Fever of the Bone (27 page)

‘Good. I’m Dr Wilde, forensic anthropologist at UNEC. I’ve been taking a look at the remains from Wastwater. I’m not done yet, but I thought you’d appreciate an update.’

‘Anything you can give me,’ Sam said.
Thank you, God
.

‘Well, the good news, depending on your perspective, I suppose, is that the dental records match the smaller adult skeleton, which I am pretty certain is that of a woman aged between twenty-five and forty.’

‘She was thirty-one,’ Sam said. ‘Her name was Danuta Barnes.’

‘Thank you. I’ve got my students working up DNA for all three sets of remains. We should be able to establish whether she’s the mother of the child. Who is aged between four and six months, I’d estimate,’ Dr Wilde continued.

‘Lynette. Five months,’ Sam said. He’d been struck by the pitifully small bundle sandwiched between the two larger ones. He wasn’t given to sentiment, but even the hardest heart couldn’t avoid being touched by so early and unnecessary a death.

Dr Wilde sighed. ‘Hardly a life at all. Not much of an epitaph, is it? “Lived for five months: made a great teaching aid.” Anyway, as soon as I can confirm that connection, I’ll let you know.’

‘Appreciate it. Anything you can tell me about the other body?’ Not that he was expecting much from a bag of bones and some slurry whose components he didn’t want to think too much about.

Dr Wilde chuckled. ‘You’d be amazed. For example, I can tell you his name was Harry Sim, and he died some time after June 1993.’

Sam was thrown for a second. Then he laughed. ‘What was it? Credit card or driving licence?’

She sounded disappointed. ‘Smarter than the average DC,’ she said in a cod American accent.

‘I like to think so. Which was it, then?’

‘Credit card. A Mastercard that ran from June 1993 to May 1997 in the name of Harry Sim. That should give you something to chase. I hope you’re pleased.’

‘You have no idea,’ Sam said with heavy emphasis. ‘Will you be checking his DNA against the kid as well?’

‘Oh yes,’ Dr Wilde said. ‘It’s a wise child who knows its father.’

‘Anything on cause of death?’

‘They make them greedy down Bradfield way,’ she said, not so amused now. ‘Impossible to say at this point. No obvious trauma to any bones, so probably not shot, strangled or battered with a blunt instrument. Could have been poisoned, asphyxiated. Could have been natural causes, but I doubt it. I suspect we’ll never be able to establish a cause of death. If you’re hoping for a murder charge, you might have to settle for circumstantial evidence.’

That was never good news. But he had no grounds for whining about it, given how much Dr Wilde had already given him. Who knew what he’d find when he started unpeeling the layers of Harry Sim’s life and mysterious death? He thanked Dr Wilde and hung up, already knowing the next stop on his journey.

The only time Carol ever minded being driven was when she was en route to crime scenes with bodies at their centre. Even with the most competent of chauffeurs, which Kevin undeniably was, the journey invariably seemed interminable. Her mind raced ahead, wanted to be there at the scene, calculating what would need to be done. It didn’t matter that the victim was beyond the constraints of time. Carol was determined not to keep them waiting.

Kevin turned on to a narrow moorland road, the twisting turns forcing him to lower his speed. Carol looked around her. Her earlier visit to Vanessa had brought her near here earlier this morning. Although this landscape had been used as a burial site in the past, most notably by Brady and Hindley, the Moors murderers, it had never crossed her mind then that she might be passing the place where Seth Viner’s killer had chosen to dump him.

‘He likes isolation, this killer,’ she said, hanging on to the grab handle as Kevin threw them round another bend.

‘You think he’s local?’

‘Depends what you mean by local,’ Carol said. ‘A quarter of the population of the UK is within an hour’s drive of the Peak District National Park. We’re not that far north of there. This place looks empty, but it’s a huge recreational area. Walkers, runners - like the ones who found the body - picnickers, orienteers, bikers with their stupid road races, people out for a drive on Sunday . . . There’s a lot of legitimate reasons for knowing the moors quite well.’

‘It should be over the next hill,’ Kevin said, glancing at the satnav.

‘Let’s hope West Yorkshire aren’t going to get all possessive on us,’ Carol said. Although Seth had gone missing from Bradfield, his body had been found about four miles over the border in the neighbouring force’s area. She’d never worked directly for West Yorkshire but she’d managed to piss off most of their senior CID officers a few years before when she’d been working off the books with Tony on a serial killer investigation nobody but them would take seriously. ‘They’re not very keen on me over there,’ she added.

Kevin, who knew all about the history, grunted. ‘You can’t really blame them. You made them look a right bunch of wankers.’

‘I’d hope they’d be over it by now. It was a long time ago.’

‘This is Yorkshire. They’re still feeling aggrieved about the Wars of the Roses,’ Kevin pointed out as they breasted a rise. About a mile down the road they could see their destination, unmistakable in its array of vehicles, pale green tent, neon yellow tabards and white body suits. ‘If you’re lucky, all the ones you really pissed off will have retired.’

‘I should be lucky - I’m certainly not rich.’ They pulled up on the verge behind an ambulance whose doors were open to reveal a group of women huddled under thermal blankets, hands cupped round steaming drinks cartons. Carol gathered herself together, took a deep breath and headed for the uniformed constable manning the entrance to the crime scene. ‘DCI Jordan, Bradfield MIT,’ she said. ‘And this is DS Matthews. I’ve got other officers on their way.’

He checked their ID. ‘Sign in, ma’am.’ He proffered his clipboard and pen, then waved them through. ‘DCI Franklin’s the SIO. He’s in the tent.’

The tent erected by the forensics team to protect the scene sat right at the edge of the road. ‘They never make you think of camping holidays, do they?’ Carol muttered as they approached. She pulled the flap back to reveal the familiar scene. Forensic technicians in white, detectives in leather jackets of varying design but absolute predictability. Some things clearly never changed in West Yorkshire.

Heads turned as they entered and a tall cadaverous man peeled off from the group of detectives and came towards them. ‘I’m DCI John Franklin. I don’t know who you are, but this my crime scene.’

The usual friendly greeting, Carol thought. ‘I’m DCI Carol Jordan,’ she said again. ‘It may be your crime scene, but I think he’s my body.’ She pulled a sheet of paper from her bag and unfolded it to reveal Kathy Antwon’s photo of her son. ‘Seth Viner. He was wearing black jeans, a white polo shirt, a Kenton Vale school sweatshirt and a dark navy Berghaus anorak when he went missing.’

Franklin nodded. ‘Sounds about right. Come and have a look. The photo won’t be much use to you, though. He doesn’t look like that any more.’

Charm and diplomacy. The hallmarks of the Yorkshire male
. Carol followed Franklin past the knot of detectives, Kevin at her shoulder. Close by the edge of the road, the earth fell away into a shallow gully a couple of feet wide. It wasn’t really a ditch, more a depression in the ground that ran for about fifteen feet. It was just deep enough to conceal the body from anyone passing in a car. But the runners hadn’t been so lucky.

It was a pitiful sight. Mud and blood caked his legs and lower torso. His head was encased in a plastic bag, taped tight round his neck. It was like a rerun of Daniel Morrison’s body. Only the clothes were different. But even through the filth and corruption it was possible to recognise Seth’s clothes. His jacket was missing, but the dark green sweatshirt and the black jeans were enough for Carol to feel certain she was looking at Julia and Kathy’s son. ‘Poor kid,’ she said, her voice low and sad.

‘You’ll be wanting a joint operation, then,’ Franklin said. There was no compassion about the man. That didn’t mean he didn’t feel it, just that he was determined not to show it in front of women and junior officers.

‘Actually, I want to claim it,’ Carol said. ‘It’s an identical MO to a murder on our patch earlier this week. You’ll have heard about it - Daniel Morrison.’

Franklin’s face contracted in a frown. ‘This is our ground. So it’s our case.’

‘I’m not disputing the territory. But this is just a body dump. He was abducted from Bradfield, chances are he was killed in Bradfield. I’ve got an identical crime in Bradfield just days ago. It makes no sense to duplicate efforts.’ Carol struggled to keep a grip on her temper. ‘We’ve all got budgets. We all know what a murder inquiry costs. I’d have thought you’d have been gagging to get rid.’

‘We’re not like you. We don’t try to offload our cases first chance we get. We’ve all heard about you and your MIT in Bradfield. Glory hunters, that’s what we hear. Going head to head with the terrorist cops, grabbing the headlines over the Bradfield bombing. Well, if there’s glory to be had for this one, it’ll be shared. If you’re lucky.’ Franklin turned on his heel and returned to his own men. Heads came together and the low rumble of indeterminate conversation reached them.

‘That went well,’ Carol said grimly. ‘Remind me I need to revisit my diplomatic skills.’

‘How do you want to play it?’

‘You stay here. The others will be along soon. Keep a watching brief, build some bridges. Make sure we’re kept in the picture. I’m going back to talk to the Chief Constable, get him to iron this out so we don’t spend the next week in mindless arguments about turf.’ She turned back to look at Seth and felt despair. ‘Those poor women,’ she said. ‘Make sure you or Paula goes with them to tell the parents. When this hits the news, they’re going to be besieged. They need all the help we can give them.’

‘I’ll see to it.’

Carol gazed out across the moors. ‘We need to stop this. We need to warn the kids and we need to catch this bastard before he does it again.’ And thought the unspoken, the unsayable.
I wish Tony was here
.

The sky was clouded over, the promise of rain in the air. But still Claire Darsie wanted to be outside. Ambrose had introduced Tony then left them to it. Tony was impressed by the policeman’s gentleness. The more he saw of Ambrose, the more he liked him. He suspected the feeling wasn’t mutual. Not after that morning’s fiasco.

Claire led the way out of the school building. ‘We can walk round the playing fields,’ she said. ‘There’s a sort of gazebo thing we can sit inside if you want.’ She was clearly aiming for unconcerned, but there was a brittleness about her that suggested her detachment wasn’t even skin-deep.

She set the pace, a brisk walk along a gravel path. In the summer, it would be heavily shaded by the mature trees that lined the boundary fence. But today there was plenty of light to reveal the strain in Claire’s face. Tony made sure he kept a good distance between them. She needed to feel safe, and the first step towards that was staying out of her space.

‘You and Jennifer, have you been friends a long time?’ Stick to the present tense, avoid rubbing her nose in the permanence.

‘Since primary school,’ Claire said. ‘I fell over in the play-ground on the first day and cut my knee. Jen had a hanky and she gave it to me.’ She raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. ‘But even if that hadn’t happened, she would have been the one I would have wanted to be friends with.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because she was a nice person. I know people say you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but that’s not how it is with Jen. It was what people always said about her. She was kind, you know? She didn’t have a mean bone in her body. Even when people pissed her off, she would end up seeing things from their point of view and let them off the hook.’ Claire made a noise that might have been disgust. ‘Not like me. When people piss me off, I make a point of getting my own back. I don’t know why Jen puts up with me, you know?’ Her voice wobbled and she tucked her chin into her neck. She upped the pace and pulled ahead of him. He let her go, catching up with her on the steps of the little wooden shelter at the end of the hockey pitch.

They walked inside and sat down facing each other. Claire curled in on herself, hugging her knees to her chest, but Tony stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles. He let his hands fall into his lap, an open position that made him unthreatening. Now he could see clearly the shadows under her eyes and the skin round her fingernails, bitten till it had bled. ‘I know how much you love Jen,’ he said. ‘I realise you’re missing her all the time. There’s nothing we can do to bring her back, but we can maybe make things a bit better for her mum and dad if we can find the person who did this.’

Claire gulped. ‘I know. I keep thinking about it. What she would have done if things had been the other way around. She’d have wanted to help my mum and dad. But I can’t think of anything. That’s the problem.’ She looked anguished. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘That’s OK,’ he said gently. ‘None of this is your fault, Claire. And nobody’s going to blame you if we don’t find the man who took Jen away. I just want to have a chat. See if you can help me know Jen a bit better.’

‘How will that help?’ Natural curiosity overcame her anxiety.

‘I’m a profiler. People don’t really understand what I do, they think it’s like something on the telly. But basically, it’s my job to figure out how Jen came into contact with this person, and how she would have responded. Then I have to work out what that tells me about him.’

‘And then you help the police to catch him?’

He nodded, a crooked smile crossing his face. ‘That’s the general idea. So, what was Jennifer interested in?’

He sat back and listened to a catalogue of teen music, fashions, TV shows and celebrity culture. He heard that Jennifer generally did what she was told - homework in by the due date, home on time when they went out in the evening. Mostly because it had never really occurred to Claire and Jennifer that they could do anything else. They lived a sheltered life in their selective girls’ school, ferried around by parents, existing in an orbit that didn’t intersect with the bad girls. Time passed and Tony’s relaxed questioning finally helped Claire to relax. Now he could probe deeper.