Catch the Fallen Sparrow (2 page)

‘What were the soldiers doing up there?'

‘They were on exercises at the Winking Man,' Mike said. ‘They saw the smoke. One of them said he recognized the smell.'

Joanna looked at him.

‘I thought it was funny.'

‘Did he say more?'

Mike shook his head, and she nodded and rubbed her face.

‘We can talk to him later about that. Anything else?'

‘Not much yet.'

‘The deceased?' She met his eyes and he frowned.

‘They said it was just a kid.'

She sighed. There was revulsion for any murder. But the killing of a child, and then to try and destroy the body with fire ... Even hardened, toughened police officers, both men and women, were sickened.

She moved back into the room, frowned, glanced down at the wire tray on her desk. ‘There haven't been any kids reported missing, have there?'

He shook his head.

‘Get someone on to it,' she said, ‘now. Any kids reported missing within ...' She paused. ‘We'll start with a fifty-mile radius. Description?'

‘Vague so far,' Mike said. ‘Nine or ten ... fair hair ... trainers, baggy jeans. No coat.'

She nodded. ‘It must have been freezing up there last night.'

‘It was freezing,' Mike said. ‘That's official. Black ice warning on local radio this morning. I heard it.'

Joanna stood still for a moment. ‘Poor kid,' she said softly, then looked up. ‘Who's up there now?'

‘Timmis and McBrine – on moorland patrol. They weren't far away.'

‘Get them to seal the area off,' she instructed. ‘No one ... no one is to approach the area.' She paused. ‘I don't want the usual forensic nightmare. What evidence is up there I want neatly bagged and labelled. Pathologist?'

‘I rang the emergency number,' he said. ‘Dr Levin's away.'

She felt irritated. What right had Matthew to be away when she needed him? ‘I knew that,' she said, and found she couldn't look at him. She felt Mike expected further explanation. ‘He's gone away – on holiday with his wife and Eloise.'

Mike's eyebrows lifted. ‘Cosy,' he said, his dark eyes resting on her thoughtfully.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘Cosy.' She busied herself slipping her jacket on. ‘I believe a locum is covering. Get her up there, Mike.'

‘Her?'

‘Someone up from Birmingham,' she said, ‘on loan for a fortnight. Also please get hold of the photographer. Then ...' she smiled at him, ‘do you think you could give me a lift?'

His eyes were mocking. ‘And I was thinking you would ride your bike up there.'

‘By the time I got there,' she said drily, ‘you'd have solved the darned thing. It's hills all the way.'

He smiled then. ‘You'll need a coat,' he said gruffly. ‘It's cold on those moors.'

She held the door open for him. ‘So shall we go?'

It was the scent of charred meat that had drawn Alice to the mouth of the cave. Sitting still, like a Neolithic woman, she had watched the body slung over the shoulders, the heavy hike up the side of the moor through the fading darkness. As she sat she had seen the small body doused in petrol then the quick flame as it burned. She had given the smouldering body a wreath, laid the flowers at the child's feet. She would have stayed there but the noise of the vans disturbed and frightened her. As the soldiers jumped from the wagons she melted back into the cave from where she watched, motionless.

She saw the grotesque pantomime, the soldiers creeping on their bellies and the noisy run with flailing arms. And then, as the sun rose, the scene came to life.

She scuffed to the back of the cave, waiting for him to wake, cold now and shivering, clasping her arms around her in an attempt to get warm. She dare not light the fire. The smoke would be spotted. But if was cold. She glanced at Jonathan. How could he sleep so long? He lay in the dim, sharp light, small puffs of breath smoking from his open mouth, his fingers in black, woollen mittens sometimes clenched then relaxed as he dreamed.

‘A kingdom needs a king,' he muttered, clutching his filthy coat around his skinny body. ‘A kingdom needs a king.'

She touched him with her foot. ‘Wake, Jonathan,' she said. ‘Wake.'

At last he grunted and rolled over, snapped his mouth shut and sat up, a wild expression in his eyes when he saw her bending over him. ‘What is it?' He saw the blackened embers in the cave. ‘Why aren't the fires lit?'

‘Someone took a body up 'ere,' she said slowly. ‘And they burned it.'

He frowned. ‘What for?'

‘I don't know, do I?' She was silent for a minute. ‘Jonathan,' she said slowly, ‘it were a child.'

His glance moved to the mouth of the cave. ‘There's police outside,' she said, ‘lots of them, poking around. Looks like they're staying.'

He looked enquiringly at her. ‘Not army again?' he asked.

‘No. The army, they was here earlier, like they are sometimes, creeping on the 'ill. These be different. P'lice.' She stared at him hard, squatted down on her huge haunches by the dead embers of a recent fire. ‘Somethin' 'appened,' she said earnestly. ‘This morning, afore dawn ... The soldiers,' she began, ‘'twas them found it.' She cackled a dry laugh. ‘Screamin' like they was possessed.'

Jonathan Rutter scratched his head. ‘Found what?'

‘The child's body,' she said patiently.

Jonathan jerked to his feet and accused her. ‘You been dreamin' – or drinkin'?'

‘Look for yourself.' She pursed her lips and sat, Buddha-like, her eyes watching him as he moved low and with monkey agility on his haunches, to the mouth of the cave. There he lay, furtively peeping out, down the grey-green moorside to the navy figures dotted at the bottom, near the road. It did not do to be seen. Others mocked their status and their home, failed to understand their reasons for living apart from the rest of their race, high up here in the cave, watched only by the Winking Man. People persecuted those they did not understand so they had let them believe they had left their cave. But they hadn't. They had remained here and were still here in their rightful home. What did they care for such unnecessary things as taps for water and switches for electricity. Water came from the sky. Warmth and light from the sun when it chose to shine. All they needed was here, in this one dark but dry room, hollowed out of rock.

Jonathan watched the movement of the police far below, then half-turned, silhouetted against the hazy light that shone into the cave. ‘What happened, Alice?' he asked.

‘The soldiers must have seen it,' she said, still staring out across the landscape – high peaks, wide valleys, pale sunshine streaking down in broad stripes, lemon and black. ‘Or else they smelled it. They started running and screaming.'

‘They always does that.'

‘There was smoke comin' from him,' she said.

He stared at her then from beneath thick, tangled eyebrows. ‘Why burn a child?' he asked.

She looked at him pityingly. ‘There's reasons you burns bodies,' she said, ‘eatin' or gettin' rid of, or sacrifice maybe.'

He pursed his lips. ‘So which were it?'

She shot another look at him.

‘Who was the child?' he asked. ‘How did he get there?'

‘He was brought,' she said, ‘on someone's shoulders.'

‘Poor child,' he said. ‘Poor child.'

‘You haven't worked it out, have you, Jonathan,' she said quietly. ‘Don't you know? It'll mean people. There'll be more people 'ere in the next few days than all the ones what came in the last year. And for folks like us what's different people means trouble. They'll come,' she said softly, nodding her head so long straggles of iron-grey hair escaped and hung like thin ropes each side of her face. ‘They'll come,' she said confidently, ‘and they'll cause us trouble. You watch, Jonathan.'

But Jonathan was the optimist. ‘They'll not bother us,' he said slowly, still peering down the slope. ‘Why should they care about us?'

She gave him another almost pitying look. ‘They'll come because they'll either think we done it or we know who done it.'

‘But we don't.'

Alice tightened her lips.

The couple looked at one another, their eyes anticipating the threat of intrusion to this wild and lonely place. They stared down to the bottom of the crag and watched the small red car which moved quickly up the moors road, drawing to a halt in the lay-by. They watched the woman with black, gypsy hair blowing around her face and the tall man. They watched as the two began to climb towards the clump of policemen guarding the small mound underneath the blanket.

It was a stiff climb to the gully and the scent of charred meat still clung to the damp, morning air – a faint scent but unmistakable. It turned Joanna Piercy's stomach. The two scene-of-crimes officers were already there, together with a slim woman with pale hair. She stared unsmilingly at Joanna and held out her hand.

‘Cathy,' she said. ‘Cathy Parker, pathologist. I'm covering for Matthew while he's away.' She gave another of her disconcerting stares. ‘I've heard a lot about you.'

Joanna felt at a disadvantage. What had she heard? What did Matthew say about her? How did he describe her? Friend, girlfriend, surreptitious mistress? And now how? Future wife? She felt confused and uncertain. She shook her head, not knowing how to fend off the remark, then glared across the damp moor.

‘Have you had a look?'

Cathy Parker nodded. ‘Just a very preliminary one,' she said. ‘I can't tell you much. It's a boy – not very old – rather small, probably ten, eleven.' She grimaced. ‘Skinny. He's been strangled – almost certainly manually. I can see definite finger marks on the throat. Then it looks as though someone tried to destroy the evidence.' She glanced down at the hump beneath the police blanket. ‘There's a strong smell of petrol.'

Joanna too looked at the sheeted figure. ‘How long has he been dead?'

The pathologist shrugged her shoulders. ‘Very hard to say exactly – the burning, the bleak weather up here. The army said it was freezing around dawn.' She sighed. ‘I can only think it was some time last night. Right off the cuff, between nine and midnight – at the latest, one. He'd been dead for at least three hours before I got here. And that was at eight. By the way ...' she glanced around, ‘he didn't die here. He was brought here already dead.' She looked apologetically at Joanna. ‘Lividity,' she said. ‘You can see it on the face and here.' She touched the tiny gold sleeper in the child's ear.

All that Joanna could feel was some relief that the boy had not lain here alive, dying through the night.

‘He was found by the army at five,' Cathy continued. ‘By then lividity had already appeared. He was stored somewhere – on his side — then dumped here. We'll know a lot more, of course, when I do the PM. Parts of the body are very, very cold but the lower limbs and most of the clothing were well alight.' She looked at Joanna. ‘I'm sorry, Inspector. I shall have to speak to fire people but superficially it looks as though he had been burning for less than an hour – two at the absolute most. Wind can either fan flames or put them out. It's rather difficult and the ground was very damp. There are some unusual circumstances and I shall have to do more research, but if the body had been burning for about an hour before five a.m. and he had lain somewhere for a time after death you can see midnight is around the latest he could have died.'

Joanna had to ask the obvious. ‘Had he been molested?'

Cathy Parker shook her head. ‘I don't think so. His clothing isn't torn. Of course I'll have to take swabs and things back at the mortuary.' She bit her lip. ‘I'm sorry,' she added, ‘I don't think even Matthew could have been more precise. We'll have to wait for the PM.'

Again the mention of Matthew's name made Joanna feel uneasy. She closed her eyes for a moment and gave an irritated cough. Then she crossed the couple of yards to the body and lifted the sheet. Waxen face, eyes closed, fair hair, short stepped haircut, gold sleeper in one ear, ominous dark marks around the throat. The clothes had been old, scruffy, far too big, probably they had never fitted him. Now they were charred. He looked a neglected boy.

She frowned. ‘He doesn't look strangled,' she said.

Cathy gave a sad smile. ‘Most people think strangling makes the face blacken, the tongue protrude, petechiae around the eyes,' she said. ‘It usually does. Nevertheless, this child was strangled and I think he actually died of a vasovagal attack – shock, if you like, rather than slow throttling. He would have died very quickly, lost consciousness almost immediately.' She stopped for a moment, then said softly, ‘He was dead before he was burned.'

‘I see,' Joanna said, and was glad. At least the boy had not suffered, had not lain out on the moor, freezing slowly, alone with his murderer, frightened in the dark.

So his face was calm. She looked further.

‘Any ideas where his body was stored?'

Cathy peeled her gloves off. ‘Not so far,' she said, ‘but it's usually a car boot.' She stopped and glanced around at the grey moor. ‘How else would he have got the kid up here?'

Joanna stared then at the hands and remembered Matthew's pet theory ... in 90 per cent of murder cases the answers can be found in the hands. She studied the boy's hands, already encased in plastic bags. Dirty hands with bitten nails, amateur tattoos on the knuckles. L-O-V-E on the right; H-A-T-E on the left. And on the second finger of the left hand – the one with the T – a ring. Careful not to touch it she bent over and stared at the monogram – entwined initials watched by an eye. The ring looked expensive and fine, solid gold and very out of place. It belonged on the fat finger of a wealthy businessman. Not on the small dirty hand of this scruffy, dead child.