Fifty Two Weeks of Murder (7 page)

Chapter 9

The shop was dimly lit despite the cluster of lights that adorned the ceiling. The owner had used low wattage bulbs and they were grimy with age. The floor was lined with rows of wooden shelves and they were packed with antiques from all ages. They’d been placed together according to rarity and not location or date, so the statue of Amon Ra from Ancient Egypt found itself rubbing shoulders with a clay bowl from Macedonia. Anders spied a terracotta figurine from China and noted the Samurai Sword from Japan that had belonged to Yamada Nagamasa. A small tag was tied to each piece, though no price was listed.

As Mal entered, he saw Anders walking slowly through the shop, a look of intense focus on her face as she surveyed the room, taking in the tiniest of details before turning her attention to the corpse. The body sat on the floor slumped against the counter, a terrible mess of wreckage where its head used to be. Mal’s eyes were drawn to the axe that was embedded into the floor next to it, positioned in such a way as to give the most dramatic effect when photographed correctly. Blood and chunks of gore spattered the walls, floor and ceiling. It had been a crime of unrelenting viciousness. Mal had no doubt that it was an entry into the Murder Competition as the press were dubbing it.

Helen knelt by the body, careful to avoid disturbing the pool of blood that surrounded the victim and grimaced at the pulpy carnage. Ben had set up some halogen lamps and the shadows were banished from the store as he switched them on. Gone were his awkward movements and bumbling personality, replaced by an efficient professional who knew his work. Anders removed her headphones and stood next to Helen, just as Mal asked for her thoughts.

“Repeated blows to the crown of the head with a blunt object. I’d say the blood stained axe is our culprit,” she said with an arched eyebrow. “Helen?” The axe was covered in blood, but it was the back that had been used, not the blade, which was free from gore. Streaks of blood had run from the back, down its edges and then soaked into the wood that it had been slammed into. Helen nodded her agreement.

“I’ll have to check the measurements of the axe and match them to some of the compaction fractures on the skull, but it’s more than likely correct. The problem is going to be finding a spot on the skull where I can get a clear enough reading. There must be more than a dozen separate impacts that have crushed the skull.”

“There’s a lot of rage here. In the book, the Pawnbroker’s head was probably mostly intact. The author wrote of the dead eyes that watched his killer accusingly. Here, there’s so much damage, the skull is crushed to below the nose.”

“The attacker probably only stopped through sheer exhaustion,” said Helen as Ben started photographing the body and putting flags down to mark blood spatters. Helen saw a leather wallet peeking out from a pocket and asked Ben to photograph it before removing the wallet and passing it to Anders. She took a tablet from the forensics bag and tapped in the name on the driving licence, scrolling through the details until she had what she needed.

“James Smith. Owns this shop. Married to Janice Smith and a father to Mitch, who lives at home. I’ll get Abi and Lucy to go round their place.” Mal nodded, his eyes drawn to the corpse. The way the arms were slumped to the sides and the legs splayed out meant that he could simply have been resting were it not for the savage damage done to his head. He let out a deep breath and his features hardened.

“This is the first entry we know of. We need to solve this quickly, before peoplefolk go thinking it’s ok to enter this damn competition. Most people are killed by someone we know, so I want everyone checking and interviewing anyone that has links to him. This much blood doesn’t scrub off easily, so there’ll be traces. We’re still searching Buckland’s properties for any sign of him and I’ll leave Barry on that.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and lifted his head to ward off the tiredness.

“This is what we do, why we were formed. Why we’re a self-contained unit that doesn’t need to wait months for forensic analysis. This is also why we don’t fuck up.” Pep talk over, he left to coordinate the uniformed officers and get SC+O onto the site to help process the evidence more quickly. He knew that if this case went unsolved, it would give others the push to try and make their own entry. Regardless of Buckland’s motives or justification, five million pounds went a long way to overcoming any moral quandary about murder.

Chapter 10

Anders put Aaron to bed and left some food in the oven for Cassie, who was on a late shift at her café. Exhausted, she poured herself a glass of red wine and made her way to the workroom, stealing some chocolate from the fridge as she passed. She mused that it was a good job she did so much exercise or she’d regret the recent lapse into chocolate binging her return to England had started.

She carried a large bag of papers that Jesse had printed off for her and sat crossed legged in the middle of the room. It had been a long day. Processing a crime took months. From finding evidence at the scene, interviewing witnesses, notifying the family, carrying out the autopsy and analysing toxicology reports, the whole process took time, not the forty minutes a TV show would take. Though they could analyse much of the data in their own lab, it was still a laborious task. Leads had to be followed, suspects interviewed, alibies checked, evidence trails followed, rechecked and new avenues pursued.

The team had worked hard, Lucy and Duncan following up on leads as Anders helped with the physical evidence. Mal had used his rank to get SC+O support and had enlisted officers from the Met into collecting more data. All told, more officers had worked on this case in the last twenty hours than had worked on all the murder investigations in the previous year combined. McDowell had called in many favours to get a resolution quickly and, as she sat on the floor, Anders started to comb through the evidence, glad that any request from her division automatically took priority in any other department. At the same time, she had “A Feather on the Breath of God” playing softly through a docking station for her phone.

Reading through the evidence, she placed the papers around her when she was done, a physical manifestation of the mental construct that she was building. Anders’ laptop would chime frequently as more evidence was sent to her. She printed these off and added them to her construct.  

Blood spatter analysis. The blows came directly to the top of the skull, an even arc of blood blooming around the shop floor and spurting upwards to the ceiling. First blow, centre of floor. James Smith was five seven, slightly below average. Length of axe showed killer to be roughly the same height or more to get a clear hit on top. Weight of axe, five kilo’s. Average person could lift the axe, but it would take a little time. No suspects were above average size. Means blow likely came from behind if Smith wasn’t to dodge such a perfect strike.

Next page. Autopsy. Nothing from toxicology. Stomach analysis showed he’d eaten at around seven the previous night, as indicated by his wife. No alcohol or drugs. Nothing unusual outside of the pulped skull, no defensive wounds. Caught unawares, or too shocked at what was happening. Either hit from behind or knew suspect well. Blood spatter inconclusive.

Witnesses. Nothing seen. One reported a noise at roughly midnight and some shouting or cheering. Security cameras in store hadn’t been switched on for years and none of the local cameras showed anything useful.

Prints. Three sets. The wife, the son, Mitch and the shop assistant, Beth. All happy to have their prints taken to discount them from analysis. No other prints. Fibres on body. Hairs, same length and colour as wife, one on shoulder matching Mitch’s colour. Beth’s hair everywhere. Peroxide blonde with green tips. Spectrometer still in action at the lab.

Stocktaking report. Nothing missing. No evidence of theft.

Smith’s background. No friends to speak of. Spent most of his time at the store. Well regarded in his field. Medical records show no major illnesses. Autopsy found no underlying ailments. A healthy fifty year old. Anders scanned the pictures of the family and Beth, committing them to memory and placing them in her construct. 

The process took hours and she was mentally exhausted by the time she was done. She’d had but a few hours’ sleep in the last two days. Taking her first sip of wine since she had sat down, Anders put the music back on and slowed her breathing. Closing her eyes, she focused on the movements of her chest as it rose steadily with every breath. Slowing it down further, she used the music to return her to the scene of the crime. This time, she removed the police presence, the flashing lights and the noise created by the mass of people at a crime scene. 

Walking slowly across the street, she stepped into the shop. The image in her mind was crystal clear, every detail committed to memory. Where there were gaps in her knowledge, a blur shaded across that area, a trinket on a shelf she had forgotten, blurry and indistinct. James Smith, now alive and well, stood in the middle of the floor staring at her mutely. She had no voice for him, but she would give him chance to tell his story.

She walked behind him, holding the axe in her hands and swung it in a looping arc, her full strength behind the blow. Both hands held the end of the long wooden handle as her body arched forward. The blow was sickening, the splintering crunch of bone as the back of the axe head made contact, the length of the handle and speed of the blow giving it tremendous force and momentum. Blood lanced out at shocking speed, bright in the dim light, and splattered over Anders.

She didn’t flinch.

She would stare hard into the abyss and dare it to return the challenge. She was not afraid of the worst humanity had to offer. She’d endured it, the pain manifest on her body. She saw the darkness reflected in her own image each day and knew herself the embodiment of humanity, capable of both good and evil. She fought for those who had suffered and died because she was touched by darkness yet laced through with light. Just as we are capable of the foulest of deeds, we are capable of the greatest compassion. Anders chose compassion. Had been forged in fire and brimstone, been torn asunder and suffered redemption through transformation. She turned from darkness willingly and so stared hard at the evils of men knowing that she could not be tainted or sullied any further by it. 

Smith’s body slumped to the floor as if a marionette with the strings cut. Anders swung again, crashing the axe into his head as he lay prone on the ground. She stood straight, panting as she did so, leaning on the axe as she surveyed her work. Mentally, she lay the blood spatter analysis over the scene and muttered to herself. It wasn’t right.

Focusing once more, James Smith stood up, perfectly unharmed, and walked slowly back to the middle of the floor, his eyes following her as she stood in front of him. She swung the axe once more, blood splashing the ceiling in the same spot that they’d discovered earlier. Smith’s body slumped down, crashing against the counter and sitting upright as he jammed against it.

Anders swung again and again, turning his head into a bloody mess, blood splashing on the floor, covering her face and dripping from her in rivulets of gore. Skull fragments flew in all directions and lumps of brain smeared into the unit behind. An eye popped out from the skull and snaked across the floor, coming to a slithering halt beneath a shelf for Ben to find later.

Her energy spent, Anders surveyed the carnage. She turned to see a blurred shape to her left. Streaks of blood had stopped at that point and the figure watched as Smith was brutally murdered. Recalling the witness testimony, she pictured the blurred figure shouting, then cheering. Stepping backwards, she placed an image of Mitch over the blurred image. Too tall. Blood spotted the wall behind. Taking Smith’s height and that of his son, the trajectory didn’t match. It was travelling too fast to dip, so it had to be someone shorter. Beth, the cashier. Height matched. Did the wife wear heels? That would make her the right height if she was.

Thrusting the axe into the floor by Smith’s body, Anders stepped back, blood dripping from her sleeves and hands. She paused the scene in her mind and stepped away to look back at the figure who’d bludgeoned a man to death. Though blurry, she was forming an image in her mind and it came to sharp relief. The second figure was troubling her and she moved around the scene to get a better image, looping round the left to come behind the figure on the right. She then saw a smudge of blood on the floor and frowned at the smear. The direction was all wrong. It didn’t match any other splatter.

Retracing her steps, she replayed the scene, wielding the axe on Smith over and over again, using different scenarios of the two people, where they would move and how, but that smudge kept coming back. She couldn’t find a reason for it, no matter how she moved the protagonists. Suddenly the answer hit Anders and she snapped her eyes open to find herself back in the workroom, paper littered around her. She gave a rueful shake of the head and muttered quietly in the silence.

“Well I’ll be damned.”