Treble Clef, page 3
part #8 of DCI Cyril Bennett Series
The doctor continued. “Interestingly we have incisions that are positioned above the thyroid.” He paused and using his index finger touched Cyril’s throat before running it almost horizontally. “Direction left to right. Multiple superficial and shallow wounds…”
“Hesitation cuts,” Owen interrupted.
Both Cyril and the doctor looked at him briefly. The doctor smiled and nodded.
“Hesitation cuts, yes. There’s tailing too to the wounds. We’ll know more once he’s back with the pathologist. If it’s Dr Pritchett, Cyril, you’ll be able to discuss it over cocoa.” He winked at Owen and turned to leave.
“Owen, I was going to ask you something before the doctor arrived. Do you recall?”
Owen shook his head.
“Okay, if you two want to start the interviews. We also need to find his phone, assuming he has one, and do a check on his phone records. Last calls leading up to this convention and ideally we want to locate it as soon as.”
***
The junction of Station Parade and the A61, York Place, was always busy and it was inevitable that traffic backed up across the short bridge spanning the twin track railway. However, on one side of the road was a wide grass verge and then the bridge balustrade. The railway lines ran below within the cutting, for some distance flanked on either side by The Stray. To the observer, the rails seemed to converge slowly into the distance below a second stone bridge that carried foot traffic from one side of The Stray to the other.
Apart from the abundance of rubbish that lay discarded along its entire length, four things caught the eye. The first was part of a broken bottle, refracting the sun’s light, spreading not only the coloured spectrum across the dirt and the rail, but also to the observer adding what seemed like some kind of coloured, fairy magic to a place that was not the prettiest. The observer’s gaze lingered long until the sun disappeared taking with it the colours. The second item was a pram wheel and then a windscreen wiper arm and blade, the rubber split and spread like long, gnarled fingers. Lastly an object that resembled a yellow condom caught on what appeared to be a dead branch giving it the appearance of a small, limp pennant.
“Possibly a flag of victory,” the observer whispered, the thought bringing with it an accompanying smile.
Within minutes three more items would join the detritus and they, it was hoped, would be left to settle and disappear within the stone ballast. The other two items, still wrapped in cling film, remained concealed for the moment. It would just be a matter of finding the right opportunity.
Chapter Four
Owen was now used to observing an autopsy. There were, during any of the latest procedures, fewer occasions when he needed to raise himself onto his toes to alleviate the on-coming signs of feeling light-headed and faint. He still, however, felt the beads of sweat run from his armpits and trickle cold against his skin but this was often brought on by the sounds, rather than the sights; the vibrating saw and drills as well as those created from the extraction of human organs. Although subtle, they seemed amplified for some reason and could quickly bring on a feeling of nausea. He watched and made notes as Dr Julie Pritchett, one of the north east pathologists, worked with her usual efficiency. Occasionally, her assistant, Hannah, would glance up and smile. Owen had been seeing Hannah for some time. He remembered their initial meeting and his clumsy first advances. He had not considered that she was already in a relationship when he invited her to meet for a drink. Her initial refusal had hit him harder than he imagined.
***
The Mercedes Actros wagon, parked in the designated area, was the opportunity to lose another item, another piece of evidence. He had not expected the opportunity to arise so soon but one could not look a gift horse in the mouth. The curtains in the cab were drawn, another advantage. Either the driver was sleeping or not in the cab. The registration plate denoted the wagon was a long way from home; it was Romanian and therefore it was an even greater bonus. Following a quick look round, the owner of the gloved hand swiftly removed the fuel tank filler on the tractor unit. Looking into the opening, the observer was relieved to see there was no fixed filter. One never could tell from the outside. Quickly removing the cling film, he dropped the secateurs through the opening into the cavernous fourteen hundred litre tank.
“Perfect! Now when and where will you be discovered I wonder, if at all?” The top was replaced and the glove removed, turning it inside out in the process. It was then tucked under the rear of the trailer to be thrown off on some road like so many other odd gloves. Now the fun could begin with the strategic disposal of the final object.
***
Cyril stared at the computer screen clearly showing the cover of the pathologist’s report. He allowed his fingers to drum on the desk as he organised his thoughts knowing only too well the report’s contents. He lifted the china cup from the saucer and sipped his tea before reading the cover details again as he focused on the name, Dr Julie Pritchett, bringing with it a comforting warmth. It was getting more difficult for him to see her in her professional role. He stopped tapping and allowed his finger to run under her name as if in a gentle caress. “You’re getting maudlin, Bennett, come on.” He moved the mouse and her name vanished leaving the first page and the descriptive notes and images.
Although the incisions were characteristically those of suicidal cut-throat wounds, it seemed this death was anything but. Clear medical evidence suggested that Mr Kevin Carruthers had died painfully and slowly. There was confirmation the hand amputation was performed after death, hence the minimal blood loss in that area. It was, however, the damage to the neck that drew Cyril’s attention. Each cut had been deliberate and controlled until the final incision. Cyril looked more closely at the images and referenced them to the report. He followed the incision from the head of the wound with his finger. There had been minute slivers of coloured glass found within parts of the flesh to the edge of the wounds suggesting the weapon used in the attack was some kind of honed glass, but exactly what shape or type, could not be determined at this stage.
The light in the room dimmed as Owen stood in the doorway.
“You’d make a better door than a window, Owen. Have you read the pathologist’s report?”
Owen moved towards the desk, a Harrogate Festival mug gripped firmly in his right hand and a custard cream in his left. Cyril was relieved and surprised that the outer rim of the mug was not awash with tea.
“I was present if you recall, sir. It seems that all the recent autopsies have my name on them these days. Tortured, silently tortured if that’s not an oxymoron and then…”
Cyril turned to look at his colleague, startled by his use of such a literary term. Owen brought the biscuit to his throat and ran it across whilst pulling a facial expression that conveyed terror. It brought a smile to Cyril’s lips.
“Still have the skills you learned treading the boards, I see, plus a growing understanding of the Queen’s English.” There was no sarcasm in his words.
“I’ve had a few nights on the tiles but can’t remember treading on any boards and I can swear with the best of them. Being brought up in Bradford and working in Bradford Vice Division you hear it all.” Owen popped the whole biscuit into his mouth.
“A one off! I rest my case, Owen, I rest my case.”
“How come no one heard? The walls in these B&Bs aren’t too soundproof. There must’ve been some kind of struggle. No weapon, so he can’t have killed himself, then chopped off his hand before hiding that and the tools used. There was no forcing of any of the locks, so either the killer was taken in or he was already there when Carruthers returned.”
“Or she.”
“Or she? Yes… Possible. Although he’s not a big lad he looks young enough and fit enough to defend himself so for a woman to hold him, torture him and then…” Owen was just about to cut his throat again with his finger but on seeing Cyril’s expression thought better of it. “Remember according to the report he was found naked, no evidence of sexual activity and no signs of a struggle. When you see Dr Pritchett you might ask what her personal thoughts are on the death.” He paused for a moment. “We’re checking those known to the police from the people attending and working at the convention.”
“Phone, Owen?”
“Nothing in the room nor with his clothes. We have a log from his provider of his last calls and we’re checking those. Names will be with us shortly. Since the death the phone has been deactivated.”
“Par for the course. Any info from the guests staying at The Grey House?”
***
Valerie buttered the toast ensuring it spread to the very edges before slicing diagonally. She had once heard that this was the way toast should be sliced and from that point on she had followed this etiquette. She had always followed rules from being a child and by doing so she had usually got her own way. She was not particularly academic and school was something she endured before leaving early to work in sales in a large department store.
She removed her linen napkin from the silver holder. It had been her mother’s and before that, possibly her grandmother’s. Regardless, it connected her with her past each day at meal times and it brought a degree of reassurance. Nibbling her toast she reflected on the previous evening and the momentary pause allowed the liquefied butter to drizzle onto the plate she held on her lap.
The evening had been as she had imagined. They had strolled along the edge of The Stray before ending up at The Old Swan Hotel. She had had it in her mind to go there from the outset, liking the ambience and its old-world charm. Leaning forward she touched the napkin ring again.
It was during the second drink that she had heard it in his accent. “You said you were from Yorkshire but I detect that may not be the whole truth,” she had whispered. Her sentence was neither threatening nor defensive and she deliberately chuckled and put a hand on his knee as she said it, to remove the possibility of any offence. As he laughed she removed her hand, its job had been done and therefore no longer necessary at this stage. She did not want to convey the wrong impression; this was after all, their first date. She had, however, been correct. He had lived most of his early years in Hexham. Private schooling and elocution lessons had wiped away much of a regional accent but there was, to the discerning ear, the odd clue detectible in certain sounds.
She finished her toast, washed the knife and plate before feeding Monty. “Will he ring and ask me out again?” she asked the cat as it wrapped itself around her legs and mewed affectionately. “You’re not sure are you, and neither am I. There aren’t too many fish in the sea these days, Monty.”
The cat seemed to respond to the word fish and jumped on her recently vacated chair.
“You are a clever pussy.”
Within half an hour she would be back at the charity shop.
***
An officer had taken a statement from Emma and Martin Truelove. He had traced their car to Richmond and they had been fully co-operative. They had neither seen nor knew Carruthers. “They only stayed one night and seeing he didn’t have breakfast…” Owen stopped as Cyril raised his hand.
“The others?”
Owen became quite animated as he underlined two names written on a flipchart that was positioned on an easel to the side of Cyril’s desk. “This couple have been staying at The Grey House for the last two nights; they should be leaving in a few days. They’d booked in the same day as the dead man and were also attending the convention.”
“Has their room been checked by Forensics?” Cyril interrupted, suddenly more interested. “Anyone who was in the building could have killed him. All we need is evidence, scientific if possible, and a motive. That’s always helpful.” He brought his hand up to his forehead and rubbed.
“A hand too would help! Forensics is checking each room. Their room,” he tapped the underlined names, “by coincidence, it’s next door to that occupied by Carruthers and as I said, sir, this couple, Daniel Frost and Ruth Bishop, are both gamers.”
“Just pause a moment, Owen, and let’s take stock. Sit down and tell me what we know about this convention.”
Owen smiled inwardly at the royal we. He remembered Cyril once saying that only kings, presidents and people with tapeworms should use the word in that sense but he could not remember who had originally said it; Cyril had told him and so he made sure it was exaggerated when he spoke. “We know a lot, as we checked their website.”
Cyril did not allow his face to slip at Owen’s sarcasm.
“It’s a mixture of predominantly board and card games. There are a few computer games but not many. The common theme for this event is to get people to sit and interact. They can borrow from a vast library of games if they have a Game Passport. They pay a refundable deposit to receive one and then borrow a game and go and play. As you’re aware, the centre is a bloody big place and can cater for hundreds. There are seminars where tactics and game play are discussed in detail. They present strategic moves and explain rule application. Experts, and in some cases the designers, of a particular game or genre of game hold seminars where tactics…”
“And the type of games?”
“Fuji Flush, Cottage Garden, Virus, Chromosome, Undercover, Burke’s Gambit. I could go on.”
Cyril rubbed his forehead again as if searching for some inspiration or understanding. “Not exactly cricket is it? How competitive are these games?”
“I’ve checked out a few. Let me tell you about two to begin with. Firstly, Burke’s Gambit. Like many, it’s a social deduction game to do with a parasite and infection. The rules, from what I can make out, seem overly complicated so I’ve given the task to Harry to look into and hopefully interpret them. However, they all have a similar theme and that can be death or instant death depending on the way the cards or the dice fall. Some even have a traitor or two lurking within the players.”
“A bit like real life!” Cyril said, the tone of his words carrying sincerity.
“Indeed. In the second game, Chromosome, people start dying after a meteor lands bringing with it deadly microbes. Slowly everyone is eliminated and the idea of the game is finally to kill the germs before they get the last man standing who is one of the players.”
“Or last woman, Owen? I don’t like the plural you speak of… People start dying. The one we have at the moment is quite enough.”
“Diversity rules, sir, sorry. The last woman!”
“Another game, but that one’s political, Owen.”
“Just one of today’s facts of life but please don’t get me started on diversity for...” He did not finish as his face started to flush.
Cyril fully understood Owen’s feelings on the subject and that of the positive discrimination within the force where promotion was concerned; it was, to Owen, a raw and exposed nerve.
“Being a single white male can be a positive disadvantage these days that’s all I’m saying otherwise I’ll turn bitter and twisted.” There was a momentary pause. “So… you feel Carruthers may well have lost his life by losing a game?” Owen responded not realising the significance.
“Maybe, Owen, maybe. Do we know the games he played whilst there?”
“We’re checking to see if he had a Game Passport. I’m assuming there should be some kind of register as money is involved. We’ve put his photograph on the various sites and that should hopefully bring contacts of those who played the games with him during his time there. It’s just a case of waiting for the pieces to drop into place. There’s also a chance that many of those at the event have been to other similar games conventions or been involved in local games nights. I’m guessing but it’s probably a possibility.”
Cyril checked his watch. Owen waited for him to shake it but he was to be disappointed. “Get Harry and Brian to feed back tomorrow morning. Get Shakti to look at as many of the games as possible. Get her to liaise with Harry, two heads are better than one, and talk to the organisers, they may know him if he’s a regular. If we can tie certain games to Carruthers, we might be a little closer to determining a reason he was killed.” Cyril stood.
“If it’s anything to do with the games and the convention at all, that is.”
Owen’s words made Cyril frown.
“Another reason? Thanks for that, Owen. Great!”
“The couple whose names I underlined before you asked about the gaming convention, sir? You might be interested to know that they identified him standing in the grounds of what was St Luke’s church. They thought it was still a church, but as you know, it was converted into apartments some time back. Interestingly, he wasn’t alone. They believe that he could have been with a woman.”
Cyril sat down again, suddenly interested. “Any CCTV there or on King’s Road?”
“Checking all known cameras from the centre to that building.”
“Keep me informed. Well done!” Cyril checked his watch again. “Home. Just organise a briefing for eight tomorrow morning and set up an incident room. I think this case will not be as simple as first thought. And Owen, I remembered what I was thinking when at The Grey House. What if a guest goes off with the three keys? I’ve done it in the past on more than one occasion.”
“They probably post them back. They have a huge brass ball on them, it’s unlikely they’d walk off with that.”
“Trust me, Owen, it’s easily done. Check, please.” Cyril collected his belongings and went to the door. “And Owen, don’t forget to take your mug when you leave. Hearing what microbes and parasites can do worries my sensitivities and looking at the state of the internal surface of your drinking vessel one can never be too careful.” He winked at his colleague and started to leave. “See you tomorrow.”
“Sir. Did you not find the evidence from the nail scrapes interesting?”
Cyril paused in the doorway as if waiting for the punchline.
Owen moved to the screen, tucking his tie into his shirt to keep it from the keyboard before his fingers danced on the keys below adding his own password. “Here it is. I remember Dr Pritchett cutting the nails for exogenous cell recovery, which is standard procedure as you know, just in case the attacker’s DNA was under the nails. However, she did find a long splinter and from the physical evidence and the colouration of the surrounding tissue she felt it hadn’t been there too long. You can see it here in the photographs and during extraction. It’s gone for testing along with the cells. As she said during the autopsy, it could have happened at any time in the last few days and have nothing to do with the case.”
