by Bill Rogers
‘Boss,’ he said, without preamble, ‘where are you?’
‘Coming up to the M56 turnoff. Why?’
‘Good.’ He told her, ‘You need to go straight to the Royal Bolton Hospital.’
Her stomach lurched. ‘Melissa?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s been another one. Like Ronnie O’Neill and Morris Grimshaw.’
‘Who’s the victim?’
‘I haven’t got the details. Only that it’s a male. I’m already on my way.’
‘I’ll meet you there.’
She killed the call, swore, switched on her blues and twos, and floored the accelerator.
Chapter 38
Carter was standing under the canopy outside the entrance to Accident and Emergency nursing a cardboard cup. He shook his head. ‘You needn’t have rushed, he was DOA.’
‘Bugger!’ she said. ‘Did anyone get to talk to him?’
‘He was still alive when the paramedics got to him but he was incoherent. He passed away in the ambulance.’
‘Who is he? Anyone we know?’
‘I doubt it. Not unless you’ve been kipping in doorways or keeping company under railroad arches.’
‘He was a rough sleeper?’
Carter drained the cup and crushed it in his hand. ‘It doesn’t get much rougher than the doorway of an abandoned chapel in the middle of a cemetery.’
‘Where is the body now?’
‘In the mortuary, waiting for you, CSI, and the pathologist. I left him in the capable hands of DC Whittle.’
Jo stared at him. ‘Not on her own, I hope?’
‘Course not.’ He lobbed the cup into the wastebasket. ‘She’s got a uniformed officer with her. Although, of the two of them, he’s looking the worse for wear.’
The young PC standing beside Carly Whittle looked distinctly queasy.
‘Are you alright, officer?’ Jo asked.
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ he replied. ‘I’ve never been good around dead bodies.’
‘When did you pass out?’ she asked.
He smiled weakly. ‘I haven’t, Ma’am, not yet.’
‘You wally!’ said Nick. ‘She’s asking when you completed your training.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Easter this year.’
‘Then it’s about time you got used to it. “The dead are always with us.” ’
‘Isn’t that “. . . the poor are always with us”?’ asked Carly Whittle.
‘You don’t get poorer than when you’re dead,’ Nick responded. ‘And by the sound of it you’ve been spending too much time with DC Hulme.’
‘When you two have quite finished,’ said Jo. She turned to the mortuary manager. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
The mortuary manager was used to graveyard humour. Her smile was forgiving, her manner composed. ‘As we were alerted to the fact that this was a suspicious death, with an unknown level of risk of contamination, I ensured that the full protocol was followed,’ she said. ‘The body has not been cleaned. It was lifted and transported inside a biohazard containment body bag. The clothing removed to enable emergency treatment has been bagged and sealed in a biochem-hazard property bag. Your colleague here has possession of that.’
‘And his personal effects?’
‘I have them, such as they are, Ma’am,’ said Carly Whittle holding up another evidence bag.
‘Michael here will assist you,’ said the mortuary manager. ‘I’ll be in my office if you need me.’
The mortuary technician handed each of them a face mask and then led them past two stainless-steel autopsy tables to a gurney, on which lay a large black body bag. Jo and Nick positioned themselves on one side, with the technician on the other. On Jo’s signal, he unzipped the first layer from head to toe, peeling it back sideways to reveal a transparent window beneath which the body was visible.
‘Can you unzip this one too, please?’ said Jo.
The technician hesitated. ‘I understood he was a hazard?’ he said. ‘That’s why he’s in this pouch.’
‘I’m assured that there’s no risk,’ Jo told him. ‘And we do need a photograph so we can identify him.’ Still he hesitated. ‘I’ll take full responsibility,’ she continued. ‘Besides you’re the only one with gloves and protective clothing.’
He reluctantly unzipped the transparent cover and stepped well back.
The familiar odour of smoke, sweat, and urine, mingled with that of death. Blank rheumy eyes stared up at them. Sticky matter had formed in the corners. The sclera was yellow and bloodshot. The face was gaunt and lined, with sunken cheeks. Parted lips exposed blackened teeth, and one missing canine. Dark, lank, greasy grey-flecked hair stuck to the scalp and forehead. Most startling of all was the contrast between face and hands, weathered the colour of mahogany, and the lily-white skin stretched tight across his emaciated body, peppered with irregular brown and yellow bruises.
‘Looks like he’s taken a beating or two,’ Nick observed. ‘Recent, but not within the past few days.’
‘The pathologist will be able to give us a better fix on that,’ said Jo. ‘What I don’t see is where he was shot?’
‘Nothing on this side,’ said Nick.
‘It’s towards the back of his neck,’ said the mortuary technician. ‘The reason you can’t see it is that it’s under his hair.’
‘Can you show me, please?’ Jo said.
The technician went over to a bank of stainless steel drawers and returned with a plastic spatula which he used to lift the hair away from the left-hand side of the victim’s neck. Jo leaned closer. Nick came to see for himself.
Where the trapezius muscle joined the neck was a wound with the appearance of a large, badly infected boil. At the centre was a crater with a black necrotic crust surrounded by a shiny yellowish substance, and beyond that the telltale reddish blush of sepsis.
‘That’s horrible,’ Nick observed.
Jo stood up, stepped back, and removed her face mask. ‘Thank you,’ she said to the mortuary technician. ‘I’ll just take a couple of headshots with my phone and tablet, and then we’ll be on our way. Our crime scene investigators will also want to take some photographs before the autopsy takes place and collect the clothing and property evidence bags. This officer will remain here until then.’
She turned to look at the young policeman standing beside DC Whittle. The blood had drained from his face. ‘You might want to bring him a chair,’ she said.
Photos taken, Jo and Nick joined Carly.
‘Is there anything in there,’ said Jo, pointing to the property bag, ‘that might help us identify him?’
‘There’s a photograph of a woman with a teenage boy and girl,’ she said. ‘Could be his family, I suppose. Other than that, there’s just some loose change, seventy-five pounds in new and used five-pound notes, and two bags of pills that look suspiciously like spice to me.’
‘He’s been dealing drugs,’ said Nick. ‘That figures.’
‘If you’re after a name, you might want to start with the council’s Street Life team, Ma’am,’ said the young constable. ‘They’re your best bet. I’ll give you the address for Urban Outreach. It’s only ten minutes away from here.’
Chapter 39
‘Mumbles,’ said the Urban Outreach manager, staring at the image on Jo’s phone taken in the mortuary. ‘That was his street name.’
‘Mumbles?’ said Nick Carter. ‘He came from up by the Mumbles Reservoir?’
The manager frowned. ‘No. Apparently, it’s because he used to mumble.’
‘Why was that? Because he was intoxicated, or high on drugs?’
‘Again, no. I gather it was a mental health thing.’
‘Do you know his real name, or where he came from?’ Jo asked.
‘I don’t. He only came a few times. But I remember the second time was on a Tuesday. I persuaded him to have a word with the BiDAS team.’
‘BiDAS?’
‘Bolton Integrated Drugs and Alcohol Service. There’s no one in today, but yo
u could try Beth. She’s one of our Homeless and Vulnerable nurse practitioners.’
Beth had a client with her, but they only had to wait a few minutes. Jo showed her the image.
‘Oh dear!’ she said. ‘Poor man. What happened to him?’ She saw the look on their faces. ‘No,’ she said, ‘of course. I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘His street name was Mumbles,’ said Jo. ‘We understand that he had at least one session with the BiDAS team. Would there be a record of that?’
‘There should be.’
‘Under section 29(3) of the Data Protection Act 1998,’ said Nick Carter, adopting an authoritative tone, ‘we have a right to see such information, given that it is in pursuit of both the prevention and detection of a crime, and the fact that in this case the patient is not in a position to give or refuse consent.’
The nurse practitioner smiled sweetly. ‘I’m aware of that,’ she said. ‘And furthermore, paragraph 22 of the General Medical Council guidance on confidentiality gives me the right to disclose such information if the client’s right to confidentiality is outweighed by the public interest.’
‘Bravo,’ said Jo.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Nick. ‘I shouldn’t have assumed.’
‘We need, as a matter of urgency, to be able to identify this man,’ said Jo. ‘A name would be a start.’
The nurse practitioner went over to a bank of filing cabinets, unlocked the drawers, and slid one open.
‘Initial records tend to be paper-based,’ she said. ‘It’s more informal and less likely to cause anxiety than using a computer. Ah . . . here we are.’ She withdrew a thin brown folder and walked over to her desk.
‘His name is Anthony, or Tony, Dewlay. Also known as Mumbles. Forty-seven years of age.’ She looked up. ‘That’s the average life expectancy of a homeless person.’ She continued to read the notes. ‘Originally from Preston. He confided that he worked for a big insurance company, in their main offices, erm . . . as an actuary. His wife ran off with his divorced brother. He became depressed and started drinking, lost his home in the divorce settlement, moved into a rented terraced house, lost his job, couldn’t pay the rent, got evicted. Ended up on the streets seven years ago. He’s been living as a homeless person ever since – Bolton, Salford, Manchester, Bolton again. A couple of squats, but mainly as a rough sleeper.’
She looked up, sighed, and handed Jo the folder. ‘Very sad, but all too common. And it will continue to be so, unless someone can magic up the resources we need for counselling and mental health.’
‘What’s this scribbled in pencil at the bottom?’ Jo asked, handing the sheet back.
‘It’s querying drug abuse as well as alcohol dependency and booking him a BiDAS appointment for the following Tuesday.’
‘And did he turn up?’
‘I don’t know. I’d have to check the computer.’
‘If you could,’ said Jo, ‘that would be really helpful.’
Chapter 40
‘How far to the cemetery?’ asked Jo.
‘Half a mile. Just the other side of the A666,’ said Nick.
They stood in the entrance, staring out through a determined drizzle at the wall of a fire-surround factory on the opposite side of the street. Carly Whittle, having handed over to the CIS team, had joined them after cadging a lift from a patrol car. The computer confirmed that Anthony Dewlay’s only appointment had been with death.
‘Right,’ said Jo. ‘You get back to Nexus House, Nick. I’ll take DC Whittle with me. I want you to find out everything you can about the deceased. Especially what he’s been doing since his marriage broke down seven years ago – shortly before Ronnie O’Neill was sent down. If he has been dealing drugs there may well be a link to either O’Neill or Morris Grimshaw, or both.’
‘I’ll see what the Bolton Neighbourhood Team and the Drugs Squad can tell us first,’ he replied. ‘And once we know where he tended to hang out I’ll sent some DCs to begin questioning other rough sleepers. There’s no point in wasting resources until we’ve got a handle on when and where he was shot.’
‘Resources? What resources?’ asked Jo ruefully.
‘Don’t worry,’ he responded. ‘Now we’ve officially got a serial killer on our hands they’ll have to cough up.’
Jo grimaced. ‘Don’t hold your breath.’
Her phone rang.
‘Speak of the devil,’ she said. ‘It’s ACC Gates. You’d better get going. We’ll catch you up.’
She accepted the call. ‘Ma’am?’
‘Is it true?’ Gates demanded. ‘There’s been another one?’
‘It looks that way, Ma’am. Pending confirmation by a Home Office pathologist.’
‘He’s dead already?’
‘On arrival, Ma’am.’
‘Did anyone get to speak with him?’
‘Unfortunately not. We have no idea where or how long ago he was shot.’
‘Do you have a name?’
‘Yes. And he’s not on the system.’
‘So you don’t know if he’s connected to either of your previous victims?’
‘No, Ma’am. But we’re running a full background check. I’m sure we’ll find something.’ She managed to stop herself from adding ‘eventually’.
‘This is a nightmare,’ said Gates, more to herself than to Jo.
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘How did the hospital know to contact us?’
‘Because immediately I had the pathologist’s report on the first victim I put out an alert across all the NHS Trusts, not just those in the North West, referencing the symptoms they need to look out for and the number to ring.’
‘Well done,’ the ACC replied grudgingly.
‘I’m just off to have a look at the place where he was found, Ma’am, to see if there are any clues as to where he might have been attacked.’ Jo looked at Carly and raised one eyebrow. ‘My driver has just arrived.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Gates. ‘You’d better get off then. I’ll have a word with the Press Office, see if we can put together a statement that’ll keep the wolves at bay.’
‘Yes, Ma’am. If there’s nothing else?’
‘Just keep me updated.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Whatever progress you make, however small, I want to hear about it immediately. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘I don’t want to have to call you first.’
‘No, Ma’am.’
The ACC ended the call.
‘Three bags full, Ma’am,’ Jo muttered as she put the phone back in her pocket. She caught the expression on Carly Whittle’s face. ‘You didn’t hear that.’
Carly smirked. ‘No, Ma’am.’
Jo shook her head. ‘Just get in the car,’ she said.
Chapter 41
Heather Rand parked her Golf in the one remaining space outside Ye Olde Cock Inn, applied the handbrake, and let her head drop back against the headrest.
What a day – stressful didn’t cover it. Dropping her granddaughter off at school in all that wind and rain. Then having to rush back to her daughter’s house to collect the pull-up poster that Rose needed for the conference she was organising at the university and had forgotten to take with her. Doing the fortnightly shop at the food store. Then preparing a one-pot meal for their dinner that evening before going back to pick up Poppy, take her home, and keep her occupied until her mum came home. Finally, she had some time to herself.
It had never been like this with her parents. She’d never have dreamed of asking her mother to drop the children off, let alone provide after-school care and full-time cover for most of the school vacation. The one time that she had asked, the response had been brutal and conclusive.
‘You shouldn’t have had them if you can’t look after them yourself. When I had you and your brothers I made sure I put you first. That’s why I put my career on hold, and then went part-time when you were all back in school. That’s the trouble with your generation. You
want it all. You’re not prepared to make sacrifices like we were.’
She told herself that it was because her parents had lived through both the Great Depression and the Second World War. She, on the other hand, was one of the golden generation with free higher education, full employment, a National Health Service, straight onto the housing ladder, final salary pension. Maybe this was payback time and the reason her own generation was such a soft touch: guilt.
A succession of barks from the rear of the car jolted her from her reverie.
‘I’m coming, Jake!’ she said. ‘Hang on in there, there’s a good boy. I’m coming.’
She kept him on his lead as they wound their way along the paths through the rock garden, and down past the pond. Despite the storm that had only just abated, leaves clung stubbornly to the acers, creating a stunning panoply of russet, orange, yellow, and lime above the emerald splash of water marginals.
Jake hurried on, nose to the ground, tracking the familiar scent of dogs and their walkers. Once past the formal rose garden, its forlorn naked bushes denuded by the storm, she let him off his lead. He set off, golden brown behind swaying from side to side, plate-sized ears close to the ground as he nosed his way towards the River Mersey.
Heather loved the peace and solitude of this charming part of the city’s green lung. It felt a thousand miles away from the stream of traffic on Kingsway. She had been retired less than six months, but that seemed an age ago. The stress of a high-profile occupation long forgotten, and certainly not missed.
She called the cocker spaniel and put him back on his lead until they had negotiated the wooden slatted walkway across the bog. She let him go again when they entered Stenner Woods, and stopped to admire a crimson maple, backlit by the late afternoon sun. A flash of green off to her left, close to the edge of the woods caught her eye. She turned to look. The upper branches of a larch, its leaves already turning yellow, were populated by a dozen ring-necked parakeets. She stopped to watch them.