Foreign Bodies

by Colin A Millar

  ‘Aside from that,’ he continued with a shrug of his slim shoulders, ‘as you can see it’s not a big room and very little else seems to have been disturbed or moved. The front door wasn’t forced so she let him in or he forced his way in when she answered the door.’

  ‘There’s little to no disturbance downstairs so I suspect she let him in,’ Pearson said, his voice still quiet and subdued. Then, without turning his gaze from the bed and the woman on it he asked, ‘Do we know who she is? Is there a husband?’

  ‘Yes, she’s Patricia Thorsten. Driving licence is in her purse in her handbag downstairs. She’s married to Magnus Thorsten – there’s a letter in the living room addressed to him. I haven’t come across any other details for him as yet.’

  Pearson drew a deep breath. ‘Right, I’ll get onto that immediately and leave you to carry on here. Is the pathologist on the way?’

  Barrowdale nodded absently, his mind already back on the job.

  ‘Nice to meet you Michelle,’ Pearson said with a smile. ‘Maybe next time he’ll let you do some talking, eh?’

  The young woman turned from the wall where she had marked up the blood spatters with numbered labels, smiled shyly and turned back to the blood and carnage she had chosen to make her career.

  Chapter Two

  It was Tuesday. Charlotte hated Tuesdays. She also hated the irony that it was, for her, the sort of day others would look forward to. She didn’t work on Tuesdays, which was why she hated them. Where others would look forward to a day without work, at home and at their leisure to sort their day as they saw fit, Charlotte faced the dread of being alone in the house: the place was full of photos of Marcus, of his things, of anything and everything that reminded her that he wasn’t there. At some time close to midday, she was sitting brooding on this over her fifth coffee of the morning when the doorbell sounded, making her start.

  To her surprise, on opening the door, there was DC Handley standing in – or more accurately, filling – the doorway. Looking almost identical to when she had last seen him, the only detectable (she smiled to herself at the pun) difference was the colour of his shirt – green today, blue last week.

  He cleared his throat then spoke softly to her: ‘Mrs Travers, may I come in? I would like to talk to you...’ Then clearing his throat again he added, ‘… in a somewhat unofficial capacity.’

  Charlotte stood taking in the man – he seemed a little nervous or at least uncomfortable. She nearly laughed aloud when he shuffled his feet in an almost cartoon-like fashion.

  What the hell did he mean by ‘unofficial’? she wondered. Was he going to try to come on to her or something? But then, realising she would appreciate some company anyway and a break from the usual Tuesday hell, she moved aside and let him in.

  He followed her a little awkwardly into the living room, declining her offer of coffee. He surveyed the room in the way Charlotte supposed policemen always did, appearing to take in every detail whilst never looking at anything for very long. Eventually he took a seat on the couch under the window, sitting back then immediately sitting forward again. Charlotte sat on the couch that ran at right angles to the window seat.

  He looked at Charlotte intently for longer than felt comfortable to her and yet again cleared his throat.

  ‘I realise’, he began slowly, carefully shifting his gaze to the carpet, ‘that our last meeting was not very satisfactory for you and that you feel let down by our efforts.’

  She opened her mouth to talk but he raised his hand to stop her and continued, speaking more quickly now to make sure he finished what he wanted to say: ‘I stand by our decision to officially cease investigating, as we can’t afford the resources to continue looking at dead ends.’ He raised his hand again to allay another interjection, then added, ‘But…’ He stopped and drew breath as though to speak but then didn’t continue.

  ‘But?’ prompted Charlotte, when it became apparent he was either lost for words or had decided against what he had been about to say. He lifted his eyes from the carpet to her face and frowned slightly, clearly weighing up his next statement.

  ‘But,’ he began again, ‘I wanted you to know that I’m not happy about this either. Your husband was, er, is … I mean to say he doesn’t strike me as the type of man who just ups and leaves. It doesn’t somehow seem likely to me that he would leave his children without so much as a word – not to mention the fact that he was, is, a relatively senior civil servant and has left important work behind with no instructions or covering details. As I understand it, he was, ugh–,’ he interrupted himself again, looking disgusted at his third blunder in a row, ‘–is an extremely conscientious man who enjoyed and was very dedicated to his work?’

  She simply nodded at this, having no real idea where this little monologue was heading or what Handley actually wanted. Charlotte hoped fervently that he was not simply trying to clear his conscience for having handled their last meeting so badly or for getting nowhere with his investigations. She thought of asking as much then thought better of it; whatever he wanted he would get to soon enough, and if he felt the need to apologise or justify his actions, well, let him do so. It occurred to her that she might be able to use that in some sort of appeal to re-open the case.

  ‘So you see Mrs Travers,’ he continued, ‘those details do not, for me, fit with a man who disappears from his whole life without there being something, some trigger or event or,’ he waved his hand in irritation at not finding the right turn of phrase, ‘or whatever, that has forced him away or led him to some form of extreme breakdown whereby he has simply dropped out of society altogether.’

  Charlotte’s patience ran out. ‘These are the points I’ve been making all along, DC Handley,’ she said hotly. ‘If you think the same thing then why on Earth are you not keeping the investigation open? Why are you not still out there trying to find my husband?’

  ‘Because there’s no evidence Mrs Travers.’ His reply was terse, responding to her aggressive tone. He took a long deep breath calming himself and held up both hands in supplication, his gesture saying, ‘I will explain but please bear with me’. The gesture appeared to work.

  When he continued his voice was soft and even again.

  ‘The only facts we have to work on are those you gave in your statement, Mrs Travers, and to be frank my years of experience have taught me that people – especially those with a high degree of emotional involvement in a series of events – tend to mis-remember at best and at worst start to make the facts fit what they think should have happened. They want a particular scenario to be true so they tell their version of events with that scenario in mind, which can lead to the investigation taking all sorts of wrong turns. Other than your statement we have nothing, no trail to follow, no suggestions or insights from anyone that knew your husband well and certainly no hard evidence to tell us where he is or what has happened to him. So, you see, from a police investigation point of view there is nothing more we can do and hence the file stays open but active investigation stops.’

  The look on her face must have betrayed her feelings and given the policeman a clue to what she would say next, as for the third time in as many minutes he raised his hands, requesting that she hear him out.

  ‘However, I am, as I said at the door, here in what could be described as an unofficial capacity, although my superior knows I’m here, sort of. I would like to give this one last shot. Let’s see if we can’t pin down something we’ve missed or at the very least come to some sort of conclusion together that, hopefully, rules out anything untoward and so allay your fears on that point. I appreciate that this may not completely resolve the situation for you but, if we can find a reason why your husband might have left of his own accord, you could at least then be reasonably certain that your husband is alive and, therefore, at some point in the future might make himself known again.’

  *

  Handley had spent some of his morning writing reports to update his boss, his case files and the Crown Prosecution S
ervice on various uninspiring and, in the main, straightforward cases. The rest of the time had been spent staring out the window or blankly at his screen. Occasionally he would frown to himself or sigh quietly. He was a man with something on his mind.

  DCI Malcolm Tanner, the boss of Handley’s team, was not – he admitted it himself – very good at recognising when a member of his team was distracted by something outside of work. He was, however, very good at spotting a lack of productivity. And detested it. As a result, he had decidedly had enough of watching Tony Handley look like he was trying to write a magnum opus rather than a few straightforward reports. He rose from his own desk at the other end of the room and strolled over to where Tony was sitting, yet again staring blankly out the window.

  ‘Right Tony,’ he said in his best ‘The Boss’ voice, ‘either get those reports finished or bugger off and deal with whatever the fuck it is you think is more important.’

  Handley looked up, startled, and stared blankly at his boss for all of 30 seconds.

  ‘Er, yes boss. I mean there’s nothing I think is more important, sir – than the reports I mean.’

  Tanner grunted and shook his head. ‘I won’t have you moping about my bloody office making the place look like a fucking library where students and dossers pass their time. So, piss off and sort your shit out, but–’ Tanner added, raising a ‘not to be negotiated with’ finger, ‘–those reports will be finished and filed with copies on my desk before five, understood?’

  ‘Er, right, yes sir,’ was all Handley could think of to say.

  After he had locked his screen and put paperwork back in the correct folders, he pulled on his jacket and headed straight out of the station.

  As he drove, Handley considered what he was going to say to Charlotte Travers. He also considered what the hell he thought he was actually going to do and how and when.

  He found a coffee shop and sat staring out the window, absently stirring his cup of cappuccino; he always had cappuccino, mainly because he hadn’t a clue what anything else on the menu was. The Travers case had been eating at him since it landed on his desk. Firstly, there was little to no evidence. And secondly, after following all the usual routes and procedures there was still a lump sum of zero to go on. Also, despite the fact the boss had eventually shrugged and said that that was that, nothing else could be done, the guy had probably run off with, as Tanner had put it, ‘a richer, sexier, younger bit of stuff,’ Handley felt that there was something that had been missed somehow.

  The assumptions being made didn’t make sense. This guy, who by all and every account was the dictionary definition of upright: a model father, doting husband (if you believed the wife, which – for no reason he could give – Handley did), a dedicated and professional man in his workplace (the Foreign Office, for God’s sake) and a man whose habits and manner were predictable and stable. Would this man walk out on his life without any explanation or indication to his loved ones that anything was wrong? This just did not sit with what Handley felt he knew about people and especially what he felt he knew about Marcus Travers.

  Then there was the mysterious letter he had received the day before disappearing. It hadn’t been found so there was no way of knowing what it contained. It could be entirely irrelevant or it could be the answer to the whole case. Handley knew that when there was nothing but speculation around a piece of evidence, the only thing an investigating officer could do was ignore it. But Handley couldn’t help himself. He wanted to know what was in that letter.

  Even with all those unresolved questions and dead ends, and against his professional view that his boss was probably right – at least about there being nothing else to be done, if not the reasoning behind Marcus Travers’ disappearance – Handley had, somehow, come to the conclusion that he needed to try again. That for his own peace of mind, if nothing else, he needed to try and see the ‘evidence’ differently. He’d missed something, he was sure, but had no idea what. He also had no idea how a police officer went about ‘unofficially’ investigating a case, or whether they should and more importantly were actually allowed to.

  Handley felt very conflicted as he mulled this over. He was, he prided himself, a very professional police officer, always empathetic yet detached with victims, and straight and unemotional with those he arrested. He knew procedure and stuck to it religiously. This was his professional face and demeanour. But that was part of the problem – it was a face, a mask, one he had invented and developed over a number of years now. It hid, and hid well, his general and overriding insecurities and self-doubts.

  He was conscientious – this came naturally – but he questioned everything else he did. Had he covered all the bases? Explored every angle and thread? He always felt that he hadn’t or at least that his efforts were simply not good enough, and that for whatever reason he had failed, would always fail, that he just didn’t have what it took and would spend the rest of his career as a detective constable or, at best, a detective sergeant. And this added another layer to his anxieties. He was ambitious, he wanted to achieve. He had a passionate and driving desire to be better than he was, hence his invention of a professional face and the persona to go with it. At least with that face on he could look the part even if he wasn’t feeling it.

  When he thought about this, the final piece and probably the crux of the problem arose in his mind. He feared he would be found out. He feared that somehow his boss or some other high-ranking officer would see straight through his professional demeanour and would know – simply by looking at him or assessing his reports or, why not, with black magic for all he knew – that he was not a good detective, just a, plodding, unimaginative good old-fashioned copper, only good for shoe leather in bigger investigations and for carrying the load of ‘minor’ incidents for the rest of the team.

  And this weighed on him. It made him feel inferior and awkward around authority figures. Even Tanner who he had worked under for the last two years or more made him feel tongue-tied, sweaty and nervous. The only solution he could think of for all of this was to somehow impress his superiors, to make his mark and therefore lose all the baggage that he lugged with him every day.

  And finally, he thought with a sigh, his last meeting with Mrs Travers had not exactly gone the way he had hoped, his attempt at reassurance had come across as glib and by-the-book. To say she had been unhappy with the meeting would probably have a good chance of gold at the Understatement Olympics.

  Still undecided on exactly what he was going to say or do he got back in his car and headed for the Travers’ home address.

  *

  Tanner watched, shaking his head as his young detective meandered out of the office. He would have to get that lad focused somehow. He was good and enthusiastic and always threw himself at whatever job he was given, but that would always be to the detriment of his other duties – filing reports being a prime example. Well, he thought, he’s out of my hair for a bit anyway.

  ‘Not that there’s much left to get out of,’ he muttered ruefully, running his hand over his balding pate.

  ‘Boss?’ The nearest officer must have heard Tanner’s muttering.

  ‘Nothing Davie. I was quite literally moaning about nothing.’

  Ignoring the quizzical look from his DS he strode back to his desk. As soon as he reached for his next piece of ‘bloody paperwork’ his phone rang. Looking at the phone’s display he saw it was his boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Pearson. With a sigh and a heavenward glance he lifted the receiver.

  ‘Sir?’ He attempted a respectful but extremely busy tone of voice, but didn’t convince himself – never mind his boss.

  ‘Malcolm, I know you’re busy, aren’t we all, but I need a word. Something’s come across my desk that I need you to look at.’ Pearson’s voice was rough and rasping – smoking 30 plus a day did that to a voice.

  ‘No problem, sir. Give me five and I’ll come up.’

  ‘Ah well, in that case I’ll see you in the car park in one minute.’
>
  This raised a smile from Tanner. Fran Pearson could smell a cigarette break from 1000 yards and never missed an opportunity for a smoke.

  Precisely one minute later they were both stood huddled against the wall as a cold breeze did it’s best to improve their health by driving them back inside. So far it had failed miserably.

  After a couple of minutes of general catch-up and chat, Tanner decided he should prompt his Super onto the reason they had come out in the first place.

  ‘So, what’s this interesting bit of info then Fran?’ Tanner asked between puffs.

  They had known each other for years now, so when outside the office or shut behind a closed door with just the two of them they would revert to first name terms.

  Pearson took a final drag and carefully put his cigarette out in the tray mounted to the wall. ‘Do you recall The Charmer case?’

  Tanner puffed his cheeks, pulled his collar up around his neck – signalling for the move inside – and looked at his boss with a questioning frown. ‘Yeah I remember it alright. I was only shoe leather at the time but even a wet-behind-the-ears DC like me knew it was massive. Has something turned up then?’

  Tanner had asked the last question with a slightly distracted air; he was recalling his part in the huge manhunt for The Charmer. He knew his boss had played a prominent part in the investigation. Over ten years ago now, a serial killer was thought to be responsible for at least a dozen murders stretching back several years. The investigation had continued for five years with no results. The murders had continued although more sporadically as time went on. Tanner had always assumed someone, somewhere, was still investigating and in all likelihood further victims were still cropping up.