Buried in the Past (5 page)

‘I suppose it’s just possible the man could have cushioned the impact with his body; the bleeding was internal.’

Nash nodded agreement. ‘Let’s have a look at the missing piece of stone.’

He donned a pair of gloves and lifted it clear of the grass. They all stared at it. The piece wasn’t very big, no more than a foot across at the broadest point. It was roughly triangular in shape, narrowing to a couple of inches at the opposite end. Nash pointed to the blood on the narrow end of the stone, then his gaze switched to the wall. He frowned. ‘That’s odd,’ he murmured.

‘What is?’ Viv asked, then, ‘Oh, I see.’

Nash held the stone out. ‘Put that in position on top of the wall.’

Viv did as instructed, staring at the result, then at his
companions
. ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ he said. ‘The bloodstains are on the wrong side of the stone. But that’s not possible, unless….’

Clara continued for him, ‘What you’re trying to say is, that stone will only fit into the gap on the top of the wall one way; the way you have it. And, if that’s the case, how did the victim’s blood get to be on the part that was facing into the field, away from the road?’

‘Unless the car driver picked it from the top of the wall and smashed the victim’s skull in with it.’ Pearce said exactly what Clara was thinking.

Nash nodded agreement. ‘Everything about this accident site is wrong. And from what we’ve seen here, I think that’s because it wasn’t an accident. This is a crime scene.’ He pointed to the wall. ‘We’d better bag that piece of stone as evidence and then we’ll go back to the station.’

As they were walking back to the car, Mironova paused and glanced back. ‘Speaking of which, shouldn’t we get SOCO out here?’

‘You’re right, Clara. Will you deal with it as soon as we get back? Tell them we need photos of those tread marks, particularly the deeper ones, plus the wall, taken from all angles. We must also have all the measurements they can make. I know traffic will have
done the basic ones, as they would for any accident, so I want them to concentrate on the wall. They must measure the gap where that stone came from’ – he pointed to the evidence bag Viv was clutching – ‘and do it for height, width and depth at both sides of the wall.’

He thought a little longer before adding, ‘I think it would be a good idea to have the stones in the wall for a yard either side of the gap numbered, before the photos are taken. Tell them I want the numbers indelible, and on the side facing the field, away from prying eyes. That way nobody tampers with the evidence, and we’ve done all we can to avoid being accused of tampering with it ourselves. Oh, and, Viv, get onto Jack Binns, tell him I want a guard at the hospital. If word gets out, we don’t want someone finishing the job.’

‘Is that everything?’

‘Not quite.’ He gestured to the evidence bag again. ‘Get them to call and collect that. We need to confirm that the blood on it belongs to the victim, and that we’re not jumping to conclusions because of the blood left by some luckless pheasant that was dragged over the wall by a fox.’

Nash and Mironova were waiting for Pearce, who had called at Netherdale General for an update on the hit-and-run victim; Clara’s phone rang. She listened for a minute before saying, ‘OK, one of us will pop down.’

She looked across at Nash. ‘There’s a woman in reception called in to report something suspicious. She hasn’t seen her neighbour for a few days and she went to knock on his door to ask if he was all right because she’d noticed a very unpleasant smell. She couldn’t get any reply, but she’s worried something might have happened to him.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘Warwick Lane, in one of those houses that’s been converted into flats.’

Nash tilted his chair back. ‘Off you go, then.’

Mironova stared at him. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I see. No change there, then.’

The older woman waiting in reception looked nervous. Not unusual, Clara thought; even upright citizens were apprehensive in the austere surroundings of a police station. Clara introduced herself, shook hands and sat down alongside the visitor. The hard, plastic-covered bench was not designed for comfort. Clara wondered if the manufacturer had been given instructions to construct something that would deter visitors from lingering. ‘Care to tell me what this is all about?’

The woman repeated what she’d told the receptionist, before adding, ‘I haven’t seen him since Thursday.’ She paused, before
correcting herself. ‘Well, in actual fact I didn’t see him then. But he was there, inside his flat. I know that because I heard him. He was having a party, because the music was very loud.’

‘Did he often have parties?’

‘No, this was the first one he’s had since he moved in. Usually he’s very quiet. But there was this hideous pop music blaring out, all screaming and carrying on, and the dancing…. It was more like somebody throwing furniture about.’ She frowned. ‘And that isn’t like him; as a rule, he’s very considerate. My flat’s directly below his, so I’d know better than anyone.’

‘Very well, accepting that you haven’t seen him for a few days, could it be that he’s gone away?’

‘I don’t think so. His car’s been parked outside all weekend. In fact he mustn’t have gone to work on Friday – sleeping it off, probably. It was still there this morning, which was why I got worried. He rarely goes anywhere without it. He’s ever so proud of it. That’s another odd thing: he washes his car every Sunday morning, whatever the weather. I’ve seen him out there in a howling gale, with rain lashing down. If he was at home and wasn’t ill, there’s no way he’d have missed out on a lovely morning such as Sunday. He thinks too much of the car for that.’

‘What sort of car is it?’

‘One of those little German ones, a low-slung sports car. The one with the initials.’

‘A BMW?’

‘That’s it. Anyway, if he’d gone away I’m sure he’d have used the car. And going away wouldn’t have accounted for the horrid smell. It really is dreadful, sort of sickly and cloying. And it’s getting stronger, which doesn’t surprise me in this weather.’

It had certainly been hot enough over the weekend. ‘It may be he’s gone away and forgotten something; left some meat out, perhaps. Either that or maybe his fridge has broken down.’

The attempt at reassurance was a miserable failure. ‘It’s much worse than that. The smell’s overpowering.’

‘OK, I’ll have a word with my boss; tell him how concerned you are. Then we’ll get somebody to come round and check the place over. Do you know if anyone has a spare key?’

She shook her head. ‘The flats are all owned by a property company. The local agents may have duplicate keys, but I doubt it. As long as the rent’s forthcoming every month they never bother us. They do an annual inspection, of course; at least that’s what they call it. They tie it in with the fire brigade inspection so they can get the fire certificate renewed at the same time. Apart from that, we never see or hear from them.’

‘I understand, but they’re hardly unique in that. Let me get some details from you.’

Mironova reached the CID suite seconds ahead of DC Pearce. Nash listened to her account of her conversation. ‘Contact the agents; find out if there’s a key we can get hold of. There ought to be, to comply with fire regulations.’ Nash sighed. ‘But that would be in a perfect world, so I’m not holding my breath. If the agents can’t help, get hold of the name of the key-holder from Doug Curran.’ Nash pointed to the other wing of the building, which housed the fire and ambulance services. ‘Failing that, give Jimmy Johnson at Helm Safe a call. Tell him we need his burglary skills again. Whilst you’re on with that, I’ll find out what Viv’s got to tell me about Raymond Perry’s condition. We could do with the file I asked for. I wonder where that’s got to. Viv, can you chase it up whilst Clara and I go see what’s happened to this party animal?’

‘What do we know about the occupant of this flat?’ Nash asked as they drove across town.

‘Not very much, only what the woman told us. His name’s Nattrass, Graham Nattrass. I checked him out. He’s not known to us; hasn’t even got a speeding ticket, which is slightly surprising given the sort of car he drives. According to her, Nattrass is in his mid-twenties, quiet and considerate. She thinks he works in the motor trade, but doesn’t know where. He owns a flash car, a BMW sports, but she’s sure he’s a mechanic because he goes out every morning wearing overalls, and the car’s got one of those plastic seat protectors permanently over the driver’s seat. She told me she was worried when he moved in, which was about six years ago. She thought he might go in for girls, noisy parties, all that sort of thing, but there’s been nothing at all like that, until last Thursday night.
Most of the time, as she put it, you wouldn’t know he was there.’

‘What did the agents say, anything useful?’

Mironova snorted. ‘Nothing whatsoever, although to be fair I don’t think that’s entirely their fault. They only took on the account a couple of years ago, along with four other properties owned by the same company. They tend to concentrate on finding tenants and chasing those who are behind with their rent. Nattrass doesn’t fit into either category. The rent is paid by direct debit and he’s never missed a payment. They’ve no keys for the flats, so I checked with Curran at the fire service. The registered key-holder for all the
properties
is the company secretary in London, which is a fat lot of good to us. Curran wasn’t impressed. I think he was going to write to the company, as well as having a word with the fire officer who signed the fire certificate. Anyway, I phoned the company, just on the
off-chance
they’d know of someone nearer. They do, but he’s away on holiday. By that time I was getting a headache from banging my head against a brick wall, so I rang Jimmy and arranged to meet him there.’

The building was like many others on the outskirts of Helmsdale, which is to say, it was typical of many in market towns throughout the county. Originally, the terrace would have been built to house some of the town’s more prosperous tradesmen, their families and one or two servants. Within the newly built Victorian dwellings you would find the local butcher, baker, draper, ironmonger and many similar residents.

Nowadays, most of the houses had been converted into flats for a far more diverse set of occupants. It was obvious the neighbour had been on the lookout, for as soon as Mironova pulled up, the woman opened the outer door of the property. At the same time a small van bearing the logo and name of Helm Safe pulled into the kerb behind them.

Nash greeted the reformed burglar as he jumped out of the van. ‘Morning, Jimmy, thanks for coming to the rescue.’

‘No problem, Mr Nash. I’ll not have to be long, though. I’ve a couple of installations booked for today. Good morning, Miss,’ he greeted Mironova respectfully.

Clara smiled. ‘Good morning, Jimmy.’ Johnson had been
instrumental in helping save her life on one occasion. Apart from the debt of gratitude, it was hard to dislike the cheerful Scotsman.

‘Which is Nattrass’s flat?’ Nash asked the woman on the doorstep.

‘First floor front, directly above mine.’

Nash shielded his eyes with his hand as he squinted at the building. The morning sun was strong, promising another hot day. It was shining directly in his face so it took a minute for his vision to adjust. When he was able to get a good view of the upper window his lips tightened and he glanced across at Mironova. As soon as he caught his sergeant’s attention Nash glanced back towards the window of the flat. She noticed his expression as she followed his gaze. She saw the reflection of a light in the corner of the room nearest them, a light that had nothing to do with the sun, illuminating bluebottles against the glass. The conclusion he had drawn was obvious from his face and he was preparing her for what they might find inside. She nodded slightly to show she’d got the unspoken message.

‘I think it would be best for you to leave it to us now.’ Nash smiled at the woman. ‘Either Sergeant Mironova or I will let you know if we find anything.’

Clara took the older woman’s arm, guiding her towards the door of her own flat, shepherding her away from Nash and Johnson before she could object. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll deal with it.’

The first thing Nash noticed on entering the hall was the smell. Was that because it was bad, or because he was expecting it? He was still pondering this as he glanced across at Johnson. He saw Jimmy’s face wrinkle in distaste. Not just me then, Nash thought. The smell was exactly as their informant had described it to Mironova: cloying, sickly and, to anyone with experience in such matters, unmistakeable. It was the smell of a body in the early stages of decomposition. Better not to pre-judge the issue, though, Nash thought. Some animal, a stray dog or cat, could have found its way into the building, got into a dark corner and simply expired. Then Nash remembered the other circumstances and dismissed the thought. Mironova caught the nauseous aroma, saw Nash’s
expression
and prepared herself for the worst.

When they reached the first floor, the smell was much stronger. Stomach-wrenching in its foulness. ‘Just do the door, Jimmy, then get on your way,’ Nash told him.

‘It’ll not take long, Mr Nash,’ Johnson assured him. He was anxious to get out of this building, to get away from the stench. He too had guessed what lay beyond the door. Guessing was as close as he wanted to get. It was the work of a minute to deal with the mortise lock, then the Yale. As soon as he opened the door, Johnson backed away, a reflex reaction to the wave of fetid air that rushed to meet them. He stuffed a handkerchief over his nostrils, waved a sketchy farewell and dashed for the stairs. As he took them, two at a time, Johnson thought, a bobby’s job? I wouldn’t have it at any price.

‘Are you ready for this?’ Nash asked as they each donned latex gloves.

‘No,’ Clara replied. ‘I’m not sure I’d ever be ready for it.’ She braced herself mentally. ‘But I’ll manage.’

Nash nodded acceptance and encouragement. He pushed the door wide. There was no corridor, the door opened directly onto the flat’s large lounge with a bay window overlooking the street. The room was a mess. Papers and photographs, ornaments and cushions, all manner of bric-a-brac were scattered across the carpeted floor. The filling from the cushions, as well as those from the settee and easy chair had been pulled out, the covers having first been slashed open. ‘Jimmy’s not the first burglar to have opened that door,’ Nash muttered. ‘Be careful where you walk.’ He looked around. In the corner next to the bay window, behind the large plasma-screen TV, a standard lamp was burning. This, then, was the source of the light they’d seen from the street.

He gestured towards the first of four doors that led from the sitting room. It opened onto the kitchen. In there the atmosphere was marginally less nauseous. The mess, however, was just as bad. The tiled surface of the floor and the marble-effect work surfaces were covered with a mixture of substances the detectives could only guess at by the empty containers that had been strewn about in haphazard confusion. The pattern on the floor was barely visible through the profusion of tea leaves, coffee, sugar, flour, breakfast cereals, herbs, spices and other dry goods. Elsewhere, the kitchen
sink and the drainer alongside it contained an array of bottles and jars, all empty. From vinegar to beetroot, sauces, milk, lemonade and a considerable collection of pickles, all had been tipped into the bowl, judging by the mound of solids still remaining there, unable to bypass the drain. Across the room, the fridge-freezer had been emptied, the contents lying on the adjacent table in a puddle of mildly offensive-smelling liquid. This was nowhere near bad enough to have attracted anyone’s attention, though. Nash pointed to the floor, near to the lounge door. Clara could see several
multi-coloured
smudges, blurred footprints by the look of them, leading out of the kitchen. She nodded as they turned and headed for the next room.

This proved to be the bathroom, which had received similar, though less damaging treatment, probably because there was little in there to create such a mess. They retreated, and as they crossed the lounge, Nash pointed to the oatmeal twist carpet. There were several small stains, dark brown in colour, close to the next door they were about to open. As they paused outside, their nostrils told them this was likely to be where they would find a body. Mironova saw her boss take a deep breath before he opened the door.

They both recoiled from the stench released by the slight draught of air, and by the sudden movement of what seemed like hundreds of flies. Big, fat, obscene bluebottles.

There was more movement across on the bed, and as she looked, Clara felt her stomach heave. Maggots. Nash looked inside the room, wished he hadn’t, then looked away hurriedly before bracing himself to look again. Alongside him, Mironova was fighting to keep from being sick. ‘Oh, God!’ she muttered. ‘What is this?’

‘Charnel house, or a scene from hell; take your pick,’ Nash’s reply came from between clenched teeth. ‘Let’s go get some protective clothing from the car.’