Lying Ways, page 14
Once he was covered in plastic, Ted went in to the mortuary room and popped his goggles on, as well as his mic. He greeted his assistants, who had already laid everything out. They were a well-oiled team. It occurred to him that, this week, he’d been inside this room a little too often, and for the worst reasons. Kelly’s job was to work out who did these hideous things to human bodies, and Ted was all too aware of the irony that he could cut up dead bodies for a living, but couldn’t possibly face what it took to find out why they’d ended up that way. That was the real gritty work. Looking family members in the eye and asking questions no one wanted to hear.
The professor joined them from the remote invitation to Zoom, from his computer, and Ted nodded hello. They chatted briefly about how long it had been since they enjoyed a pint, and how their families were. A few comments about the news and politics followed, and then Ted turned to the pressing subject of the day: rot. He’d already sent the notes across to David and now Ted took a small camera, linked by Wi-Fi to his computer, and approached the body bag.
‘How’s the picture, David?’ Ted asked.
‘Clear as a bell,’ David replied. He sat in a fancy office and Ted could see paintings, books and a hearth behind him. David leant forward as if he were in the room with them, for a better look.
Unfortunately, the chair that Dean Kirby was strapped to had been removed before he was zipped up inside the bag. However, there were a few exhibits taken from underneath him. It would have been helpful for Ted to witness the position of the chair first-hand, as well as to see how he was fastened to it, but that moment had been lost. The same kind of strapping had been bagged and tagged, though, which was another aid for Kelly. The attending officers hadn’t known about the body in Workington. At least he had the photographs. Unlike Jack Bell, this body had been on its side and the blood pooling was consistent to his expiry happening in that position. The poor guy had had enough, no doubt.
When they were all ready, Ted checked his mic and unzipped the body bag. The first thing they all noted was the smell and, sure enough, a fat maggot fell onto the floor. Ted bent down and held the camera close.
‘It’s a Calliphoridae larvae for sure. You say he was inside a warehouse? Was it protected from the elements?’ David asked.
‘Yes, it was pretty cosy in there, from what I’ve learned,’ Ted replied. DI Craig Lockwood had visited the site and explained to him that the warehouse was closed up and the ambient temperature in there was thirteen degrees. Insect activity would be pretty standard at that temperature, especially with nice fresh carrion to feed on, and an absence of other curious beasties, not interested in a concrete shell. Other flies would be attracted of course, but Calliphoridae was always first to the party.
‘Our friend the blowfly,’ Ted said.
‘Indeed. So-called for the old assumption that’s how they turned meat bad, by blowing their breath over it,’ David said. ‘Adults lay their eggs within minutes of death, if they’re in the area. They can detect carrion from two kilometres away. It was by a beach, you say?’ he asked.
‘Yes, less than a mile inland,’ Ted said.
‘Many sheep?’ David asked. Cumbria was famed for blowfly strike because of its huge sheep population, especially between the months of May to September.
‘There are several farms in the surrounding area,’ Ted said. He’d already looked this up when assessing the crime site.
‘Makes sense. So the initial larva stage would begin about twelve hours after death. The larvae go through two more stages, as they grow and shed their skin, and then emerge as adults after about three days. Were there any burrowed nearby?’
‘No, the warehouse was clear of any other organic matter so there was nowhere to burrow. Several specimens were located surrounding the body, though.’
‘So they’d reached maturity and were looking for somewhere to tunnel in, to pupate. That takes about three days, so that’s what we’re working on here.’
Ted was almost relieved. That fitted with the timeline in his head. If Dean Kirby was taken somewhere on Friday, when he was spotted at Saltcoats, then he likely died on Saturday or Sunday, four days ago, and before Tania Carter saw Jack Bell being forced into the warehouse in Workington. It could be the same killer.
‘That makes sense, because from what I can see, his body is on the verge of going into bloat. So three days adds up for me. Can I send you some samples to confirm?’ Ted asked.
‘Of course. Are there any open wounds?’ David asked. Putrefaction was accelerated should a corpse be badly damaged.
Ted turned to the metal slab and further revealed the body, taking the camera close for David to see the wounds. One of his assistants took photographs and another took measurements. None of them showed any reaction to the increasing stench. They were used to it. Ted always used a scented ointment under his nose, but it was more out of habit than anything else. It didn’t really mask the perfume of decay. He took a pair of tweezers and removed several maggots from the body, placing them into tiny tubes. An assistant labelled them.
‘I can see several stages there,’ David said.
As corpses rotted, more and more flies were attracted to the site and it could quickly get crowded. Ted almost had the body bag fully off now and it was clear that flies had colonised much of the body. Orifices and lacerations were the obvious host sites, and Dean’s eyes were full of larvae of different sizes. His mouth and ears had also been colonised. But what Ted noticed, and showed David with the camera, was the movement inside his body. It was clear that the whole organism was providing a meal to thousands of larvae, eager to feed and grow. The body lay on its back now and Ted noted that the abdomen was green, as a result of fermentation. It had also begun to swell, and that was what Ted referred to as the bloat stage. The man’s internal organs were literally disintegrating, and Ted knew that there’d be little left to weigh or document. It was all part of the expiry of the human biome. At this stage, Ted knew that he’d have to turn to bacterial community composition, instead of complete organs, for answers. Lactobacillus in particular declined exponentially alongside decay, as more robust bacteria like proteobacteria thrived, and it was an accurate predictor of time of death. It was a sad but helpful fact that the science of gut microflora had come on leaps and bounds in the twenty-first century, indicative of the commonality of murders. Ted would still need to examine the cadaver, because he still needed to establish the cause of death. Sometimes, in specimens at this stage of deterioration, cause of death was impossible to ascertain, especially if the deceased died of cancer or heart attack, or indeed anything to do with the internal organism. But this was blunt trauma. Ted could see clearly that the man had sustained a serious head wound. Unlike Jack Bell, there were few other wounds, indicating that Dean Kirby had not been tortured for as long. Ted could see that one nipple was missing, and there were restraint marks around his wrists. Ted looked closer at the head wound, and gave the camera to a colleague, who was asked for close-ups on the larvae.
Upon closer inspection, Ted was able to state conclusively that a head wound of this severity would kill a person. He could see the man’s brain and bits of skull embedded in the matter. In his experience, the shape of the trauma and the way the skull had caved in was consistent with a severe fall, or something like a head-butt. He couldn’t help but reach the conclusion that it looked like an accident. No one would torture a man like this, because it simply wouldn’t work. No information could be gleaned from a person after suffering such blow.
‘I’ve got enough,’ David said. Ted left the corpse and approached the desk where he’d placed his computer, and thanked the professor. They promised to meet up, as old friends do. Ted went back to his work and he began surveying the body, ignoring the insect activity. It was difficult to distinguish between rot and trauma, but Ted had enough experience to do so with conviction. He noted that the victim’s genitals were black, and bruising consistent with force rather than decay was present all over his lower body. The guy had taken a beating for sure.
When he was satisfied that everything had been documented from the outside of the body, Ted prepared to eviscerate and go inside. It would be messy, that was certain. That was what the rim around the gurney was for, to collect body fluids. He fully expected a tsunami of maggots and gunk to flow out of the cavity as he opened it. He just hoped that there was enough of the man’s heart and brain left to answer his questions about how he’d eventually died. For now, at least he could tell Kelly the news that they probably had a serial killer on their hands.
Chapter 24
Rickie Burton looked like a stereotypical hardened con from a Netflix documentary. Prison seemed to suit him, and he swaggered across the room to meet Kelly and Craig. He wore prison-issue dark grey joggers which looked odd on an ageing man; they were too baggy and better suited to a teenager. His hands were cuffed together, which made his gait even more pronounced. His dark grey sweater matched the bottoms. Category A prisoners generally had to wear issued clothes. Inmates in other prisons, there for lesser crimes, were allowed to wear their own clothes for good behaviour. Here, the less chance someone had to hide a weapon the better. His sweater was pulled up at the elbows and Kelly observed that his arms were covered in tattoos. She noticed the spider’s web on his left elbow straight away. It encircled the joint, just like Jack’s. He grinned at them and Kelly was struck by his confidence. It was like meeting with someone in their own home, not a formal request in a Category A state prison. But then, getting out of your wing for an hour, even if it was to meet a copper, was like a little holiday. The guard was remarkably casual too, but that could be part of the act of all prison officers: they made their wards feel comfortable. The guard accompanied Rickie to the chair provided and Kelly and Craig remained seated.
‘Mr Burton, ma’am,’ the officer said. Kelly nodded. Rickie Burton sat down and looked at the detectives. He sported a long unsightly scar down his jawline and Kelly noticed that he had most of an ear missing. It looked mangled, like that of any respectable English rugby league player from the 1970s. Her eyes lingered on the scar and she felt repulsed and fascinated at the same time. He touched it and she darted her eyes away. Burton was looking at Craig, and so he didn’t seem to notice her indiscretion. The guard stood by the wall and put his hands in his pockets. Tom had gone off to return to duty.
‘Do you want a chair?’ Kelly asked the officer, who replied that he was happy standing for as long as it took. Fair enough. He was a pleasant enough chap who unfortunately had to stay, it was prison protocol. Kelly didn’t expect any trouble, but she did want to ask some pertinent questions about prison routines and leadership. No doubt it would all be fed back to CM Fawcett. She had nothing to hide, though it would be interesting to see how Rickie Burton acted in front of prison staff.
‘Mr Burton, may I call you Rickie?’ she asked. Burton looked at her and shrugged. He touched the skin where the rest of his ear should have been, often.
‘I don’t mind,’ he said. His accent was local and his voice gravelly.
‘Thank you. This is DI Lockwood and I’m DI Porter, and we’d like to ask you some questions about Jack Bell,’ she said.
He shook his head and looked at his feet. Kelly reckoned he’d been interviewed by police more times than he could remember, and to him, this was all a game.
‘Bastards,’ he said.
‘Pardon?’ Kelly asked.
‘Bastards,’ he said, louder.
‘Who?’
‘The fuckers who killed him,’ he said, as if Kelly was stupid to ask.
‘Plural? What makes you so sure?’ she asked.
‘We might be in the nick, but I still read the news, and get told stuff. I heard he was beat up bad. It’d take more than one man to do that to Jack Bell and get away with it,’ he said.
‘And do you know of any people who might want to do just that?’ she asked.
‘Plenty. You want to take a look on D wing. The nonces in there had it in for Jack. They always did. They hit him hard one day, I’m going back a few years now. That’s when I told him to ask for a transfer to my – I mean – A wing,’ he said.
‘Why was he allowed to do that if he was on a sex offenders’ wing? I thought they were kept separate from other prisoners, or that’s how I understood it,’ she said.
‘Jack was in for rape,’ he said.
‘That’s a sex offence,’ Kelly said.
‘Not if she was asking for it.’
Kelly’s throat constricted and she felt acid swirl in her stomach. She looked at Craig, who sat forward and spoke quietly.
‘Watch your mouth,’ he said. Burton smiled. He was enjoying himself. He was the sort of person who loved a good bombshell. Especially if it shocked a woman.
‘DI Lockwood, would you check that conviction for me?’ she asked. Craig nodded and checked his notes. The governor had allowed them access to Rickie Burton’s file as well as those of Jack Bell and Dean Kirby, they just hadn’t had time to trawl fully through them yet and she was under the impression that Jack Bell was a burglar. Kelly turned back to Rickie.
‘It was our understanding that he was doing time for aggravated robbery,’ she said.
‘Ah yes, but the rape was before that. The first time he was in prison. If you get done for rape – and he was framed mind, the fucking bitch made it up – then you’ll always land yourself on a sex offender’s wing, even if you go down for something else. That’s how it works, they don’t want troublemakers mixing on regular wings,’ he said.
‘So rapists aren’t sex offenders in your book?’
‘Not if it was fair dos,’ he said. His mouth curled slightly at the edges and the tiny hairs on Kelly’s arms stood up.
She changed the subject.
‘Did you and Jack get those tattoos together? They’re very similar, almost identical,’ she asked, pointing at his elbow.
‘Yep, there’s a lad on the wing who trained up and charges the lads for work. He’s good.’
‘So, you and Jack were close friends? You got him on your wing and you got matching tattoos?’
‘He was like a brother,’ he said. Kelly saw his eyes go red and watery, but something about the way he talked made her uncomfortable, and hesitant to believe anything that came out of his mouth. Emotion does very specific things to a human face, and she was seeing little evidence of authenticity here. Maybe it was just because he was a con, and subconsciously, she couldn’t trust him. She’d learned over the years that criminals rarely give anything away for free, especially to coppers.
‘So, it’s your theory that certain prisoners from D wing ordered people on the outside to kill Jack?’ she asked.
Rickie nodded. ‘That’ll be right,’ he said. He leant back and stretched out his legs, putting his arms behind his head. He took up a lot of space and Kelly got the impression that he enjoyed throwing his weight around.
‘And where do they keep their mobile phones?’ she asked.
He smiled and shrugged. He was enjoying the break to his routine.
‘How much does one go for now?’ she asked.
He shrugged again. ‘I don’t deal in contraband,’ he said.
She let it go.
‘When do you get out?’ she asked.
‘Never,’ he replied.
‘And you’re not bothered by that?’
‘Why should I be? I’ve got everything I need in here,’ he said.
‘Except your freedom,’ she said. He grinned again and she saw well-worn teeth stained yellow. She thought of her father. They were around the same age, but one was dignified, quick-witted and kind, and the other still behaved like a little boy. The man before her was beyond immature; he was undeveloped. He’d most likely been the wrong side of the law all his life and had never carved a satisfactory and legal existence for himself. He lived comfortably at Her Majesty’s pleasure and clearly felt safe here. He didn’t want to leave. Maybe he didn’t want Jack to leave either. Or Dean.
‘Were you disappointed to see Jack released? You must have dreaded it,’ she said.
He sat up and flicked something off his trousers. ‘You get used to it,’ he said. ‘People come and go all the time. That’s prison life.’
‘You’re local to Cumbria, like Jack? I can hear it in your accent,’ she added.
‘Yup, I’m a Workington lad, like Jack was,’ he said.
‘And the people on D wing, who you said are responsible for Jack’s death, they’re Cumbrian too?’
‘Nah, they’re southern poofs, from Kent or somewhere,’ he said.
‘So, there are specific individuals on D wing who you think might be behind this?’
‘Like I told you, the two nonces in there who are in charge, Lofty and Titch, they’re called, but I can tell that you now they’re not their real names.’ He winked.
‘Thanks, I’m sure I can find out. Officer?’ she asked.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he responded.
‘Lofty and Titch on D wing? You know them?’
‘Yes ma’am,’ he replied.
‘Good, can you arrange for me to see them too? I’m sure the governor won’t mind,’ she said. He nodded and radioed a colleague to come and replace him. She turned back to Rickie.
‘They call you the Shed? I guess that’s due to your size? Everybody has nicknames in here, don’t they? Dinger Bell. It’s like the army. Coppers do it too.’ She chatted easily and calmly. He rolled his eyes and she knew that her reference to coppers being anything approaching normal lads and lasses amused him.
