Destruction of Evidence (13 page)

‘How did she die?’ Trevor asked.

‘Not one hundred per cent sure. All four victims were beaten. You’ll get my PM reports when I’ve completed them and no guesses beforehand. But I can tell you that this victim and one other had multiple fractures to their skulls, long bones and ribs. Another, four fractures to his skull.’

‘Were they dead when they were beaten?’

‘Loss of blood and marrow stains suggests that the injuries were inflicted during life.’

‘They must have screamed,’ Peter was mesmerized by Gillian Pitcher’s broken, blackened corpse. Pale bones protruded through her scorched and seared skin. Her face was untouched by fire, but mashed to a bloody pulp.

‘Her hyoid bone was broken.’

‘She was strangled?’ Trevor had worked on cases where the only evidence of murder was a broken hyoid bone. The single bone in the body not connected to any other, a fracture was usually a sign of strangulation.

‘Pressure was applied to her neck. But more than that I can’t say until I get her back to the mortuary for a full PM and examination of her lungs.’

‘Weapon?’

‘We found a metal hoe on the attic stairs that matched the pattern of injuries on three of the four victims’ skulls and bodies.’

‘Odd thing to keep in a house without a garden,’ Peter commented.

‘There was a set of garden tools with similar metal handles in the derelict building where we found Larry Jones,’ Reggie chipped in, ‘but no hoe.’

‘What were the other tools?’ Trevor asked.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘I’ll check,’ Peter volunteered. ‘A hoe’s an odd choice of weapon.’

‘Not your usual axe or blunt instrument,’ Patrick concurred.

Trevor recalled Reggie’s briefing in the station. ‘Three bodies were found in the top floor studio?’

‘I’ll take you to them.’ Patrick returned to the landing and climbed the stairs.

Alun Pitcher was just inside the attic to the left of the door. He was on his back, his arms bound by his side, his body burned to a greater degree than his wife’s. His head had been smashed in, his nose and the front of his skull shattered.

Patrick indicated the injuries. ‘He was hit by a larger object than the hoe.’

‘Any idea what?’ Trevor asked.

‘Dents on his skull match projections on a bronze sculpture found beside the bed. I’ve sent it to the lab for further examination.’

‘The sculpture?’

‘A bronze copy of the Roman Dying Gaul. You’ll have to step past this one to reach the other two.’ Patrick walked around the bed.

‘I suppose this room’s been checked and nothing found that shouldn’t be here,’ Trevor asked.

‘I do like working with a copper who’s on the ball. It saves repetition. Be careful, the fire wasn’t as bad as the cellar and kitchen but the floorboards are weak beneath that pile of charred linen and books. And stay clear of the bathroom. Team’s working in there.’

Patrick’s assistant Jen, appeared in the doorway. ‘Good to see you, Trevor. Did you have to bring Peter?’

‘I’m his page boy,’ Peter joked.

‘We’re not promising good news, but someone took a shower in here after Lee and James Pitcher were beaten. We found traces of the victims’ blood around the plughole. Heavily diluted, smudged by gloves but there.’

‘No alien DNA?’ Trevor asked.

‘Unfortunately not, but we do have this.’ She held up a white plastic bucket.

‘Looks at though it should be in the Tate modern.’ Peter gazed down into it. ‘Sink traps?’ he questioned.

‘Someone showered in the cubicle, before wiping the surfaces with neat bleach. From the smudges we know latex gloves were worn. Afterwards, the sink, shower and bath traps were unscrewed and plunged into a bleach mix in this bucket. We’ve sieved the contents and found a few slivers of latex. We also found latex around the pipes below the trap. The teams are searching the sewage pipes in the hope of finding a hair or fingernail, so far they’ve drawn a blank. I’m guessing you’ve a lot of leg work on this one.’ Jenny gave Peter a bright artificial smile. ‘It couldn’t happen to a more deserving officer.’

CHAPTER NINE

The corpse that had not yet been formally identified as James Pitcher’s, was lying on the floor of the attic studio between the bathroom door and the bed. It was on its back; jaws open, teeth wide apart in a final, silent scream; legs straight, arms at its side.

The phrase “lying to attention” sprang to Trevor’s mind although he knew the position was down to the body being wrapped and tied before rigor had set in. But there was pathos about the rigidity, as though the victim had been desperately trying to straighten up to meet eternity.

Had he or the other victims been conscious when they’d been parcelled? Had they known their killer intended to burn them? Had the last emotion to register been terror?

Trevor stepped closer, crouched, and examined the charred pattern of twisted string, visible above the fine coating of ash that covered the blackened skeletal frame.

‘Careful, it’ll crumble if you touch it.’ Patrick warned.

Trevor rose and moved away from the corpse.

‘I’ve injected the string with glue, but it’ll take a couple more doses to hold the ashes. We ran out of adhesive this morning after strengthening the one downstairs. I’ve sent for more but it’s going to take care and skill to get all four corpses, to the mortuary without damaging them further. That’s far enough,’ Patrick snapped at Reggie when she stepped too close. ‘I don’t want currents of air blowing around. You can never be sure what they’ll carry. Jen?’ He shouted to his assistant who’d returned to the bathroom. ‘Chase up the glue?’

She stuck her head around the door. ‘No point, Boss. They’ve been told we need it urgently. They’ll bring it as quickly as they can.’

‘Where’s the last corpse?’ Trevor asked.

‘The other side of the bed. Watch where you step and move slowly.’ Patrick ordered.

Trevor crept around the bed and stared down at the remains of the fourth member of the Pitcher family. Like the other two men, the corpse was little more than a collection of blackened charcoal bones in a scorched compote of tissue too badly burned to make out distinguishing marks. If Patrick hadn’t told him the sex, he wouldn’t have been able to distinguish it as a man. Not for the first time, he envied Patrick his objectivity. But then, he’d never met a pathologist who hadn’t looked on human remains as anything more than a collection of inanimate objects.

Fuzzy charred remnants of hair clung to the splintered top and sides of the skull. Trevor averted his gaze from the shattered eye sockets that appeared to be staring blankly upwards. He tried to picture the man. Just over four days ago this carbon shell had been a healthy being. Happy – depressed – busy – indolent – it didn’t matter. Like him – he’d been alive. Breathing, thinking, capable of feeling pleasure and pain.

A tidal wave of rage welled within him. Anger that four people had been robbed of their lives. No one had the right to steal the life of another…

‘Seen all you want? Or would you rather continue philosophising?’ Patrick’s question shattered and scattered Trevor’s thoughts.

The comment hit home. Philosophy had no place in a murder inquiry. ‘For now. You doing the PMs today?’

‘I’m a genius, not superman,’ Patrick said drily. ‘It’ll take us the next couple of hours to stabilise these ready for moving. Plus, I’ve worked twenty-four of the last thirty-six hours so I’m creased. I need to be on the ball for a PM And four in succession will tax even my powers of concentration. I’ll start first thing tomorrow. But I won’t promise to finish one let alone two in a day. Especially that one…’

‘You know how it is…’

‘Too well,’ Patrick complained. ‘You want the results yesterday. Sorry, I’m human. The minute I’ve packed these off to the mortuary and supervised their arrival, I’m for a hot shower and, one, maybe two, very large malt whiskies. If I’ve any energy left after dinner I’ll look through the scene of crime photographs. If anything strikes me I’ll give you a ring.’

‘Crime of passion springs to mind.’

Trevor turned. Peter was looking over his shoulder.

‘Those fractures on the skull, ribcage and long bones aren’t just down to the heat are they?’ Peter asked Patrick.

‘No. They’re down to sharp blows with a metal hoe.’ Patrick looked into the bathroom. ‘Aren’t you finished in there yet, Jen?’

‘Almost.’ She walked out and dropped a clear plastic envelope into an evidence box. Two other boxes, both full, stood next to it.

‘Something?’ Trevor eyed the boxes.

‘You know how it is.’ She looked back into the bathroom. ‘You can always find an item that warrants further analysis.’

‘For instance?’ Peter pressed.

‘Fragments of soap, plastic bottles, nail scissors, hairbrush, could harbour a trace of DNA…’

‘Prints?’ Trevor pressed.

‘Nothing’s showed so far. But there’re other techniques we can try. Just don’t get your hopes up.’

‘That’s what I love about scientists. At best things may be “possible”. A “probable” is grounds for optimism and celebration. Nothing is ever hopeful or finite,’ Peter grumbled.

‘It’s possible but not probable that you’re human, Sergeant Collins.’ Jen flicked through the rest of the contents of the box marked BATHROOM. ‘A few hairs, but as they’re the same colour as the ones in the hairbrush they’re probably the victim’s. I’ve bagged a comb, toiletries, toilet roll, razor, cologne, deodorant, moisturiser… basically if it wasn’t cemented to the floor, it’s in here, but don’t go expecting us to pull out any evidence from here that will stand up in a courtroom.’

‘What did you find in the bedroom?’ Trevor noticed a box marked ATTIC.

‘Quite a bit given that some areas were smoked not burned. Tissues, clothes, used condoms – and before you ask, too burned to hold any DNA. Remains of wrapped condoms, alarm clock, mobile phone, oh and,’ she waved a bag under Peter’s nose. ‘Your low-life, relatives, Sergeant Collins. Bed bugs.’

‘Bed bugs! Didn’t they die out in the last century?’ Peter glanced around warily and Jen laughed.

‘Tenacious little sods are making a comeback. Check your clothes carefully every time you travel on public transport. Best to strip off and shower before entering your house.’

‘In the garden, so I can give my neighbours a thrill?’ Peter suggested.

‘Only if they want to look and I can’t see many wanting to do that. But be warned, they’re expert hitchhikers.’

‘Are those alive?’ Trevor asked.

‘Smoked and roasted but given their superbug ability to survive all attempts to exterminate them, I wouldn’t be surprised if we find a couple of live ones cowering in a secluded nook or cranny,’ Jen slipped the bag back into the box.

Patrick looked at Trevor above his mask. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

‘Is it possible?’

‘In theory.’

‘Is this conversation private, or can anyone join in?’ Peter demanded irritably.

An officer appeared at the top of the stairs and handed Patrick a box. ‘Quick drying adhesive and sterile syringes.’

‘Right, Jen, stop flirting with Peter and start working.’ Patrick opened the box. ‘Body bags?’ he asked the officer.

‘On their way. We haven’t a bloody conveyor belt to the mortuary out there.’

‘Don’t you love working in the sticks?’ Patrick winked at Trevor.

‘We’ll leave you and your team to it,’ Trevor replied diplomatically.

‘Right minions, get to work and fast,’ Patrick commanded. ‘If you’re staying at the pub we’ll see you there tonight, Trevor.’

‘If not, see you at the mortuary tomorrow.’

‘Something, I’m so-o looking forward to,’ Peter blew Jen a kiss. ‘Are we staying at the pub?’ he asked Reggie as they made their way down the stairs to the bedroom level.

‘I asked Inspector March to find you somewhere that isn’t booked for the next couple of months. There’s a lot of holiday accommodation in this town. I thought you wouldn’t want to move on every few days.’

‘We’re going to be here a couple of months!’ Peter glared at Trevor.

‘However long or short our stay we won’t want the hassle of moving every couple of days.’ Trevor stepped on to the fire escape from the bedroom balcony. ‘You said Larry Jones was still in the station?’ he asked Reggie.

‘At present. He’ll probably be moved to a secure unit after the hearing in the magistrates’ court tomorrow.’

‘Can I interview him?’

‘We’ve interviewed him already,’ Reggie said. ‘You can watch the recording.’

Trevor took a few moments to look down at the river. ‘I’ll watch it. But I’d still like to talk to him myself.’

‘I’ll contact his solicitor to check she has no objection.’

Trevor started the long descent to the ground. Despite the tragedy he’d witnessed in the building he had to suppress a smile when he saw Peter staring resolutely at the handrail, not the panoramic view when he followed him down.

Trevor and Peter sat beside Reggie in the viewing room and watched the figure on screen. Larry Jones looked younger than Trevor’d expected from his police record. If he’d seen him in the street he would have put him in his late teens not the twenty-seven on his last charge sheet. He was whippet-thin, with broken teeth and a metallic rash of eyebrow, ear, nose, cheek, upper and lower lip piercings. His head was shaved; the crown tattooed with a swastika; his forehead with a dotted line and the legend “TEAR HERE”. His police-issue blue paper boiler suit was stained with tea and tomato sauce, his face smudged with dirt. There were dark circles beneath his sunken eyes and he looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.