Critical Threat (7 page)

‘Done.'

The Home Office pathologist stood on the other side of the table, removing gloves and mask, revealing the face underneath.

Keira O'Connell was the locum pathologist standing in for the currently absent Professor Baines, a man Henry knew well. He had been initially disappointed that Baines wasn't available. Apparently he was away on an international conference for pathologists in the Bahamas, concentrating on forensic dentistry, which was one of Baines's big interests. Henry had to admit, though, that the temporary replacement was much better looking, even with her blonde hair scraped severely back off her face into a tight ponytail. Her face was round and sweet, yet her eyes, which Henry had studied over her facemask, were steel-cold grey and deeply intelligent.

O'Connell leaned on the table and inspected her handiwork as her assistant busied himself doing a tidy-up. It had been a nasty and gruesome task, extremely smelly, terribly unpleasant. Henry – the ‘new man' who even did the ironing at home – despite his recent diversity training found himself hard pressed not to comment that this wasn't the sort of job a woman should be doing. He refrained, mainly because he suspected that she would have stabbed him with a scalpel, and also because she had done a terrific examination which Henry had watched with a mixture of distaste and awe.

On the work bench behind her was an array of test tubes, plastic bags, swabs and trays containing specimens taken from the body which would require laboratory examination down at the forensic science lab.

‘Summary,' the pathologist said in the staccato way in which she spoke. Her words were spoken clearly both for Henry and Rik's sake and for the audio/video recording that had been made of the post-mortem. ‘Female, aged between twenty-five and forty. Difficult to ascertain the ethnic origin at this time due to the extensive damage caused by the fire which I would grade as fifth degree. She was set on fire whilst naked as there appear to be no traces of clothing on her. However, the fire was not the cause of death. She was set alight after death as the burns on the body show no signs of vital reaction.'

O'Connell turned away from the cadaver, which lay split open from neck to lower stomach. She stepped to the steel draining board on which the organs from the corpse had been laid out and examined. The display reminded Henry of a butcher's shop he'd once seen on holiday in Tunisia.

She picked up the lungs and inspected them like a big, floppy book. Henry was always amazed at how large lungs were.

‘The lungs were filled with water, indicating the victim had inhaled water. They are wet and heavy, very pale and distended. No sign of any lung disease.'

‘So the victim was drowned?' Rik asked.

‘Yes.' Next she picked up the fist-sized chunk of muscle that was the heart. ‘Good, healthy heart, too.' Then she moved to the brain which had been sliced open like a country loaf. ‘Severe bruising of the brain, causing much internal bleeding, indicating a frenzied attack with a heavy, blunt instrument.' Next came the liver, slimy and difficult to hold. ‘Liver healthy.'

O'Connell glanced at the two detectives. ‘All in all, this woman was very healthy before she died. I would say she looked after herself well.'

She placed her hands on her hips and blew out, then turned. ‘The trachea had been constricted, indicating an attempt at strangulation, but neither the strangulation nor the beating killed her – it was drowning.' She regarded Henry and pursed her lips, raised her eyebrows and tilted her head. ‘All in all, this woman has been subjected to prolonged and severe torture. She has been beaten and half-strangled and her head has been held under water until she died. She was then set on fire. Brutal, nasty.'

‘You can tell all this?' Rik said.

She blinked and frowned at his stupidity. ‘And more … I'm a pathologist, so, death, as it says in some book or other, is my beat.'

‘As it is mine,' Henry said.

‘Touché.' She smiled pleasantly. ‘You don't know who she is yet?'

‘No,' Henry admitted. ‘No leads as yet. Gonna be a toughie, I reckon, unless we get lucky in the next few hours.'

‘Lucky?' O'Connell said cheekily. ‘Why not get professional instead?'

‘They go together hand in hand. One begets the other.'

She did not look convinced and she was acting as though she did not have much time for Henry, or perhaps she was just being professional.

‘You want an opinion?' she asked.

‘On me, or the deceased?' He raised a flirty eyebrow.

‘The deceased,' she said and Henry saw her hiding a smile.

‘Always welcome.'

‘It will be difficult to establish the ethnic origin, but there is a gold filling in one of her back teeth which could be helpful if you get the gold analysed. I say that because I actually think we are dealing with a woman of Asian origin here from what I can see of what is left of the bone structure in the face. A facial reconstruction could prove worthwhile.'

‘Asian?' Henry said, surprised.

‘And if I'm right, you could be dealing with an honour killing.'

Henry's heart sank a few centimetres in his chest. ‘An honour killing? Bugger.'

‘Just a gut feeling … I could be wrong, though.'

‘But I'd guess that's not usually the case?'

This time O'Connell did not hide the smile. ‘No, not usually … now, if you'll excuse me, the job's not over until the paperwork's done, if you know what I mean? I think you've probably got enough to progress your investigation. I'll let you have the report and a copy of the DVD of the PM by tomorrow afternoon.'

Henry took the hint and started removing his mask as he and Rik walked towards the door. ‘Thanks, Doctor O'Connell …'

‘Professor, actually,' she corrected him.

‘Thanks, Doctor Professor,' he said. He stopped and looked at her. She shot him a look of amused contempt before returning to the organs. He and Rik went into the office next to the mortuary to hang up their masks and gowns.

‘You shameless flirt,' Rik chided Henry.

‘Ah, but that's all I do now,' Henry said, his mind pondering what the next stage of the investigation would be. He was thinking about his ‘fast-track menu': the list of things to do that included a combination of investigative actions which, according to the
Murder Investigation Manual
(which Henry could almost recite), ‘are likely to establish important facts, preserve evidence or lead to the early resolution of the investigation'. He needed to sit down somewhere quietly and jot stuff down in an exercise book which would hopefully get his grey matter on the road to solving the age-old problem of any murder investigation which the manual simplistically states as ‘who killed the victim?' and the simple problem-solving formula of ‘why + when + where + how = who?'

Dead simple, and all made a bit easier if the victim is identified, although that should not in itself stall the investigation.

Henry had decided there would be a murder squad briefing at 8 a.m. the following morning at Kirkham police station, from where he would run the investigation, that being the nearest decent-sized cop shop to the scene. After that, at 10 a.m. there would be a press briefing – and then the work would really begin. He sent Rik off to start making some phone calls to get a squad together.

The mortuary office was quiet, so he decided to use this facility for a quick brainstorm. Henry had a pen and exercise book in his jacket pocket, which he spread open on the desk, and began blatting down his battle plan.

He was enjoying the process. Mind-mapping, flow-charting, jotting down single words to spark ideas, all designed to foster the thought process. It was a stage of the investigation he loved; those few moments when it was all his; the time before everyone else and their dogs stuck their noses into the pie; the stage when it was all pure and untainted. He felt a bit like a kid at school with a colouring book and crayons, writing with one hand, the other hand curled around to stop anyone else looking at his work.

It was engrossing work, too, and thirty-odd minutes later, he was sitting there staring into space seeking to get some inspiration from the wall in front of him.

There was a noise as the door opened behind him. This brought him back to reality. He twisted in the chair, half hoping to see Professor O'Connell – purely for professional reasons, of course – but caught his breath and sat bolt upright when he saw who it was …

Henry grunted and jumped out of his skin. He had dropped off to sleep, his chin bouncing down on to his chest, and had woken with a start and a shake of the head.

A ripple of giggles came from the back of the van as he sucked back the dribble from the corner of his mouth with a slurp. He looked sideways at the sergeant.

‘You might be mistaken for thinking I dropped off then,' he said.

‘No probs, boss, we all need power naps occasionally.' She yawned and stretched in the confined space. ‘Is this going to happen or not?' She peered at her digital watch. ‘We should've gone in twenty minutes ago,' which made Henry realize he'd actually been zonked-out for at least ten.

His eyes drooped with fatigue. ‘Dunno,' he said, which was not the most earth-shatteringly incisive thing to say, but was about all he could muster at that time of day as he found himself suddenly very knackered. His brain was becoming spongy, starting to shut down.

In the personnel carrier the tittle-tattle had also waned as tiredness drew a veil over everyone. Which was not good, he thought; raiding a house with a possible terrorist connection should be carried out by officers who were on the ball, not ones who were dim-witted and sloth-like because they had become fatigued from waiting around. That bred mistakes.

He inhaled and exhaled deeply in the hope of getting some fresh oxygen into his bloodstream.

Dawn was creeping in more quickly. Soon it would be a gallop. The sky was starting to turn a pale grey; spots of rain clicked on the windscreen.

Unable to help it, and assisted by the slightly hypnotic effect of the rain, Henry's heavy eyelids slid slowly closed even though he fought it valiantly …

It wasn't Keira O'Connell entering the office. It was the bluff, angry figure of Detective Chief Superintendent Dave Anger and his sidekick, a DI called Carradine who had been seconded to FMIT recently and who, Henry knew, was the man that Anger wished to replace Henry with. All three of them went back a long way, but it was Anger and the DI who were best mates.

Behind them trotted a helpless Rik Dean, making tiny gestures to Henry with his hands and shoulders, which said, ‘Sorry.' He looked pained.

Anger barged in, Carradine by his shoulder like a parrot.

‘Almost pulled a fast one there, Henry,' was Anger's opening gambit.

Henry swung the desk chair round, instantaneously on the defensive. ‘What do you mean?'

‘How did you get this job?' Anger demanded.

‘What job?'

‘This murder!'

‘I was called out to it – it is on my patch, after all.' He was responsible for covering Blackpool Division, on which the body had been found.

‘Well, you shouldn't have been.'

‘Not my problem.'

‘You've been relieved of the job.'

The chair flew backwards on its casters as Henry shot to his feet. ‘What?'

‘You heard. DI Carradine is taking it on, so you can hand over everything to him.'

‘
What?
' Henry was flabbergasted.

‘But there is some good news in it for you,' Anger smirked. Henry waited, not daring to open his mouth lest what came out of it totally destroyed his career. ‘You've been transferred off FMIT as of today,' Anger said, and let the words hang there for effect. Henry's mouth dropped open with a little bubble of spit on his lips. ‘Yeah – transferred on to Special Projects at HQ.' Anger smiled winningly. ‘Hadn't you heard? No? I'm surprised FB hasn't called you.'

Admittedly Henry knew he had a series of missed calls on his mobile which he had been studiously avoiding. One of them could have been FB.

‘But then again, why would he call you? It's usually your divisional commander or department head who gives you that sort of news these days.' Anger's smile turned into a snarl. ‘Unfortunately, the transfer comes with a promotion to chief inspector, which completely mystifies me.' He shook his head and looked as though this news was enough to make him vomit. ‘So you can get lost.' The smile returned – venomously. ‘DI Carradine is now temporary DCI and despite the fact that I said you'd never make chief inspector as long as I've got a hole where the sun don't shine, I'm a happy man. You know what I think of you, so I won't go over old ground.' He gave Henry a little wave.

Henry was tempted to knock the beam off Carradine's face as he crossed the room, and was glad to see the DI cringe back slightly as he came within striking distance. Obviously Henry's body language was pumping out ‘beware' vibes. However, he did nothing nor said anything, but pushed past the three of them, getting a muted ‘Sorry, mate' from Rik, and stalked into the corridor. He had only gone a few yards when Anger called, ‘Henry.' He stopped abruptly and revolved slowly as Anger strolled up to him, a half-smile on his twisted lips.

‘You don't seriously think you'd have won, do you?' he said derisively. ‘I'm part of a gang, you know.' His eyebrows arched. ‘You, on the other hand, are just a minion, a nobody, nothing.'

‘Whatever,' Henry said.

‘So let's let bygones be bygones, eh? There'll be no need for us to cross paths any more. Let's keep it that way, shall we?'

‘I don't think so.'

Anger's face froze. ‘I'll fuckin' crush you, Henry,' he said almost conversationally, ‘if you don't let this go. I promise you.'

‘Your little army going to do your bidding?'