A Limited Justice (#1 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (2 page)

“He did a side-line in used cars then? How many are there?”

“About five. We’d better impound them or they won’t have wheels tomorrow. I’ll check her out, but she just sounded the usual nice Northern Ireland lady. Probably thought she’d slum it and get a bargain. McCandless would have seen her coming a mile off. She didn’t sound too healthy either. I felt quite sorry for her.”

Annette snorted and Liam feigned hurt, but he wasn’t usually known for his sympathy. Just then, a shiny blue Chrysler Crossfire pulled up and Liam whistled loudly.

“Now
there’s
a lovely motor. I wouldn’t mind that for 4 K.”

Craig recognised the number plate and smiled. The familiar lanky frame of John Winter unfolded itself from the interior and he beckoned him over to join them.

“Are those the Doc’s new wheels? Bit of an improvement on that crappy old Beamer he used to drive.”

“I heard that, Liam! Show some respect for the dead. I had that car for ten years.”

“And now you’ve chucked her out for scrap... just like a man.”

Winter turned to Annette in mock dismay, charm in every gesture.

“Now Annette...you know I wouldn’t. In fact, she’s parked in my garage right now, awaiting tender loving restoration. I always respect a lady.” Then he winked at her so obviously that she blushed and turned away, flustered.

“OK Marc, what’ve you got for me?”

“Nice car, John.”

Winter nodded regally, and was just about to launch into the details of its AMG engine, when Craig headed him off at the pass.

“Right, our victim was a Mr Ian McCandless. We think he’s the garage owner. It’s pretty run down but he was still selling used cars. We’ve just had a call from a woman trying to buy one. He was found at about 2.30 by a passer-by and she gave her statement to uniform. She didn’t see anything useful, just walking her dog when it ran over to a pile of smouldering rags, that wasn’t.

There’s a lot of loose petrol out there, John but I didn’t want to sand it and ruin your scene. But quick as you can please. Don’t light any matches and switch off your mobile. There’s a fire engine waiting at Sydenham when you’re done. ”

Liam suddenly remembered the Nokia, turning it off quickly. Craig caught the move and smiled.

“Just your quick first impression, please.”

John nodded and grabbed a white jump suit from the pile by the door, joining the C.S.I.s outside. They would get his first thoughts. He wasn’t like a lot of pathologists, refusing to comment until the post-mortem.

Craig still had the envelope in his hand and he turned it over, studying the frank. It had been sent from the High Court the day before, so their victim had probably been in trouble for something. He struggled with the temptation to rip it open, but knew that Des Marsham, the Head of Forensic Science, would roast him if he did. He suddenly realised what he’d thought, substituted ‘beat’ for ‘roast’ and felt instantly better. Strange the niceties people cared about at crime scenes.

Liam was wandering noisily through the aisles in the cold shop. It had darkened fridges and half-empty shelves but he’d managed to find a packet of Kit-Kats. He distributed them with largess, until Annette’s disapproving voice cut through his ‘feel-good’ factor.

“I really hope you’re paying for those.”

She was the office conscience and occasional pain in the ass, but Craig took the hint. Looking pointedly at the Kit-Kat hanging from Liam’s mouth, he reached into his pocket for some coins. He was just checking what he’d found when something else caught his eye. He bent down urgently, staring at one side of the doorjamb, about twelve inches from the ground.

A bright new nail was protruding from the weathered wood, as if it had only been hammered half-in. Either a botch job or a hurried one. A length of needle-sharp wire had been wound several times around its head, the cut edge protruding vertically. Its sheen hinted at a recent cut, about as old as the nail.

He looked instinctively at the opposite side, no nail. Damn. He leaned in, peering more closely, while the others watched, well used to his hawk-eye. After a few seconds, he sat back with a triumphant look, pointing at the jamb. Liam hunkered down to have a look at the invisible clue.

Craig was right. There was a small, fresh hole in the wood, exactly opposite the nail. “You must be a Detective, boss.”

“Very witty. Right, Annette, get a C.S.I. in here please. There’s a nail with wire on it and a hole on the other side matching it exactly. Someone had a wire across this doorway, and not that long ago. That edge is too bright to be old.”

“What are you thinking, sir?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute. I just need to check something.”

He crossed the forecourt quickly to a kneeling John Winter, who was peering through his black-wire glasses at Ian McCandless’ dead body. To anyone else it would have looked like a pile of burnt clothes, but the body would tell him more than any textbook.

“Can you check something for me, John?”

“Sure. What is it? I’m nearly finished.”

“Is there any impression on his shins, say from something sharp?”

Craig held his breath as Winter stared hard at the man’s shins. There should have been two, but the heat had melted his lower extremities so badly that they formed one broad, flexed shank now. With nothing to say where one leg ended and the other began.

John took a bright, needle-sharp probe from his instrument pouch. He touched the area so lightly that only the thinnest crust flaked off, revealing a livid horizontal cut beneath. It was narrow, red and deep, and ran the full breadth of the single limb. He stared slowly at the area from every angle, until finally, he nodded and Craig breathed out.

“It looks like he’s been cut with a cheese wire. How did you know?”

“Measure its position, then come into the shop and I’ll show you. Liam found some Kit-Kats and the coffee’s on.”

Ten minutes later, they were fed and coffee-ed and John started his short summary. “Right, looking at what Marc saw first-. There’s a sharp cut across both shins approximately eleven to thirteen inches from the deceased’s feet. I can’t be accurate until the post-mortem because of skin contraction, but that’s my best estimate.

The cut’s new, quite deep and it definitely happened before he died. The instrument must have been razor-sharp and the pain would have been excruciating, so he probably had only brief contact with it. That’s consistent with the limited depth of the wound. Des can get us more details on the type of instrument, but I know you already have a view on that.”

Craig nodded quickly. “Trip-wire. I think it was razor-wire, tied at shin height across the doorway. The likeliest scenario is that McCandless walked into it as he was leaving the shop. Then tripped and fell forward onto the forecourt outside the door.”

John nodded slowly. “That could fit with the abrasions on both palms. There’s gravel embedded in them, and it looks the same as the type outside the door. But I can’t be sure until...”

“Until you do the post-mortem...We know.”

Craig moved quickly to the door, and hunkered down, pointing out the nail. The C.S.I.’s dust had dulled the wire’s sheen slightly, but its sharp edge was still clearly visible.

“This was definitely a trip-wire. The nail and some wire have been left here. They probably didn’t have time to get rid of it, and there’s a matching hole on the other side. The cuts on his shins fit with the height of the nail.”

John nodded. “In addition to the abrasions on his hands, I’m sure we’ll find cuts on his knees.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then continued. “Unfortunately there were more than just those injuries. He also received a blow to the back of his head.”

They looked shocked as he went on. “It depressed the skull completely. Beside the Foramen Magnum, where the bone’s thin.”

Craig nodded, understanding.

“The what, Doctor Winter?”

“It’s a big hole at the base of the skull, Annette. Where the spinal cord runs through. The point is, it’s nearly impossible to hit by accident.”

He raised a hand to stop Liam’s looming question, knowing that his next words would complicate things even further.

“They fractured the skull and went right through to the brain. The blow’s diameter would fit with some sort of narrow implement, maybe a hammer. And I’d say they knew exactly what they were aiming for, there are no hesitation marks.”

Craig interrupted. “Would one blow have killed him?”

“Probably, although not definitely. But it would have knocked him out immediately.”

Craig sat down and poured another coffee, looking satisfied with himself. Annette knew that he’d already worked out the scene.

“OK, we know McCandless was tripped, and then fell forward, onto his hands and probably knees. He was hit on the back of the head when he was down, in an area of the skull that would either concuss him or kill him immediately. Then he was dragged over to the petrol pump. I’m sure you’ll find abrasions on his thighs and shins to back that up, John.”

“If I can remove the burnt material without destroying what’s behind it.”

“Then he was turned onto his back, either already dead or unconscious, and probably drowned in petrol. But...” He gave John a wry nod. “We’ll know more about that after the post-mortem.

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, they set fire to him. Probably trying to hide any clues, or perhaps even erase his identity completely. But we were lucky, the fire burnt out before it could destroy everything.”

“Unleaded wasn’t very healthy for him, was it boss?”

Annette whacked Liam hard on the arm and he jumped. “God, Liam, that’s a terrible thing to say. That’s a human being out there.”

For a moment, they all looked shame-faced. Their logic and dark humour coped with the things they saw, but Annette knew to call time when they’d gone far enough.

“Quite right Annette. That’s us told off.”

She blushed, not knowing if Craig was being sarcastic, until his softly delivered next sentence.

“We need you to remind us sometimes, when we really need civilising.” He smiled kindly at her, and then turned immediately back to the case, all sentiment forgotten.

“OK, thanks John. That tells me one thing loud and clear.”

They looked at him, puzzled.

“What?”

“His attacker was a small man. Or maybe even a woman.”

“What? Where’d you get that one from?”

Liam’s face screwed up in doubt and Annette stared blankly at him. Even John looked uncomprehending.

“I don’t mean to be rude, sir. But where
did
you get that from?”

Craig laughed. “Now I know how Sherlock felt. OK, I think McCandless came in here about 2pm, lifted the mail and made himself a coffee. The kettle was still slightly warm when uniform arrived at 2.45, and there’s an open carton of new-dated milk on the counter. The fridge is off in here so he brought it with him. Maybe he made a few phone calls or did a few things in here as well.”

Liam flicked on the Nokia and checked the calls. There’d been three that day. “You’re right; his last call was made at 2.15pm. That times death between 2.15 and 2.30, when he was found.”

Craig nodded, continuing.

“The wire wasn’t in place when he entered or he’d have tripped on the way in. So it must’ve been set quickly, while he was in here making his calls. That’s why the nail was only hammered half-in; it was done while he was here. So, either the attacker hid themself very well, or they were small and less visible.”

Liam leaned forward urgently. “And they must have muffled the hammer or he’d have heard the noise, another reason the nail was only half-in. Loud blows would’ve attracted his attention.”

“Correct. Plus ...” Craig pointed to a small portable radio sitting beside the milk.

“My money’s on the radio being on, masking any noise even further. Liam, check if the lads turned it off when they arrived.”

Liam nipped outside and came back a few seconds later, nodding. Luck had been on the killer’s side, or they’d known Ian McCandless’ routine very well. Annette was about to ask something but Craig continued.

“I’ll come to your question in a second, Annette; just let me explain a bit further. This shop is so small that McCandless would have had clear sight of the entrance at all times, unless his back was turned to the door. Which it might have been when he was making the coffee or phone calls. Agreed?”

They nodded, seeing where he was going. The killer had needed to be virtually invisible, much easier if they were small.

“By the time he went outside, maybe to check on the cars, the trip-wire was in place and the killer was ready. McCandless tripped and fell. The wire cut his shins and he put his hands out to stop himself falling, hence the shin cuts and palm abrasions. He was still conscious then.

I think he pulled the bin down as he fell, and dropped the envelope he was opening onto the ground. That’s why the paper was half-out of the envelope and only some of the bin’s contents were on the ground. Then he was hit on the head, dragged across to the pumps, drowned in petrol and set alight.”