Black December

by Scott Hunter

  Off the case, and straight into Lawson’s admin backlog. Phelps could have howled with indignation. Instead he gave Lawson a stiff smile and said, “Very good, sir. If that will be all?”

  “Yes, yes indeed. Make sure you catch up with DS Neads later this morning. In the meantime–” he smiled ingratiatingly at Neads, “the sergeant and I have several – pressing – matters to discuss.”

  I’ll bet, Phelps seethed. “I’ll leave you to it, then, sir.” He about-turned and gave Neads a parting glare. He was reaching for his mobile as the door closed behind him. The guv needed to know what was heading his way. Sharpish.

  “Kay, I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” Moran drained his tea and frowned as Archie’s fevered barking filtered through from the back garden of Kay Kempster’s well-maintained semi.

  “Rubbish. If we can’t help each other, what good are we?” Kay smiled the easy smile he knew so well. She was still attractive, only the faintest trace of laughter lines creasing the corners of her intelligent, grey-blue eyes.

  Moran chuckled. “Okay, but I promise I won’t make a habit of turning up at midnight with a drunken brother and a hyperactive dog in tow.”

  “I know you won’t.” Kay laughed. “But you are in extremis, so you did the right thing. And you can stay as long as you need to.”

  In extremis. Moran shivered as he remembered Sandy Taylor’s dry observation in the chapel chamber. There were degrees of extremis, he mused, and however inconvenient his current situation, he had to admit that Father Horgan’s had been considerably greater.

  “Are you all right, Brendan?”

  “Fine. Look, Kay, you’re an absolute star, but I can’t impose on you. I feel bad enough as it is.”

  “See? There you go again.”

  “It’s Patrick. He’s – well, unpredictable. A real handful.”

  “Is that so?” Kay finished her drink and hooked a long finger through the handle of his mug, whisking the empty crockery away to the draining board. “Well, I’m unpredictable as well, so we should get along just fine.”

  Moran exhaled deeply. “Kay, seriously, I can’t burden you with–”

  “You have quite enough to be getting on with, Brendan Moran, without worrying about offending my sensibilities. Now, grab the phone and sort out that eviction order like I told you. Leave Patrick and Archie to me. I’m off till next Tuesday, and I have absolutely no plans except maybe a little late Christmas shopping. When you get those – undesirables – out of your house you can invite me over for a drink.”

  He reached out and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Thanks, Kay. I don’t deserve you, really I don’t.”

  “No, you jolly well don’t.” She mock-scowled and reached for her coat. “If you can hang on for ten minutes, I’ll pop to the corner shop and get something nourishing for your brother.”

  “He’ll be as nice as pie when he wakes up,” Moran offered. “He won’t remember a thing.”

  “Whatever. I’ll sort him out, don’t worry,” Kay called over her shoulder as she closed the back door with a firm click. Moran heard her footsteps recede and imagined the swinging arms, upturned chin and bouncing hair as Kay attuned her energy to the needs of her new charges. He shook his head. She was too good for him. There had been a time in their chequered relationship when he’d almost got to the point of a proposal. Well, perhaps not a proposal, but certainly a statement of commitment of some kind. And then – what? He wasn’t sure. Something had not been right. Yes, his subconscious whispered, she wasn’t Janice, that’s what wasn’t right . . .

  His mobile beeped, saving him from the discomfort of further analysis.

  “Ah. Phelps. Any joy with the telecoms?”

  Moran’s face clouded as he listened to Phelps’ update. “You have got to be kidding.”

  “Wish I was, guv,” Phelps’ voice replied morosely. “Murder investigation to paper chase in five minutes. That’s how it was. I thought he was laying you off at first, but this Neads bloke – just watch him, guv. I don’t like the look and feel.”

  “Right. Listen, Phelps, I’ll see what I can do. This is just plain ridiculous. I can’t have my senior DS laid off at the drop of a hat.” Moran glanced at the clock. He had to get a move on. He had to be at John Vernon’s autopsy in forty-five minutes. Damn – he’d have to divert his lift as well. No one knew he was here.

  “What’s that, guv?” Phelps’ voice scraped across the wire.

  “Nothing. Just thinking aloud. Listen, I have to get to the autopsy. Sit tight, don’t do anything stupid, and I’ll come back to you as soon as, all right?”

  “Got it, guv. Take care now.”

  Stoical as ever, Moran thought. But the loss of his sergeant was a serious setback. Lawson was applying the big guns. Well, to hell with him; the CC had better be prepared for a return of fire. Moran called for a car and shrugged himself into his coat.

  Kay breezed into the room and dumped a bag on the table. “Everything in order?” she asked brightly, “oh, I got Archie some breakfast as well.” She pointed to two tins on the drainer.

  “Kay–”

  “I know, I know. Now, get going.”

  “I’m already gone. See you later.” He bent forward and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She responded with a tight little smile that made him feel awful. She still carried a torch, then, however low it had burned. No time to think about that now. He looked in on Patrick, sound asleep in the spare room with his mouth open. All right for some, eh, Pat?

  Moran wrinkled his nose as Dr Moninder Bagri selected a wicked-looking length of steel and surveyed his audience. The path lab was chilly, colder still than the biting December wind that had cut through Moran like one of Dr Bagri’s surgical instruments on his way into the building. But this shiver of anticipation, he knew, was a normal reaction to the imminent exposure of a human being’s internal workings. How many autopsies had he attended? A hundred? Two hundred? It made no difference. He still experienced a conflicting mixture of emotions as another violently curtailed life was laid bare before him.

  “All ready? Good. Off we go then,” Dr Bagri announced cheerily to the assembly. He was a small man who reminded Moran of a more robust version of Mahatma Gandhi. Bald pate, round glasses, a ready smile and a clear passion for his job – which he was damn good at. Many times he had surprised Moran with the close attention to detail that he regarded as an essential part of his work. If anyone could provide the clue he was looking for, it was Moninder Bagri. Moran tried to relax and pay attention. Next to him a student pathologist was shuffling her feet, wetting her lips in preparation. Moran knew what was going on in her head. Don’t faint. Don’t show yourself up. Concentrate. It’s only a dead body.

  On Moran’s left, DS Gregory Neads hovered impatiently, a faint smile doing little to offset an expression that was bordering on arrogance. Moran had taken an instant dislike to the tall, elasticated twenty-something when he’d introduced himself earlier in the day. Phelps had been right on target with this one; he had ‘Chief Constable’s man’ written all over him.

  “Fine figure of a fellow.” Dr Bagri appraised the corpse. “A bit of an athlete in his time, wouldn’t you say, Chief Inspector?”

  “Yes, he was,” Moran agreed. “First Fifteen captain, First Eleven captain, captain of cricket, triple jump county record holder. I could go on.”

  “You see, my friends?” Dr Bagri waved his cutter in an expansive gesture. “First point of observation: stand away and note the obvious. When we get into all the details you may forget to look for what is clearly before your very eyes.”

  The student gave Dr Bagri a weak smile. Moran wondered when she would fall. It was only a matter of time. He shifted his weight slightly, ready to catch her.

  “A common end for all the rich and famous, just as we, the poor, will also go the same way.” Dr Bagri bowed his head for a moment. “Mr Vernon is well known to us, with his picture in the papers and all that. We may have formed opinions about him, but these we leave a
side now, as all human life is sacred, is it not? And so it must be accorded the greatest respect.”

  Moran was used to this little ritual. He found it rather comforting, not to say appropriate. He hoped that he would be given similar treatment by whatever pathologist got to slice him open when the time came. DS Neads, however, was apparently not of the same view. He cleared his throat theatrically and sighed whilst simultaneously contriving to shuffle his feet.

  Dr Bagri looked up and met Neads’ insolent expression with a steely one of his own. “Just a moment, my young friend, that’s all; then we make a start, isn’t it?”

  Moran repressed a smile. Bagri was used to dealing with younger grades in his own, and other, professions. He was glad not to have been on the receiving end of such a withering look. But the doctor was now scrutinising the gaping neck wound, gently probing the ragged flesh for signs of foreign matter that Forensics may have missed. A faint, cloying smell arose from the table as the little man worked, inspecting every centimetre of John Vernon’s neck and shoulders with his usual pedantic diligence.

  “Serrated implement, like a carving knife, we can determine,” Bagri announced. “Most likely the cause of death. Until we open up we won’t be one hundred percent sure, though, isn’t it?”

  There was a general murmur of assent. This was the moment. Moran took a breath.

  “So, an incision just at the top of the shoulder, and moving down towards the sternum.” Dr Bagri worked quickly, his small brown hands moving skilfully across the corpse’s white flesh. “And so, down past the belly button, excuse me sir, and there–” The doctor stood back to admire his work. “Good. You observe there is very little bleeding. No cardiac forces at work, isn’t it?. Next, the removal of the rib cage.”

  Moran’s mouth was dry, but he’d seen this too many times to be affected physically. He watched with interest as Bagri sawed away the chest plate and lifted it clear to expose Vernon’s internal organs. “And there. All in the open. Oh–”

  Moran stepped rapidly aside as the student bent double and emptied the contents of her stomach over the sterile floor.

  “A cup of tea and a sit down for five minutes. You’ll be right in the rain afterwards,” Dr Bagri told the retching girl. “Off you go.”

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered as she staggered, hand over mouth, towards the exit. Moran glanced at Neads whose colour was pale, his lips a thin line.

  “Nothing odd so far, Dr Bagri?” Moran asked, more to push the investigation onwards than anything else.

  “No, Chief Inspector. All normal and ship-shape, apart from the neck, of course.”

  Thirty minutes later each of Vernon’s internal organs had been given a careful assessment and declared to bear no unusual signs of trauma.

  “So we’re back with the knife wound,” Neads said, in a voice that suggested that the last forty-five minutes had been a complete waste of his time.

  Dr Bagri stepped away from the table “Five senses we have, young man.” He held up his hand. “Most of these we need to make an assessment. Today, I have used four, though perhaps you will not have seen me do so. And I have found nothing untoward, as you say, apart from the trauma on the neck. He was a fit man, no problems with his fine body.” A smile broke across Bagri’s features. “But you know, I have a very acute sense of smell. It is my best gift to my profession.” The pathologist moved in closer and sniffed the corpse’s neck, as if savouring some lingering perfume. Neads wrinkled his nose in distaste.

  Moran’s excitement was mounting. The show was almost at an end, but Bagri would not be denied his finale.

  “Come. Come.” The little man gestured.

  Moran obliged, gingerly moving his head so that the tip of his nose was centimetres away from Vernon’s ruined throat.

  “Good Now, tell me. What do you smell?”

  Moran tried to concentrate, to sift out the conflicting odours of the pathology lab. He shrugged. “I give up.”

  “We will take a sample, hm? Then we shall see if I am right.”

  “Spill the beans, Dr Bagri, please.”

  Bagri beamed. “The beans will be all over the floor in a short moment! Now, the assailant was a fastidious person, for sure. He has cleaned his weapon very well before use. Too well, perhaps, for his own good.”

  Moran grunted. A clue, at last. “Knife polish? Is that it?”

  “Just so.” Bagri gave a slight bow. “We will find out the brand, and you can look for the person who uses this polish. It has a distinctive nose.”

  “And so do you, Dr Bagri.” Moran extended his hand. “Once again, my thanks.”

  “Like a connoisseur of fine wine, isn’t it?” Bagri chuckled and pumped his hand vigorously.

  “But I noticed you used the word ‘assailant’, Dr Bagri,” Moran smiled, reclaiming his hand. “And I know you are a man who chooses his words with extreme care. Would you be so kind as to explain why you used the word ‘assailant’ and not ‘murderer’?”

  Bagri chortled and wagged his finger. “You know me too well, Chief Inspector!”

  Neads raised his eyes to heaven. Bagri’s modus operandi was evidently trying his patience to the limit.

  “Observe.” Bagri bent and raised the flap of Vernon’s neck like a piece of choice fillet. “A serrated wound here.” He indicated the ragged strips of flesh. “But here, a little further along, a smooth cut, like a dissection, you see?”

  “You’re saying there were two weapons involved?”

  “Without a doubt. One, the serrated cut, probably life threatening but not fatal. The other, the smooth cut, has severed the windpipe. Let us see if anything is within, shall we?”

  “Within?” Moran peered over Bagri’s shoulder.

  “Just a small moment, just here – ah.” In a few seconds Bagri had winkled out a tiny shard of metal and held it up triumphantly in his forceps.

  “You are a marvel, Dr Bagri.” Moran was elated. “Neads, down to the lab with this, first priority.”

  “Sir.” Neads was paying full attention now, the look of contempt replaced by one of grudging respect.

  Bagri wasn’t finished. “And look here–” Bagri stretched out Vernon’s arm, opening the fingers. The palm was cut and ragged. “The serrated edge has caused these. Same on the other. Defence wounds, I am thinking. So, the clean cut to the neck was a surprise for Mr Vernon, I would propose. Not so the other.”

  Moran nodded. “So, DS Neads; two assailants it is.”

  “But only one murderer, isn’t it?” Bagri beamed.

  “We’re obliged, Dr Bagri, as ever.” Moran inclined his head respectfully. “I’d be most grateful if you would bear Mr Vernon’s injuries in mind when you tackle our other victim. I expect there will be similarities. And Father Horgan’s brethren are anxious to conduct the funeral service, so . . .”

  Bagri inclined his bald head and removed his gloves with a practised snap. “It will be my pleasure, Chief Inspector Moran. All will be attended to most quickly. The holy man is next on my list. And of course, you will be the first to know my findings.”

  Moran turned to Neads, who was trying to conceal a cynical expression and failing. “Come on then, Sergeant. You can show me the proper way to conduct an investigation – I can see you’re dying on your feet. Better leave before Dr Bagri gets his hands on you, eh?”

  As they left the lab the echo of Moninder Bagri’s rich chuckle followed them all the way to the car park.

  “Any thoughts, DS Neads?” Moran asked as they made their way across the rammed parking lot. If someone could invent a way of stacking cars on top of one another they’d make a mint – and make life less stressful for patients and relatives too, Moran thought irritably.

  Neads swung his key ring as he walked, a habit Moran found particularly irksome. “Actually, yes. A few – sir.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Okay – well, we know that Vernon was injured in the chapel, and the wounds on his hands suggest that the damage was done by the serrate
d knife.”

  “Good. Go on.”

  They reached the car and Neads fumbled under the dash for a scraper. He set to work on the frosted windscreen. “He was able to drive back to his hotel, so he probably wasn’t fatally injured at that stage.”

  Moran blew into his hands. “Agreed. But someone was waiting for him. Someone who discovered that his intended victim had already been conveniently injured.”

  “You don’t think the chapel attacker followed him to finish the job?”

  “I doubt it – the whole set-up in the chapel has an interrupted feel about it. I think that Vernon disturbed somebody – someone working to an agenda, so our Mr X wouldn’t have hared off in pursuit of an injured man.”

  “Or Miss X, or Mrs X,” Neads offered. “Or Father X.”

  “Yes. All right, Neads. Thank you. What I’m thinking is that if the killer wanted to finish Vernon off, then why change weapons?” Moran shook his head. “No, I think we’re dealing with two separate incidents here.” Moran got in, shut the door, and scrunched his hands into his pockets. His breath fogged the windscreen. He watched Neads’ hand move back and forth across the windscreen, flakes of ice flying from the scraper head.

  Neads slammed the door, turned the blower on full and gunned the engine. “So, perhaps Father Benedict came closer to confronting the perpetrator than he realised when he arrived to say Mass – luckily for Vernon. In the meantime, Vernon got out as soon as, leaving his attacker just enough time to make himself scarce.” Neads navigated skilfully through the rows of parked vehicles. “We need to check the hotel’s CCTV footage, sir.”