Where Death Lies, page 5
part #1 of Megan Rhys Crime Mystery Series
‘There was a belief around in Roman times that if you possessed part of the body of a murder victim you could harness the power of his soul.’ There was a far-away look in Griff ‘s eyes. ‘Have you heard of the biblical character, Simon Magus?’
Ceri frowned for a second then nodded. ‘Wasn’t he around at the same time as Jesus?’
‘Yes. The thing is a magus was a person who used occult knowledge to perform feats that ordinary people would class as a miracle. Owning the body part of a murder victim was considered the ultimate passport to high magic. Some say that’s how Jesus himself was able to perform miracles; that he stole the head of John the Baptist, and that’s where he got his power.’
Ceri stared at him open-mouthed. ‘God, that’s really bizarre! D’you think it could be true?’
Griff shrugged. ‘No idea. Can’t be proved one way or another, but that sort of thing definitely went on at the time Jesus was around.’
‘And you think the Bog Body could be an example of it?’
‘Could be,’ Griff replied. ‘But there are other possibilities. ‘
‘Such as?’
‘Such as the death being a straightforward punishment. The Romans record burial in a bog as being a penalty for cowardice in battle and other serious crimes. The offender would be strapped to a kind of wicker platform - very similar to what I found on top of the body in the pool - and that would be dropped into the bog, with him on the underside, so he was unable to get himself out. From the descriptions I’ve read, other members of the tribe would jump onto the platform so their weight would push him under and drown him.’
Ceri thought of the black, mud-caked panel she’d seen lying at the side of the pool. It had been at least ten feet square. The idea of being trapped under something like that made her shudder.
‘That’s where the word ‘bogeyman’ comes from.’ Griff leaned back, stroking the fur of the cushion beside him with long, brown fingers. ‘The word ‘bog’ is very close to the Welsh word bwgan, meaning a ghost or mischievous spirit. There’s a theory that if peat bogs were the site of executions, people came to associate them with evil manifestations - hence the word bogeyman.’
Ceri wrote all this down, wondering if Trudy would let her have a centre-spread for the article. There was certainly enough material. She glanced at her watch, realising with a shock that she’d been with this man for the best part of two hours.
‘I’m sorry - I’m going to have to get back to the office.’ Her eyes lingered on his fingers as they glided over the soft fur a few inches from her left thigh. ‘You’ve got so many fascinating things here - I’d love to ask you about them.’ She shot him a quick glance, hoping that she didn’t sound too desperate.
‘Come for supper, then.’ He said the words in a deadpan voice, looking straight back at her with unblinking eyes. It was impossible to read them.
‘Oh, are you sure?’ She felt herself blushing again. ‘That would be awesome.’
Ceri sang along to the radio as she drove back along the winding track. She knew what Megan would say when she heard about the supper invitation but she didn’t care. Since leaving Wolverhampton she’d been running on empty, worn down by the sheer effort of putting on a brave face for the children. Now that dull, heavy feeling had lifted. For the first time in months she felt alive.
As she passed the stables attached to Cors Fochno Farm she caught sight of a young girl in school uniform. She was heading in the direction of the barns. As the car drew level with her Ceri glimpsed a pale, waif-like beauty with long blonde hair that tossed in the breeze. She had large blue eyes. Troubled eyes, Ceri thought. Was this some teenage relative of Griff’s? A sister perhaps? Given her colouring it seemed unlikely. She glanced in the rear-view mirror. The girl had stopped. She was standing in the middle of the drive, staring at Ceri’s car. Even from a distance there was no mistaking her expression. It was a look of hard, cold, anger.
*
‘Hello, baby.’ Griff put out his hand and stroked Alice’s hair.
The girl looked at him, her face expressionless. ‘Who was the woman?’
Griff frowned. ‘What woman?’
‘The woman in the yellow car.’ A tiny frown line had appeared between the girl’s pale eyebrows .
‘Oh, just some muppet from the paper,’ he shrugged. ‘Wanted an interview about the body. Would you like a chocolate milkshake?’
By the time Griff had mixed the drink, Alice was naked, her school uniform lying in an untidy heap on the leather sofa. She walked across the room, taking the black silk jacket from the mannequin and putting it on. It was a tight fit and it only just covered her bottom. She was struggling with the tiny jet buttons when Griff brought her the milkshake.
‘Here.’ He held the glass up to her mouth and she drank it down. When he pulled it away there was an arc of pale brown froth on her top lip. He bent forward and licked it off. Then, taking her in his arms, he carried her up the stairs.
‘Lie very, very still, baby, and close your eyes,’ he whispered as he laid her down on the huge, canopied bed. He took off his own clothes and drew the thick black drapes that curtained the bed on all four sides. He slid between them into the muffled gloom. She lay, still and pale, like Snow White in the glass coffin. He watched her for a good five minutes before she blinked.
‘Don’t move.’ His voice had lost its softness now and he was breathing heavily. ‘You’re my baby, Alice. My beautiful dead baby.’
Chapter 7
Annette Lee was studying the face of the man pulled from Borth Bog.
‘You’re quite sure he wasn’t touched at all during the CAT scan procedure?’ She glanced at Zahur Abdulla, who shook his head. Megan noticed how the carefully arranged strands of black hair had slipped forward. Beads of perspiration glistened on the pathologist’s bald patch. She wondered if it was Professor Lee’s accusations or the touching up of his assistant that had brought him out in such a sweat.
‘I would have expected more distortion of the features.’ Annette Lee circled the body slowly, bending her head this way and that to examine the leathery face from every possible angle. ‘The nose has been pushed to one side, but the face doesn’t look nearly as squashed as other bog bodies.’ She appeared to be talking to herself rather than to the others in the room.
‘Does that suggest it might not be very ancient?’ It was Megan who asked the question, and in the long silence that followed she wondered if the professor had heard, or whether she simply deemed her unworthy of a reply. Still staring at the head, Annette Lee made a throaty sound that was halfway between a chuckle and a snort.
‘Without examining the skull it’s hard to say. If it’s Iron Age, like Lindow Man, I’d expect the bone to be soft and pliable, because over hundreds of years the acid in the peat would decalcify it. But this one looks to be a lot more rigid.’
Megan frowned. ‘So what’s the minimum time it could have been lying in the pool?’
Annette Lee stared at her with grey, button eyes. ‘If I knew that, my dear, I wouldn’t be asking my staff to carry out experiments with dead pigs!’
Megan refused to be put off by the tone in which this was said. Don’t you talk to me like one of your undergraduates, she thought. She stared back, unblinking, and said: ‘That’s you’re your colleague was doing, wasn’t it, when he found the body?’
‘He was, yes.’ Professor Lee paused and took a breath, scanning the faces in the room as if she was about to give a lecture. ‘By depositing the body parts of pigs in the bog and leaving them for varying lengths of time we’re trying to estimate how long it takes for the tanning process to work. Unfortunately the research isn’t at an advanced enough stage for us to have reached any firm conclusions.’
‘But surely you must be able to give a ballpark figure,’ Megan persisted. ‘I mean, does this kind of discolouration of the skin and hair take more than, say, fifty years? Or less than ten?’
‘I really couldn’t say.’ The woman was looking slightly less self-assured. Megan could see red blotches on her neck above the collar of her blouse. ‘It would have to be more than a year - that’s all I could predict with any real certainty.’
‘Really?’ DS Barry took a step forward.
‘But that doesn’t mean you can go ahead with a post-mortem!’ Professor Lee squared up to him. Her head only reached his shoulder, but her eyes blazed defiance. ‘I want a C-14 test done immediately. I suggest extracting a small bone from one of the feet. It’s a crying shame, but there’s no other way of dating him accurately.’ With a loud, rather theatrical sigh she turned on the heel of her shiny black boot and marched out of the room.
*
DS Barry drove Jonathan and Megan back to the Llety Parc hotel. There were groups of police officers sitting at tables outside, beers in their hands. Barry ambled towards one of the tables, waving at the others to join him.
‘Do you fancy a drink?’ Jonathan glanced at his watch. ‘It’s a couple of hours until dinner.’
‘Oh,’ Megan had been looking in her bag for her car keys, ‘actually, I’m not staying for dinner.’
‘Aren’t you?’ He looked disappointed. ‘Have you got to get back to Birmingham?’
She explained about staying on in Borth for a holiday. ‘What about you? Are you heading back to Cardiff tomorrow?’
‘No - I’ve brought my windsurfer with me.’ He grinned tapping the scar on his chin. ‘I’m pretty useless at it - in the water more than on the board - but I guess I’m a bit of a masochist! ‘
So this was the reason for the slim, toned body. ‘When did you take that up?’
Jonathan glanced at the gum-pocked tarmac beneath his feet. ‘Just after my divorce.’ He looked up and Megan could see the strain in his smile.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she began, ‘I didn’t...’
‘It’s okay.’ He waved away her concern. ‘It’s been eighteen months. Ancient history!’ He shrugged and the amiable grin returned. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Let’s go for a quick one anyway, shall we? I think we deserve it after this afternoon’s little detour!’
Megan nodded. ‘Go on then - only a small one, mind.’ She cocked her head at the policemen at the nearest table. ‘Wouldn’t do to be over the limit in a place like this, would it?’
*
Lili Jonas was cleaning the fridges that the undertakers had emptied. It was her last job of the day and the work was always done with a sense of anticipation. It was one of the things she liked about the job, never knowing what would be waiting for her when she arrived the next morning. There wasn’t much to do this afternoon, she thought, as she loaded bottles of cleaning fluid onto a trolley. Only four compartments used so far this week - and one of them was still occupied.
She frowned at the thought of the Bog Body lying in grand isolation in its plastic coffin. How long was it going to stay there? That bossy bitch from the university had said it would be at least Friday before anything could be decided. It wasn’t right, she thought, leaving something like that in a fridge for the best part of a week. It gave her the creeps. Ty had laughed when she told him. He thought working with the dead would have made her immune to anything like that. He knew about the little book she kept; the locks of hair that she held as talismans against the displeasure of the souls whose bodies she had desecrated. He knew, but he didn’t understand. There was only one person who really understood, and that was Griff.
She leaned into fridge number three and started scrubbing at the spots of dried blood that had dribbled out of Violet Mary Hetherington’s mouth when she was brought down from Afon Leri ward. Suddenly there was a hand on her leg. She whipped her head round, bumping it on the side of the fridge.
‘Fuck off Mick!’ Catching sight of the porter she kicked out with her other leg.
‘Jesus!’ Mick Stubbs doubled up in pain. The heel of her shoe had caught him in the groin.
‘Serves you right, you bastard,’ Lili hissed, scrambling out of the fridge. She stared at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Now get the fuck out of here before I call the boss and get you sacked!’
‘What’s going on?’ The door at the end of the corridor was open. Standing on the threshold was Derek, one of the other porters. ‘I heard shouting.’ He walked towards them, staring at Mick through thick, black-framed glasses. Then he turned to Lili. ‘You all right, love?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine - no worries.’ Lili smoothed down the fabric of her overalls where it had ridden up her thighs.
‘You sure?’ Derek looked from Lili to Mick, his expression changing to one of ill-disguised contempt.
Lili nodded. ‘Mick was just giving me a hand with the trolley and I accidentally bashed into him, didn’t I?’
‘That’s right.’ Mick stared back at his colleague, an insolent smile turning up the left side of his mouth. ‘She’s really dangerous, this one.’
*
Three floors above the hospital mortuary Father Hawksley was holding the hand of the woman lying in the bed.
‘Janine,’ he whispered, ‘can you hear me?’
She had only been coming to his church for a short time but he felt she was one of those most in need of his help. The congregation at St Mary of the Fathoms consisted mainly of elderly people who came to the services out of loneliness. He didn’t hold that against them; he knew from bitter experience what a long day Sunday could be when there was no one to share it with. But he longed to do more than simply comfort the bereaved. He wanted to change lives - that was the reason he’d entered the priesthood.
‘Father?’ The woman opened her eyes. ‘Is it you?’
Her lids were heavy; she was still under the influence of the drug they had given her.
‘Yes, Janine, it’s me.’ He squeezed her hand, careful to avoid the ragged, dark red lines that stood out from her wrist like a broken bracelet. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Oh...’ She tried to lift her head, but it sank back onto the pillow.
‘Don’t try to sit up.’ He gave her a worried smile. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
She shook her head and a tear squeezed out of the comer of one eye. ‘Tell the nurses,’ she croaked, ‘that it’s spiritual, not medical.’ She looked at him with pleading eyes. ‘Don’t let them send me to Goronwy, will you?’
Father Hawksley shook his head. Goronwy was the psychiatric ward. He’d only been there once and that had been once too often.
‘I know it’s an evil spirit.’ Janine Powell bit her lip and stared at the ceiling. ‘And now it’s after my Alice as well.’
*
It was still warm outside when Lili left the hospital. In the cold, dark interior of the mortuary she always had to wear a couple of layers, but as she stepped into the bright September sunshine she peeled off her cardigan, revealing a black belly top with spaghetti straps.
She drove to the barn on automatic pilot, thinking about the lock of hair in her handbag. She wanted to get it out of there and into its proper place as fast as she could. It was as if the bag itself would become tainted if she left it inside for too long.
She’d been back for a matter of minutes when she remembered her mobile. She’d left it in her locker when she changed out of her overalls and had forgotten to put it back into her handbag. Swearing under her breath, she marched back to the car. She couldn’t do without the phone overnight - not here.
Back at the hospital she let herself into the mortuary by the door the undertakers used. It was a shortcut she often took, saving her the bother of going all the way round to the foyer and through reception. As she hurried towards the cloakroom she heard a noise. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light. There was someone standing by the fridges. Someone in a hooded top with a rucksack beside them on the floor. And one of the fridge doors was open.
‘Hey!’ Lili stood still, her hands on her hips. The figure spun round and before she could utter another word she was rugby-tackled to the ground. She landed chest-down, her face pushed sideways and her arms pinioned by a pair of bony knees. There was a hand over her mouth and as she struggled to move she could feel her hair being pulled back. In desperation she bit into the fleshy part of the hand as hard she could.
‘Bitch! Fucking...stupid...fucking...bitch!’ With each hissed word her head was rammed against the cold, hard lino. There was an agonising pain in her temple. With her last ounce of strength she arched her back in a vain attempt to break free. There was a sharp stabbing sensation as teeth dug into the upper part of her arm. Her scream was muffled by the hand, which was oozing blood into her mouth. The taste of it was the last thing she sensed before blacking out.
Chapter 8
Megan could tell from Ceri’s eyes that something had happened. The dark shadows were still there, but the irises, identical to hers, were shining like melted chocolate.
‘Meg, would you do me a big favour?’ Ceri was pulling Emily’s coat off with one hand while balancing Joe on her hip.
‘That depends.’ Megan leaned back against the dresser, folding her arms.
‘Could you babysit tonight?’
‘Who is he, then?’
Ceri frowned, a blush spreading from her neck to her cheeks. ‘What makes you think it’s a he?’
‘It’s written all over your face, stupid!’ Megan shook her head and sighed. ‘Ceri, are you sure this is a good idea?’ The expression on her sister’s face made her feel mean. It was like taking sweets from an excited child. ‘All I’m trying to say,’ she went on, ‘is that it’s a bit soon isn’t it? Are you sure you can handle dating again?’
‘I know what you’re thinking.’ Ceri stuck out her chin, embarrassment turning to defiance. ‘I made one mistake - just one - in ten years of marriage. Other people do that, don’t they? Far worse than that, actually... ‘ she tailed off, her lip trembling. Turning her back on Megan she ushered the children into the kitchen.
With a heavy sigh Megan trailed after them. Ceri was right, of course, but what she hadn’t mentioned was the public scandal that had accompanied her affair. Most people didn’t have affairs with murder suspects; didn’t have police officers raiding their bedrooms with the story splashed across the local evening paper. All this had happened to her sister. Enough, Megan thought, to put many women off men for life. But not Ceri. From the age of fourteen she had never been without a boyfriend. Without a man she felt she was only half a person; she’d said as much to Megan more than once - usually while drowning her sorrows after being dumped.
