Death's Door

Twenty-four

‘Maybe I’ve been at this game too long, boss,’ said Ray Wilding, as he forced his way past the last thorn bush and back on to the sandy path. ‘I can’t remember the last time I chucked my load at a crime scene.’ His tunic was splashed with the evidence of his weakness.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Steele reassured him. ‘I can. . and it wasn’t that long ago either.’

‘What do you think got him in such a state? He’s only been there for a day and a half, yet the poor bastard’s face is chewed off. Was it crows, or seagulls, do you think?’

‘I doubt it,’ PC Reid muttered. ‘Normally you’d say so, but I doubt if birds that size could have got to him through the bushes. If they did they’d have been trapped there. No, I’d say it was foxes. There are plenty of them around here.’

Sniffer dogs had found the young man’s body. There had been two false alarms, both due to the searchers happening upon the remains of cats in the undergrowth, but the third time had proved lucky, if not for the victim. He had been dragged, naked, for a hundred yards, before being left, jammed between two bushes, food for the scavengers. They had gnawed on more than his face, as the two detectives had discovered when they had forced their way through the tangle to reach him; his genitals were mangled, and blood-smeared bone was exposed in several places.

‘That could not have been easy,’ Steele murmured to his sergeant. ‘This guy is strong; that’s the one thing we do know about him. Him? Yes, almost certainly. I don’t see a woman doing that. Strong and agile.’

‘He’d have dragged him in a straight line from the clearing, I suppose, whereas we forced our way through from the nearest path. Maybe that was easier.’

‘I don’t see that: it’s fucking jungle in there, all of it.’

‘He must have picked up a few scratches doing it,’ Wilding commented, licking blood from a tear on the back of his hand.

‘Depends what he was wearing. Gloves, a heavy anorak: they’d protect him from the thorns.’

‘True, but I bet you he didn’t get out of there intact. What do you think he did with the boy’s gear? He’s moved his clothes and his rucksack.’

‘The dogs are looking now,’ Reid told the sergeant. ‘If he’s dumped them around here, they’ll find them, now that they’ve got the lad’s scent.’

‘I can smell him from here,’ said a voice from behind them, as Mario McGuire trudged along the path. He glanced at Wilding’s tunic. ‘Or is that you, Ray? Nasty, is it?’

Steele nodded, then described what they had found.

‘I suppose I’d better take a look.’ The head of CID sighed.

‘I doubt if you could, sir. It was a tight squeeze for Ray and me, and you’re bigger than either of us. Anyway, Arthur Dorward’s sent his smallest officer in to photograph the body in situ and to look for anything else that shouldn’t be there, anything personal that the killer might have left behind.’

‘If it’s that tight, how are we going to get the body out?’

‘Reid’s fixed that: he’s been on to a farmer he knows. Once Dorward’s team have finished in there, he’ll go in with a chainsaw and cut a pathway for the mortuary crew.’

‘He knows what he’ll see in there?’

‘The body’ll be covered up.’

‘Fine. Why do you think the shooter hid the man,’ McGuire asked suddenly, ‘yet left the woman for all to see?’

‘I reckon he’s playing games, running blockers, trying to distract us, making us use up our resources doing all this stuff.’

‘I think I agree with you. He’s using up the first vital hours after the crime. He’s smart and he knows his statistics. Most murders are solved within a couple of days; those that aren’t might never be.’

‘He may have picked the wrong force, though. How many unsolved homicides have we got on our books?’

‘One or two,’ the head of CID pointed out, ‘including one in this very village. Twenty-five years on and we still haven’t cleared it up.’

‘In the DCC’s home town?’

‘Indeed. It was before his time here.’

‘Still. .’

‘I know what you mean: he wouldn’t let it lie. And he didn’t. He reckons he’s solved it. As for clearing it off our books, he says that God’s done that already.’

‘I could do with his help on this one, sir,’ said Steele.

‘God’s or Bob Skinner’s?’ McGuire grunted. ‘In the absence of either, you’d better carry on with the search of the area, and get the body out of here. I’ll call Brian Mackie and let him know what’s happened; right now he’s giving the woman’s dad the VIP treatment. Midday tomorrow, I’m taking a press briefing accompanied by Mr Davor Boras.’

He caught the inspector’s surprised expression. ‘ACC’s decision,’ he explained. ‘Before that, though, you and I are going to interview Boras and his wife, in their suite at the Caledonian Hotel. Some time between now and then, I suggest that you get home to Maggie.’

Steele nodded. ‘I called her a while back, as soon as the dogs found the body. She knows I’ll be late. I’m sorry I had to break into your evening, though.’

‘Don’t worry about it. You had to, and that’s that. There’s one thing you could do for me, though.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You could recommend somewhere to eat around here.’

‘Bar meal okay?’

‘No, no, Stevie.’ The big detective beamed. ‘This is Paula we’re talking about.’

‘Ah,’ the inspector chuckled, ‘you mean expensive.’