The Blood Detective (10 page)

Nigel went to the inquiries desk first.

‘Hi,’ he said to the timid woman sitting behind the counter. ‘Nigel Barnes. I believe someone from the Metropolitan Police might have said I was coming.’

He winced at how formal his introduction

sounded. Her eyes lit up.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said eagerly. ‘Ron on the order desk is expecting you. He’ll be helping you out.’

A minute or so later a proud-looking fat man, hands the size of shovels, was greeting him. He had a stubbled chin and an enormous stomach that strained against his T-shirt.

‘Sorry about keeping you here,’ Nigel explained.

‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Ron said. ‘I only had a night in front of the TV with the wife planned; frankly, you’re doing me a favour. Now what do you want first?’

He started with national newspapers: they carried stories of murder, the more gruesome the better, while the local papers were unpredictable. They came and went quickly, and often carried nothing more than market times and the price of apples. He asked for March 1879 copies of The Times, the paper of record. Although it was unlikely the murders would be in there, it was worth a try; he also ordered The Daily Telegraph — then The Times‘1* cheaper, downmarket rival - and finally, the News of the World, which served up a weekly diet of murder and sin even in 1879.

Ron disappeared into the depths of the repository.

Nigel went to his seat and waited, trying to stop himself checking his watch every other minute. The reading table would be superfluous. All the volumes he’d ordered came on that most dreaded substance: microfilm. Nigel hated it. Scanning through endless reels of the stuff on badly lit screens coated in inches of dust, developing repetitive strain injury by having to rewind whole reels manually, threading the crumpled, creased pieces of film over the rollers and not under, it was as much fun as gouging his eyeballs out with a teaspoon.

When they came, he took the boxes through

to the room filled with microfilm readers, huge machines with screens the size of 1950s televisions.

He teed up The Times first. For the week following the murder, it carried nothing. Not for the first time, Nigel marvelled at the verbosity of the Victorian press. In one edition there was a report of a parliamentary debate that must have comprised more than

packed, unbroken by illustrations or advertisements.

How anyone read it without losing the will to live was beyond him.

Relieved, he turned next to the News of the World. The Screws was founded in 1843 and quickly established itself as a primary source of salaciousness, mining the magistrates’ courts of London for stories of murder and adultery. If Albert Beck’s death had not made its pages, then it was unlikely to have been reported by anyone else. The microfilm reel carried every edition for 1879. It was his intention to scroll briskly through January but, as always, he found it impossible to avoid being consumed by the past. As he spooled sedately through the weekly editions his eye was caught by wonderful, evocative yet matter-of fact headlines: ‘Atrocious Outrage Near Bristol’ and ‘Threatening Attitude Of Nihilists’. The front page of each edition had a list of ‘Jokes Of The Week’

culled from other publications, so unfunny they seemed to have been filed from another planet which, in effect, they were.

He found the first edition for April. There was a report from the Zulu War and a report on the exploits of the Kelly gang in Australia. He was about to scroll down to the next page when, at the bottom, he saw a headline that made his heart stop.

KENSINGTON: THIRD HORRIFIC

MURDER

The story beneath read:

The bodies of all three men lay in pools of blood on the ground, a demon having wielded a sharp instrument to open them up. Up to one o’clock yesterday North Kensington had no clue as yet to the motive or identity of the fiend whose deeds have sown considerable terror within the local community. The first victim was named as Samuel Roebuck, a brickworker of Notting Dale, whose mutilated body was discovered in the fields near his home.

The man had last been seen drinking on the evening of Monday March 24th, and the police initially believed the killing to be the consequence of a drunken altercation.

But then on the morning of Saturday March 29th, the stabbed form of Albert Beck, a tanner, of nearby Clarendon Road, North Kensington, was discovered in the undergrowth of St John’s Church by a passer-by close to Ladbroke Grove. He leaves a widow and two small children in penury. The third victim was named as Leonard Childe, a 38-year-old blacksmith of Harrow Road, North Kensington, who leaves a widow and four children, the eldest being just thirteen. He was discovered during the early morning of Tuesday April 1st, near to Notting Hill station. Police authorities have called for calm in the area and are said to be closing in on the ghoul who perpetrated these wicked acts. Those who have witnessed any suspicious activity among relatives or neighbours, such as the sighting of blood-drenched clothes or lunatic behaviour, are entreated to present themselves at North Kensington police station to provide information.

Nigel finished reading, then left the room, headed down the short flight of stairs, all the time dialling Foster. By the time he made it out of the doors the phone was ringing.

Foster answered straightaway.

‘I’ve found a report of the murder of Albert Beck.’

no

in

‘What does it say?’

‘The killer struck three times. A body was found on Tuesday 25 th, Saturday 29th, and Tuesday 1 st April.’ He paused. ‘April 1st is tomorrow,’ Nigel added.

He heard Foster sigh. ‘I’m aware of the date,’ he drawled. ‘That’s not the only thing that bothers me.

If he’s following this pattern, then he killed someone last Saturday and we haven’t found the body. Where were the first and third victims found?’

Nigel trawled his memory. Years of scanning documents had given him almost photographic recall.

‘The first was Brick Field, Notting Dale. The third near Notting Hill station.’

‘Find out as much as you can about each of the

killings, in particular the spot where they were found.

Call in when you have something.’

Foster collected his jacket from the back of his chair and put it on. He went through to the incident room and clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention.

‘Listen up. I’ve just had Nigel Barnes on the phone: he’s found a newspaper report from 1879 about three killings in North Kensington in the space of a week.

The second killing was of Albert Beck.’

‘The second}’ Heather said.

Foster nodded. ‘That’s not the only surprise. The third victim was murdered on 31st March 1879, the body found the next day.’

A silence fell across the room.

‘So this is what’s going to happen. Andy and

Heather, get a team to Notting Hill Gate. That’s where Barnes says the third body was found in 1879.

Scout it out, get plain clothes on the street, digging up the roads, begging for small change, whatever you can think of, as long as it’s low-key: just get some bodies around there. Find a place overlooking the station if you can and keep an eye on it. I’ll come and join you there later.’

‘What about the first killing?’ Heather asked. ‘If he’s followed the pattern …’

‘I’ll deal with those who might already be dead.

You try and stop someone else joining their ranks.’

The mortuary attendant, the only person on duty that evening, at least until the inevitable victims of a Saturday night in the city were wheeled in later on, looked ill at ease when DCI Foster strode in purposefully.

‘Can I help?’ he asked, blinking furiously behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

‘You can. I want to see every body that was

brought in last weekend. The ones you still have, anyway.’

‘Did you ring and ask about this in advance?’ he asked nervously.

‘Look,’ Foster stopped himself. ‘What’s your

name, son?’

‘Luke.’

‘Luke, I’m in the middle of a murder investigation.

It is extremely important that I see those bodies and that I see them immediately. Now I’m going to walk in there and have a look. I think it’s best you don’t try and stop me. Agreed?’

Luke nodded slowly.

‘Good man.’

Foster left him at his desk and barged through a set of double doors that led downstairs to the cold store. He could feel the temperature fall as he went further into the depths. At the bottom was another door. Locked.

‘Luke!’ he shouted. He could feel a draught coming from somewhere, he guessed the hidden approach where hearses and ambulances came to load and

unload.

The young man scurried downstairs and punched

a code into a keypad to one side of the door. There was a click and Foster pushed. He was inside. The air was chilly, though not freezing. He exhaled and caught a fleeting glimpse of his breath in front of him. Rows of cabins filled either side of the room, leaving a wide central area in the middle where a few tables stood. Only one was in use; Foster saw a black body bag. It wasn’t empty.

‘That one’s waiting to be prepared for the

tray,’ Luke said, noticing where Foster’s eyes were straying. ‘Alcoholic,’ he added, as if that explained the delay.

At the far end of the room was a chrome mechanism, a lift, a sort of dumb waiter that delivered the body to the autopsy room upstairs. Next to it Foster saw a large whiteboard. On it were the numbers of each cabin, written beside the surname of the deceased.

‘Do you have any record of when these people

died, or when their bodies were brought in?’

‘It’s in the register.’

‘Get it, please.’

Luke departed while Foster went to a dispenser

and put on a pair of latex gloves. By the time he’d worked them on, Luke had returned, his breathing slightly heavier, with a large black book in his hands.

‘What dates interest you?’

‘For a start, I want to have a look at everyone who was brought in late last Saturday night or on Sunday, regardless of when they actually died.’

Luke put the book down on one of the unoccupied metal tables, running down the page with his finger, then flicking it over. Foster wanted to grab it and look himself but, as he was about to, the technician spoke.

‘Right, we have Fahey.’

Foster looked at the whiteboard. Couldn’t see

the name.

‘Released to the funeral parlour on Thursday,’

Luke added. ‘Road traffic accident.’

Foster made a note of which funeral parlour.

‘Gordon.’

This one was on the wall. Cabin 13. Foster went over himself and pulled hard on the handle and the drawTer slid out. He unzipped the bag to reveal a man, slightly overweight, in his early fifties, he guessed.

His colour was pale blue and his jaw hung open.

Foster looked closely at his chest and torso, then lifted both arms. When he found nothing, he summoned Luke and asked him to help sit the body up.

With much effort, Foster carefully inspected his back.

There wasn’t a blemish on the whole body.

‘Heart attack?’ he asked Luke, who nodded.

‘At home on Saturday night.’

‘Perhaps he won the lottery,’ Foster said, zipping up the bag and shunting the cabin back into its home.

The next name on the list was Ibrahim.

‘This one’s in the deep freeze. Number 30,’ Luke said.

Great, Foster thought, just what I need. There was always at least one cabin where the temperature was 200 below. It stored bodies that required freezing to prevent decomposition. Then, when they were needed, for a second autopsy perhaps, they were thawed out with hot water from the boiler.

‘Is this a keeper?’ he asked.

Luke shook his head. ‘No, it was in an advanced state of decomposition when it was found.’

‘Marvellous,’ Foster muttered.

He pulled the door open and dragged out the tray.

The bag was smaller, not body-shaped. He opened it carefully, breathing deeply.

The cold prevented the stench from overpowering him, but what he saw almost did. The body was in bits. An arm here, a leg there, the torso in the middle, the head missing; it was green, not pale blue, and had obviously been maggot food for some time. Foster recalled the case. Another team was on it; probable honour killing was the word.

He picked up the severed stumps and examined

them carefully. His nose caught a whiff of rotting flesh, so he started to breathe through his mouth. He checked every part, lifting them all up apart from the torso, which he flipped over like a burger, but there was nothing else. With as much haste as possible, he bundled the body parts back into their cover and out of his sight.

Next on the list was a John Doe. Luke said this one was brought in on Sunday morning. His age was difficult to gauge, though late forties had been the estimate. The face was sagging under the weight of death, black hair tangled and the black-grey beard unkempt. Foster did a double take. It was the tramp whose suicide they had been called to the previous Sunday, the one that Heather had been taking so personally.

He was about to zip it back up there and then, but something made him carry on looking. The chest was clear, the stomach too. He picked up the left arm, saw nothing; then the right, nothing apart from a few track marks. Obviously a junkie …

Tilting his head to one side, he looked once more at the punctures on his arm. Small nicks, all the world like the scars caused by injecting smack. But then they appeared to coalesce, to join together. He peered more closely. There it was: two slanted red cuts, a small cut bridging them. An ‘A’. It was even less distinct than before, and done with less care, but it was possible to make out the other marks, letters and numbers. The same letters and numbers they had found on Darbyshire: 1 A 1 3 7.

He owed Heather an apology.

He put the arm down. ‘Cause of death,’ he shouted to Luke, his eyes still fixed on the body.