Sinister, page 24
part #1 of Sinister Series
“One of them is out there. But the worst of it is upstairs.”
“One of them? Didn’t anybody think to mention that there are several victims? Might that be useful information to pass on to me?” She shot the man a look on reflex, but it was lost in the gloom.
“It’s a dog. Great Dane. We think it tried to put up a fight and lost. Half of its neck is missing,” he said grimly.
“Missing?” King asked.
“Torn out. And I mean torn. Like it was just ripped away.”
They started up the stairs, following the shard of light as the faceless narrator continued. “The human victim is up here. Her name is Lucy Davidson. She’s a 28-year-old paramedic, working out of Addenbrooke’s Hospital. She was due at her mum’s in Newcastle late last night. When she didn’t show, her mum got worried and called it in.”
“Late last night?” King repeated.
“Yeah. At first, her ma thought she had to wait before reporting it, that twenty-four-hour bollocks, but after getting no joy calling her mobile, she called us late morning. We managed to get a pair of uniforms out here this afternoon. They didn’t find nowt wrong until a neighbour reported the dog.”
“And she lived alone, except for the dog?”
“Only recently. She used to live here with her boyfriend until he moved out. Right now, he’s a person of interest since she had a PO against him.”
“A protective order? Abusive?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do we know about him?”
“Craig Wheeler, thirty-five. He’s in sales. Tractor parts. Bit of a wide boy according to some of the neighbours. Flashy motor and all that.”
“Get a car over to his house. I’d like to talk to him.”
“Already done that.”
“What about preliminary on the body—”
“Bodies.”
“Bodies,” she repeated tersely as she stopped on the landing.
“You should know that it’s pretty bad,” the voice said gravely.
King turned to the silhouette. “Worse than murder? In what way?” she asked seriously.
The voice hesitated and then said, “It’s unusual. Cruel and unusual.”
“Cruel and unusual?” she echoed, snatching the phone from the man’s hand and shining it in his face. “Who the bloody hell are you anyway, and what are you doing at my crime scene?”
The light revealed a man in a shirt and tie, with a square jaw and crew cut. Even though a hand blocked part of his face as he fended off the glare of the light, she could tell by the smoothness of his skin that he was probably still in his late twenties.
“Jesus,” she hissed.
“I’m DS Butler, guv.”
“Who?”
“Your new partner.”
King rolled her eyes again and tossed the phone back to him, the beam flipping a few times before it was finally caught. “You must be bloody joking! How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine, guv.”
“Bloody hell. And stop calling me that,” she said irritably. “I asked for a new partner, not a bloody schoolkid,” she lamented. “Jesus Christ.”
She walked forward. “Has anybody got any—”
She was interrupted by Butler’s hand appearing out of the dark. It was holding a neatly folded coverall. She unravelled the white jumpsuit and stepped into it while Butler shone a helpful light for her.
Suddenly, there was commotion downstairs as an officer entered the house, clanging and bumping portable lamps up the stairs and onto the landing, before finally plugging them in and switching them on.
The overspill of light bounced off the walls, partially illuminating the bedroom they were standing in. King could see her new partner properly now. He looked even younger than his years and, by the way his suit was clinging to his body as he stepped into his own white jumpsuit, she couldn’t help but conclude that he too was a CrossFit fanatic. And just like that she was reminded of her husband.
She shook her head, then barked, “Tell him we need a couple of those up here. There’s not much point only lighting up the hallway when the crime scene’s in here, is there?”
The DS complied and called down the stairs as King zipped up her jumpsuit and gingerly made her way forward into the bedroom. It was steeped in shadows but for the phone light of a policeman who was seemingly doing nothing but guarding an empty bed. He nodded at her, but she didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, she started to make her way towards the bathroom, stopping when something caught her attention under the roving beam of light.
“What the…” she breathed. Visible words seemed to float on the air around her before melting into the obscurity of the gloom. It was as if the circle of light was birthing them as it travelled up and over the walls.
“Aim that over here,” King ordered. The officer trained his phone light to the space she was pointing to in front of her. The word was clear in places and faded in others, seemingly stencilled all over the walls and ceiling. Hundreds, maybe thousands of times.
“Have you ever seen anything like it?” Butler asked as he sidled up behind her, an action that was in no way helping him to ingratiate himself.
King took a step sideways and a few seconds to identify the pungent odour in the air. It smelt like sulphur and public toilets.
She sniffed, trying to clear the acrid stench from her nose. “I’ve seen all sorts, especially this week,” she said, “but nothing like this.”
“And we haven’t even seen the main attraction yet,” a deep voice, out of breath, said from behind them.
They turned in unison as Butler trained his light at the sound’s origin.
“Hey, Arthur,” King said. “Nice of you to join us.” Then she turned to Butler. “Make sure you get some pictures of this,” she said, nodding at the walls.
“Yeah, I’ve already asked the snapper to—”
“I meant with your phone,” she interrupted.
Butler squinted as if he was going to say something more, but instead he nodded and went about carrying out the order.
King made her way over to the pathologist. He was a short, plump, balding man wearing a white jumpsuit stretched over his belly.
“Sorry. I got here as soon as I could,” the man said breathlessly. “It’s been one hell of a week. It’s like the world’s gone mad.”
“Tell me about it,” King groaned. “I’ve lost count of the nut jobs that have blamed that comet.”
The doctor looked at her. “You look tired, Patricia,” he said with a soft and careful articulation.
“Wow, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Who’s your new boyfriend?”
King sighed. “You already know who it is, Arthur. Don’t pretend.”
The doctor snickered. “Blimey, Patricia. They’re getting younger by the day.”
“You know you can be quite inappropriate sometimes.”
“Just sometimes? Oh, come on. It’s common knowledge that you’ve missed having a partner. Word is that you were so excited about the prospect that you were unable to choose one, so he was chosen for you.” The grin on the pathologist’s face was almost lost in the shadows but this banter wasn’t unfamiliar to King. Arthur was one of the very few people she allowed to indulge in it.
Still, “The word should mind its own bloody business,” she said, her eyes on her new partner who was now on the opposite side of the room. They watched Butler frame and then snap photos on his phone, the flash from the device intermittently revealing the black markings, like a swarm of insects, all around them.
“Oh,” the doctor said appreciatively, lifting his eyebrows. “Despite the ill-fitting onesie, I’d say they’ve chosen rather well.”
“Yeah? Well, I can’t say for sure, but something tells me you’re not his type.”
“Story of my life,” the man said with a forlorn sigh. “Oh, and I was sorry to hear that you weren’t able to work things out with… well you know, he who must not be named.”
“You hear a lot, don’t you?” she said.
“Occupational hazard, I’m afraid. Workplace rumour mill and all that.”
“Well, did you hear about this? Any thoughts? As much as I know you’d rather discuss the implosion of my marriage.” She aimed light at the walls.
The doctor shook his head. “Not yet, except I can tell you that the wording looks like Latin,” he said.
“It is Latin,” Butler agreed from across the room, as he framed one of the clearer iterations then tapped the shutter button on his phone. The flash fired, revealing the scrawled word. V E N I T.
“Doc?” King asked.
“I’m afraid my Latin rusted away a few centuries ago,” the man said.
“It means coming or he is coming from the word venire, which means to come,” Butler jumped in once more.
King and the pathologist exchanged looks.
“Not just a pretty face, eh?” Arthur said, before sighing deeply and pulling on a pair of gloves. Then he turned to face whatever awaited in the bathroom. As he moved towards it, his plastic-clad feet made a squelchy, spongy sound. King tried to follow his gaze as he looked down, despite the shadows. “You know, Detective, it would be really useful if we could get some light in—”
The doctor was interrupted by a clanging and tolling sound. It was accompanied by footsteps on carpeted stairs as the breathless officer noisily made his way up to them and lumbered into the room.
“Where do you want this?” he asked the room at large.
Butler turned to intercept him. “Anywhere over there will do. Thanks.”
After rummaging around for what felt like an age to an already aggravated King, the policeman finally pushed the plug home and flipped the switch. The instant transformation from night into day revealed the true horror of the scene.
It took several seconds for King to become accustomed to the glare. When she had, it became clear that the wall and ceiling marks hadn’t been stamped or stencilled on at all. They appeared to be burned or seared, deep into the magnolia, and what they had first thought was black ink was in fact singed crimson blood. The same blood had washed over the white tiles of the bathroom and onto the oatmeal carpet of the bedroom, where it had been absorbed, dying it red.
“Jesus Christ,” the officer who had just fetched the lights uttered, staring past the DI and the pathologist to the bathroom beyond.
King and the doctor glanced at the man and then at each other before turning to follow his gaze.
The bathroom was still imbued with shadows but the overspill from the LED light was enough to reveal a grotesque tableau of a naked female, sprawled in a partially filled bath. Her arms were snapped at the elbows and twisted into a gruesome articulation that had them pointing upward while her forearms dangled forward. The only thing connecting them was a thin strip of pallid skin. Her head was slumped back, partially submerged under the water. Wet hair was slicked against her deathly pale face as glassy, filmy eyes stared, vacantly, at the tiled ceiling.
Like her arms, her legs appeared to have been snapped at the joints, thighs forced apart. Her right leg dangled over the side of the bath by a fleshy tether.
“Can we get some fucking light in here, please?” It was the softly spoken doctor. In all the years she had known the man, King had never heard him swear like this at a crime scene. “Sorry,” he added. “Been a long week.”
The copper who was still clutching one of the lights in his hand appeared to be in a trance, so Butler sprang into action. He startled the man by tapping him on the shoulder before telling him to go and get some air. They wouldn’t want him stomping all over the scene anyway.
Butler moved carefully around the soaked carpet, homed in on a socket, plugged the lamp in, and angled it at the doorway. The light projected giant shadows of King and the doctor onto the bathroom walls, adding voyeuristic spectators to the scene.
King turned around. “Thanks, Detective, we’ll take it from here. You can finish taking statements from each and every one of the neighbours. Somebody must have seen or heard something.”
Butler frowned and stepped forward. “What? I’ve been assigned to this case and—”
“Now please, Detective.”
Butler gawked at her, jaw muscle clenching, but King was unaffected. She maintained his gaze until the young man shook his head then turned, mumbling something about bullshit.
King turned back to the bathroom. The doctor was already taking a closer look at the body under the new light.
“Making friends already?” he asked without looking up. Although the room was now awash with light, he was carefully training a small flashlight over the body. King didn’t respond. “Well, I think I can safely confirm that she’s dead,” he said grimly, glancing up at her.
“Arthur… what the hell?” King asked, with quiet astonishment.
“I haven’t seen anything like it before,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “At least not here in Cambridge. In Africa, yes, all too often, but here…” He left the sentence unfinished. “What exactly do we know about her?”
“She lived alone. Recently separated from her boyfriend.”
“Unlikely to be relevant,” the pathologist said, panning his light over the dark water in the tub. “This kind of mutilation,” he narrated, “it doesn’t exactly smack of an impulsive crime of passion. It’s something else. Something more premeditated.” He looked up at her again, as if to suggest that she might want to start there.
King took in a long, sad breath. “You’re thinking FGM?”
The doctor cocked his head, his eyes still roving over the body. “Technically, it is some form of female genital mutilation, but it’s atypical.”
“How so?”
“Well, there are four types of FGM,” he said, gesturing between the legs of the body as if it were a scientific mannequin and not a formerly living, breathing human being. As he did so, King flinched, but inwardly, as was her style. She had seen a lot during her service, but nothing quite like this.
“Type 1,” the doctor continued, “is where the clitoris has been completely removed or cut in half. Type 2 again includes removal of the clitoris, but also the inner lip, otherwise known as the labia minora. Type 3 is where everything is removed and what remains is stitched together, leaving just enough of a gap for the passage of menstrual flow and urine. Type 4 is referred to as unclassified. This is when other damage has been done, such as when the clitoris has been pierced or corrosive material has been injected into the vagina—”
“Jesus Christ, Arthur!” King complained with a grimace.
The doctor looked at her, nonplussed, as if she’d just interrupted his recital of his weekly grocery list.
“Okay. Maybe that was a bit too much detail, but you did ask. On the other hand, Pat, isn’t this precisely the problem? Just because people don’t like hearing about this stuff, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. It does and, as you know, it’s only by bringing light to these things that we can—”
“Yeah, all right, no need to get on your soap box. You’re starting to sound like my ex. Let’s stick to what is going on here. Are you saying that this doesn’t fit any of those categories?”
The doctor looked up and nodded. “I can’t say for sure before I’ve had a chance to properly examine the body but in three years I spent over there, I never saw anything like this. FGM, yes, but the rest of the body. The way it’s been discarded…”
“Not staged?”
“No. There’s no particular design to this. The body just appears to have been discarded here. And, with that trendy wallpaper out there, I’m inclined to think that it may well be post some kind of a ritual. Of course, I’ll know more once I’ve conducted the post-mortem and had the bathwater analysed. Could you please make sure some moron doesn’t come in here and pull the plug? I had that happen a few weeks back. The idiot quite literally flushed all the evidence down the drain.”
King nodded. “What exactly do you think is in the water? Why’s it that colour? Is that blood?” She was referring to the brownish discolouration that made it look like stagnant dishwater.
The doctor glanced at it. “Blood, I’d say. And judging from the ripeness of the smell, faeces too. Given the trauma, it’s highly likely that she soiled herself when it happened.”
Someone’s daughter. King recited this thought in her head every time she attended a crime scene. What was just another day at the office for her was someone’s son. Someone’s mother. Someone’s father. The silent mantra helped her stay anchored to the nuance of human emotions. It was a technique finally suggested to her by one of the force’s psychologists following the complaints that had been made about her over the years for being, among other things, cold, blunt, harsh, and unsympathetic.
King had always subscribed to the idea that families would much rather she focus on doing her job than dispensing inane sympathy. In her opinion, kind words were pointless. The only comfort came from justice or, in some cases, retribution, although she’d never say that last bit out loud.
DI Patricia King had barely made it out of the house at number 12 Meadow Lane when she was accosted by DS Butler. She felt the urge to roll her eyes again because she knew what was coming next but concluded that would probably only make him worse. She might as well let the guy vent. Apparently, that was supposed to make people feel better.
“You do realise that I’m a fully qualified detective, right? I’ve even got one of those certificates and a shiny badge to prove it. In fact, not unlike you, I pretty much graduated top of my class. And in case you’ve forgotten what that was like, that actually means I was smarter than most of my peers.”
“You know, you don’t need to recite your CV to me. You’ve already got the gig. The fact that you’re here at all means that somebody in their infinite wisdom thinks you have something to…” King cut herself off when an inhuman shriek interrupted her. “What’s going on over there?” she asked.
“Number eleven,” Butler explained, as they both looked over to see a bereft female collapse into the arms of a suited man in front of two uniformed officers. “They’re the abduction. Six-month-old baby taken from inside his home, apparently. At least, that’s the story according to his mother. She says that her baby was taken by some kind of creature.”
