Foreign Bodies

by Colin A Millar

  ‘Mrs Travers,’ he began, after holding her gaze for a moment. ‘I am sure you realise there is really nothing more I can tell you. I’m not sure why you got the impression from Helen that there was some new development or …’ he broke off, waving his hand vaguely around his head, ‘…a moment of inspiration or, you know a sudden flash of clarity like on the TV that has moved me any closer to finding your husband. I know this is not what you want to hear but frankly we’ve no other avenues open to us to investigate. There has been no use of any of his credit or bank cards, his phone hasn’t been on since the day he disappeared, and the tracking records for that day are patchy at best – we assume he was using the tube a lot. No one who remotely knows him has heard from or seen him even fleetingly since the day he left. I think you realise where I’m going with this, Mrs Travers, and I can appreciate it’s hard to hear, but truthfully there is nothing else I can do. I can’t create something from nothing.‘

  He paused whilst he removed a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and handed it to her. She hadn’t even realised she was crying. She felt numb yet angry, helpless yet coiled ready for action.

  ‘It doesn’t mean we’re closing his file, you understand? Just that active investigation will cease.’ This was said quickly, perhaps to quell the tears, perhaps because it was a requirement he say it and had forgotten, she couldn’t tell.

  ‘So, what are you going to be doing? If you’re not closing the investigation but you say there’s nothing else you can do? That’s a, a..’ She shook her head in frustration at not finding the correct word. ‘That has conflicting meanings. There must be something else you can do? He can’t just have vanished.’ She could feel her voice getting higher as she spoke, becoming more angry with each word and then just as quickly any fight she might have had left now, draining slowly away to dissipate into the gut-twisting tangle in her stomach and the churning, roiling maelstrom of her mind.

  ‘Mrs Travers, there is no easy way to say this but there is a chance your husband has left you and simply does not wish to be found. The letter could have been from a lover or whatever and he’s left for a new life with them? Or it had some bad news he couldn’t handle and it has sent him off God-knows-where to hide away and deal with it. There is still a chance he will make himself known to us but you must realise that does not mean he wants to be found by you?’

  The very idea sent her thoughts reeling – Marcus would not simply leave them. She felt sure he would have told her, regardless of how bad it was, even if he was leaving her for another woman. And why disappear so completely if that was all it was? Why abandon the children? He had, as far as she knew, never lied to her or kept anything of any importance from her. Why would that change so dramatically? No, she could not accept that explanation. It made no sense. But more than that she knew at a visceral, almost animal level that this was wrong – put simply it felt wrong and she was sure if there were even a semblance of truth in it, she would have felt it months ago.

  They were silent for a few moments, which made her feel inclined to just leave, to run from this pathetic little office screaming her way down the corridor and out into the street, to make the world give up its secret, to wrench the answers she needed from thin air, to beat the solution from the universe itself.

  She let the feeling ride over her, calmed herself by force of will alone, as she realised she was still not willing to let this go. As she let her breathing become even and calm, Handley was tidying the file away readying to close the meeting, doubtless to mouth empty sympathies and offers of keeping in touch, and so on and so on. As he looked up from the desktop and file his earlier words sparked something inside her mind.

  ‘The letter,’ she said sharply, in complete contrast to her previous defeated tone. ‘You haven’t mentioned the letter for weeks now. I thought you’d dismissed it as irrelevant? Why bring it up again now?’

  Handley shrugged his thick, wide shoulders looking a little lost for a moment. ‘I had, more or less, only it’s about the last unknown in here,’ he said, tapping the file. ‘But really, when you think about it, it’s the only thing that might just explain your husband’s leaving. Is there anything you’ve remembered about it? A postmark? Is there anything you’ve realised about the handwriting or the way it was addressed?’

  The letter. She hadn’t forgotten it exactly – every detail of that morning was etched clear as day in her mind – but the fact it hadn’t been mentioned for some weeks had pushed it to the back of her thoughts. The letter. The whole mystery might hinge on the content of that letter or, like everything else, it might be entirely irrelevant.

  Marcus had, the day before he left, received a letter in a plain, cream, good quality envelope, address handwritten – it was notable since aside from bills and junk neither of them had received a letter of any kind for years. Marcus had looked only mildly surprised and intrigued when she had handed it to him that evening when he had returned from work. But he had put it to one side when the kids had come tumbling in to welcome their Daddy home and help him lay the table for dinner. It was then forgotten until the following morning and he hadn’t opened it until he was standing in the hallway ready to go to work. He had read the contents with no reaction then folded the letter and envelope together and put them in the inside pocket of his jacket as he was walking out the door. He had said nothing about the contents and of course they were now gone with him.

  She was straw-clutching, she knew it. The letter could have been anything, a simple missive from work about a pension change or a slightly more subtle form of junk mail, selling insurance or broadband. But. But it could be the answer to everything. It could have been exactly what Handley suspected it was, from a lover giving details of how they would run away together. Only if that was the case then why send it to his home address? Surely, something like that would be sent to his office or done far more discreetly? So, if not that then what? A threat? A promise? She had no more idea than the police and was no nearer to finding the answer surrounding the events of that morning than she had ever been – no nearer to Marcus, no nearer to peace or rest or ever feeling like anything other than an empty husk, an automaton going through the motions of living. She began to cry again, from frustration this time.

  A cough made her look up and she realised Handley was waiting for her to reply to his questions. She had none that she hadn’t already given. She sniffed, shook her head, couldn’t trust herself to speak at that moment. Handley had, it seemed, been expecting just that response. He cleared his throat again and picked up the file.

  ‘Well, Mrs Travers, if anything does occur to you, not just about the letter, anything at all, please do call. As we’ve said before even if it seems inconsequential or irrelevant, if you remember anything more we will look at it, I promise.’

  He continued to talk to her as he led her back out of the station but she didn’t hear any of it.

  Marcus was gone and there was nothing anyone could do. She knew deep in her soul that he was not coming back, that she would never see him again. He was alive – she was sure she would know if it were otherwise – but the children would grow and slowly his memory, their picture of him in their minds, would fade along with the sound of his voice, the comfort of his touch, the memories of bedtime stories and laughter and games played in the back garden, the love and security and peaceful sleep of a child secure in the knowledge that Daddy was there to care for and protect them.

  The tears were still flowing freely when she started the car and headed home.

  ‘01

  As DCI Francis Pearson pulled up in the well-heeled London mews, lined with tiny but attractive terraced houses, he could sense this was a normally quiet, professional, ‘everyone keeps themselves to themselves’ type of place. It was a dead end so at least the forensics boys would have a little less work to do. He pulled his Cavalier over to the side of the road behind one of the two marked cars already on the scene. He also noted the Scene of Crime van as he eased his tall, lean frame out
of the car and went to the boot, pulling out a pair of plastic over-shoes and gloves and donning these quickly before heading towards the police tape.

  The house was in the middle of the street, so tape had been stretched across the road in two places. You’ll have some fun later when the other residents start coming back – Pearson thought, as he approached the uniform guarding this end of the street. He didn’t reach for ID … he knew the young officer standing there pale-faced and doing his best not to look back at the house.

  ‘Charlie,’ Pearson greeted the young man in his very deep but quiet voice that many found unnerving. ‘Are you OK son?’

  ‘Yes sir, more or less,’ Charlie responded, his voice a little hoarse and higher-pitched than normal. ‘But I’m glad I’m out here – Dan’s got the front door, thank Christ.’ These last words were delivered with real feeling and a long sigh of relief.

  ‘Can’t be your first body Charlie? You’ve got, what, two, three years now? Reckon I’d had a good couple of dozen by that time when I was uniform.’ Pearson smiled but it did little if anything to reassure the PC.

  ‘Yeah, seen plenty sir, but not like this.’ Charlie grimaced and twitched his head back to indicate the house, still refusing to turn his head in that direction.

  ‘You’ll be fine in a bit son, just do your job here. No one else in the cordon ‘til I say so OK?’

  Charlie simply nodded and lifted the tape. Pearson patted his shoulder as he passed and walked slowly towards the open door of the house.

  At 10 feet from the door Pearson began smelling the tang of drying blood in the air. Jesus, he thought, this is a bad one. A sinking suspicion began to creep across his mind. ‘Surely not,’ he muttered to himself as he approached the house.

  As young Charlie had said PC Daniel Caglieri was at the door looking paler and even sicker than Charlie. Pearson looked carefully at the experienced officer – if he was this affected by what lay inside the house then Pearson had really underestimated what he was about to enter.

  Caglieri looked through glazed, withdrawn eyes at the approaching DCI. He had seen many things in his time with the Met, but this? This had to be one of the worst. Now he was going to have to relive the details all over again; Pearson was sure to want to be brought up to speed before entering the house. Caglieri did not want to go in there again. As the DCI drew to a halt in front of him he tried all the tricks he could think of to create a detached, professional part of his mind where he could sort his report and deliver it to the detective without emotion or – even worse – throwing up again, this time all over his superior’s nice suit.

  ‘You were first on scene Dan?’ Pearson asked. He appeared calm and friendly as he spoke but Caglieri knew he was sizing him up, checking he was up to remaining on scene and giving a detailed enough report.

  He drew a deep steadying breath and attempted to speak, realised it would come out as a croak so cleared his throat before attempting it again.

  ‘Yes sir,’ he finally managed. ‘PC Stance and I received the shout about 1430 – we were nearby so were on scene around 1439. The woman who had called in was outside, hysterical. She took quite a bit of calming down before we could get much sense from her. She’s the cleaner and had let herself in when nobody answered the door and assumed there was nobody in. This was around 1415, she says. She realised something was wrong straight away as the baby was screaming upstairs. She went to investigate and that’s when she found the, er, the body sir.’

  As Caglieri drew breath to continue Pearson interrupted him, ‘A baby? That wasn’t mentioned when I got the call. Where is it now?’

  ‘WPC Fisher has taken her to hospital sir, to have her checked over.’

  ‘Already? Ambulance must have been quick?’

  ‘Yes sir, St Mary’s is just round the corner – they were here within five minutes of us calling. WPC Fisher and PC Cooper were second on scene so they took care of the baby. They’ve gone with her in the ambulance.’

  ‘Right, of course, sorry Dan, carry on.’

  ‘Yes sir … so after we spoke to the witness, the, er, cleaning lady that is, PC Stance and I entered the property. There’s nothing seems out of the ordinary downstairs, and in fact there was little seemed out of place anywhere, but we discovered the, um, the woman, the, er, victim in the main bedroom.’

  Caglieri turned even whiter and looked as though he might be sick. Pearson took an involuntary step back.

  ‘OK Dan, that’s fine, thanks. I take it the cleaning lady has also been taken to hospital and that you got all of her details before she left?’ Caglieri simply nodded. ‘Good, who’s in from SOCO?’

  ‘Barrowdale and Michelle, sir.’

  ‘Michelle? Michelle who?’

  ‘She’s new sir, that’s why she’s with Barrowdale – you know the senior officer taking the newbie through their paces, sir?’

  ‘Great,’ sighed Pearson, saying no more on the subject. ‘OK, well done Dan, you’ve handled this very well. No one else to enter the house until either I or Barrowdale give the go ahead OK?’

  Again, Caglieri simply nodded, not trusting himself to speak further. Pearson gave him an encouraging tight-lipped half smile and walked into the hall.

  The smell of blood and early decomposition that greeted him was almost overpowering. With his years of experience, Pearson knew to breathe through his mouth in order to lessen the initial assault on his olfactory senses as he took stock of the layout of the house. Like many other houses of this sort dotted around the capital this one was small, but its location ensured it would be phenomenally expensive. The hallway was well decorated but lacked a great deal of ornamentation or interest. Straight in front of where he stood, stairs led up to the landing which Pearson guessed would mirror the hall. To his right a door, slightly ajar, led to the living room and another door straight in front which he assumed would lead to the kitchen. Putting his head round the living room door he noted that the room was neat and tidy – nothing, as the PC outside had said, was out of place. Steeling himself for what was to come, he gripped the banister and headed upstairs.

  As suspected, the landing covered a similar area to the hall, small and square, although now it was dotted with the square metal plates SOCO had placed there to keep contamination from erroneous feet off of the floor. Pearson followed the sound of Barrowdale’s slightly squeaky voice into the master bedroom.

  Douglas Barrowdale could only be described as a grey man. When seen out of context the automatic reaction to the man was ‘accountant’. He was slight and small, with half-moon glasses perched too low on his beak of a nose. His suit was of good quality but a dull grey, his voice high though flat and monotone, and even his skin had a grey tinge to it.

  ‘Number it first girl!’ Barrowdale was hollering across the room as Pearson stepped through the door. The until-then unseen Michelle had her back to Pearson but he still caught the faint intake of calming breath. He smiled to himself. No one escaped Barrowdale’s blunt, acerbic style of management – new to the job or not. He demanded absolute care and attention to every detail. Pearson liked him. He got the job done and got it done properly.

  Barrowdale continued to berate Michelle, ‘How can we make sense of spatter patterns if we have no reference to where they are on the wall?’ Noticing Pearson in the doorway Barrowdale raised his chin slightly in acknowledgement and continued to bag the pair of knickers he held in his gloved hand.

  The mention of spatter patterns drew Pearson’s attention to the wall at the head of the bed. Blood was sprayed and smeared in several places, some of which seemed impossibly high up the wall. Following these patterns down to the bed he finally forced himself to look at the body of the woman sprawled naked on top of the blood-soaked duvet.

  His earlier suspicion turned to certainty. He had already encountered this particular killer. He had, some months ago, attended an almost identical murder: a young professional woman, with multiple stab and slash wounds, no sign of forced entry and in that case very little us
eful forensic evidence. They had no leads – the case was still open and being worked on by his team.

  The professional in him told him to stop jumping the gun. It was possible that he was looking at an entirely unrelated crime. He wouldn’t voice any possible connection between the two to anyone else until all the evidence was collated and gone through. Then, if there were any matches found in the forensics or if he could show a clear correlation in MOs, he would unite the investigations. He was 90 percent certain what the outcome would be but, ever cautious and patient, he would wait and see before acting.

  Steeling himself a little more he turned his attention back to the scene in front of him.

  The sheer number of wounds – starting at her left shoulder, all over her torso and continuing down her legs – were astounding. Many were clearly deep stab wounds made with a large knife. A few appeared to be shallower cuts, mainly around her breasts and on her inner thigh. Pearson eventually made himself look at her face. She was young, early thirties maybe, and even with the waxy, colourlessness of death and the teeth-baring grimace of her mouth Pearson realised she would have been very attractive in life.

  ‘Took your time Fran,’ Barrowdale said, turning his attention to the detective. ‘Where’s the charming DS Manning?’

  ‘Headed here as soon as I got the call Douglas. Soph’ll be here soon enough – she’s doing some checks on the address before heading over. How long has she been here? And anything immediate you can tell me?’ Pearson asked quietly.

  ‘Two to three days. I’ll know more after the PM. No need to look for the murder weapon – it was left on the bed,’ Barrowdale said, nodding to a large canvas bag where the evidence was being collected. ‘We’ll examine every millimetre at the lab but I wouldn’t like to bet there’s anything on it apart from the victim’s blood. There are no obvious fingerprints in the blood on the wall or the bedframe so my bet is we’ll struggle to find any. There doesn’t appear to be any blood anywhere outside this room. We’ll check thoroughly of course, but I suspect the whole attack took place here. Blood spatter might tell us a little about the attacker, and the victim’s clothes may offer something we can extract DNA from – fibres, hair or semen.’ He waved the clear plastic evidence bag with the victim’s underwear inside before dropping it into the canvas bag.