Payback Read online

  The Professor’s gaze drifted away from the corpse to find Charley’s face and, when their eyes met, he continued, ‘I think our man has been strangled, Inspector, and his throat cut whilst he was suspended. Certainly, this was done after death,’ he said, pointing towards the wound. His hand moved slightly to a head wound. ‘And this injury most probably fractured the skull. We’ll know for sure when we open him up. Someone was either making perfectly sure this poor fella was dead,’ he continued, ‘or they were testing my ability to find the cause of death. He could have died from a number of his injuries. Now we just have to identify which one killed him.’

  The boots were the first items to be removed. Unhurriedly, they were handed one at a time to the exhibits officer to bag and label. The second boot appeared to cause concern. It was shown to the Professor. Gingerly he put his hand inside and retrieved a fifty-pound note, which was also placed in an exhibits envelope. The next item to be removed was the skirt. Charley’s lip curled up at its corner at the revelation of what was beneath.

  ‘There’s nothing cute or sexy about having a permanent wedgie,’ Annie whispered, noting the position of the neutral-coloured thong, which held the penis and testicles tucked up tightly.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Wilkie. ‘That little itsy-bitsy strip of fabric running right up a tranny’s arse is bound to turn some queer bastard on.’

  Charley turned her head quickly. ‘I beg your pardon!’ she snapped. Her eyes narrowed and Wilkie Connor found the SIO staring down hard at him. ‘That dead man on the mortuary table is a person, and unless you can be respectful, then get the fuck out of here!’

  Startled by her tone, he was instantly quietened. For the first time in a long while, fury threatened to overtake Charley. With difficulty, she forced herself to turn away, angered but not distracted.

  Sex worker? The thought lingered for a moment or two as she turned back to the window. But, as she had learnt from her mentor, assumptions were not to be relied upon.

  Now that the body was naked, swabbing continued: penile and anal. Then more tapings and more hair samples, this time plucked from the pubic hair, of which there was very little.

  Moving swiftly up the body the Professor checked the mouth where he found the cause of the bulge he’d mentioned previously. A pair of tweezers aided the extraction of a tightly rolled pair of red lace knickers stuffed inside his cheek – hadn’t she an identical pair in her linen drawer? Charley shuddered.

  Desensitised to some extent, this wasn’t as shocking a revelation as it might have been at another post-mortem that hadn’t produced so many surprises already. Matthew Whitehead’s concentration moved back to the scalp. ‘A lock of hair horizontally cut from the head is not in keeping with the style.’ He cut the same from just above and passed it to Ricky-Lee for retention. His hand hovered over a concave injury to the side.

  ‘I can’t quite think what type of instrument would have caused this injury. I have never seen anything like it before. It would have been a heavy object, something akin to a club, but the pattern the cosh has left is not round, or square, as I would expect. I suggest it was done by some home-made, macabre, heavy, club-like weapon.’

  His hand left the head and travelled over the bruising around the nose and left eye. Having taken nasal swabs, he moved on to the dead man’s hands. The left hand was the first to be removed from its plastic bag. The bag was passed to the exhibits officer.

  The Professor took swabs, obtained nail scrapings and then, following procedure, collected nail clippings. The right hand was harder to deal with and nothing could have prepared Charley for the impact the audible snap at the forced opening of the dead man’s clenched fist had on her. Those around the table flinched. Annie gasped, but the Professor carried on regardless, taking nail scrapings and clippings as before – if she had forgotten for a moment, it came to her now that breaking bones was all in a day’s work for the pathologist.

  The opened hand offered them two green leaves.

  ‘I believe them to be leaves from a plant. Could be cannabis?’ the Professor said, as he held them out to Ricky-Lee on a gloved palm.

  Charley could see the collective nodding of heads as all present around the table appeared to agree. Later examination by Forensics would confirm it.

  The body was turned over and Professor Whitehead repeated the procedure he had carried out on the front of the body.

  ‘The scuff marks to the back of the legs and upper torso, I suggest, were probably caused in the moving of the body from where this person was killed, to where he was found,’ he said. Pointing to a small wound at the centre of the shoulder blades, he turned and accepted a ruler the mortuary assistant offered him. He measured the narrow oval shape. It measured one centimetre.

  ‘Now, if I was a gambling man, I’d say that whatever made this hole also went straight into his heart and, when we open him up, I anticipate that we will find a mass of blood in the body cavity – hence why we have no evidence of external bleeding.’ The Professor noted that there were no obvious marks or holes in the fabric of the bra, or the jumper.

  ‘I think we can deduce that the garments were not on the person at the time of death, or that the clothing items mentioned were pulled up above the wound before impact.’

  The mortuary assistant produced a long, thin metal probe and handed it to the Professor. Carefully, he inserted it into the hole, where it was accepted by the body without obstruction. When the full depth was reached, it was measured. The Professor made notes before turning the body back so the dead man faced him once more.

  He stood back to give the mortuary assistant who carried the saw enough space to do her job. ‘OK, once the skullcap is removed,’ he said, whilst watching the attendant flip the skullcap off with the help of a metal lever, ‘we’ll be able to see the internal damage that the head injuries have caused.’

  Professor Whitehead stepped forward and his assistant stood to the side. The cap removed, he went about cutting through tissue and bone to detach the brain. Scooping the brain out he joggled the soft, squishy organ in the palm of his hand.

  ‘So that’s what brain matter looks like,’ said Annie, rising from her chair to stand with Charley.

  ‘All three pounds of it,’ Charley said, echoing the announcement that the Professor had just made, when he’d weighed it on the scales.

  ‘I’ve often wondered what a mass of tens of billions of neurons looked like.’

  ‘Now you know,’ said Charley.

  Samples of brain tissue were taken. The rest would be placed in the chest cavity so that the body would be intact when given to his family for burial – once they’d been found.

  There was an obvious fracture to the skull, but the Professor was satisfied, on seeing its severity, that strangulation had been the cause of death.

  ‘I can see now that the blow to the head was more than likely just used to disable the victim initially.’

  Whilst post-mortems were not very pleasant, Charley knew just how important they were for ascertaining the cause of death and explaining the mechanics of the killing. There was always hope that it might also reveal some clues as to the identity of the killer.

  On opening up the torso it was clear that Professor Whitehead’s theory was correct: the heart had been pierced from the rear and they could see that the body cavity was swimming in blood, which Whitehead scooped out with a plastic jug in order to reach and examine the other internal organs.

  The heart and lungs were weighed and showed that these were quite normal in size and weight and free from disease. Blood samples were taken for DNA and toxicology reports, along with a urine sample from the bladder and the stomach contents for the examination of undigested food.

  Two and a half hours later the examination was concluded. At the revelation that the organs posed ‘no cause for concern’, they were put in a plastic bag and returned to the body cavity, which was ready to be sewn up with large blanket stitches, not unlike a mailbag, by the mortuary
attendant.

  Professor Whitehead’s summary concluded that the cause of death had been strangulation. The single stab wound to the back that had punctured the heart was believed to have been done post-mortem, and the fractured skull consistent with a blow to the head with a heavy object akin to a prehistoric club. The bruising to the nose and the eye was consistent with a punch and grazing on the body compatible with being dragged across the floor, pulled over a stone wall, or both. The interference with the knickers, and the cut hair, suggested the likelihood that the attacker was a sex offender with a fetish.

  ‘The killer definitely knew how to despatch a victim effectively; either he’s killed before or is an accomplished hunter of animals. It’s not easy to use a knife to end someone’s life, but the man’s body shows no signs of clumsy failed attempts or violent anger. Those wounds were done intentionally and extremely efficiently.’

  The Professor walked back to the office with Charley. ‘Did you notice the beautifully manicured nails?’

  Charley nodded. ‘He obviously took great care of himself.’

  ‘A lifestyle that might have contributed to his death maybe?’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, that’s your domain.’

  ‘No, you’re right, go on, I’m grateful for any suggestions or thoughts you might like to share with me.’

  ‘Well, in my view, the murderer has been very methodical in the killing and unusually specific with regard to the injuries he has caused; and when – as though it was carefully planned. Like I said in the post-mortem, whether that intention is to confuse the cause and time of death, or confuse you in catching the killer, who knows? The public displaying of the victim for all to see, after death, is quite mediaeval to my thinking … Making a public spectacle of a person by hanging was abolished in 1868.’

  ‘Five thousand…’ said Charley.

  ‘Five thousand?’

  ‘Yes. Five thousand people suffered death by hanging in Britain between 1800 and 1964 when it was finally abolished. And the number of attacks on lesbian, gay and bisexual people in the UK has soared by nearly eighty per cent in the past four years. It’s worrying data.’

  ‘You find facts and figures interesting, Inspector?’

  ‘I find these facts and figures abhorrent, Professor, don’t you?’

  ‘I am not here to judge.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  Professor Whitehead continued to discuss the case with the team, in a professional manner, in the office at the mortuary. ‘I would estimate that our John Doe is in his late twenties. There was no sign of any jewellery being worn long-term, and there was no jewellery found on the body, but it could have been stolen, of course. The weapon that caused the wound to his back, I would say, was a thin blade, no more than three inches in length. The cut to his throat, perhaps a hunting knife?’

  Charley thanked him and, making her exit quickly, she and the rest of the team headed back to the Peel Street incident room. Had the killer left his hallmark for them? Only time would tell … For now her focus was on identifying the victim. Somewhere out there was someone missing a son, partner, dad, boyfriend, friend, work colleague … She wanted to hear from them and she wanted to hear from them badly.

  Her press release would pull no punches, she would tell it straight; the man who had been murdered had been brutally killed and the body hung in a graveyard for public viewing. She would share with the public the fact that he had been dressed as a woman but was, in fact, a man. Whether that would help her in finding out who he was or not was a problem for the future. She would empathise and reassure people that anyone coming forward with information would be treated in the strictest of confidence, and she meant it.

  Charley clutched a picture of the deceased taken from the side of the head that hadn’t been damaged. She was cautious of giving it directly to the media but, as a last resort, if nothing was forthcoming from her appeals, she would have no choice. The first conference scheduled for the next morning would be Charley’s debut, before the cameras, as the head of CID. She was more than aware that the killer could be watching.

  The killing had the hallmark of someone who was calm and confident, as confirmed by the pathologist. She was in no doubt that the murder had been planned. How else would the murderer have felt comfortable enough to spend time causing the victim further injuries after death, and truss him up in such a fanciful way in a public place, without fear of being seen? Maybe the danger added to the excitement. Or maybe the killer had wanted to be caught. Perhaps the cutting of the hair gave the killer their trophy. What concerned Charley was how prolific the fetish and traits appeared to be … might they possibly be the work of more than one person? As Matthew Whitehead had suggested, was the killer merely attempting to test the ability of the pathologist? Or could it simply be that the murderer was new to the game and dabbling in a bit of every fetish they knew or had read about? The only thing she was sure about was that whoever had committed this heinous crime needed to be caught, and fast.

  ‘No reports of a male missing, either in the area or over the border, that fit the description of our deceased,’ said Wilkie Connor, avoiding eye contact. He stood in front of her desk, head down, his thick, greasy hair smoothed across his forehead.

  Charley couldn’t bear to look at him. Her focus returned to her computer screen.

  Nervously, he continued. ‘I’ve created an enquiry for the intelligence unit, to liaise with the National Crime Agency to check their database for any previous bodies found with the footwear on the wrong feet, or for anyone with a known hair fetish.’

  She nodded, still not looking up. Wilkie turned and walked towards the doorway with trepidation, waiting for the bollocking he knew was inevitable.

  ‘Keep me posted,’ was as much as she could manage, for now. She knew it was best to wait until she had thought through how she was going to deal with his homophobic outburst.

  Her first day’s work was now in its thirteenth hour and a full debrief was over. Tomorrow the investigation would move forward at pace, she’d told the assembled personnel. Most of them exited quickly, some in need of a decent meal having snacked throughout the shift without a break, others desperately in need of their beds. Charley gave a wry smile upon hearing the slight tap at the door, and the owner of squeaky shoes heading her way. She wasn’t surprised to see Wilkie at the other side of her desk when she lifted her head.

  ‘I’m off now,’ he said.

  Charley nodded.

  He waited. After a moment or two he turned and walked towards the door. With his hand on the doorjamb he looked over his shoulder, ‘Unless there’s anything else?’ he said.

  There was a commotion in the hallway and moments later Annie bounded into Charley's office.

  ‘See you in the morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed!’ she said to Wilkie’s retreating figure. ‘What’s up with Smiler?’ she asked Charley, as Connor walked across the CID office, his rounded shoulders telling the story that he was in no mood for the younger woman’s jovial banter. Annie’s wan face showed a slightly tight-lipped smile and she began to giggle as soon as Wilkie was out of earshot. ‘When I was a child, my grandmother would always say, “They squeak because they aren’t paid for.” I always assumed the Ones and Twos she’d be talking about had been stolen, but I think in his case it means he bought them from the bargain basement, don’t you?’

  When Charley didn’t reply, she carried on. ‘Where do you think it came from, that phrase?’

  Charley lifted her head, put down her pen and sat back in her chair, muffling a yawn. ‘Contrary to your generation’s belief, there weren’t always credit cards or holes-in-the-wall.’

  ‘No?’ Annie’s shocked expression, fake or otherwise, drew a smile from Charley.

  ‘No,’ she said seriously. ‘My parents bought most of our stuff on the tick. Dad had tabs at the pub and the bookies, and Mum paid her shop tab off when either the farm, or dad’s fights, brought in some money.’ Charley slammed her policy book shut. ‘Now
I don’t know about you, but I’m all in.’

  Chapter 6

  When Charley arrived at work the next morning, she found the incident room empty: the lights dimmed, computer screens blank and telephones silent. It was six a.m. The rostered twelve-hour shift for the investigative team typically began at eight, though the working hours of an incident room were guided by the need to be proactive and effective. The downside to working in CID, especially on a major enquiry, was that the life/work balance was ‘neither good for man nor beast’.

  With butterflies of anticipation in her stomach she slid behind her desk and switched on her computer. Immediately, the machine sprang into action, the screen seeming extra-bright in the darkened room. She heard the melody-cue, a programme starting. A few clicks, a pause, her jaw set, Charley urged herself to be patient. Another screen, another click, a whirr and the distinctive sound of the police database as it fired up. Enthusiastically she flicked through the screens, willing information that would assist with the identification of the body to have come to light overnight.

  Charley jumped when her office door clicked open, so deep was her concentration. She saw searching fingers fumbling around the doorjamb. She suppressed a chuckle. Once they found the sought-after switch, the lights juddered into action and Winnie, polish and duster in hand, stumbled into the office. She stared at Charley with a surprised look on her face. ‘Wet the bed ’ave you young ’un?’ she asked, handing her the newspaper that was under her arm.

  Charley gave her a fixed smile and took the newspaper from her. She laid it on her desk and pointed to the front page. ‘All this media attention, and yet no one has come forward to report a friend or relative missing? Why do you think that is?’