‘Course not,’ said Brook, ‘but use your experience. Shortlist any firm that reacts badly to the question or rings any alarm bells with you at all. The other information we want is the name of any disgruntled employee, past or present, who has caused problems, particularly with regard to their attitude to the corpses.’
‘Such as?’
‘Whoever
performed this procedure has specialist knowledge and may have been in the industry. So we want names of anybody they consider took a morbid interest in the preparation of remains, that sort of thing,’ explained Brook. ‘Maybe someone’s had to be sacked recently because they had some sick hang-up or acted inappropriately in some way. I’m sure I don’t need to spell it out. Get names and addresses for follow-up on Monday. And the name of anyone who lives east of Derby, where the bodies were dumped, goes to the top of the list.’
Gadd, Morton and Cooper scribbled down their questions.
‘Do we think there’s a sexual motive?’ asked Gadd.
‘Not at this time,’ said Noble.
‘Anything else we need to know?’ asked Rob Morton.
‘Two things,’ said Brook, looking at Noble. ‘Although McTiernan’s internal organs were removed, the heart was replaced and stitched back into the body cavity. Why, we don’t know. Secondly, the brain had been attacked and cut up using a homemade tool which was inserted up the nose and into the cavity.’ Brook watched his team cringe. ‘Pieces of brain were then removed via the nostrils, we assume using some kind of sharp hook on the tool.’
‘Jesus,’ said Morton. ‘Why?’
‘We don’t know, though removing the brain with all the other organs reduces decomposition and improves the embalmer’s chances for successful preservation.’
‘So if you do get a lead on a suspect ex-employee, find out what it was they did to the bodies, without revealing that MO,’ said Noble. ‘We keep that to ourselves to weed out the cranks.’
‘The Embalmer,’ nodded Cooper, pleased with himself. ‘Catchy.’
Brook
drove home late to Hartington and was tempted into the garden to drink in the early summer air and a small glass of Aberlour malt whisky. As he settled on to the bench, a jet-black cat dropped from the drystone wall on one side of his small sheltered garden. It bounded up to Brook and threw itself at his feet, wriggling around his ankles until Brook gave it the required attention. ‘I’ve nothing for you, Basil, sorry,’ he said, scratching the cat’s neck. ‘Or me,’ he added, feeling his stomach rumble.
After ten minutes without provisions, Basil stalked away to resume his nightly rounds and Brook trudged indoors after he’d drained his drink. He yearned for a cigarette and resolved to buy some at the earliest opportunity. Noble was right. Cigarettes were Brook’s only weakness and it was stupid, if not impossible, to impose rigid control over every aspect of his life. Without an Achilles heel, Brook wasn’t human but a robot, unable to function, unable to do his work. Being a detective was not just a job to Brook, more a calling, a calling that required him to know about weakness – and if he tried to eradicate his own, how could he understand those of the murderers, armed robbers and rapists he was employed to catch?
Back in his kitchen, he opened the fridge. It was empty except for the half-eaten baked potato he’d picked at the previous night – and the night before that, he seemed to remember. It was going black. He tipped it into the bin and rummaged around the cupboards. He hadn’t eaten for a day, by dint of neglect rather than choice, and he knew he needed fuel to keep going.
The cupboard was bare. Not even tins. But there was a
bottle of ketchup, a packet of tomato Cup-a-Soups and an egg carton with two eggs left. Brook fried the eggs and dabbed the yolks with ketchup then ate them mechanically before hauling himself up to his bedroom.
As he climbed into bed, he had a flashback of the pale yellow carcass from Shardlow Gravel Pit lying at his feet that same day. He shook the memory away. It wouldn’t be wise to go to sleep with such an image seared into his consciousness.
He fell asleep but, as usual, he couldn’t sleep past the early hours and after his first cup of tea, he dressed and drove back into the station as the sun was coming up.
Slumped at his desk just after seven, Brook found the list of funeral directors he’d compiled the other day. There were close to fifty. For something to do he began dividing the company names and phone numbers on to five separate pieces of paper.
A
COUPLE OF HOURS LATER,
Brook trudged out into the corridor and down to the ground floor to buy a vending-machine tea. After feeding coins into the machine, he plucked the too-thin cup from the service-hatch to the sound of raised voices. He wandered towards the duty desk for a better look.
Sergeant Gordon Grey, a close friend of Harry Hendrickson, with two years until retirement, was at the counter, trying to placate a nervous but not unattractive woman of about forty. She had clearly been crying, and was preparing to do so again. Behind her was a short overweight man, sporting a shock of combed-over grey hair and voluminous sideburns, which Brook assumed were a misguided attempt to hide his sagging jowls. He was at least fifteen years older than his female companion and, in addition to his dubious coiffeur, he’d made a pitiful attempt to dress young. The white training shoes and baggy blue tracksuit would have looked ridiculous on a man twenty years his junior.
‘I’ve told you. His bed’s not been slept in and Kyle would
never leave without telling me where he’s gone,’ pleaded the woman. ‘You have to believe me.’
‘Mrs . . .’
‘. . . Kennedy.’
‘Mrs Kennedy, it’s Sunday morning and there’ll be plenty of eighteen year olds waking up in strange beds or on friends’ sofas. I’m sure your son Kyle will turn up soon enough – probably with a limp and a hangover, eh Len?’ Sergeant Grey grinned knowingly at the man with the comb-over, who was affectionately rubbing Mrs Kennedy’s upper arms.
‘Steady on, Gordon,’ said the man identified as Len.
Mrs Kennedy stared at Grey in confusion until the penny dropped. ‘He doesn’t behave like that,’ she replied tersely. ‘You have to do something.’ She tilted her head towards her companion. ‘We should never have gone away.’
The old man leaned into her for comfort. ‘It’s okay, Alice,’ he said. ‘There must be a simple explanation. We’ll find him.’
‘Of course you will,’ said Grey soothingly. ‘He’ll turn up. Have you tried ringing him?’
The man gave Grey a patronising glare but declined to follow up with sarcasm.
‘He hasn’t got his phone with him,’ said Mrs Kennedy. ‘It’s turned off and sitting on his bed. If you have kids, you must know how strange that is.’
‘But if he’s eighteen, he can look after himself.’
‘No, he can’t,’ replied Mrs Kennedy, her face beginning to quiver. She pulled a tissue from her handbag.
‘He’s only just eighteen,’ said Len. ‘And he’s . . . the sensitive type, if you know what I mean.’
‘Len!’ snapped the woman. She gathered herself together
and addressed the Sergeant. ‘Are you going to take details or not?’
Sergeant Grey reluctantly picked up a pen. ‘When did you last see him?’
‘He was in his bedroom on Friday afternoon before we set off for Wales,’ answered Mrs Kennedy. ‘Later, he was having a few friends round for his birthday and—’
‘Friday afternoon?’ Sergeant Grey’s manner took on a sterner hue.
‘About three,’ she confirmed, unaware of the change in Grey’s demeanour.
Grey spoke slowly for emphasis. ‘So his bed has not been slept in for two nights, after a party.’ He put down the pen to address the man. ‘Look, Len, you know the format. If I take details, they have to be entered on the National Computer and then eventually the National Missing Persons database. Then there’s an automatic risk assessment. That will trigger man hours looking for a young man,
a student
, who’s not slept in his bed for two nights after a party.’
Poole shrugged and gestured towards Alice behind her back. ‘His mother is worried, Gordon. There must be something you can do.’
Grey sighed heavily. ‘You’re not making this very easy.’ His face lit up for a second. ‘Does he have any serious medical issues? That would justify a report.’
Mrs Kennedy shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Any sign of violence or a struggle at your home?’
‘There’s a sticking plaster in the bin with a little blood on.’
‘How much blood?’
‘About half an inch in the middle.’
Grey chuckled and threw his palms up. ‘Then maybe he
grazed his knee. I’m sorry, but I’d have a job to classify Kyle as even low risk.’ He gave the woman a pointed look to ensure she’d got the message. ‘Look – go home. He’s probably there waiting for you to feed him. I’ll notify the local nick and have a word with the hospitals, unofficial like, to keep an eye out for him. If he’s not back after the weekend, give us another ring and we’ll start the process. Fair enough?’
Len nodded his understanding and guided the tight-lipped woman towards the entrance. She turned back suddenly and pulled something from her handbag, unfolded it and placed it on the counter. ‘This was on his bed with his phone.’
Brook had heard enough and was preparing to return to his office when the grey-haired man looked up at him. To his surprise, the man nodded at him.
‘Inspector,’ he said stiffly.
Brook nodded back. ‘Hello,’ he replied, for once remembering to omit the pause for a name he didn’t know. He looked again. He did vaguely recognise the man now but couldn’t place him. After the couple left, Brook sauntered over to the counter.
Sergeant Grey stiffened in the effort to suppress his hostility. ‘Inspector. Didn’t see you there.’
‘Who was that man, Sergeant?’
‘Len Poole? He used to be the Chief Pathologist at the old Derby City Hospital. Before that Pa—’ Grey pulled himself up quickly. ‘Before that Asian guy took over.’
Brook looked into Grey’s eyes and gave him a lingering stare. Finally he said softly, ‘Dr Habib. And he’s Indian.’
Grey pulled a face that said
what’s the difference?
but managed to keep his reply neutral. ‘That’s him. Len married into decent money and retired early. His wife was a bit of a
looker. No accounting for taste, I say. I heard she died a couple of years ago. He seems to have found a replacement though, eh?’ Grey laughed suggestively but Brook didn’t accept the invitation for man talk.
Instead he sipped his tea and raided his memory banks. Len Poole. He could place him now, though he hadn’t known him well. They’d only worked a couple of cases together during Brook’s first months in Derby and before Poole had left his job. He hadn’t been invited to the retirement dinner.
He picked up the small leaflet left by Mrs Kennedy and absent-mindedly wandered off reading it. Grey smiled maliciously at Brook’s back and picked up his pen.
Brook pulled the small A5 leaflet towards him and turned to his computer. It was very simple text on colour and could have been designed and produced on any PC. The few words were in red lettering on a black background.
DEITY
Take Control
Live Forever
Young
Beautiful
Immortal
At the bottom of the page was a website address. Brook typed in the address. The website was closed for refurbishment.
Several hours later Brook put down the phone and looked around the small Incident Room at his colleagues, either
cradling phones under their ears or drawing lines through their list. He looked at his own defaced list. Not one disgruntled undertaker arousing suspicion or given the sack. It seemed staff turnover in the industry was very low because of the unique nature of the skills required for their work. Employees were invariably committed to the profession for life. Everyone in the funeral business knew everyone else, and no one Brook had spoken to had experienced the kind of difficulties which might sound alarm bells. From the looks on the faces of his team, they were encountering the same story.
He stepped past the bank of computers and checked there was water in the kettle that Rob Morton had had the foresight to bring in, as well as a jar of instant coffee and two pints of milk. He switched the kettle on and looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven on a bright warm Sunday morning.
Brook made coffee for everyone and walked over to look at the large map that nearly filled one wall. He stared at the bridge in Borrowash then at the approximate location of Shardlow gravel pit – approximate because many of the flooded pits were not on the map, having been dug out after the map was published.
The land between Derby and the M1 was flat and wet. Broken ground was home to two rivers as well as the many manmade lakes and waterways created by the extraction of building materials – an excellent place to hide the dead.
Brook took a sip of his coffee, again recalling the image of the body from the gravel pit – the swollen face, the pale buttery flesh. But even before the incision in the flank had been located, Brook had known this was the same MO. He knew enough forensics to realise that a body with organs intact should have been bloated from the decomposition gases but
this . . . vacant vessel, this receptacle of some mother’s hopes and dreams . . . had been exsanguinated and efficiently gutted like a pig at the abattoir.
‘Penny for them,’ said Noble, at Brook’s shoulder.
‘Stick it in your pension, John. I can’t get a handle on this at all.’
‘I know what you mean. Seems like we’ve only got half a crime here.’
‘Exactly that. We’ve got one dumped body that hasn’t been killed. And now a second that presents as the same MO. So what’s the motive?’
‘Maybe Habib and Petty got it wrong. Maybe McTiernan was forced to drink himself to death. That would make it murder.’
‘It still doesn’t get us a motive.’
‘Some grudge against the less fortunate,’ shrugged Noble. ‘There could be a million reasons. Maybe one of Charlton’s sexually assaulted schoolkids is finally getting even. Or maybe it’s a necrophiliac with a thing for black-toothed vagrants.’ He smiled. ‘Motives aren’t always obvious with a nut job.’