Secret of the Dead (5 page)

Hunter was not surprised when the pathologist announced that the body of the retired detective weighed just 7st 8lbs. He could see almost every bone protruding through the yellow waxen flesh; the cancer had eaten away at him.

The pathologist began her examination at the head, hooking an arm beneath the neck and raising it from its table prop.

With her free hand she pinched back the nose, pulled at the lips and ran a finger around inside the mouth. She swabbed inside the nostrils and the mouth and dropped the swabs into clear plastic exhibit phials.

“It’s just as I surmised from my initial examination of this body at the house. Clear signs of trauma around the mouth and nose and I’ve swabbed some trace evidence of fibres from those areas. He’s bitten down on his tongue as well, most probably as he’s struggled.”

She moved onto the arms, down to the hands, removing the plastic forensic bags which had encased them, and individually checked each finger, taking several swabs beneath the nails.

“Can you photograph these please?” she said as she raised the corpse’s stick-thin wrist.

Duncan Wroe had been hovering behind Lizzie McCormack, taking the swabs from her, scribbling on the labels of each of the samples she had handed to him and then stacking them on a trolley beside him. He reached down to a lower shelf, snatched up his Nikon digital camera with its macro lens and began shooting off a series of frames as the professor rotated the left forearm.

She followed by picking up the right arm and repeating the process.

“There are clear signs of haemorrhaging into the soft tissue of both right and left lower forearms, especially around the wrist.” She pointed out a series of deep purple patterns, which stood out because of the paleness of the flesh around the left wrist.

“Looks as though he put up a hell of a struggle?” Hunter said.

“I thought that myself at first, but these contusions are ever more evident because this man was taking Warfarin. I saw in his notes that he had a heart condition, which was controlled by the drug. The least little knock can look as though he’s been in a bar-room brawl. These marks, exaggerated though they may be, look like finger grip marks. He has definitely had his wrists pressed down hard probably against the arms of the chair he was sitting in.”

She picked up another two swabs and washed them over the bruised areas.

“There might be trace evidence of DNA if the offender wasn’t wearing gloves,” she announced, sealing the swabs and handing them over to Duncan Wroe.

For the next hour and forty minutes Hunter watched Lizzie methodically going about her job. Firstly, with a precision steel scalpel, making the standard Y shaped incision into the cadaver’s chest, down through the stomach and finishing in the pubic bone region, this enabled her to crack apart the rib cage, providing access to the internal organs. She removed and inspected the heart and lungs carefully, weighed them, sliced into them and examined them again before dropping them into a bucket for a final analysis later. Throughout this, in her soft Scottish voice, she continued with her autopsy dictation.

Part-way into the dissection the removal and the cutting opening of the stomach provided a surprise and significant revelation.

Initially the vile stench caught them unawares and caused each of them to take a hurried step back.

It was some moments before Professor McCormack looked into the contents, but then she cried out, “My my, what have we got here?” Between thumb and forefinger she brought out an inch-long object. It looked to be metal, but was covered in sticky yellow globules of slime. She wiped it into the palm of her gloved hand and then held the object up to the light.

It was a small brass key.

“This was something he didn’t want anyone to find.”

She passed it to Duncan.

Her blue-grey eyes shifted between Hunter and the Detective Superintendent. “Now if I was a detective, I would be thinking that key had something significant to do with his death,” she added, flashing them a smile.

She completed the autopsy at the head, slicing into the lower part of the neck and removing the trachea, before finally removing and examining the brain.

Hunter had watched this so many times over the years and yet he still got a sense of morbid fascination.

Two and a quarter hours had passed before the pathologist set the scalpel back down onto her tool trolley and snapped off one of her surgical gloves.

“To sum up gentlemen, the post-mortem has uncovered petechial haemorrhaging to the eyes and there is determined damage to the external airways around the mouth and nose. Fibres removed from the nasal passages and from the victim’s mouth leave me to conclude that asphyxiation is the cause of death, as a result of him being smothered with a cloth covered article. And the injuries to the wrists lead me into believing that you are looking for at least two killers. He was definitely held down while being smothered.”

Lizzie McCormack turned, peeled off her other latex glove and dropped the pair into a yellow biohazard bin as she retreated to her office.

Hunter looked at Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw.

He guessed that right now their thoughts were similar. Some cruel bastard had pressed a cushion over Jeffery Howson’s face until he’d stopped breathing.

Why was the retired detective killed? What is the significance of the key found in his stomach, why would he swallow it? Hunter guessed there was an inextricable link between these three questions.

* * * * *

Looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, Hunter smoothed a hand over his freshly shaved jaw-line, slowly rotating his head side to side, back and forth. Happy with the result, he rinsed his razor in the hand basin and then raked a comb of fingers through his receding mane.

Ten minutes previously he had been lingering in the shower longer than he normally did and with the water temperature as high as he could stand. It was always like this after post-mortems; a long hot shower was the only way he could rid himself of the smell of death.

He had confined most of his clothing to the washing machine, though his suit jacket hung outside on the clothes line, swinging in the cold late autumn breeze.

Removing the towel from his waist, he dabbed at his damp hair and then fingered his smooth chin thoughtfully. He had a flashback of the earlier post-mortem. He thought he’d seen it all during his years of investigating murders but the discovery of the key in Jeffery Howson’s stomach had left him open-mouthed and it had provided a hot topic of conversation upon his return to the office, where he had met up with Grace, Mike Sampson and Tony Bullars who had scaled down their enquiries for that day.

Scenes of Crime and Forensics had made a preliminary examination of the house, but with darkness drawing in, they had secured 12 Woodlands View and planned a full search and inspection in the morning. Prior to clocking off, they’d had a scrum-down with Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw, giving him an overview of events. Their SIO wanted them in for an 8am briefing and then he had ended with a comment that had Hunter puzzled.

Not only did he remind them he would see them all later  -MIT had a curry booked at a local Indian restaurant to celebrate the outcome of the ‘Lady in the Lake’ case - but added that he had something important to announce.

As Hunter finished drying himself he pondered on the detective superintendent’s earlier words.

It must be something of significance,
Hunter told himself,
otherwise why would he have felt the need to make the comment?

His thoughts drifted to the evening ahead.

The Major Investigation Team had been going for a curry on a regular basis since its inception two years ago, and although on this occasion it had been booked to celebrate the successful result from their last case, some of the team, himself included, suggested they invite their respective wives, husbands or partners. There had been a few objections, most notably from Barry Newstead and Mike Sampson, but the majority had agreed upon partners joining.

He smiled at his reflection. He knew it wouldn’t be long into the meal before Beth would be kicking his ankles beneath the table. No matter how hard he tried to avoid it, he knew from previous gatherings that before even the first drink was consumed to toast the MIT’s latest conquest, talk would soon get around to this latest murder enquiry.

Over the years he had made so many promises to Beth about avoiding such talk, but he seemed to break them almost on every occasion.

If only he could explain the buzz he experienced from doing his job.

There would be one consolation for Beth. She would be rescued part way through the evening by Grace, leaving him to engage in boy’s own stuff, while his wife and work partner huddled into a corner, sharing a bottle of wine and chatting.

The sudden peal of music drifting up from the lounge downstairs snapped him out of his thoughts. He recognised the opening track of James Blunt’s ‘Back to Bedlam’ album.

He turned back to the mirror, once again moving his head from side to side, this time checking the few grey hairs at his temples.

The years are creeping up on me
, he said to himself, stroking the right side of his hair.

He flexed his pectorals and tensed his shoulders so that the muscle was rippled and defined. The regular workouts at his father’s boxing gym kept him in good shape.

“Posing as usual, Hunter Kerr?”

Beth made him jump. She had crept upstairs and he hadn’t heard a thing.

She slipped her arms around his naked waist and ran her smooth fingers over his taut abdomen, then dragged her nails across his prominent abs.

For a split-second, his stomach tightened.

Beth leaned into him, resting her head into the crook between his neck and shoulder. The subtle flower fragrance from her perfume drifted over him. She smelt good.

He focused on her face. Shades of brown eye-shadow set off the blueness of her eyes and he loved her cute turned up nose. In the mirror, he watched her kiss the nape of his neck, one side of her bob of fair hair falling across the front of his shoulder.

She caught him looking at her through the mirror and cracked a cheeky smile.

“What are you thinking?”

“I was just thinking to myself what a lucky person Beth Kerr is to be married to such a hunk as me.”

“Delusional as well as a poser.” Beth said, kissing his shoulder. “I was just thinking we’ve got a good hour before we need to get ready,” she whispered.

Hunter spun around, catching her unawares. He gripped her wrists, quickly pinning them behind her back. Then he kissed her soft mouth.

As he led her to the bedroom, the second track was just striking up.

* * * * *

Barry Newstead leaned into Hunter’s ear and said in a hushed voice, “A few years ago celebrating a result was a lot different from this. Do you remember? It was a pie and a pint and a lock-in at the pub and you paid for it with a thick head the next day.”

Hunter did remember. Surprisingly, the memories of those nights were as fresh as if they had happened only yesterday. The venue was always the pub at the bottom of the hill, not far from district headquarters, where, after midnight, a couple of the lads would get their guitars out from the boots of their cars and everyone would join in with the drunken revelry; slurred renditions of songs such as ‘Whisky Wild Rover,’ Black Velvet Band,’ and ‘Sloop John B’, would reverberate around the small lounge. In the small hours everyone would eventually stagger home with croaking voices. And just like Barry had said, the following day he would feel as if his head and guts were going to explode.

“Yeah, good nights eh?” he said. “But things move on.”

“Not always for the best if you ask me. I don’t know, this bloody job’s gone soft,” Barry took a long slurp of his beer, demolishing half the pint.

Hunter glanced across at Beth who had already found a seat in the small lounge area by the foyer and was chatting away to Sue Siddons.

The four of them were the first to arrive at the Indian restaurant. Hunter and Beth had got there by taxi. Sue had driven Barry’s car. They had arrived simultaneously and given each other a smiling welcome before entering the restaurant.

This was the squad’s favourite curry house. They had tried several across the Borough over the past two years but had voted this the best. Not just because of its traditional decor, the low-lit intimate feel and friendly atmosphere - it was more a place for couples than an end of night venue for those who had drunk too much – but also because of its food, freshly cooked in the Bangladesh tradition. And it was quiet enough for the team to gossip among themselves, especially about work.

“I don’t know Barry, I quite like these nights out. You get to know more about the person you work with.” He took a sip of his own pint of chilled Indian beer in a decorated glass. “Do you know why I think you don’t like these evenings Barry?” Hunter deliberately turned his head away, hiding a smile.

“Go on, surprise me,” he replied gruffly.

“Because you’re afraid of letting your mask slip or someone might reveal your secrets. We might find out that the ruff-tuff brusque detective is really a pussy-cat with a liking for crochet and basket-weaving.”

Hunter saw Barry’s head whip round. He tried to avoid eye contact.

Barry dug Hunter’s arm with his elbow. “Daft pillock!” He took another swill of his beer, then said softly, “anyway, what’s wrong with crochet?”

They both cracked a grin.

Grace and her husband David were the next to arrive. David joined them at the bar, while Grace sidled off to greet Beth and Sue.

As Grace drifted towards where his wife and Sue were seated, Hunter couldn’t help but follow her with an admiring eye. Grace was not only slim and pretty but she had a real eye for style and fashion. Tonight she had on a brightly coloured print top over a pair of white linen trousers and was holding a suede clutch bag. Knowing his work partner, Hunter was sure there would be at least one designer label to her outfit.