Bedlam (2 page)

Chapter Three
 

McNeil was used to messy crime scenes, but today he felt the need to stand back and survey from a respectable, post-hangover distance. The space beneath the viaduct, a no man’s land of decay, was a notorious spot for jumpers, flyers and druggies; a haunt for the city’s weirdos and no-hopers.

Beneath his feet the ground was littered with the detritus of a drop-out subculture. Mud oozed with discarded needles, beer cans and vomit. Above his head, giant iron pillars
daubed in anarchic profanity leached rust, like an open wound. He took a shallow breath. The air was thick with the fetid stench of putrefaction. His head hurt just looking at the desolation, but he’d spent too long working amongst the dregs to be shocked. This was just another day down here in undesiraville.

What made today stand out from any other wasn’t the fact that someone had ended up dead, but the fact there were three of them, which was excessive even by McNeil’s standards. Two were suspended from the ironwork struts by their throats, not neatly with a rope around their necks, but brutally impaled on the point of a meat hook. Homeless and lifeless, they hung like abattoir carcasses, their ragged, lice-infested clothes flapping gently in the breeze. The pool of congealing blood on the ground beneath their feet, and the broad blackened splatter on the steel structure behind them, gave more than a hint as to the
cause of death. Flies gorged on the unexpected bounty and subtle movement in the murky undergrowth announced the arrival of opportunistic rats. A plastic sheet had been draped temporarily over the third victim, who lay half submerged in the stinking slurry.

The crime scene was already a hive of activity, photographs taken, areas taped and marked for evidence, the mortuary van standing ready and waiting for the
off.

McNeil nodded a stiff greeting to the other members of the team as he signed in and donned a flimsy protective suit. He ignored the questioning looks at his late arrival and concentrated on trying to don gloves with hands that shook and fingers that wouldn’t oblige. Like a child who hadn’t progressed beyond mittens, he gave a frustrated scowl, stuffed the proffered gloves up his sleeve and took a cautious step forward.

Hastily laid boards mapped out a line of access to preserve the scene. One step either side would have pitched him into the mire. McNeil glanced sceptically at his protective overshoes. He’d left his Wellingtons in the boot of the car parked beyond the outer cordon. He’d already run the press gauntlet once and wasn’t about to retrace his steps and have to go through the whole rigmarole again. He sighed and kept to the centre of the path.

“So, what do we have, Dennis?” A reluctant question, and once it was asked there was no going back. He’d be hooked,
unable to step away, even if he wanted to. There was something in his crazy, mixed-up psyche that kept drawing him in when he should have turned around and headed back the way he’d come. Death had that macabre effect on some people, but on a murder squad detective it was viewed with more than a little suspicion.

Dennis Todd shrugged noncommittally, delaying his reply as he studied the younger man through narrowed eyes. “Are you fit, Joey?”

“Fit for what?”

“Work.”

McNeil shrugged. “I’m here, aren’t I? What more do you want?”

Dennis partially unzipped his overall and fumbled in his jacket pocket. He withdrew a packet of mints and held them out. “Lord, save us from whiskey breath. Just pray no one lights a match or we’ll all be buggered.”

McNeil’s lips twitched. He wasn’t up to a full smile, that would have required a sense of humour and he’d left his at home along with the empties.

“You look like shite,” sighed Dennis.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t you own a razor?”

“Hey, people pay good money to look like this.”

“Joey, stop kidding yourself. Slow down and start looking after yourself. I’m being serious here. Take some time off if you need to, but this ...” he gestured to McNeil’s dishevelled appearance, the grey skin and bloodshot eyes. “This isn’t designer, and it isn’t right, and I’m not the only one thinking it.”

McNeil scowled back at him. “Give it a rest, Dennis. I had one too many on my night off. Big deal.”

“Is that a black eye?”

“Shit, no.” It was all coming back like a ropey Vindaloo. The tattooed man with the meaty fists and the heavy skull ring - he’d packed a punch for sure.

“No? Then your mascara has run, DS McNeil.”

“It’s nothing, a misunderstanding.”

“Please yourself. I’m concerned, that’s all.” Dennis gave an impatient shake of his head, like he was weary of playing nursemaid, but he sidled in close nevertheless and dropped his voice. “I know you’re dealing with a lot at the moment, Joey. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, nobody would, but you have to be realistic. Kit’s gone, and no amount of booze is going to bring her back.”

McNeil looked away. He didn’t want to have this conversation, not with Dennis, not with anybody, and particularly not in the middle of a stinking crime scene. He scuffed at the dirt beneath his feet and inhaled slowly.

“Do you hear what I’m saying, Joey? Look around you, life goes on, bad things happen, and it’s our job to try and put them right. If you can’t deal with it, that’s fine, I understand, but you need to make a decision. You’re either with the living or the dead. Kit wouldn’t want this. She wouldn’t like what’s happening to you.”

He felt it then, deep inside, that twist in his gut that grew tighter every time her name was mentioned. He wanted to tell Dennis to shut the fuck up, that he’d no right to speak about her as though she no longer existed, but instead he kept his cool. As well as being his senior officer, Dennis was just about the only friend he had left.

“I’m telling you, I’m fine. Just got up in a rush, that’s all. Some bloody nonce kept ringing my phone.” He tried for a smile and failed. He didn’t like what was happening to him either, but it wasn’t something he could control. He’d made a promise and would make good on it, regardless of the cost.

“You’d shout up if you needed help, if you wanted to talk, wouldn’t you?”

Dennis was the last person he’d burden with the crap currently going on in his life. He was a good guy, the rock in an otherwise stormy sea, but despite that, or perhaps because of it, he wouldn’t understand. No sane person could possibly comprehend what fuelled him night after night to keep searching when failure snapped at his heels.

“If I need a shoulder, I know where to come. Satisfied? Now, what’s the story down here?”

Dennis didn’t look convinced. He opened his mouth as if to add something, then changed his mind with a shrug and turned back to the crime scene.

“Three deceased, Joey. Two homeless white males and a twenty-something slip of a girl. That’s as much as I’m prepared to say until I’ve got the pathologist’s report, but something’s not right, I mean, apart from the fact we’ve got bodies hanging like washing on a line. How on earth did they get up there anyway?” He gestured to the crow bait dangling twenty feet from the ground. “We’ll need a cherry picker or a friendly fire crew to get them buggers down.”

McNeil shot a quick glance at the suspended corpses. His stomach heaved. He dropped his eyes and focused on Dennis instead.

“Who called it in?”

“Community Support Officers were first on the scene. Did a bit of trampling, as you might expect, but fair dos, they secured the area as best they could. It’s a bit early for sightseers, but they kept the press at bay and the dog walkers on the leash, which is just as well considering the amount of fresh meat lying about.”

“What alerted them? Who in their right mind comes down here?” McNeil shuddered. If ever there was a gateway to hell, this was the tradesman’s entrance.

“Kids, down here messing about, hoping to score a half-done hypo, no doubt. ’
Course they hightailed it without giving names. Bloody typical.”

The breeze picked up. The bodies swayed ghoulishly and McNeil hugged himself. Despite the cold, sweat coated his skin. Despite promising never to touch another drop, his body screamed for a refill. He contained the tremors and the urge to vomit with difficulty. He felt all eyes upon him, some sympathetic, some hostile, all waiting with varying degrees of anticipation for him to slip up or crack up. Expectation was a heavy burden. His shoulders sagged in response.

He drew a steadying breath and squinted back up at the first body. He recognised the oversized boots and fatigue trousers, and settled his eye on the ginger beard. “Is that Popeye?” he asked as he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the ominous glare of a sky thick with cloud. Popeye was well known amongst those who lived on the streets and slept in doorways.

“Unless he has a stunt double.”

“Reckon his line dancing partner is Jaimsey?”

Dennis nodded. “It looks like him, though until we get them both down we can’t be sure. It makes sense, though. The local boys cleared the pair of them out of here on a number of
occasions. Personally I can’t see what the attraction is.” He swung his gaze from the hanging cadavers to the piss-pot of a makeshift camp. “I mean, just look at it. What am I missing? Who wouldn’t rather be holed up in the Dog and Anchor on a Halloween night, or curled up at home in front of the fire? I just don’t get it.”

“You’ve got to be
local
to enjoy the local. Somehow I can’t see that pair of tossers propping up the bar in The Dog and supping real ale. And as for keeping the home fires burning, not everyone’s that lucky. Popeye and Jaimsey were outcasts.” McNeil tapped at his head, “Lost their wits way back in time. Popeye was thrown out of every shelter in the vicinity. Jaimsey, being his point man, just had to tag along. Looks like they stood back-to-back until the end.”

“You could be right. We’ll get some foot soldiers on door-to-door, checking out the shelters, the usual haunts, and see if anyone saw anything, knows anything.”

“You’re wasting your time. Supposing they were sober, they wouldn’t talk to the police.”

Dennis shot him a glance. “Maybe not, maybe they’d rather talk to you. The way you look today, you’d fit right in.”

McNeil ignored him. “What about the one on the ground?” He swung his gaze to the last body, inexplicably drawn to the surprisingly small mound beneath the plastic sheet.
Please God
, he murmured silently,
don’t let it be a child
.

“Nothing like the others.
In fact, we almost missed her, what with the puppet show above our heads. I don’t know what’s worse, strung up like game birds at a shoot or face down in a city’s effluent.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

Dennis scanned him with a worried glance. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

Dennis shrugged his disbelief. “Joey, let’s be honest. You’re only here because I dragged you. But while you’re here, better make it look as if you’re doing your job, otherwise Mather will call time on you. He’s been sniffing around, making noises you don’t want to hear.”

“Stop worrying, Dennis. Just tell me what you know and I’ll play the good little Sherlock for Mather and the boys.” He shot a quick glance in the direction of the DCI and felt a flicker of irritation at the falseness of the whole situation. Oh sure, they were all going through the motions, doing the job they were paid for, but despite the collective years of experience gathered together, he was the only one who knew what it was really like to be on the other side of an investigation. Every hour spent digging around in the grief of others was time he could have spent searching for Kit.

They all thought she was dead. He knew she wasn’t.

It seemed there wasn’t a minute of the day when he wasn’t thinking of her. He knew it wasn’t normal, knew the guys thought him obsessed and crazy, and they were right. He gave himself a shake. This was one place where he didn’t want to remember her.

“There’s nothing much to see, Joey. It looks like the girl’s had a bloody good hiding, but I’ve seen worse. Roger declared life extinct at 08:00 hours.”

Dennis’ voice dragged him back, and McNeil glanced up. It was two hundred feet or more to the parapet. “Could she have fallen?”

“Nah, too bloody high. If she’d dropped that height, we’d be scooping her up with a shovel.”

McNeil winced. “Nice image, Dennis. I thought I was bad cop today.” He turned and scanned the area. Ignoring the viaduct, his gaze was drawn to the water running through the site. He’d have called it a stream if it had been capable of sustaining life. As all vegetation adjacent to it had long since given up and died, he figured it was more likely a run-off from one of the industrial buildings at the top of the rise. “What about the sewer pipe? Dumped and washed down here with the rest of the crap?”

“I don’t think so. There’s a substantial metal grill over the outlet.”

“Do you reckon there’s a connection between the bodies?”

“Well, in the sense that they share a crime scene, yes, but in terms of how they met their maker, nah.  I’m betting on the bus theory.”

“Huh?”

“Wait long enough and three turn up at once.”

McNeil ignored Dennis’ gallows humour, squatted down in th
e mud and fumbled the latex gloves from his sleeve. Cursing as they landed in the quagmire, he gave a quick glance over his shoulder, checking that Dennis had stepped away before easing back the sheet between finger and thumb.