The assistant shifted the
corrugated fabric of the face and used a circular saw to remove the top of the
skull, describing a neat line around the crown and taking care to leave a
triangular notch at the back so that the section could be neatly reattached.
Tiny flecks of bone speckled Harkness’s safety glasses and he took a long step
back.
The assistant eased out the
wrinkled, grey mass of the brain and cut it free from the optic nerves and
brain stem. Ogilvy cursorily examined the naked brain, grunted his approval and
passed it back to be placed with the other organs in an efficient forensic
check-out process.
Catching sight of the outsize
needle and thread that lay alongside the sharp and jagged steel on the
assistant’s tray, Harkness was reminded of leather-workers he’d once seen in Tunisia on a high-season package holiday that had seemed a good idea at the time. He’d
strayed from the tourist trail of bootleg DVDs and stuffed camels and found
himself in a fly-blown alley of butcher’s wares, with its array of bovine heads
dangling gore, dogs snarling over entrails, and sides of mutton glistening pink
with ripples of fat and a frantic speckling of insects.
Nauseous from the heat and the
reek, he’d retreated to the musty shade of a covered bazaar, where men
squatted, intent on their ancient crafts, barely disturbed by light or
tourists. A heartbeat away from the butcher’s cleaver, skins that had been
flayed from livestock then treated until they were the workable, walnut tone of
the craftsmen’s own skin, were being changed.
Thick blades were produced, the
skins punctured and fibres ripped until the forms of animals became outlines of
handbags, panels for ottomans, uppers for shoes. Then cow-gut twine and a thick
needle would be used to knit the shreds of altered flesh into new wares for
tourists enticed in by the pungent aroma and the novelty of craftsmanship.
Might Suzanne Murphy be served
in like manner, he thought, suddenly light-headed and remote from his own body
in this space of uncoiled life, harsh light, odours of blood, bleach and torn
entrails. She had been rendered down and worked into a pattern of evidence. She
would then be reworked, stitched into a form of assumed decency for relatives
and undertakers to peruse.
“You’re swaying.” Slowey’s
voice. Light glinted of three sets of safety glasses as their wearers glanced
up at him.
“Not me,” said Harkness,
grabbing a trolley for support. “I think there was a minor earthquake.”
“Look,” said Ogilvy, “unless
you want to hang around for a few more hours watching me play with internal
organs, you may as well bugger off and do something more useful than trying not
to faint. I’m sure your colleague can handle the kids unsupervised.” He
gestured towards the meagre, sheeted shapes waiting their turn in a shaded
corner.
Slowey scanned his paperwork
and shrugged his acquiescence. “One pair of hands is plenty here. Go do
something useful in the fresh air. I won’t tell anyone you couldn’t handle
blood and guts. You big girl.”
“You’re right you won’t. Fine.
That works for me. So, can I assume the preliminary report will say death by
asphyxiation due to smoke inhalation?”
“Close enough,” said Ogilvy.
“They say it’s painless, like
going to sleep.”
“They do say that.”
“Are they wrong?”
“Depends on how you feel about
panic and confusion,” said Ogilvy. “Then there’s the sensation of burning in
the inside of your nose, throat and lungs. Not forgetting that you’ll then be
gagging and choking on carbonaceous sputum, while your life is crushed to a
tiny point of fading light.
“I only speak for myself when I
say that’s not my usual experience of going to sleep. But I am old-fashioned.
Some people seem to like that sort of thing. You know, pop stars, politicians
and so forth.”
“Slowey, almost forgot,” said
Harkness. “Get me elimination prints from all of them. I’ll want to know who
touched what.”
“Will do, on condition that you
start answering your bloody phone,” said Slowey as Harkness dumped his overalls
in the bin by the exit.
The air outside was anything but fresh and the
Mondeo was dying piece by piece. The electric windows would open no more than
an inch and the ventilation system simply drew in more warm, sticky air from
outside. Worse, the car squirmed under braking and under-steered with a
hysterical squeal through the mildest of corners, suggesting the cat-related
prang had done more than superficial damage.
The sun hung fat in a sulphurous sky, its disc
distinct and dull even at its zenith. Harkness briefly enjoyed the novelty of
staring without protection at the nearest star as he parked on Marne Close,
dumped his jacket and plucked the moist fabric of his shirt away from his
collar and armpits.
He’d briefed Biddle by phone on the preliminary
post-mortem findings. Biddle either had no news for Harkness or wasn’t inclined
to reciprocate. A glimpse of the crime scene in daylight had seemed a
worthwhile detour en route to lunch and whatever joys the enquiry office held
for him.
A yawning PCSO, face flushed and slick with sweat,
recorded his details in the scene log without making eye contact and lifted the
cordon tape for him. The soot cladding much of the Murphys’ home had cooled and
cracked in places. Metal panels had been nailed to ground-floor windows. The
workman responsible sat munching a sausage roll and reading a newspaper in the
cab of his van, waiting for the emergency services circus to clear off so he
could seal the door and finish the job.
A SOCO leaned on his own van, hood of his white
sterile suit down and hair plastered to his skull in damp stripes. He greedily
sucked on a cigarette and slowly became aware of Harkness staring at the stubs
at his feet.
“Rob.”
“Mr Wenban.”
“Yes, they are mine. Don’t fret. I’ll get rid of
‘em shortly.”
“Remember that bloke who used to do lectures to
recruits on crime scene integrity? Who was that again?”
“You’re a mardy bastard today,” said the SOCO,
stooping to scoop up the stubs.
“I know you’re not a complete pillock,” said
Harkness, “so I’m going to assume this isn’t a high-yield crime scene.”
“Yep, ‘fraid so. Nothing much to add to the first
sweep. No petrol cans, footprints, blood, spit or semen. Oh, and still no
window or door keys. No problem proving malicious ignition. Got plenty of
samples.”
“Such as?”
“Trace samples of what might be accelerant.
Fingerprints from inner and outer surfaces of doors and windows, where we could
find any worth sampling. Forget the smoke alarm – no smooth surfaces there.
Loads of control samples.”
“Elimination samples?”
“What, as in samples from actual real people? Not
been tasked with that. Door to door team have been and gone.”
“Who were they?”
“Tactical Support from another division. Finished
an hour ago. Spoke to nearly everyone. Late turn will be tasked with the rest.
Don’t know if they took dabs and spit. Haven’t you seen them yourself?”
“That would entail going back to DHQ.”
“Didn’t you get promoted? Why are you fannying
around doing legwork? Aren’t people supposed to do your bidding while you sip
coffee in a slightly bigger chair?”
Harkness grunted and cast his eyes around Marne
Close. The Braxtons’ house had an incongruous air of absence; all curtains
open, all windows closed, no smoke from the kitchen, no din from the TV. He
couldn’t even hear the slavering fury of the chained pit-bull he assumed the
Braxtons owned, ready for its daily helping of inquisitive child or postman’s
trousers. At least he still had his full, regulation issue of social
stereotypes.
The Jennings’ house was just as still, save for the
bespectacled man with a hard-hat and clip-board taking notes from garden gate.
“Who’s that?” asked Harkness.
“Insurance assessor,” replied Wenban. “Had a chat
earlier. Owners desperate to get back in. We told him not to go in ‘til the
fire boys say so. Their investigator is still rooting around inside.”
“Why’s he wearing a hard hat outdoors?”
The SOCO shrugged. “’Cause he’s inspecting a
dangerous property and them’s the rules. Why’s that PCSO sweating his nipples off
in body armour and a jumper?”
“Similar reason, I suppose. Why are you sucking
down hot, poisonous gas at the scene of a lethal house fire?”
“They’re low tar.”
“No criticism intended. I’m a fellow sinner. But
low tar? Next you’ll tell me you like diet coke.”
“How fat would I be if I didn’t?”
“I’ll help you burn off that sugar with all the
petty enquiries I’ll be punting your way this week.”
“You’ve changed. Power’s gone to your head.”
Harkness leaned against the shaded side of the SOCO
van and toyed with the idea of cadging a smoke from Wenban. It would give him a
momentary surge of pleasure and clarity, and it would hardly compare with the
cocktail of lung-shredding poisons he must have inhaled last night. “Who’s
that?” said Wenban. “He’s in a right state. Do you know him?”
Harkness followed Wenban’s gaze. A shambling form
had appeared at the cordon, shifting anxiously from foot to foot, eyes fixed on
the Murphys’ house. The meagrest layer of flesh clung to the naked torso of the
6’2” frame, a living, breathing anatomy class. The shoulders appeared to bow
under some invisible weight. The hair had grown; once a close-cropped haze of
ginger, it was now a thick, greasy mop under which the darting green eyes hid
like finches in a hedgerow. The limp was new and unpractised, each dragging
motion of the left leg accompanied by clenched teeth and a gasp. The prison
tattoo was just visible under one of many fresh bruises, faded blue under vivid
purple.
“Firth. That’s bloody Firth. Cheeky bastard,”
Harkness muttered, shrugging off his jacket and handing it to Wenban, leaving
the harness with his baton, cuffs and gas visible.
Could Firth really be brazen
enough to kill three people with his morbid hobby then return to spectate at
his own crime scene? Could this case really boil down to the simple expression
of an inexplicable urge? If he’d really done it, it was all because he hadn’t
served enough time for the last arson attack Harkness had charged him with.
“If he runs, call it in,” he said to Wenban.
Crouching, he moved quickly around the various vans
clogging the street, trying to stay out of Firth’s eye-line until he was close
enough to stop him running. Something balled in his stomach. His temples were
throbbing and a bead of sweat fell from his bunched fist to dissolve in the
scum of fire-retardant foam riming the gutter.
He peered through a windscreen as he gathered his
breath. Firth clutched the cordon tape, still intent on the house and chewing
his lower lip. Glimpsing up from finally dropping his body armour to the
pavement, the PCSO noticed Harkness’s skulking bulk behind a car and scowled.
Harkness raised a finger to his lips but knew he was about to be flushed from
cover. Firth casually followed the PCSO’s glance, his eyes drawn to Harkness’s eyes
almost instantly.
Theirs had been a close working
relationship during the two days of interviews, ID procedures and processing
Harkness had put into the Byron Street arson attack between Firth’s arrest and
charge. The interviews could have been somewhat less exhaustive – while there
had been plenty of damage and some hospitalisations, nobody had died. Besides,
Firth had eventually admitted setting light to the ground-floor flat he shared
with the older woman who habitually and noisily bedded other youths within his
earshot and sometimes in plain view.
Yet because he was bright and
represented by a savvy solicitor, with whom he’d consulted at length, he’d
firmly denied specific intent and unfurled reason after reason why he couldn’t
have understood the consequences of his actions. Drugs, alcohol, learning
difficulties and jealous rage - all artfully blended into a blinding, devil’s
fog of psychological trauma and the sound basis for a lesser charge or an
effective plea in mitigation.
Harkness had sunk his teeth into the interview
process, both desperate to discredit the well-signposted defence and to
understand the workings of Firth’s mind. Slowey had dutifully noted the
conversation in his rough book, occasionally scribbling ‘WTF?’ in the margin,
his usual signal for simply not seeing the point of Harkness’s questions. The
solicitor had been less circumspect, complaining, tutting, whispering and
finally, having seen the financial benefit of staying for the long haul,
contenting himself with slouching, yawning and checking his text messages.
He didn’t resent his reputation for boring the
opposition into submission. Old school detectives thoroughly approved, yearning
as they did for the days when sleep deprivation, harassment and coercive,
repetitive questioning were de rigeur.
He could argue that
understanding Firth and understanding his crimes were one and the same. A
rational mind warped by trauma was pre-disposed to certain irrational impulses,
but not incapable of rational choices. After all, that went to the heart of
Firth’s defence. Perhaps formative trauma changed the rules, allowed a
different view of rationality, and conferred a powerful sense of entitlement to
break other people’s rules. Perhaps Harkness just wasted miles of interview
tape on amateur psychoanalysis. Yet he was compelled to chivvy and drive and
probe to understand how guilt could be buried so deeply yet permeate every
action so completely.