The Death Collector Read online

  ‘Not now,’ he said. ‘Things are getting a bit crazy.’

  ‘But this might be important.’

  ‘No, Joe, not now,’ Sam snapped, and clicked off his phone. Irritation swept through him, fuelled by tiredness. He wasn’t going to let Joe use him as a shortcut. Sam hadn’t joined the force to be a defence lawyer’s man on the inside.

  DI Evans arrived on the scene. She’d parked much further down the hill, the verges already clogged with forensic vehicles and squad cars. Sam noticed more press interest too, with a helicopter in the air and television vans parked in the distance. Evans looked tired as she walked towards him, her short hair bedraggled, as if she’d foregone a shower to get to the scene quickly.

  He raised his cup to her but didn’t smile.

  ‘So you were proved right,’ she said, as she got closer.

  ‘I don’t feel much pride in it,’ he said. ‘I’ve had no sleep and when everyone else was eating their breakfast, I was running my hands over a buried corpse.’

  ‘Well, put that way, I can see why you’re not celebrating.’ She looked over to the forensic tent in the distance, pitched in the same place as the day before, a white block surrounded by small white figures. ‘So what did you see?’

  ‘Not much,’ he said. ‘I saw the shirt and felt the ribcage, and I knew I shouldn’t dig any further. I called it in.’

  ‘So if you could feel the ribs, it had been there for some time.’

  ‘It certainly didn’t feel fleshy, thank goodness.’

  ‘Could you tell anything about the body? Was it male or female, adult or child?’

  Sam thought back to his sight of the body, the feel of it under his hand, and said, ‘I’m guessing a man, from the style of the shirt and the size. It certainly wasn’t a child, which is perhaps the thought that is interesting them so much.’ And he pointed down the road, to the press cameras.

  Evans followed his gesture. The evil deeds of Ian Brady and Myra Hindley still haunted the moors and it only took a police forensic tent on the barren slopes to get the media twitching. ‘Yeah, I see what you mean,’ she said, and reached down to the box of paper suits wrapped in cellophane. ‘Come on, get suited up. Let’s take a look.’

  Sam groaned as he eased himself out of his car, his knees cracking as he straightened. As he ripped open the plastic to unwrap the plain white coveralls, he said, ‘Have you heard from Hunter?’

  ‘He’s with the superintendent now. You got lucky. Hunter is angry about your insubordination, but the discovery of a body should save you.’

  Sam smiled at that, before putting the paper mask over his nose and mouth. ‘You’ll take some of the credit, I suppose,’ he said, his voice muffled.

  ‘The joys of command,’ she said, and Sam saw the twinkle of her eyes above her own mask. ‘Come on, let’s walk. You’re the hero of the hour.’

  Sam followed her along the same track he had taken before, past where he had stopped with the sack of logs. ‘He could have stopped here,’ he said, making Evans turn round. ‘The headlights missed me when a car went past and it’s still a long way to go before you get to the body. That’s what made me dig. It just didn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Logic always works best,’ Evans said. ‘People like Hunter think it’s all about instinct and hunches, but instinct is just ego. A proper case theory is about logic.’

  Their suits rustled as they walked, the heather scraping against their legs. They stepped to one side to let two crime scene investigators walk past carrying plastic crates filled with soil. From the redness of exertion showing above the masks, Sam guessed that they were feeling heavier with every step. Someone would have the job of going through that later, just to see whether anything had been dropped into the hole as the body was buried.

  When they got to the forensic tent Evans held the flap open for him. It was warm inside, even though it was still early and the day hadn’t acquired any heat on the outside. There were four people squashed in there. A forensic scientist he recognised from the bushiness of his grey eyebrows and the way his stomach pushed out at the paper suit, and three crime scene investigators, one with a camera and two more with small brushes, treating the body like an archaeological dig.

  The hole Sam had dug earlier was still there, but it was deeper, the soil being removed from around the body. There seemed less doubt now about gender. The face looked well-preserved, although the features had grown tight to the skull and looked leathery, as if the dead person was very old and had spent too long in the sun. It was undoubtedly a man’s face. The clothes were dirty, with empty-looking jeans and a hollow blue checked shirt, except for where the ribcage stuck up.

  ‘How long do you think it’s been there?’ Evans said.

  The forensic scientist looked up and tilted his head as if he was thinking about it, although Sam guessed that he had been trying to work it out ever since he arrived.

  ‘Hard to say,’ he said. ‘In peat soil like this, the bodies can stay preserved for years. What rots a body is oxygen and it lets the insect world in to munch away at it. Peat soil doesn’t let in much oxygen and it’s very acidic, so it makes the body go waxy like this. It’s more than a couple of months though, because there has been some decomposition. The coldness in winter will have slowed it down, but I reckon it’s months rather than years.’

  ‘It gives us some kind of starting point,’ Evans said, looking back into the hole, her forehead creased.

  One of the crime scene investigators was brushing away the soil behind the body’s neck when she knelt up. ‘We’ve got something here,’ she said.

  That made everyone pay attention. Sam moved closer, Evans with him.

  The investigator brushed at some more soil before she reached in with her gloved hand and pulled at something. It was a blue ribbon, wet and soiled, but still bright enough to see. As she pulled, there was something white and plastic attached to it. Once it came free, the crime scene investigator looked at it and drew a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘What is it?’ Evans said, and reached out for it.

  Sam looked over her shoulder as she took hold of it. ‘Shit,’ he muttered.

  It was an identification badge, the logo on the front familiar to everyone in the tent. Greater Manchester Police. Evans wiped away the dirt, and Sam swore again as the photograph and a name were unveiled.

  David Jex.

  Thirty-five

  Joe paused in front of the Magistrates’ Court.

  It rose high in front of him, red sandstone and dark glass, but for all of its modern glamour Joe knew what was waiting for him. The excuses of defendants, handed over to him so that he could repackage them as something heartfelt and earnest.

  Joe was carrying two files. Neither were guilty pleas, so he knew he wouldn’t see out either. Honeywells would close the department and his clients would be left to find alternative representation. One of the young lawyers from Mahones, Damien, approached the court entrance, all ill-fitting cheap suit and nerves. Joe stuck out his arm.

  ‘Damien, can you look after these for me?’

  Damien looked down at the files and then at Joe. It was common for lawyers to ask others to mind a client, a quid pro quo in exchange for a small agency fee, so it was something else that made Damien frown. ‘Are you all right, Joe?’

  Joe closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the fast beat of his heart as the thought of going into court overwhelmed him. ‘I’m just fine,’ he said, and started to walk away, sweat prickling his forehead.

  ‘Joe, what am I doing with them?’

  ‘Keeping them, if you want,’ Joe said, and he kept on walking. He knew where he was going, but he had to go into the office first.

  Gina was walking along the first-floor corridor when Joe walked to his room. He didn’t say anything to her as he passed her. Instead, he closed his door firmly, giving out the message that he wasn’t to be interrupted. Gina ignored that, she had known him too long, and barged straight in.

  ‘What’s goin
g on?’ she said, her brow furrowed by concern.

  Joe was in his chair, looking at his computer screen. He logged straight onto the prison website, to get the phone number. Emergency legal visits were unusual, but Joe was relieved to see that Honeywells was still the firm on the prison’s records. He explained that something had come up unexpectedly, and was told that if he could get there in a couple of hours, they could accommodate a visit.

  ‘Joe?’ Gina said, her hands on her hips now.

  He fished around for some notes Carl had made, given to him by Lorna the day before, and headed for the door. He paused to kiss Gina on the cheek. ‘We’re done here, with this firm. I’m going to do this before I go.’

  ‘Joe, you can’t do this,’ she shouted after him, but he wasn’t listening. He had a prison slot and he had the address of the young couple who had found Rebecca Scarfield, Aidan’s supposed victim, the details jotted across the top of their witness statements.

  They lived in a town in Yorkshire, on the other side of the Pennines but only a few miles from where the body was found. It was a different county, a whole different place, but it was on the way to where Aidan was imprisoned at the high security prison in Wakefield.

  Carl gritted his teeth as the pain in his legs grew. He fought the urge to sit down, the back of his legs cramping, his calves tight and desperate for rest. He was thirsty and his stomach groaned. He felt light-headed and it was hard to keep his mouth hydrated; the gag soaked up any saliva he could muster.

  Fatigue scared him the most. One quick drift into sleep, even standing, would make that slip-knot tighten and he would die, the last view of his world being the starkness of the cellar and the dead woman on the floor in front of him. He tried to concentrate on something else instead, just to keep his mind alert. He needed some anger or adrenalin, so he thought about how he had ended up here.

  The man’s house had been just one more on a list of addresses he’d found at the back of one of his father’s files. Carl had been working his way through the list, trying to work out what his father might have seen. Night after night of hanging around houses, looking for something about the occupant that struck him as off-key, to notice the thing his father had noticed. Then there had been this house, the next on the list.

  Something about the man had struck him as being unusual. He had seemed secretive, looking around whenever he got into his car. He was friendly with his neighbours, but it seemed too much, as if he was more interested in getting them to like him than in becoming friends. He was the man who rushed from his car to help the elderly lady with her shopping bags, or laughed overly loudly as he exchanged banter with the postman. A good neighbour, everyone loved him, but Carl had seen him change whenever he thought he was alone. His smile slipped as soon as the postman moved on, and he checked around him whenever he went into the house, as if he didn’t want anyone to see inside.

  So Carl had gone back for another look and he had been arrested. That had made him want to go back again, certain that there was something else to see, and he had ended up in the cellar instead, clammy, cold and hungry. It was dark, the light off, and even though his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, it was still impossible to make much out. There were the lines of shelving and, ahead in the darkness, the grey outline of the woman’s body.

  He thought he could hear her, like soft breaths, but he knew it was his mind playing tricks. What would happen to her now? How had he disposed of the others? How many were there? Would he have to witness it, some carve-up with a saw or perhaps wrapped in plastic and taken away?

  Carl looked down and blinked away some tears. He readjusted his feet, just to keep the circulation going in his legs. A sob choked up his throat. As much as he resolved to be strong, misery crept up on him and assaulted him in waves. Helplessness, anger, despair, confusion and disbelief swirled around him. What must his mother be thinking? Another one of the men in her life leaving the house and failing to return. She would spend the rest of her life wondering where they had gone and whether they were ever going to come back.

  The sob escaped this time. It came out as a pitiful low moan, muffled through the gag, and then short bursts as he broke, tears running down his cheeks, his body quivering in the dark, making the rope scrape against his neck. He closed his eyes, seeking sanctuary in the darkness, for a moment taken away from the gloom of the cellar.

  He stopped.

  There had been a noise. Just soft but it had seemed loud in the dark. He opened his eyes and looked around. He was no longer alone.

  It was there again. Something moving against the floor – a soft shuffle, barely audible but still there. Goosebumps broke out on his skin as fear rippled through him, making him cold.

  There was a groan, low and steady. Carl jumped and yelped. It was coming from the floor, from the woman. He stared hard at her grey outline. Then he saw it: her leg moved.

  His chest pumped hard as he took in fast breaths through his nostrils. He’d heard about this, bodies moving as they contract, rigor mortis setting in, expelling air that comes out as moans. He couldn’t bear the thought of that in the dark. He closed his eyes again. The hours ahead were filled with added dread now, wondering what changes she would go through as her body began its long transition to dust.

  The noise changed and he yelped again. It was louder this time, the groan more audible. He opened his eyes, needing to see, and then he sobbed as she raised herself on one elbow and said in a muffled voice, ‘Where the fuck am I?’

  Thirty-six

  Sam rubbed his face with his hands when he walked along the corridor. It was quiet, with many people still up at the scene, but there was still the chatter of the Incident Room ahead. He wasn’t ready for that yet. He was tired, having had virtually no sleep.

  As he got closer, Evans was in the doorway of her room, talking to someone inside. She turned to him and gestured with a tilt of her head that he should go in. She was unsmiling. Sam did as he was told, and then paused when he got in there.

  There was a superintendent sitting behind her desk. He was in uniform, with a silver crown on his epaulettes and his hair full and grey. He bore that relaxed air of a man who has done well in his career, but his eyes were cold. He wasn’t there to congratulate anyone.

  ‘DC Parker,’ he said, the tone of his voice rich and deep. ‘Sit down,’ and he gestured to the chair in front of the desk. ‘I’m Superintendent Metcalfe.’

  Evans leaned against her door as Sam took his seat. He crossed his legs nervously. He brushed non-existent lint from his trousers.

  ‘Sir?’

  Metcalfe smiled, but it was quick. ‘You’ve caused us a problem, Sam. Can I call you Sam?’

  Sam nodded. ‘A problem? Why?’

  ‘Because we had that scene finished off yesterday, but it turns out that one of our officers was buried on the same spot, uncovered only when an off-duty detective went for a midnight dig. It makes us like look amateurs, saved by some maverick.’

  Sam uncrossed his leg and then back again. ‘That wasn’t my intention, sir.’

  ‘So why the hell did you do it?’

  Sam turned to look back at Evans. She was staying quiet, her arms folded. Seeing where the blame was going to rest, he reckoned.

  ‘I raised it yesterday, in the squad meeting,’ Sam said. ‘It just seemed that the location of the dead woman was significant.’

  ‘And what was said when you raised it?’

  ‘DCI Hunter dismissed it.’

  ‘So you went against a direct order?’

  ‘I got it right, sir. That’s why I did it. I knew I was right.’

  The superintendent looked up at Evans before he sighed. ‘Between us three, Hunter is a dinosaur, but a damn good copper. However,’ and he frowned, ‘his ego gets in the way sometimes. That didn’t mean you had to go on a frolic of your own.’

  Sam coughed nervously. ‘Isn’t it more important that we found the body, not how we found it?’

  ‘It isn’t just about one case,’ th
e superintendent said, his tone acquiring an edge. ‘We have to think of how the Force will look. We can’t be seen as some kind of Keystone Kops outfit.’

  Evans stepped away from the door. ‘I told Sam he could follow that angle,’ she said.

  The superintendent looked up, surprised.

  ‘He came to me yesterday and said he thought the investigation was too narrow, focusing too much on the husband and not on other possibilities.’

  ‘So you told him to go get a spade and dig up the moors at sunrise?’ Metcalfe said, leaning back, his eyes wide.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ she said. ‘But I did say that I would back him up provided he did everything Hunter asked him as well. I thought that if it came to nothing, then nothing was lost.’