Bad Blood (10 page)

‘A hundred grams? That’s several thousand pounds street value. Tends to suggest whoever killed this guy didn’t care for drugs.’

‘
If
it’s coke. Anyway, the stuff has gone in the bowl. Would you want to use it?’

‘Not really. Besides, red wine and caffeine are my drugs of choice.’ Savage moved back from the corpse to where Denton stood next to a row of urinals, her nose detecting a sweet smell of citrus lemon mingled with piss. ‘Who found him?’

‘The attendant. Came to unlock the toilets at eight-thirty this morning and found they were already open. He noticed water overflowing from inside one of the cubicles and went to investigate. He swears the body wasn’t in the loos last night when he closed up after the place had been cleaned. He’s sure the door was locked properly too.’

‘Well the victim didn’t squeeze in through a window, did he?’ Savage glanced up at the narrow slits above the urinals and at the overhead roof lanterns. ‘But then again he didn’t walk in here either. You saw the hand?’

‘I saw
one
hand.’

‘Exactly. I wonder what the pathologist will make of that.’

Minutes later and the white-suited figure of Dr Andrew Nesbit shuffled in, displaying his characteristic stoop and offering a little homily by way of a greeting as he glanced over the top of his glasses.

‘Wednesdays are all very well, Charlotte, but they are only two better than Mondays. Whether you like them depends if you are a glass half full person or not.’ Nesbit edged round a large puddle of water and peered into the cubicle at the body. ‘What have we here? A suicide?’

‘That’s what the toilet attendant thought when he phoned triple nine. But us amateurs guess not.’

‘Let’s see then, shall we?’ Nesbit put his black bag down in a dry patch and shuffled closer. He spotted the white powder. ‘Drugs OD?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Ah, no!’ Nesbit had seen the arm. ‘Silly me. Not a suicide either. I don’t think anyone would choose to kill themselves by cutting their hand off and if they did, my hunch is they would find it impossible to walk very far once they’d done so.’

‘Doc?’

‘He didn’t die here.’ Nesbit moved the left arm. ‘He’s in rigor, but he must have been brought here before the stiffness set in. And there is no blood, or very little. With both the ulnar and radial arteries in the arm severed, blood would be gushing everywhere. I can see some splatter marks on the man’s right leg but not much on the floor. The hand was removed somewhere else.’

‘How long before rigor sets in?’

‘A few hours, but look at the lividity in the lower legs and the left arm. Some blood has oozed from the right too. I’d say the body was moved shortly after death. One to two hours at the most. To sum up, before rigor mortis but prior to livor mortis.’

‘And the severing of the hand caused death?’ Savage asked.

‘Too early to say that, Charlotte, but it is possible.’ Nesbit stared at the body for a moment and then reached forward and pulled the man’s right sleeve up. ‘There’s something else here. Strange.’

Savage moved closer and Nesbit pointed at the forearm. There was a rectangle of skin marked with black and white stripes in a crude pattern resembling a zebra crossing.

‘Appears to be paint,’ Nesbit said touching the arm with a gloved finger. ‘Dry too. Never seen anything quite like it.’

‘Not a tattoo?’

‘No, this is on the surface of the skin.’

‘Can you get that thing out of his nose? The business card?’

‘Let’s see …’ Nesbit reached for the black tube and teased it from the nostril and then flattened the card and showed it to Savage.

‘Fastwerk Bookkeeping,’ Savage said. ‘Notte Street. That’s close to here, back down Hoe Road.’

Nesbit turned to Savage. ‘Can you pass me my thermometer and some wipes from my case please. An evidence bag too. I am going to take a rectal temperature reading, but I’ll need to clean up a bit first.’

Savage opened the bag and found the thermometer unit with its remote probe and a packet of wipes. She handed them to Nesbit. Denton grimaced as the pathologist began to wipe the excrement from between the man’s buttocks.

‘And I used to think nappies were bad,’ Savage said.

‘How’s Pete, Charlotte?’ Nesbit said in an upbeat tone, the question sounding the sort which might be posed at a dinner party. ‘I completely forgot to ask you on Monday. Rude of me, I know. I read in the paper he’d returned. Hero’s welcome, razzmatazz and all.’

The switch from professional to personal matters caught Savage off guard, but she knew Nesbit was prone to small talk in an effort to distract from the task in hand.

‘Fine. Getting cabin fever from being ashore, but the kids love him being back. I am trying to persuade him to swallow the hook.’

‘Hey?’

‘Meaning to give up his command. A desk job would be better for the children and my stress levels.’

‘Come on, Charlotte,’ Nesbit stopped wiping and turned to give her a quizzical look. ‘Pete giving up the sea would be like you giving up all this.’

Nesbit returned his attention to the body and shoved the white probe of the thermometer between the man’s buttocks.

Savage burst out laughing.

Budgeon played the pressure-washer jet across the concrete floor of the barn. Full power, red water sluicing away in rivulets, specks of white bone gliding along them until they disappeared down the drain. As he worked, a distant ache inched its way across his forehead, all the time diminishing until the feeling became not much more than a mild irritation.

It felt good. Fucking good.

At last, things were in motion and he’d made a start. Wheels were turning, the freight train on the move. Nothing was going to stop him now. Nothing.

The last of the fat bastard’s blood swirled around the drain cover, a gurgling echoing Frankie’s last sounds.

Please, Ricky, please!

He’d screamed plenty before the final words, blood spurting everywhere as he thrashed around like a fat, sloppy fish flapping on the riverbank. He’d talked too. Plenty. Facts and figures. Everything Budgeon needed to know about Big K’s business, from turnover to throughput. Budgeon had been impressed. Big K had quite an operation running and Budgeon’s South American friends would be keen to get some of the action.

Payday.

Budgeon tidied away the pressure washer and went inside. He’d recorded the local lunchtime news bulletin, and now, back in the house, he played the programme back on the big screen above the fireplace. He sat down on the sofa, cradled a glass of Scotch in his hand and sat back to watch the show.

An establishing shot panned across the scene before the girlie reporter did her piece to camera. Behind her a sign read ‘Public Conveniences’ and the viewer’s eye was drawn over her shoulder, following in the sign’s direction to alight on the dank building in the background. You could almost smell the piss.

Nice camerawork, he thought. The guy should win an award. Nice use of the words ‘toilets’ and ‘paedophile’ by the reporter too. And when they cut away to Lester Close and pictures of the little girl flashed up, Budgeon knew the stuff with Frankie had been genius. The message was clear, and there were those out there who would understand it all too well.

You shall not steal; you shall not deal falsely; you shall not lie to one another.

Lexi, Big K. They knew the code. And they knew the consequences if you broke it. The thief would lose his hand, the betrayer his life.

He rubbed his forehead, aware of a slight discomfort, then he touched the remote, pausing the playback as the reporter began to hand back to the studio.

He took another swig of his drink and swirled the liquid across his teeth before swallowing. The reporter stared out from the TV, smile frozen. She was a pretty one, for sure. A local girl made good, but she wouldn’t be around here for long. London calling and all that.

London.

Another home, and more memories.

After prison, London had seemed the best place to start again. You were anonymous up there, nobody nosing into your affairs, no history to worry about. He’d done fine, made a lot of money. Enough to buy some investment property out in Spain and start to think about retiring to the sun. But then he’d been well and truly screwed and that was what this was all about too.

Why him? It was a question Budgeon had asked himself before. Did he look like the type of guy who enjoyed taking it up the arse? Did he look like a pushover? Of course not. Just the opposite. The only explanation could be that those who’d wronged him were stupid or mean, or both.

Tossers.

The discomfort had turned into a soreness now, a prickly feeling he knew presaged another attack. A few more gulps of Scotch eased the tension and then he pushed himselfup from the sofa. He went over to the fireplace, picked a log from the basket and placed it on the fire. A shower of orange sparks flared for a moment before being sucked up the chimney. He glanced up from the fire to the screen just a few inches from his head. This close the pixels on the display were distinct, like thousands of coloured crystals on some sort of collage, each one a part of a bigger picture. If he pressed ‘play’ on the remote, the scene would spring into action again, people would move, speak, smile. Life would go on.

But that wasn’t going to happen. Not for those who’d crossed him.

Budgeon reached across for a phone on a nearby table. Punched out a number, and when someone answered, he spoke.

‘The cop. We set him up next.’

He hung up and put the phone down. Then he took up his glass and gulped the rest of the Scotch, unable to suppress a smile at the serendipity of the situation. He supposed he ought to thank the
Herald
for printing the picture. A minibus full of kids from North Prospect, Chelsea scarves waving, the pig standing there smiling, along with a couple of PCSOs. Who would have thought he would turn up right on the doorstep like a meek lamb walking to the slaughterhouse?

He returned to the sofa, pointed the remote at the screen and pressed ‘standby’. The reporter’s frozen smile beamed down for a moment before the screen went black.

The Hoe, Plymouth. Wednesday 16th January. 10.14 a.m.

Outside the toilet block, the pathway had been cordoned off for fifty metres in both directions and Hoe Road had been closed. A team of half a dozen white-suited officers were working their way along the path and the grassy bank adjoining the road. John Layton was standing by some steps which led down to the road, talking into his phone again. Whoever was on the other end this time was getting a right earful. Layton ended the call and came across to Savage and Denton.

‘Bloody jokers. The head honcho at the council in charge of toilets says he wants his crew to dismantle the cubicle. If we take the thing apart he says he’ll bill us for any damage. Tosser.’

‘So?’ Savage said. ‘Let them do the job.’

‘He won’t call the crew out here until late afternoon because he’ll miss his overtime targets if they abandon the job they started this morning. What are we supposed to do, twiddle our thumbs while fatso decomposes in there? Jobsworth.’

‘You and the mortuary recovery lads do it. If they send us a bill then we will bung one back for removing the body.’

‘Good idea,’ Layton nodded his assent and then began to fill Savage in on his team’s progress. ‘You’ve seen the victim, he’s bloody massive. To get him into the toilets must have been a horrendous task. I reckon you would need two or more people, unless someone could have driven a vehicle along this access path.’

‘And could they?’

‘Look, the route leads back to the Hoe.’ Layton pointed along the thread of black tarmac. The path curled to the right and joined the wide expanse of pavement which covered the top of the Hoe. ‘There are any number of access points, but they all have either locked barriers or bollards.’

‘I’ll get the local inquiry team to check if they are all secure.’

‘The other alternative is bringing the body up these steps. Two people might manage that. Two
strong
people.’

‘CCTV?’ Savage glanced up at the nearby lamp posts, hoping she would spot a white box with a lens pointing in their direction.

‘Nope. None near here.’

‘Too much to expect.’

‘Don’t worry, Charlotte. When Nesbit has finished I’ll get my lot inside. We’ll find something. We always do. Mind you, life would be easier if
he
was the killer.’ Layton pointed along the path to where DC Enders was returning from the cafe, two hands clamped around three cups of steaming coffee. At every step a sprinkle of liquid splashed over the rims, leaving a trail on the ground.

‘Hey, what are you lot laughing at?’ Enders said, holding the cups out for Savage to take one. Layton went to grab a cup, but Enders grunted that it was for Nesbit, nodding to where the pathologist was hopping on one foot as he tried to get out of his protective suit.

When Nesbit came over, Enders gave him the cup. Nesbit took a sip and Savage asked for his conclusions.

‘Coffee’s not bad, not bad at all,’ Nesbit said, winking at her. ‘As for our friend back in the toilets, I can tell you he didn’t expire in such an undignified position. However, he must have been moved soon after death otherwise he could never have been arranged in that pose.’

‘Because of rigor?’

‘Yes. The body would have become so stiff after a few hours it could never have been placed in the kneeling position.’

‘And wherever he was killed there would have been a lot of blood?’

‘I’d say the place would have resembled an abattoir after the task had been done. Unless he was dead before the hand was cut off, but we won’t know that until the post-mortem.’ Nesbit took a gulp of coffee and then poured the rest into the hedge. ‘Now, one of the CSIs told me they do a fine bacon roll at the cafe so if you’ll excuse me, I am going to ascertain if he was correct.’

‘I hope he’s washed his hands, ma’am,’ Denton shook his head as Nesbit strolled off. ‘I mean, you saw the state of the man’s arse.’

‘Thanks for reminding me of that delightful vision, Carl,’ Savage said. She nodded at Enders. ‘Patrick, Carl, you continue working with the local team here. I’m going back to the station to report to DSupt Hardin and DCI Garrett that we have found Mr Owers. Arse and all.’