by Jay Nadal
A hefty glug of whiskey shocked his taste buds and set his mouth alight. The harsh liquid raced down his throat burning a fire trail as it made its way down to his empty stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, breakfast maybe? Goddard scrunched up his face as his throat burnt, his eyes firmly shut tight as he waited for the soothing sensation to replace the bombardment of grittiness that he felt inside. He ran a hand through brown, receding hair. The warmth of the alcohol started to build from deep within, a burning ember that rippled out from his core, leaving a soothing sensation that washed over him.
Damn bitch.
His moment of contentment was short-lived as his thoughts turned to her. He despised her, hated the sight of her face. He looked upwards at the ceiling, his bedroom directly above. He wasn’t even sure she’d heard him come in, her sleeping pills no doubt taking her to a land of bliss and ignorance. His face hardened. His eyes narrowed as his jaws clenched tight, his breath coming deep and hard as he took one more gulp before slamming the bottle down hard on the dining table.
The house was quiet, but in his mind the London Philharmonic Orchestra played Mahler Symphony No. 5 at maximum volume just to annoy him. He groaned as he took one step at time, ascending the stairs into the darkness of the upstairs landing. His bedroom door was closed. Fucking bitch, you fat fucking bitch. Goddard swayed into the room, his eyes searching out the silhouette that lay under the duvet and in his bed. Anger seeped from every pore, his teeth ground as his temper reached fever pitch.
He tumbled onto the bed, grabbing his wife’s hair. The assault of pain shocked her awake as she felt her hair being pulled out by its roots. Her senses fought hard to gain a bearing on what was happening. Her body’s natural instinct was to minimise the pain by following the path of where she was being dragged.
“Get up you silly bitch!” he yelled, his eyes wide with aggression, his double chin shaking as he shook his head. “Please, Laurence,” she pleaded. “Please stop, you’re hurting me. I’m sorry, please.” Desperation etched her voice, as her senses jolted her into survival mode. “You need help. You can’t keep hurting me.”
“Shut the fuck up, you filthy bitch. You make me want to puke. You don’t think I know what you’re up to,” he sneered as he put his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her face within inches of his. His alcohol-infused breath forced her to look away. “Don’t turn your face when I’m talking to you. You whore. Look at you, dressing up in short skirts, tight tops, flaunting yourself. You make me sick. Do you hear me?…Sick!” he screamed as his hand launched across her face sending her crashing to the floor.
Samantha Goddard held her stinging cheek, her head spinning, pain racing across her scalp. Holding herself up with one hand, she placed the other over her head to shield herself as Goddard stood over her.
“Please, Laurence, you’ve got the wrong idea. I’m your wife. Please stop hurting me,” she implored.
“You’re not my wife, do you hear me? You never have been,” he replied, punching her in the face. “It’s the biggest mistake I ever made, marrying you. I can’t cope with you and that stuff; it’s killing me!” he shouted as he gripped his head on both sides.
“Tell me. I can help,” she offered, hoping to calm him.
“No one can help. Not you, not anyone,” he seethed, before hitting her once again.
The blow sent her sprawling across the bedroom floor. He turned and staggered out of the room towards the stairs. Samantha Goddard dragged herself to the corner of her bedroom and wedged herself between the bed and wall. She cowered in fear, pressing her hand on her hot cheek, the sting still radiating heat across her face. Tears welled in her eyes as she pulled her legs in tight to her body and wrapped her arms around her shins. She rocked gently as the tears turned to a whimpering cry. She couldn’t take much more of this. She craved a normal life, one where she didn’t fear what fate awaited her every night.
Laurence collapsed into the armchair, his hand stung, his knuckles bruised. Jack was his friend. Jack was who he turned to when he felt darkness closing in. Knowing what he knew felt like a life sentence, an imaginary weight around his neck dragging him down. He repeatedly banged his head into the cushioned back of the armchair in frustration. I can’t do this anymore, I can’t, he silently screamed deep inside his dark, distorted mind. Jack would know what to do; Jack always knew how to take his pain away.
He took another large mouthful and let it burn a trail through him. He closed his eyes and leant back. Jack took over, taking him to a place where no one could hurt or blame him.
8
Abby pulled up alongside Scott’s car in the mortuary car park. He greeted her with an exaggerated grin as he stepped out. The early morning sun was bright and warm, causing him to squint.
“Morning, how was Phil? Did sparks fly between you?” He winked, looking pleased with his attempt at humour.
Abby shot him a glance. “Really? Is that the best you can do?”
“Well come on, spill the beans. Did he manage to thaw the ice maiden?” he continued as they walked to the door.
“You make me sound like some frigid old woman,” she replied, playfully punching him on the arm, before pointing a wagging finger at him. “Choose your next words carefully sonny Jim.”
“Seriously, how did it go?”
Abby shrugged. “It was okay, a bit awkward to start, but a pleasant enough evening.”
“The excitement is bubbling out of every pore, Abby.” He laughed. “I used to date a female electrician…she was shocking in bed,” Scott said and then roared.
Abby groaned. “Oh my word, they get worse. Don’t give up the day job,” she said, pressing the buzzer.
“Why did Mr Ohm marry Mrs Ohm?” Scott asked desperate to crack out another joke…not waiting for an answer, he carried on, “Because he couldn’t resistor. Get it? Resist her?” Scott rocked his head back chuffed with his latest jokes, his shoulders shaking up and down.
“So pathetic, so, so pathetic,” Abby replied shaking her head in disbelief.
The officers kitted up in robes, paper face masks and white wellies that were too big, before joining Cara, the pathologist, who was well advanced with the post-mortem examination of Christopher Johnson. Scott had only seen Cara a few hours ago after she’d spent the night at his, but nevertheless, he was pleased to see her once again. She was definitely having a positive effect on his life. The grief he’d experienced had taken him to dark places; he’d sunk to new lows and contemplated his own existence. Much of this he’d kept buried from others. It had been a lonely and desolate journey that appeared to have no final destination.
Cara had brought light back into his life. He welcomed her balancing influence; he cherished her support and energy that had rescued him from the precipice.
A distinct coldness enveloped the examination room. The faint whirring of the air conditioning kept the room on the decidedly chilly side to slow down body decomposition. That in itself sent cold shivers down Abby’s back as the hairs on her neck stood up. The white and cream tiled floor and walls added to the blandness, lack of warmth and lack of emotion that made the room so unwelcoming. It was as if someone had taken the room and put it through Photoshop to bleed the colour from it.
It wasn’t just the room either. Other than his face, Johnson’s body looked like a pasty off-white rubber manikin that had been used for medical students to practise their dissection skills.
The cadaver lay on the first of three tables in the mortuary. Scott recognised Cara’s assistant Neil from his last visit. Neil stood on one side of the table peering over the cadaver, holding a sliver specimen tray, whilst Cara undertook her detailed examination opposite him. Neil looked up as Scott and Abby approached, pushing his thick-framed glasses back up the bridge of his nose and acknowledging them with a friendly nod and smile.
Cara glanced up offering them a small smile which lingered on Scott for a few moments. “Morning…you got here a little late, unfortunately. I’
ve got a lot on today, so started on Johnson earlier than I anticipated.”
“That’s not a problem. We’ve got a lot on too. We just need the summary points so far,” Scott replied as he looked up and down the cadaver.
Johnson’s body had been opened up in the formal Y formation, his internal organs had been removed for sizing, weighing and analysis, and some were sitting on the metal bench to the back of the examination room ready for closer inspection. His face was a shade of blotchy red from where blood had become trapped and tiny blood capillaries had burst. His face was slightly swollen, with thick puckering of the skin beneath his jaw.
“Well, at first I thought this was a straightforward suicide when I inspected the body at the scene, but there were a few discrepancies that concerned me.”
“Really?” Abby asked.
“Yes,” Cara replied, as she moved back towards the neck region. “Let me give you a bit of background to cases like this. When a body is suspended, like a short drop death in this case, the weight of the body tightens the rope around the trachea and neck structure. The person experiences some degree of struggle before they go limp and reach an unconscious state because their jugular vein and carotid arteries are blocked and blood flow to the brain is reduced. However, the person dies slowly of strangulation, usually over the course of several minutes, and in some cases up to fifteen minutes,” she added with a shrug.
“This results in a considerably more elongated and painful death compared to what we call a long drop hanging, which is intended to kill by using the shock of the initial drop to fracture the spinal column at the neck. Normally in long drops, there’d be evidence of a dislocation of the C2 and C3 vertebrae that crush the spinal cord and or disrupts the vertebral arteries. There’s no evidence of dislocation in this instance.
“If the airway is constricted, and full suspension achieved, by that I mean, their feet are fully off the floor, this method, at least initially, is likely to be very painful. The person struggles for air against the compression of the noose and against the weight of their own body, being supported entirely by the neck and jaw. It’s a pretty horrible way to go to be honest.”
“You said you felt there were discrepancies in this case?” Scott reminded her.
“Erm…yes. I’ll get onto that in a bit. Let me finish my lesson, Scottie.”
Abby bowed her head to stifle the laughter that threatened to escape.
Scott held up his hands in mock surrender.
“The neck of a hanging victim is usually marked with furrows where the ligature has constricted the neck. An inverted V mark is also often seen. And we have both in this case.” Cara confirmed her words pointing to the thick red line beneath the jaw. “There’s also some evidence of petechiae, which is purple spotting. This is clearly seen in places on his face from broken or burst capillary blood vessels.” She pointed that out with a thin metal spike that resembled a metal toothpick.
“Coming back to your question, yes, we have ligature marks under the larynx, and the presence of significant injury to the skin of the neck. But my suspicions grew when I noticed under a magnifier, scratch marks on the ligature, and lots of scratch marks on the skin on either side of the ligature mark in various places around the neck.”
“What does that mean?”
“If I had to make a more concrete assessment, it looks like he was frantically trying to pull the rope away from his neck.”
“Do you reckon he started to go through with it, and then had a last minute attempt to stop himself as panic set in?” Scott suggested.
“That’s plausible. He may have intended to go through with it and then tried to stop, but it was too late.”
“You said firstly, Cara…?” Abby interrupted. “You found something else, didn’t you?”
“Yes. My suspicions grew because I also found bruising to the skin on his face, stomach and knees,” Cara replied looking towards Abby.
“Recent?”
“In my opinion, yes. And something else I spotted whilst at the scene. There were distinct, long scuff marks on the ground beneath the victim. I asked forensics to look a bit closer at that. And there was a second disturbed area of ground a few feet away that Matt pointed out to me. The foliage had been scraped away exposing the earth beneath it.”
“What do you think caused that? Foxes?” Scott suggested. “Like they were scratching on the surface of the forest floor?”
“Perhaps. Or scuff marks from shoes trying to touch the floor? Just a thought.”
Scott and Abby shot each other a glance. There was a new angle to the case now.
Scott ordered the eggs royale and Abby ordered a coffee. Moksha Caffé was another favourite haunt of Scott’s. He enjoyed going there on a Sunday morning and tucking into a cooked breakfast whilst leisurely enjoying a cup of their fresh locally sourced filter coffee.
He’d spent many an hour people watching. He was fascinated by human interaction, and would try and figure out people’s personalities and character traits simply by watching from a distance. Often he’d smile to himself as he challenged his internal dialogue, deciding who was the extrovert or introvert amongst couples, who was visual or kinaesthetic or who was confident or not.
Abby turned her nose up when Scott’s food arrived. “How can you eat? You astound me every time. I can just about stomach the coffee,” she added, sipping from her cup.
“As I said, a man’s gotta eat,” he replied shovelling in a large mouthful.
Abby had to look away and force the pictures from her mind of what they’d just observed that morning. “Cara’s findings put the death in a new light, eh? More questions than answers?”
Wiping his mouth with a napkin, Scott replied, “Mmm, yes it does. We need to look into Johnson’s background in a bit more detail. We need to find out what was going on in his life full stop, personally and professionally. I definitely think Collier knows more than he’s letting on. As each minute passes, it becomes more of a suspicious death.”
Abby nodded, cupping her coffee in both hands, and pulling her arms in close to her body.
“So, sparky…you going to see him again?”
Abby smiled. “I’m not sure. He text me this morning to say he’d had a nice time. He’s got a son aged fourteen, so between his job and seeing his son, he doesn’t get much time free. Besides, it’s early days; I still might be brave enough to face a few more first dates if some of the other profiles turn out to be good.” She shrugged. “Their pictures and what they look like in reality are two completely different things.”
“They would probably think the same about you.” He winked.
“You cheeky git,” Abby objected, throwing her scrunched up napkin at him.
On returning to the station, Scott and Abby made a detour via the canteen to grab an extra couple of bottles of water. It had been a warm morning. Despite the mortuary offering a coolness and respite from the heat, the short journey back to the station had left them feeling decidedly hot and bothered. The tourist crowd was already starting to pack out the seafront. The roads around the Old Steine were coming to a standstill as parking spaces became rarer than rocking horse shit. Thankfully for them, they were able to circumnavigate the tourist traffic by taking the back roads to the station.
As they queued up now, Abby nudged Scott in the ribs and pointed over her shoulder. Scott turned to look in the direction of Abby’s pointing finger. Tucked away in the corner of the canteen, he spotted Mike in deep conversation with a female officer. Scott could tell by the body language that Mike was either more than friends with her or wanted to be more than friends. He had his jacket slung over the back of the chair, his tie undone, his sleeves rolled-up. He was clearly on a charm offensive. The officer rocked back in her chair laughing as she held a hand over her mouth in embarrassment.
“Looks like Mike is eyeing up his next unsuspecting victim,” Abby said, rolling her eyes. “He really does have his brains in his pants. He’s such a lech. Even if you’re in the middle o
f a conversation with him, he can’t help looking at the backsides of every woman that walks past, even if you’re looking him right in the eye. Worst still, he always talks to your boobs, especially if he’s interested in you. And to top it off, if he’s walking behind a woman, he’s always staring at her arse.”
On this occasion, he agreed with Abby. As far as he could recall, just in the past six months alone, Mike had dated, if you could call them dates, two female officers and a civilian support officer. For some reason, they seemed to fall for his charms. However, the novelty would fade within a few weeks. Mike could never keep up the pretence for too long and they got to see the real Mike. “Poor cow, you have to try and warn her,” Scott said with a laugh.
Abby was just about to reply, when Scott’s phone rang. He grabbed the phone from his pocket, and smiled as Cara’s number came up. “Hey there, what’s up?” His face became serious for a moment as he remained silent listening to Cara. “Listen, listen, calm down. Did you see or hear anything?” he asked before falling silent again.
Abby raised her hands in front of her, with palms up, an inquisitive look etched on her face.
Scott shook his head once and raised a hand to ask Abby to wait a minute.
“Just stay put. I’ll pop back over. See you in a bit.” Scott hung up. “Listen, Abby, can you hold the fort for half an hour? I just need to pop back to the mortuary.”
“What’s up? Development in the case?”
“No, Cara’s car has been vandalised in the mortuary car park. She’s in a right state.”
9
Giles Rochester was home alone, quietly working through some new course notes. He’d had a usual run-of-the-mill day at school. Students had been a tad unruly for his liking, staff members had huddled in their small groups in the staff common room talking about England’s result in the test series against their formidable enemy Australia. From his recollection, it had certainly provoked a heated debate about the whys and wherefores of the England team’s tactics.