the head; the new victim being there was incidental and of little interest to them. That was a job for Gamble and the main investigation. Poe had no doubt that the Immolation Man’s primary objective in replacing the body with another victim had little to do with mischief; it was to stop Poe finding out who Tollund Man was.
So why had he led him here at all . . .?
Unless . . . unless he hadn’t been meant to get access to the coffin so quickly. Going through van Zyl instead of the usual bureaucratic channels meant he’d got the exhumation order in hours rather than weeks. His insubordination with Flynn might have bought them an advantage they weren’t supposed to have.
And that meant he had a potential bridge to the truth; all he had to do was find a way of crossing it.
An hour later, the Cumbrian team descended on the cemetery. Gamble and Reid arrived first, all suited and booted. Forensics and CSI were close behind. It wasn’t long before the combined ensemble of a murder investigation had ruined K-section’s tranquillity.
A forensic tent soon covered the grave. An inner cordon had been set around some gravestones and an outer one around K-section.
When Gamble realised what had happened he turned red-faced with fury. Flynn stood up to him. She showed him the exhumation order. It didn’t improve his mood. He snatched it off her and marched up to Poe. ‘What the hell is this?’
Poe glanced at the top sheet. It was signed by the Ministry of Justice Coroner and by the head of the Cemeteries Office in South Lakeland District Council. The reason for exhumation was listed as ‘Urgent examination of contents of coffin’. More information was given but the gist was that the NCA had reason to believe that evidence vital to the apprehension of a serial murderer was contained within the coffin. It was signed ‘Edward van Zyl, Director of Intelligence’.
‘It’s an exhumation order, sir.’
‘I know what it fucking is, Poe!’ he snarled. ‘Why’s DI Flynn’s name not on this? Why is your name listed under “applicant”?’
Flynn walked over.
‘Perhaps I can explain, sir,’ she said. ‘As I said earlier, Ian, the postcard Poe received yesterday led us to believe there was evidence in this grave vital to your investigation. I tried to ring but couldn’t get a signal. I knew you’d want us to get on it as soon as possible, so I went through my own director to get expedited permission. Thankfully he was able to leap a few hurdles and buy us some extra days.’
Gamble knew she was lying, but he also knew he’d been outflanked. ‘You bloody people . . .’ After standing his ground for a moment, he said, ‘I want a full report uploaded to HOLMES by midday, Detective Inspector Flynn.’ He turned to Poe and said, ‘And I want him off my investigation!’
When he was out of earshot, Flynn turned to him. ‘I’m sorry, Poe.’
‘What?’ he exclaimed. ‘He doesn’t have the authority—’
‘Director’s orders. I’ve just spoken to van Zyl. You went behind my back and you went behind Gamble’s back. He can’t afford a fight with Cumbria and politically he can’t insist they host you any more.’
His phone rang. It was Director van Zyl.
If Poe thought he was in for a phoney bollocking over the chain of command he was wrong. ‘I spoke to HR yesterday, Sergeant Poe,’ van Zyl said without preamble. ‘It seems that because you hadn’t contacted anyone during your suspension – and more importantly, no one contacted you – you have accrued over twelve months’ worth of leave. Now we can pay you for it if you like, but if you were to verbally request some now, I’d look upon it favourably. I’m sure Detective Inspector Flynn would too.’
Poe could only manage, ‘Er . . . what?’
‘Do you want to take some leave,’ van Zyl said, speaking slowly. ‘It’s either that or you’re back in Hampshire today.’
‘Er . . . yes then?’
‘Good. That’s settled then. With immediate effect you’re on a month’s leave.’
‘Why, sir?’ Poe asked.
But he was gone.
Poe stared at the phone in his hand. Flynn wandered up. Gamble was in tow.
‘Why’s he still here?’ Gamble barked.
‘Sergeant Poe has been reassigned, sir,’ Flynn said. ‘But I understand he’s taking some leave first. Is that right, Poe?’
He nodded. Gamble grunted in satisfaction before stomping off. Flynn and the director had figured a workaround that allowed Gamble to save
face but kept Poe in Cumbria. They wanted him working the case, but from now on it would be unofficial.
Just as he preferred.
He knew what he had to do. Scrolling through his phone’s contact list, he went to his newest entry and pressed call. Considering it was still very early it was answered immediately. The voice at the other end didn’t sound in the least bit sleepy.
‘How do you fancy some advanced fieldwork, Tilly?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Poe dropped off Edgar, then picked up Bradshaw at the hotel’s front door. He didn’t bother turning off the car’s engine. Bradshaw – a star in the making – had understood he was coming off night work so had somehow rustled up fried-egg rolls and a flask of coffee. Poe ate the rolls before sipping the hot drink until it was cool enough to gulp.
The journey up the M6 took less than half an hour. By eight in the morning they were in Stanwix. Poe parked the car and they headed up the steps of the townhouse. Poe pointed at the BPhil after Francis Sharples’s name and asked, ‘You know what that means, Tilly?’
‘Bachelor of Philosophy, Poe.’
Poe shook his head. ‘It means he’s a cock.’ He pressed the intercom button and didn’t let up until a sleep-ridden voice answered.
‘Yah?’
‘See?’ Poe said. After he told Sharples who was at the door, and after ignoring his protests about civil liberties being trampled on, they were let in.
As before, he was waiting for them at the entrance to his flat. He’d either slept in his shorts or had managed to get dressed in the time it took them to walk up the stairs. Instead of the condescending smirk he’d worn last time, he was now struggling to hold a nervous smile.
This time Poe saw no reason to be nice. He wasn’t leaving until Sharples told him everything.
‘The information you’re concealing, it’s now part of a murder enquiry.’