Aftermath (16 page)

‘Leaving it,' Ventnor pulled the seat-belt across his chest, ‘pick it up on the way back. This fella has some previous I should tell you, all minor, drink related, all spent.'

‘Drink again?'

‘Yes, may not be anything but alcohol related. Demon drink is getting to be a bit of a common theme.'

‘It is, isn't it?' Ventnor glanced at the war memorial as they drove past it. ‘Veronica Goodwin . . .'

‘And Gladys Penta. I have just visited her husband. She was the cornerstone of the local chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous.'

‘That is interesting.'

Carmen Pharoah smiled. ‘That's exactly what I said.'

‘Well it at least makes a change.' Hennessey smiled as he made the remark. ‘In fact, I think it's a first.'

‘It's a new one on me also, sir.' The uniformed sergeant of the police was, thought Hennessey, clearly of sufficient years' service to be able to say that. ‘Usually it's dog walkers or children'.

‘Or courting couples.' Hennessey strode across the baked, hard ground, side by side with the sergeant, towards the small stand of trees by which stood a white inflatable tent, the location being cordoned off by a line of blue and white police tape. ‘That's happened before, a young couple seeking some privacy, entering a secluded area and lo' and behold, a dead body . . . rather putting a damper on any romantic notion they might have been entertaining.'

‘I'll say,' the uniformed sergeant replied drily, and without any trace of humour. Hennessey had not met the man before and sensed he was in the company of a bitter man who probably felt he should have achieved a higher rank than he had achieved, and who was approaching his retirement from a modest station.

The police constable at the tape inclined his head in acknowledgement of Hennessey and the sergeant and lifted the tape to allow them to enter the restricted area. The interior of the wooded area was pleasantly shaded but unpleasantly, Hennessey thought, contaminated by the buzzing of a large swarm of flies. Hennessey entered the inflatable tent which stood beside the trees. Dr Mann was already present.

‘Adult male,' Dr Mann announced, ‘adult of the male sex. I have confirmed life extinct at fourteen twenty hours, about twenty-five minutes ago.'

‘I see. Thank you.'

‘I have contacted York District Hospital and requested the attendance of a forensic pathologist.'

‘Understood . . . and again, thank you.' Hennessey looked at the body. ‘The commander won't like me being here, he has me desk-bound these days out of concern for my health, but all my team are committed so it's all hands to the pump.' He saw the remains, recent remains of a small man, with a pinched and pointed face of the type that often makes appearances before magistrates, and often does so with an air of resentment and indignation that his day has been interrupted for the purpose. Hennessey thought the man had almost ferret-like features. He wore tight-fitting clothing with pointy-toed shoes upon his feet. Hennessey had met the type before, not punching other people but, once the victim had been knocked to the ground, he would wade in, kicking with his pointy-toed shoes and doing considerable damage thereby. ‘Winkle-pickers.'

‘Sorry, sir?' Dr Man smiled.

‘These shoes, they were fashionable when I left the navy in the 1950s, used to be called “winkle-pickers”. I didn't know they were still available and worn by the likes of him. He doesn't look like he could have put up any kind of fight but he wears that sort of shoe, a man in need of victims methinks.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘His age, what do you think?'

‘Middle years,' Dr Mann replied. ‘Fifties perhaps, he could even be older.'

‘Yes, closer to drawing his state pension than his embittered teenage years, yet still in his teens in his head. I mean, those shoes at that sort of age. Suspicious death though.'

‘Very,' Dr Mann replied softly, ‘the bruising round his neck, can't miss it.'

‘Can't, can you? How long do you think he's been here?'

‘That's one for the pathologist but, I'd say he was killed within the last forty-eight hours . . . probably twenty-four if no attempt has been made to chill his body,' the slender turbaned police surgeon replied. ‘But I can't be drawn, it is not my place.'

‘Neither will the forensic pathologist,' Hennessey replied with a grin. He turned to the elderly sergeant. ‘Any identification?'

‘None sir, unless it's well hidden in his clothing . . . no wallet that we can find, although we did find his library card.'

‘That might do it.'

‘It's been bagged and tagged, sir . . . local library with a valid date.'

‘Well if it is his card, we have his ID.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘So, he was not a wealthy man.' Hennessey pondered the corpse, cheap, inexpensive clothing and watch. ‘So, not murdered for his money but his wallet, if he had one, was taken, so it must have been taken to frustrate his being identified, but the killer missed the library card. So, in a hurry or just carelessly assuming that his wallet contained all that could identify him.'

‘Forensic pathologist has arrived, sir,' the young constable at the tape announced in a keen, eager to help manner.

Hennessey turned and felt his heart leap in his chest as he watched the slender figure of Dr D'Acre approach carrying a heavy Gladstone bag. ‘Take her bag for her,' he asked of the constable, who instantly ran towards Dr D'Acre and relieved her of her burden. He walked half a pace behind her until she reached the tape, upon which he stepped forward and lifted it for her. She smiled her thanks and retook possession of her bag.

Dr D'Acre glanced at the corpse and then gently set her Gladstone bag down upon the ground and opened it. She disturbed the clothing to take a rectal temperature and then a ground temperature. Stony-faced she glanced up at DCI Hennessey and said, ‘I know what you are going to ask, Chief Inspector, and you know what the answer is.'

‘Yes, ma'am,' Hennessey smiled. ‘I have learned my lesson, made my journey . . . between the time he was last seen alive and the time the body was discovered is as close as medical science can get.'

‘Except possibly in this case . . . maggot pupae are in evidence. I'll take one or two samples, but their presence means he died some time within the last forty-eight hours . . . but this heat,' she brushed flies from her face, ‘it could speed things. Rigor is established and you can see for yourself that as corpses go, this is quite a fresh corpse.' She paused. ‘I note bruising round the neck.'

‘Yes, ma'am, Dr Mann mentioned those marks.'

‘Could not fail to notice them . . . extensive . . . not linear, suggestive of manual strangulation. If he had been garrotted with rope, or a length of electrical flex, then we would expect linear bruising, but this is extensive . . . and . . .' she felt the scalp of the deceased, ‘a possible skull fracture. Possibly rendered unconscious with strangulation and then he sustained a massive blow to the head to finish him off. I see no sign of a struggle hereabouts, so he was most likely conveyed here possibly within a container, such as a cabin trunk, and deposited where he was found. Definitely murder and within the last forty-eight hours, with a time window of twelve hours either side of that.'

‘Understood and appreciated. It is at least something to go on.'

Dr D'Acre stood. ‘Well, if you have taken all the photographs you need to take, then from my point of view the body can be taken to York District Hospital for the post-mortem.'

‘SOCO?' Hennessey turned to the uniformed sergeant.

‘Still to arrive, sir.'

Hennessey glanced skywards in a gesture of despair, and noted a single wispy cloud in the canopy of blue. ‘We should bring them with us, then they won't keep getting lost all the time.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Contact them, if you can, hurry them along. We need their cameras here asap.'

The uniformed sergeant gripped the radio on his lapel and pressed the send button, and walked towards the centre of the field as he did so, presumably, thought Hennessey, that he might achieve a better reception.

‘I presume you are going to remove the scalp?' Hennessey turned to Dr D'Acre who, dressed in white coveralls in such bright sunshine, caused Hennessey to squint when looking at her.

‘I'll have to,' Dr D'Acre replied matter-of-factly, ‘head injuries. I'll have to look at it. Why do you ask?'

‘It will aid identification if you can delay doing the post-mortem.'

‘I see. Yes, I can delay doing it.'

‘We have what might be his library card. If it is his, it will give us his address, then we can get a next of kin to view the corpse.'

‘Never easy, but yes, I can delay to allow that. Doesn't sound like you'll need a great deal of time?'

‘I anticipate it being done today.'

‘Will you be observing for the police, Chief Inspector?'

‘Yes, I will.'

‘Very good. I'll return to York District, I have a post-mortem still to conduct . . . university student.'

‘Oh . . . narcotics overdose?'

‘Don't believe so, not alcohol either. Found lying in his bed with very blue lips, indication of carbon monoxide poisoning, probably caused by a faulty flue on his gas fire.'

‘He had his gas fire on in this weather?'

‘He was Malaysian; even this weather is cold for them.'

‘I see.'

‘So, how was he discovered?' Dr D'Acre pointed to the body on the ground covered with the tent.

‘By a swarm of flies.'

‘A swarm of flies?' she grinned at Hennessey.

‘A sharp-eyed lady in those houses over there . . .' Hennessey pointed to a line of houses on the far side of the field, the ground floors of which were hidden from view. ‘She glanced out of her bedroom window and saw the column of black flies beside the trees. She knew the field is not being used for pastoral grazing at the moment and knew that flies in such numbers are attracted to newly deceased animals or humans, so she strolled across the field and . . . here we are.'

‘New one on me, it's usually dog walkers or courting couples.'

George Hennessey smiled gently, ‘Yes, it is, isn't it?'

The middle-aged, smartly dressed man stood facing the heavy velvet curtain. He was a small man, so short in stature that Hennessey, standing beside him, felt that he was towering over the man. The room was dark, being dimly lit, heavily carpeted with darkly stained, heavily polished wood panelling on the walls. The man took a deep breath as he and Hennessey waited for the nurse.

‘It won't be like what you . . .'

‘I know,' the man turned to Hennessey and forced a smile, ‘I have done this before.'

‘Really? I am sorry.'

‘My wife, she was knocked down and killed by a drunken driver and I had to identify the body. As you say, it's not like it's portrayed in the films, lifting a sheet over a body that is in a metal drawer . . . more sensitive . . . the last image I had of my wife was of her sleeping in space.'

At that moment, the smaller of the two doors to the room opened, silently, and a sombre looking nurse entered. She glanced at Hennessey who gave a single slight nod of his head. The nurse then pulled a cord and the velvet curtains slid open, again silently. What was revealed to Hennessey and the man was a pane of glass, and beyond the glass was the body of the man who had been found earlier that day when a householder had noticed a swarm of flies. The body was, by then, tightly swathed in clean white bandages with only the facial features showing. Nothing else could be discerned, just an endless seeming blackness. It was as the man had described, as if the person on the bed was at peace, floating in deep space.

‘Yes,' the man spoke quietly, ‘yes, that is James, James Post, my younger brother.'

‘Thank you, and I am sorry.' He once again nodded to the nurse who pulled another cord and shut the curtains. ‘Can you answer some questions?'

‘Here?'

‘No, we'll go to the interview suite at the police station.'

Hennessey drove Mr Nigel Post, brother of James, to Micklegate Bar Police Station. The journey was passed in silence.

In the interview suite, Nigel Post settled into the chair and glanced round the room at the orange coloured walls and the hard-wearing carpet of similar colour, though of a darker shade of the same. ‘Not as functional as I imagined,' he commented.

‘We have more functional rooms for interviewing suspects,' Hennessey replied, ‘upright chairs, table, tape recorders set in the wall, but for less formal Q and As we use this room.' He sat opposite Nigel Post and rested his notebook on his lap.

‘If you could tell me about your brother?'

Post reclined back in the chair and eyed Hennessey with a look of concern. ‘You would only bring me here and ask that question if there was some suspicion about his death. When my wife was killed by that idiot I was only asked to identify her body.'

‘Yes . . .' Hennessey avoided eye contact with Nigel Post, ‘I am afraid that this is a murder inquiry.'

Post leaned forward. ‘What happened?'

‘We don't know. Yet. The post-mortem has still to be conducted but injuries were noticed on your brother's body about his neck and head, and he was found in a field outside York with no identification, no wallet, but we found a library card which led us to your address.'

‘Yes,' Nigel Post sighed, ‘James used my address as an accommodation address. It had a permanency about it, whereas he could never settle in one address, in the early days he moved from rented flat to rented flat as if he was looking for something and hoped to find it in the next flat he moved into. So it was easier to use my address for things like library membership . . . and he just kept up the practice.'