by Edward Figg
‘Yes, I did hear,’ he said. ‘Marcia deserves a break. Must have been pretty hard for her looking after her mum for all that time. What with the father running off, she’s had it rough. She’s spent a lot of her time caring for her. I think meeting Dave Penrose will be good for her as well.’
‘I have yet to meet this mysterious Dave Penrose. He sounds nice.’ She snuggled closer to him. ‘He’s the one that helped you with that case you had at Dover, wasn’t he?’
‘Aye, he did. He’s Cornish. Good lad. You’ll get to meet him later. He’s coming up for Dave Lynch’s wedding. I did offer to help him get a transfer up here, but he and Marcia thought that working side by side might cause complications and maybe a bit of friction so he’s there and she’s here and never the twain shall meet.’ He chuckled. ‘I bet you any money you like, they do twain on the weekends.’
‘You have a one-track mind.’ She slapped him playfully on his leg. ‘Is that all you ever think about?’
‘Meeting once a week is not my idea of romance.’
‘So, what’s your idea of romance?’
He bent and whispered in her ear. She sniggered, laughed, then slapped him on the wrist.
‘You’ll be lucky Bob Carter. It's only seven thirty.’
Chapter 9
Wednesday
Detective Inspector Ted Baxter found Marcia Kirby in the kitchenette, jiggling a tea bag in a cup of hot water.
‘Any signs of your elusive Mr Hakim?’ he asked.
‘No. Dave’s making a few more inquiries now. He’s trying to trace any relatives that Hakim has. He’s an asylum seeker. He’s got this cousin in London who, according to Mrs Habibi, arrived in the country only last week.’
‘Okay. This cousin should be easy to locate. The Refugee Council will know where he’s staying.’ He leaned back against the sink. ‘I’ve just had an email from the lab.’ He looked at the printout he had in his hand. ‘They got a positive DNA match from the cigarette butt found in the woods and one found at the phone box. They both belong to the same person. He’s also identified the bike from the casts they made.’
Kirby stopped jiggling, added a spoonful of sugar and a splash of milk, stirred it, threw the tea bag in the waste bin and said, ‘So, he was the one that made that call?’
Baxter straightened up and moved away from the sink. ‘Yep. Had to be.’
Kirby turned and looked over towards Dave Lynch, who was sitting at his desk. She’d left him on the phone, talking to the immigration people. ‘So, what is this bike man who phones it in — an arsonist with a conscience?’
DI Baxter shrugged. ‘You’ll have to ask a behavioural psychologist, or whatever they call them, for that one.’ He reached up into the cupboard for a cup and set about making himself a coffee.
Lynch looked over to her as he put down the phone. He put his thumb and index finger together and flashed the “Okay” sign, then picked up the receiver again and started punching in numbers.
‘So, what about this bike?’ she said. ‘What is it?’
Looking at the printout, he said. ‘From the cast of the tire track, they’ve narrowed it down to a 2010 Yamaha, possibly a YZ250F. They suggest we don’t waste our time trying to track it down because thousands of those models have been sold. One thing they did say was, if we do find it, they can make a positive match because there is a distinctive round mark on a part of the tread. They say it could be something embedded in it. Something like a tack or a nail.’
‘Well, at least we know the make of the bike. That nail, or whatever it is, might come in handy when we find this bike.’
She picked up her mug of tea and was about to walk off when Baxter said, ‘Oh, and that syringe from the phone box contained traces of Fentanyl. It says the strength of the dose would have been lethal to anyone who took it. Dead in minutes.’
‘Well, according to the autopsy report, that’s what killed Richard Eades.’ She stared silently into her teacup for a moment, nodded, looked up, and said. ‘So, I think that maybe our caller gave that dose to Eades then took the syringe away with him. There’s no way our man on the bike is an addict because if he would have injected himself, and as you say — the strength was that lethal — we’d have his body close by.’
Taking a sip of his coffee, Baxter followed her out of the kitchenette and over to the desk, where Lynch was still talking on the phone. He looked up as they approached.
‘I think you might have hit the nail on the head with that one, Marcia,’ said Inspector Baxter. ‘And another thing. If it had been an addict shooting up, you’d expect to find prints. The report says the syringe was clean. No prints on it but they did find some red fibre on the needle. It’s a material commonly used for making backpacks.’
‘Do you think he could have dropped it when making that call?’ Kirby said.
He handed her the report then walked to his office.
Lynch sat staring intently at the computer monitor.
‘How did you get on with immigration people? And what was all that okay sign business about?’ she said.
He hit the enter key. ‘Look. They’ve emailed me his photo.’ He indicated the screen.
She came and stood next to him and studied the face. ‘Stick one up on the board.’
He clicked on another attachment. ‘I’ve also got the details for the cousin. He and his family are staying at a hostel in Shepherds Bush until they’re rehoused. I’ve just spoken to the cousin.’ He slowly drummed the fingers of one hand on the top of his desk, looked at her and raised his eyebrows.
‘And…’ she said, sensing something not right.
‘Hakim has not been there. He never turned up. He had arranged to meet them. They’ve not seen him. He didn’t turn up.’
‘Shit! So, where the hell is he?’
‘According to the cousin, they’ve kept in contact with each other since Hakim’s arrival in the UK. The cousin called him from the hostel the day after he arrived. Hakim said he would be up to see them late on Sunday.’
‘Get his picture up to the train station. Check to see if he did get on a train. We may be pushing our luck, but see if their surveillance cameras picked him up getting onto any of the London trains on Sunday afternoon. Get this circulated.’ she said. ‘We need to find him.’
****
The tall hawthorn hedges on both sides of the narrow country lane gave no hint as to what lay on the other side. Detective Sergeant Mike Reid had called Carter over an hour ago and told him of the body, and where to meet him. The lane was long and twisting. Carter was beginning to think that maybe he’d taken a wrong turn when suddenly, coming around a bend, he spotted Reid standing by the side of the lane.
Reid moved quickly out into the lane and flagged him down. He’d been trying to keep out of the cold wind by standing in the shelter of the hedgerow; his raincoat collar was pulled up around his ears. Reid pointed out a spot for him to park. Carter pulled off the road and into the field beside Reid’s dark blue Ford. The presence of the car sent sheep running in all directions. Reid went back and pulled the farm gate firmly shut behind him.
Carter got out, went to the boot of his car and took out a pair of wellingtons. He sat on the rim of the boot, put them on, then slammed down the lid. He then buttoned up his overcoat. ‘Right. Let’s go.’ They set off across the field.
A few grazing sheep, defiant and not moving, raised their heads and eyed them as they walked past.
‘Roll on the summer,’ said Carter, sinking his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat.
Plimpton Woods lay at the top of the field. They moved slowly up the incline toward it. At the top, a barbed wire fence separated the grassed meadow from the trees. Reid pushed down on the wire so Carter could climb over.
‘Bugger.’ Carter cursed, catching the knee of his trousers on the barbed wire. Once over, he examined the small tear. ‘There has to be bleeding easier way to get here than this.’ he complained.
‘There is another way in. A track on th
e other side! It’s steep but only for four-wheel-drives. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sorry boss. They said it was the quickest.
‘Their bloody shortcut has cost me a bloody good pair of trousers,’ he moaned. He fingered the tear, then looked up and stared into the trees. ‘Who discovered the body?’ he said as they continued walking.
‘Couple of kids; teenagers. Bunked off from school and decide to come up here for a bit of hanky-panky. There’s an old run-down woodcutter's hut in there. Hasn’t been used in decades. That’s where they found the body. The two were more concerned about what their parents are going to say when they find out about them bunking off from school than what they were about them finding the body. Reminds me of my school days. I sometimes bunked off. Not that we found many bodies.’ He laughed.
‘The kids did the right thing and called an ambulance. They had to park at the end of the track. So did Cotton and Hobson. It’s a four-wheel-drive job. All this rain we’ve had has turned the track into a bog. They got here just after the medics arrived. They saw the syringe and naturally assumed an overdose. That’s what they called it in as. Anyway, I got Cotton and Hobson to run the kids’ home and talk nicely to the parents. Tell them what a good job they’d done — maybe it’ll take the heat off them. Nothing worse than angry parents. I told them that once they’d done that, to get straight back here.’
‘I saw their car out on the main road a while back. They had kids in the back,’ said Carter.
‘Must have been them.’
The dead leaves crackled underfoot as the pair made their way along the wooded path. Above their heads, the treetops swayed back and forth in the cold wind. Crows perched on bare branches called to each other. Even the undergrowth on the sides of the track seemed alive with wildlife.
Carter looked up at the treetops ‘Do you know why they call a group of crows a “murder”, Mike?
‘No.’
‘Well. There’s a folklore that crows will gather and decide the capital fate of another crow.’
‘Is that, right? How do they know which one is for the chop? They all look the same.’
‘Crows are known to kill sick ones and those that wander into their territory!’
‘Sounds like they were the first ones to invent gang warfare,’ said Reid, stepping over a fallen branch.
Carter continued. ‘Did you know that many view the appearance of crows as an omen of death?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Reid replied.
‘It’s because ravens and crows are scavengers and are generally associated with dead bodies, battlefields, and cemeteries. They’re thought to circle in large numbers above sites where animals or people are expected to die.’
‘Well, in this case, they’re bloody spot on, ain’t they?’ said Reid.
‘We must be close to Chalk Lane Manor Farm,’ said Carter, stopping and looking through the trees.
‘It’s about a quarter of a mile in that direction, just over that bank,’ Reid said, pointing over Carter's shoulder.
‘The initial report said this was just an overdose. So, why are we involved?’ Carter asked.
‘Until then, it was just that it was a suspected overdose. It was then that the medics noticed the head wounds. She had on this woolly hat, so, at first, it went unnoticed. That’s when they found it. She’d been attacked. Hit on the head. Whoever did it must have put the hat back on after the attack. Weird. From what PC Cotton and Hobson have been telling me, our victim was not into needles. They know of her from old. She can’t stand them. Needles, I’m talking about, not Cotton and Hobson. They reckon she passes out at just the sight of a needle. Cotton said all she ever takes are pills and drink.’
‘So, who is she?’
‘She’s a dosser. Homeless women called Mary Lampton.’
Carter stopped in his tracks and looked at Reid. ‘“Mad” Mary?’ he said, in a surprised voice. ‘Half the town knows her. Badger Lady they call her. She likes animals. Spends a lot of her time in the woods at night with them, so I’m told.’
‘Aye, that’s her.’
‘Well, apart from the head wound, I agree with what you say about the needles,’ said Carter. ‘Last year she was got pissed; fell arse over tit down a flight of stairs. Cut herself up pretty badly, so I hear. The medics wanted to give her a tetanus shot. She flattened one of them, then ran off screaming. I can see now why it rang your bell.’
The path started to rise more steeply. At the top, the pair stopped for a breather.
‘Cotton did say that if she can get her hands on it, she has been known to snort a bit of coke,’ added Reid. ‘She’s a bit of a soak. Uniform have lost count of the times she’s been picked up for drunk and disorderly. Apparently, she holds the record. Seven consecutive nights in the cells. Pills and booze don’t mix. It’s a bit of a lethal cocktail. They don’t even bother to send her to court now. Waste of time. Tried rehab. Waste of time. They reckon she only goes there so she gets fed and watered. Packs a bit of a punch as well, so he tells me.’
‘Skinny as she is,’ Carter said, ‘she did put PC Ambrose on his arse one night down in the cells, and he’s no seven-stone weakling.’
As they approached the hut, Tim Bryant, the crime scene manager, came around from the side. ‘Well, Chief Inspector. You finally made it.’ he said, pushing back the hood of his protective suit. ‘Looks like you took the scenic route. Should have got a four by four and come up Cutters Lane past the Hare and Hounds as we did. It’s a lot easier. Saves walking across those fields.’
‘Aye. Next time we will,’ replied Carter, looking at the old hut.
Some planking on the side and front was hanging off. The nails that held them in place had long since rusted away, leaving significant gaps in the wall. It seemed the only thing holding it all together was the ivy that trailed over the rusting iron roof.
What windows there were, were either broken or missing. The door, with its rotted timbers, lay propped up against a fallen tree next to the wall.
A portable generator was purring away some distance from the hut. It was providing light for those working inside. Occasionally a flash lit up the interior as the photographer took shots, recording the scene for posterity.
Bryant stood by the door, watching his team working. He turned to Carter. ‘Doc Broadbent estimates she’s been dead between ten and twenty-four hours. As Detective Sergeant Reid here will testify, he didn’t stay too long. Not too happy about being called away from the nineteenth hole. Lucky him. The short version is that she has a bruise to the left cheek, and although he can’t say for sure yet, she may have suffered a fractured skull. His instruction was quite clear. Get her back and get her on the slab. He’ll sort her out tomorrow. We found this syringe by the body.’ He held up the evidence bag for him to see. ‘She’s obviously been drinking as well. We found two empty whiskey bottles in here and quite a few more thrown into the bushes. I’d say she came up here quite often.’
‘Yes, she did,’ said Reid. ‘She liked to come up here some nights and watch badgers.’
‘Maybe it’s them that attacked her.’ said Bryant nonchalantly. They can be quite aggressive little buggers. We’ve found plenty of their hair in there; also, a dog bowl and some empty milk cartons. It looks like she’s been feeding them. We also found two red hairs on her dress. Human — could have come from her attacker.’
‘Wonder if she ever came up during the day,’ said Carter, looking around.
‘If she’s into badgers, then I’d say no, because badgers never appeared before dusk,’ said Reid.
One of the technicians walked over to them and lowered his mask. ‘We’re all done now, so you can come in. She’s all yours.’
‘Okay, Stan,’ said Bryant. ‘Let’s get this lot loaded up. Leave the lights ‘till last.’
Carter and Reid waited while they brought out their equipment and stowed it in the back of their Range Rover. The pair entered and stood just inside the doorway. Carter took in the scene. The hut smelt damp and mouldy. Bits
of ivy poked through the gaps where the planks were missing. Grey cobwebs decorated the inside of the old corrugated iron roof. The only furniture was a rickety-looking table. On it, stood a hurricane lamp, its glass blackened with soot. There was also a wooden chair. It lay on its side, broken. There was a shelf attached to the wall held in place only by one bracket. It hung at a drunken angle.
He walked over and looked down at the woman's lifeless body. Her grey hair was matted and untidy. It was covered, in places, with dried blood. Her bright emerald green eyes stared back at him. Carter thought they held a hidden sadness. She wore a not-so-clean lime green dress and an off-white blouse and an old brown overcoat. She was slumped over, half sitting, half-lying on the cold earth floor. Beside her lay an upturned dog bowl. The righthand sleeve of her dress was rolled up, revealing a spot of blood on her arm and a bruise left by the needle. There was dried vomit in front of her coat and from the other smell, it was evident that she’d emptied her bowels.
Carter straightened up and looked at Reid. ‘I can’t see why anyone would want to kill her. She’s got nothing. She’s no threat to anybody. Have a talk with the people she hung out with. Get onto them. Better still, get Cotton onto it; he seems to know all about these homeless people. Find out where she is sleeping. She must have possessions somewhere. She certainly didn’t live here,’ he said, looking around. ‘Get him to check the dossers down under the viaduct. Also, that old block of flats off London Road — the ones that are due for demolition. There’s some sleeping there. See if he can find out who she was friendly with. Get Cotton to bring ‘em to the nick. We need to find out a lot more about our badger lady?’
‘I’ll get onto it right now.’ Reid took out his phone and walked out of the hut.
‘If you’re done,’ said Bryant, ‘I’ve got something else to show you. It’s around the back.’
Carter followed him out of the hut, through the thick bracken that surrounded it and around to the back.