He set his phone on the coffee table and pressed dial, placing it on speaker.
“Xavier Ross. Can I help you?”
“I hope you can, Mister Ross. It’s D.C.S. Craig here; you spoke to my analyst and asked me to call.”
There was silence for a moment as they could almost hear the man gathering his thoughts. He was definitely gathering papers, and he rustled them loudly down the line.
“The Barr Group bought the Department of Energy site in the summer of two-thousand-and-seven, and I acted as their surveyor on the purchase.”
“We know that, thank-you. What we’re interested in is who filled in the cellar of the DoE building.”
Liam passed him a fresh cup of coffee and added, “As in, who ordered it and who actually did it?”
Further rustling resulted in what sounded like a single sheet of paper being pulled out, and then the surveyor started to answer their questions in a roundabout way.
“I carried out the first survey of the Department of Energy building in December two-thousand-and-six when Mister Kamran Barr first expressed an interest in purchasing it. At that point the basement floor was comprised of a car-park and an intact and functional cellar containing a boiler, electrics, pipes and extensive storage space-”
Craig cut in.
“The cellar was a useful space?”
“Very useful, and a substantial size. I stated as much on my survey.”
“So why and when was it filled in?”
Ross answered as if he was reading from a sheet.
“At the end of June two-thousand-and-seven, after contracts had been exchanged and a completion date agreed for the end of July, I received a call from the DoE informing me that there had been a serious flood in the cellar and their surveyors had recommended draining and then, when that had failed, sealing it to avoid building subsidence.”
“Not the car-park?”
“No. That part of the basement was intact, and is still being used I understand.”
Craig frowned. Something sounded off here.
“Who at the DoE did you speak to?”
There was a lengthy silence that made it clear that the surveyor hadn’t asked for a name, and then he spoke again.
“They sent a follow-up document but the signature is rather hard to read.”
Craig could feel himself getting exasperated. “Well, who emailed it to you then?”
“It was faxed. That was more the norm back then.” Before Craig could explode he added, “I have the fax number, and the document bears the official header of the government’s surveyors, so it was definitely valid.”
Craig decided to park his next question for a moment because Liam had one to ask.
“I’m guessing the Barrs would have wanted a rebate, given that they were losing useful square footage?”
They could hear Ross nodding. “There was an invoice sent by them to the DoE, I understand.”
“Was it paid?”
The D.C.I. knew it was a stupid question as soon as he’d asked it. Xavier Ross wasn’t the Barrs’ accountant, but they would be asking whoever was.
“I’m assuming so. I heard no more about it.”
Craig stepped back in. “Did you inspect the cellar after the filling work was completed?”
“No, I was already on another job, but I’m sure the government would have done.”
“Let me get this straight, you got a call from someone at the DoE about the cellar flooding, and then you received confirmation from their surveyors by fax.”
“Yes. That was the course of events.”
“We’ll need a copy of that fax.”
“Of course. I’ll scan it and send it to you now if I can have an email address.”
While Liam supplied one, Craig thought. Something was wrong here but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was, so he asked another question of the surveyor.
“The DoE ordered the filling in of the cellar and their surveyor faxed you to confirm, but who actually did the work? Do you have any idea about that, Mister Ross?”
The answer both surprised and cheered him.
“Yes, I faxed back to ask and they told me who they were sending. We use the firm for a lot of work too. It was Leonards Building Contractors. They’re very reliable.”
So reliable that The Monmouth Consortium was using them on their new development as well, and happily they currently had one of the contracting firm’s foremen waiting in the cells.
****
The Labs.
John watched the forensic anthropologist with fascination, yes, for her, but more so for what she was doing. All the bones they’d discovered from their younger victim had been scanned in three dimensions and were now rotating slowly on the screen in front of them, so they could be viewed from every angle and his guest could take a closer look.
Judith Holmes glanced up at him over her round tortoise-shell glasses. “You wouldn’t have a larger screen by any chance, John?”
The pathologist thought for a moment and then nodded, waiting until Holmes had gathered her laptop and then leading her through the corridors to the labs’ seldom used education room. It had been built when medical students used to come there for teaching sessions, which were now, as he preferred to use the time to escape from the incessant demands of death, mostly held up at Queen’s. But the room was still equipped with modern audiovisual equipment and that included a sixty-inch TV screen.
Holmes plugged in her computer and projected the 3D images onto the larger display, standing back to admire the effect. It had been worth the effort. Even John spotted things on the remains that he hadn’t before, even if he wasn’t sure what they meant.
After a lengthy scan from a distance the anthropologist moved to stand in front of the screen, peering in particular at the woman’s right radius, one of two bones in the forearm.
“She played a racquet sport. To quite a high level would be my guess.”
John leaned in to look, but had to admit he wasn’t sure what he should be seeing. Holmes obliged him with an explanation and a smile.
“Larger muscles require and produce enhanced bone where they’re attached. Bony attachments as they’re called, which you can see here,” she tapped the screen, “and here. But attachments as prominent as these are usually only seen in professional sports people.” She turned towards him. “Is that possible? Could this young woman have been a high level sportsperson?”
John frowned, mulling over her words. Eventually he shook his head.
“I think it’s unlikely that a well-known professional could have disappeared without it being reported, when they would have missed practices and events. And there’s been no-one matching this victim’s description on the missing persons’ list here in the past eighteen years.”
The anthropologist nodded thoughtfully and pushed her glasses higher up her nose. “Then I would say that she played at least at club level, and very well. You see here…” She tapped the virtual rib cage with her pen. “She was slightly more developed on the right side of her chest, from the torque and force required when turning to hit the ball. Also, her chest is more expanded than would be expected from her overall height and build, which would fit with the enhanced aerobic capacity that you’d expect in someone very fit.”
John was impressed; he must take some additional courses on bones. Holmes’ specialty fascinated him and he wanted to know more.
“So she was right-handed?”
“Likely but not definite. Some people are ambidextrous but show a preference for using one hand over the other for sport.”
Not to be outdone John pointed to the victim’s spine, in particular the thoracic area.
“Am I imagining things or does that look like slight scoliosis?”
Scoliosis is a medical condition in which a person's spine has a sideways curve. The curve is usually "S"- or "C"-shaped. In some, the degree of curve is stable, while in others, it increases over time.
Holmes stepped forward for a be
tter look. “I think you might be right. It certainly looks like she had that tendency anyway, although that’s not uncommon in teenage girls. But it isn’t full blown scoliosis, so either it stopped developing naturally, or she had some form of a correction.”
Suddenly she shook her head and tapped the screen. “No, there’s no new bone formation or pinning to indicate surgery, so clearly it wasn’t that.” She stepped back again several feet for a wider look and then nodded. “We have to be talking about either a corset or therapy.”
“Physio?”
“Possibly.” She gazed at the display for a moment longer and then sighed. “I’ll need the other bones you’re searching for to be able to say anything more.”
John nodded and turned off the screen. “You’ve given us plenty to work on, Judith, thank-you. I’ll contact you as soon as we have the rest of the skeleton, which will be very soon we hope.”
As he went to walk her out she demurred.
“I can get back to the car on my own, thanks, John. I’m sure you have calls to make.”
He certainly did.
Davy was about to acquire yet more work, but first he had to answer Craig’s outstanding and of course, urgent demands. The team seemed to work at one speed nowadays, racing, and if it was going to continue that way then he wanted a raise. The analyst had just put the phone down to Liam when John rang him, and thirty seconds in Davy realised that this request was one to pass off to their resident nurse.
“This is a bit medical, Annette, so it w...would be great if you could help.” He covered the receiver tactfully with his hand. “But pin him down on likely dates, etcetera, can you. Doctor Winter tends to be a bit vague in his requirements sometimes.”
Transfer done he returned to the reason for Liam’s call, which had piqued his interest. Someone at the Department of Energy had phoned The Barr Group’s surveyor, Xavier Ross, in June two-thousand-and-seven about the building’s cellar having flooded, and then the DoE’s surveyors had sent Ross the fax that he was looking at now, followed by someone at Leonards Contractors then filling the basement in. Part of the puzzle was, had an invoice for compensation been raised by The Barr Group? And if so had it ever been paid? Davy had a twitchy feeling about the whole scenario so he wanted to check it out himself.
Pretty soon he had some answers that he knew Craig wasn’t going to like, so he phoned Liam with them instead.
The two detectives were still in Jack’s staff-room but no longer eating doughnuts, in Liam’s case only because they were finished and he was too lazy to go out and buy some more. They both jumped when Liam’s mobile rang and both went to grab it, but Craig got there first, much to the analyst’s dismay.
“Oh. It’s you, chief.”
“Liam’s in a doughnut coma. What have you got for us?”
Davy braced himself for the response to his next words, remembering fondly a time when speaking to Craig hadn’t filled him with dread. Whatever was going on in the man’s personal life he bloody well hoped he sorted it out soon and stopped making all their lives a misery.
None of the analyst’s thoughts were reflected in his calm tone.
“The short version is that I went back to Xavier Ross and got the exact date and time that he received the DoE call, thankfully he keeps good records, then I contacted Jackson Hardy at the DoE who was in charge of the s...sale and he’s adamant that he didn’t make the call, so next I’m getting on to the phone company to see where it originated. Hardy also said the government’s s...surveyors didn’t send the fax, so I checked with the surveyors themselves and they agreed. Plus, the fax number that it came from was inside the DoE building itself, and it was sent after the building had been vacated-”
Craig stopped him. “It was faxed to Xavier Ross from an empty building?”
“An officially empty building, yes, which doesn’t mean that it was. Remember that Ash’s crime list included squatting.”
“Squatters wouldn’t have known the name of The Barr Group’s surveyors or the DoE’s. So what the hell are we looking at here?”
Davy knew a rhetorical question when he heard one, so he moved on.
“There’s more than that, chief. Whoever sent that fax from the DoE then instructed Leonards to send s...someone to fill in the basement.”
“Did they get paid?”
“I don’t know, I’ll check. I’m still checking on the compensation invoice for the Barrs too. Also, I’ve found out that the Barrs didn’t lay any new concrete layers on the floors when they acquired the DoE building. They just put down new carpet, tiles and lino on the existing ones, on all ten of the building’s floors, whacked up some stud partition w...walls and new shower rooms to make the bedrooms, slapped on a coat of paint and then opened up in October. The whole renovation happened in August and S...September. They must have used a hundred men.”
Liam snorted. “Cheap as chips. That was because they planned to make the rooms budget lets.”
The analyst hadn’t finished. “But there’s something really important I think you should know before you interview Dean Kelly.”
“Which is?”
“Kelly was the man Leonards Construction sent to fill in the cellar in two-thousand-and-seven.”
****
John Winter was deep in thought when Marcie cat-walked into his office, her signature seventies maxi-skirt skimming its newly carpeted floor, a luxury that the pathologist had just installed following a similar addition to his and Natalie’s bedroom at home, her only concession to the maple-floored Nordic decor throughout. Not that he had objected to the wood floors initially, in fact he’d been as enthusiastic about them as her, but there was something about waking up on a dark Belfast winter morning and placing your feet on comforting softness that had persuaded them both.
When he’d left for work that morning the carpet man had been at the house again, the soft beige shag pile of the bedroom now being extended to everywhere but the kitchen and bathroom, courtesy this time not of a desire to rest their feet on something fluffy but the latest of Kit’s accidents. Accidents that came from her tendency to hurl herself headlong across every room she entered, resulting, because of her bandy-legged toddler instability, in repeated crunching collisions with their floors. The risk of their daughter developing a face like a heavy-weight boxer before she reached school age had spelt the shelving of Natalie’s Scandi dream for at least a decade, scatter rugs being too prone to slipping and lipping, leaving only fitted-carpet to assuage the risks.
Had John been a less diplomatic man he would, after tiring of listening to his wife’s moans on the subject the night before, as the burial of her polished floors approached, have pointed out that as he had never hurled himself anywhere, not even during school rugby try-outs, a folly prompted by his mother’s guilt at him being the only child of academics whose idea of sport had involved nothing more spirited than a challenging game of chess, their daughter’s energetic streak must certainly have been inherited from her mum. But he was a diplomat, or rather he valued a quiet home life and knew that arguments with his rather antsy beloved never ended well, so he smiled his smiles of impending carpeted bliss discreetly, high-fiving their uncomprehending toddler only when Natalie’s back was turned.
As Marcie regarded at him from across the desk, giving the distinct impression that she was reading his mind, John shook himself out of his daydream and offered her a seat.
“No, thank-you, Doctor Winter.”
Her rounded drama-school tones made the pathologist want to sigh. Marcie had a voice like deep amber honey; dark, smooth and fluid, its hint of sweetness balanced by the feeling that the speaker could just as easily bite you as calm. It reverberated around the office, landing on the pathologist’s ear like a gift, and imbuing even the most mundane, “No thank-you” with sensuality. Voices like that should be recorded for posterity, and it crossed John’s mind that someone should start an aural library of them, if only to show their undoubtedly mechanised-voiced descendants what real human bei
ngs had once sounded like in a thousand years time. He’d got as far as wondering what to call the facility when the secretary spoke again.
“I have those results for you.”
John parked his fantasy and asked which results they were.
“From the lady in the floor.”
It wasn’t as catchy as the Lady of The Lake, but it wasn’t bad.
With that the PA produced a slip of official looking paper from beneath the fringed shawl that she always wore, set it on his desk and then swept out again, her normally clicking high-heeled boots now silent against his well-covered floor.
As his door closed John would have retreated into his fantasy library again, had not his gaze fallen on the laboratory report now directly beneath his nose. A rapid scan resulted in his eyes widening, and a second made him reach for the phone to call Craig. He caught the detective still in High Street’s staff-room, discussing Davy’s latest piece of information with his deputy.
“Yes, John. What can I do for you?”
The pathologist countered the question with one of his own.
“Where are you?”
“High Street. Why?”
As the pathologist was calculating his travel time there, Craig was doing the same to the lab. It would have taken them both fifteen minutes, ten if Liam was driving, except that rush hour was approaching and its heavy traffic would have added on twice that again.
Craig spoke again without waiting for an answer.
“Can we deal with it over the phone?”
John thought out loud. “It’s a lab chemical analysis of The Princess’ bones but I suppose I could make it less technical...” When Craig said nothing he carried on. “OK, it looks as if our girl spent the first part of her life in Canada or North America, probably on the western seaboard-”
Liam had been listening and cut in.
“How’d you get that?”
After a thirty second monologue on chemicals and minerals a grunt told John that it was too much information so he reverted to plain English.
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