Blood Money

by J M Dalgliesh

  Caslin assessed the wound. It was far less significant than what she was describing, as were the other, more superficial cuts, nearby.

  “These are shorter and more angular,” Caslin said, looking to her for reassurance of his assessment. She nodded.

  “Indicative of the killer standing before him,” she confirmed. “They are more like swipes or slashes, rather than a methodical cut.”

  “Frenzied?” Caslin asked.

  She shook her head, “I would say not. They were still delivered with an element of precision.”

  “What of the other injuries?” Caslin asked, scanning the bruising to the face and abdomen.

  “He was severely beaten. Probably with a blunt implement although I cannot tell you what it was. They could have been caused by a cosh or just as likely by a rounded chair leg. I didn’t find any wood fibres present in any of the wounds so, I’d speculate that something specific was brought for the task.

  Makeshift weapons, such as chair legs or ornaments will splinter or fracture upon impact, leaving forensic evidence in the wound. I’ve found none of that in this case. He has multiple fractures of the ribcage, both front and back. His fingers are all broken. Several in more than one place and I’m sure you’ve not failed to notice the number of cuts elsewhere to the body?”

  “You can’t miss them,” Caslin said flatly, his eyes running the length of the deceased’s body. There were too many to count.

  “Fifty-six individual knife wounds. None of which were severe enough to kill or incapacitate but accumulatively, very damaging. It looks more like torture to me. They appear random but, if you are a student of anatomy, as I am, you would be aware that in the most part these wounds are located in areas that would be extremely painful for the victim.”

  “Anything left forensically that could help identify who the killer is, skin samples, that kind of thing?”

  “I’m sorry. As much as I’d love to make your life easier, I’ve been unable to locate any forensics that will assist you. There’s no skin under the fingernails. No defensive wounds that might offer up indicators that the attacker could be injured. Perhaps Iain Robertson and his team may have something but sadly, I don’t.”

  “To take that much of a beating in silence would be impressive,” Caslin said, thinking aloud. “The neighbours reported hearing nothing untoward and this must’ve gone on for quite some time.”

  “Unsurprising,” Dr Taylor said. “He had his tongue cut out.” Caslin raised his eyebrows in shock.

  “Then what’s the point of the torture? If he can’t speak, he can’t tell you anything.”

  “It strikes me that you have a particular kind of sadist, on your hands,” she replied. Caslin rolled his eyes heavenward.

  “I noted something was wedged in his mouth.”

  “That would be the end of his penis,” Dr Taylor confirmed. Caslin exhaled deeply. “I believe it was removed post-mortem, judging by the blood flow from the area. I trust that Iain Robertson will find the tongue because I have no sign of it here.”

  “What would be the point of that?” Caslin queried.

  She shook her head, “Symbolism, maybe? Perhaps he wanted to emasculate him for some reason, either driven by hatred or religious ideology. An attempt at humiliation or simply to send a message.”

  “To whom?”

  “That escapes me,” she shrugged, “but there will be a reason. There always is. Likewise, the removal of his eyes. They were gouged out with a smooth implement. Although, the trauma to the surrounding tissue is obviously severe, it was done with skill.”

  “See no evil, speak no evil…” Caslin mumbled under his breath. “Do you think the killer had experience of doing similar previously?”

  “Quite likely, yes. Whether or not in a professional capacity, I couldn’t say but this wasn’t the first time.”

  “Anything else?” Caslin asked in a forlorn tone, thinking over what he had been told.

  “There are two marks to the chest,” she said, leaning over and indicating two small puncture marks on Amin’s chest, barely an inch apart. “I nearly missed them at first what with the level of trauma to the upper body, in particular. But I got to thinking about the lack of defensive wounds, bearing in mind I couldn’t see any injury that may have accounted for him being incapacitated. For example, a massive blow to the head.”

  Caslin eyed them, “A Taser?”

  Dr Taylor nodded, “I believe so, yes. If you look at his wrists and ankles, you can make out skin abrasions where he was restrained. Probably to a chair. If he was resistant to that process, there would be some indication, a greater depth to the abrasions of the skin perhaps, but there isn’t. The only deduction I can make is he either went willingly into a torturous death or he had no opportunity to resist.” Caslin thought on that for a moment before passing comment.

  “I felt the scene was staged, his kneeling as if in prayer. The cross painted on the wall in front of him. Would he have been dead before the staging took place, do you think?” Dr Taylor looked down at her notes and cast a sideways glance over the body.

  With a shake of the head, she met his eye, “Impossible to say. If he expired prior to setting the scene, it becomes difficult to manhandle the deadweight into position.”

  “If you are doing so alone, yes,” Caslin offered.

  “Agreed. Judging from what Iain told me from the scene, the amount of blood loss would most likely suggest he bled out in situ, where you found him. That would mean he either died afterwards or shortly before because, as you know, the blood will flow for a time post-mortem.”

  “How long do you think it took him to bleed out from this type of injury?”

  “It’s quite possible his heart was still pumping for up to ten minutes, maybe more, but I’d doubt it.”

  “He would have been aware of what was happening?”

  “Absolutely,” she confirmed. “Whether or not he had the strength or will to try and do anything about it, is another matter entirely.”

  Caslin zipped up the bag, pausing as he reached the neckline of the deceased. The speculative image of Amin’s last moments in this life flashed through his mind. An image of abject horror. Whoever did this, someone so depraved they could stomach such an intense level of violence, he was sure it wasn’t their first. It couldn’t possibly be. Closing the bag, he took a step back and Alison pushed the tray back into the fridge, closing the metal door. The latch snapping into place echoed through the lab. Once again, he felt cold.

  “Nate…” she said, trying to get his attention. “Did you hear me?”

  He glanced across and met her eye, “Sorry. What did you say?”

  “I was saying I’ll write the report up tonight and get it over to you first thing. If that’s okay?”

  “Yes, yes. Of course,” Caslin replied, rubbing at his face.

  “Are you okay? I mean, we’ve not seen an awful lot of each other, aside from the last couple of days anyway.”

  He smiled, weakly, “I’ve just got a lot on my mind. And, I had a late one, last night.”

  “At A and E?” she asked, indicating the stitches on the side of his face whilst brazenly inspecting the handiwork. “I didn’t want to mention it. Are you all right?”

  Caslin shrugged off the question. He also had no intention of sharing with his ex-girlfriend the reason for his lack of sleep - spending the night with his ex-wife. Memories of which flooded his mind, pushing aside the last moments of the victim. They raised his spirits and he smiled to himself.

  “I’m fine, it’s just a scratch,” he said. “You know what the emergency room is like on a Saturday. All drunks and sports injuries. It takes an age to get seen.”

  Alison Taylor agreed, “So, you’re all right, generally speaking?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” he replied. “Thanks for pulling this off, so quickly. You’ll probably want to get your head down. I’ll let you get off.”

  He turned and headed out of the lab. Dr Taylor returned to her workstati
on and he was aware of the sound of her notes landing on the desk. Caslin grasped the door handle and pulled it when she called after him.

  “Yes, I’m fine too, Nathaniel. Thanks for asking,” she said. He paused in the doorway but didn’t look back, somewhat aware of both the rhetorical nature of her comment as well as his personal failings. The realisation of the latter in itself demonstrated an improvement in his character but was sadly, nowhere near enough to make up for the flaws in his social skills. Silently cursing himself, he left the lab allowing the door to swing closed behind him.

  Passing out through the main entrance lobby, Caslin ensured the door locked back into place as he left the building. The wind was picking up and the chill that it brought, cut through his overcoat, causing him to shiver. Pulling his coat tightly about him, he picked up the pace and headed for his car. Once inside, he fired up the engine and set the demisters to maximum. The windscreen was already fogging over. Taking out his phone, he called Hunter.

  “Sarah, is Iain ready for the briefing?” he asked her.

  “Yes. We’re all set here, just waiting on you.”

  “I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes,” he said, glancing at the clock on his dashboard.

  Hanging up, he put the phone back into his pocket and wiped the window next to him. Eyeing the skies, they threatened rain. The sun wasn’t due to set for another couple of hours but with the dark, brooding clouds rolling in from the west it was hard to tell where the sun was. At least the rain would cancel out the frost. Judging the screen to be sufficiently clear, Caslin engaged first gear. As he did so, he caught sight of Alison Taylor leaving via the front door as he had only minutes earlier. She walked with a mobile clasped to her ear, laughing as she chatted, unaware of him watching her.

  A pang of regret struck within, catching him off guard. He could honestly say he hadn’t given her much thought since their relationship had run its course, so why now? She reached her Audi and the lights flashed as she unlocked it. He shook his head, telling himself it was probably due to revisiting the feelings he had for Karen, thereby stirring the emotions within that’d unsettled him. Regardless, he decided to not think about it anymore. Although, Alison’s perceived happiness troubled him but he didn’t know why.

  “Stop living in the past, Nate,” he told himself, looking away and moving off, attempting to cast aside any lingering thoughts about their chequered past.

  Chapter 12

  Despite the increase in traffic due to people hitting the post-Christmas sales, the drive back to Fulford Road was uneventful. The demonstrators were still present at the front of the station and so he took a circuitous route around to the rear. At least now, they were being supervised by a uniformed presence. The security gates parted and he drove through. Finding a narrow space alongside a liveried van, he reversed the car in.

  Entering through the custody suite, he acknowledged the duty sergeant and made his way to the stairs. Taking them two at a time, he entered CID moments later. The team were assembled and ready for the briefing. Offering an apology for keeping them waiting, Caslin pulled up a chair. Casting an eye across the two wipe boards, set up alongside the desks, Caslin scanned the new information. Iain Robertson had spent the morning updating the one relating to Farzaad Amin’s death.

  The crime scene photographs brought back the stark memories that he’d managed to push aside, in the previous twenty-four hours. The brutality was equally shocking the second time around. Robertson cleared his throat, garnering the attention of the assembled detectives. Conversation ceased as people focused on him.

  Robertson’s eyes flicked to the entrance doors and he nodded towards a latecomer. Caslin glanced over his shoulder, seeing DCI Matheson entering. She perched herself on the end of a desk towards the rear of the room, folding her arms.

  “Okay, folks,” Robertson began, “I’ve got an abbreviated copy here for all of you. Please take one and pass them on.”

  Hunter picked up half of the stack, piled on the nearest desk and handed it to Terry Holt who took the top one and moved them along. Hunter sent the remainder in the other direction. Caslin took a copy and began leafing through the pages.

  “I’ll give you the headlines,” Robertson continued. “There were no clear indications of a forced entry but the security of the flat was insufficient. Slight abrasions on this window latch,” he pointed to a photo up on the board, alongside another documenting a black mark, “and a boot scuff, on the corresponding window sill, indicate this is the point of entry. It took some finding. The window was closed, latch set in place. It’s fair to assume the killer, or killers, left via the front door.”

  “Killers?” Caslin queried.

  “Two partial footprints, left in the victim’s blood, have been identified. They have tread patterns on the soles that don’t match any other footwear present in the flat. One was alongside the chair that the victim was strapped to. More on that later. The other was found alongside the prayer mat, Mr Amin was found kneeling on. They are both incomplete and neither measures up to more than a sixth of the available coverage. It does however, give us enough to confirm two other people were at the scene either at the time of Amin’s death or very shortly after.”

  “Any fingerprints?” Hunter asked.

  Robertson shook his head, “We swept the property twice and found only those belonging to Amin himself. I would go so far as to say the residence had been thoroughly cleaned. The prints we found were in the kitchen on cupboard doors, handles and utensils. No prints were found in the living room, the bathroom or the access hallway including the front door. We’re not talking about a quick wipe down either. Whoever was there did a good job of masking their presence.”

  “Dr Taylor says the victim was tortured over a period of time,” Caslin said, lifting his eyes from the paperwork he was reading through. “How long do you think they were on the scene?”

  “That depends on how many were involved in the clean-up,” Robertson said. “The victim sustained a prolonged assault. I’ve also discussed the injuries with Alison and we are agreed, in that we cannot ascertain what weapon, or weapons, were used.

  Despite an extensive search, nothing was left at the scene that fits the bill. Likewise, none of the victim’s knives were used. The knife block, in the kitchen, is full and no trace evidence was found on any of the blades. We can only presume that the weapons were taken away and therefore, it is reasonable to assume, were also brought with them to the scene.”

  “What about the paint on the wall?” Caslin said, eyeing the photograph on the board depicting the white cross alongside one of the graffiti.

  “Acrylic based, deployed from an aerosol. The standard formula you will find for sale in auto-factors or DIY shops. For use on rigid metals, glass fibre or plastics. It’s too common to narrow down to a purchase point. The choice of wording was interesting, though. The use of the word ‘vermin’ has connotations,” Robertson said, talking to Caslin.

  “Vermin is commonly used within far-right propaganda. Often in reference to those of Jewish descent but also ethnic minorities,” Caslin said for the uninitiated.

  “Are you approaching this as a racial hate-crime?” DCI Matheson asked, from the back of the room. Caslin stood, so she could see him better.

  “Not at this stage, Ma’am,” he replied. “With everything that’s going on at the moment we’ll keep it in the mix, but it’s just as likely to be misdirection at this point.”

  “And you’re basing that conclusion on what?”

  “I prefer to follow the direction of travel the evidence sends us rather than the route set out by the perpetrators,” he countered. She acknowledged his answer and didn’t comment further. Caslin indicated for Robertson to continue.

  “We have failed to locate the victim’s eyes or tongue,” Robertson said gravely. A few people exchanged concerned glances with one another. “We’ve explored the building’s drainage in case of disposal there, but found nothing. It is possible that they were flushed a
nd any evidence sanitised before our arrival.

  Alternatively, the more macabre conclusion is they could have been taken as trophies. The remaining details that I can offer relate to the blood spatter,” he continued. “You’ll find detailed illustrations within your individual reports. The victim was strapped to one of his dining chairs, secured at the wrists and ankles with duct tape.

  There, he received the bulk of his ordeal. He was stripped naked and tortured. The arcs of blood on the surrounding walls and ceiling tell us this. The victim defecated in the chair before he was cut free and dragged the short distance to the prayer mat, where we believe he was positioned in the manner in which he was found.”

  A few brief questions were traded but nothing beyond clarification issues. Caslin stood as the briefing ended and the team returned to their assigned tasks. Taking Robertson by the forearm, Caslin led him aside.

  “Nestor Kuznetsov,” Caslin said. “Have you found any evidence to indicate anyone else was present in the boathouse?”

  Robertson shook his head, “No, nothing to place anyone else at the scene.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Doesn’t mean I think it was a suicide, mind you.”

  “No?” Caslin asked. “Can you tell me why?”

  “Not really,” he replied. Caslin was momentarily puzzled. Robertson noticed, elaborating, “Everything points to death by his own hand. The boathouse was apparently locked from the inside. There’s no sign of a struggle nor any damage to the interior or contents of the building. Psychologically speaking, his life had taken such a battering it is easy to conclude why he’d have taken the decision to check out.”

  “Got to say it, Iain. You’re not selling suspicious very well,” Caslin said with a smile.

  “Well, that’s just it, isn’t it,” Robertson said. “It all points to suicide and yet, according to his medical records, there’s a possibility that he couldn’t have managed it.”