Depth of Despair (2 page)

‘What do you reckon, Professor?’

The pathologist looked up in obvious irritation. ‘I think the sooner I get them to the mortuary and can examine them without the risk of hypothermia the better,’ he snapped. ‘But I don’t suppose that’s what you’re waiting to hear. Give me ten minutes and I’ll join you inside.’ He nodded towards Pearce, ‘That’ll be long enough for you to get coffee on.’

Nash and Pearce returned to the bothy. The wind had
strengthened
, the chill factor increased. When Ramirez joined them he was almost blue with cold. He wrapped his fingers gratefully round the mug. ‘Both victims are female, no more than thirty years old.’

‘How do you know?’ Pearce was intrigued.

‘Because the flesh has been destroyed I was able to examine their spines. In neither case was there deterioration nor wear and tear in the discs as you’d find in an older person.’

‘Not mother and daughter then?’ Nash asked.

‘I’d need DNA confirmation to be certain, but it’s unlikely.’

‘Any chance of establishing the cause of death?’

‘I can tell you exactly.’

‘Already?’ Pearce exclaimed.

Ramirez permitted himself a wintry smile. He held out his mug, ‘Refill, please,’ he demanded. ‘They were both shot in the back of the head where it joins the neck. Probably from above when they were kneeling. The reason I know,’ he explained before Pearce could ask, ‘is because the bullet, or bullets that killed them damaged the vertebra. That’s probably why the skull became detached when your angler hooked it.’

‘Mr Wardle?’

The loudspeaker echoed eerily as the disembodied voice replied. ‘Who is it?’

‘Detective Sergeant Mironova, Helmsdale CID. I need to ask you some questions.’

‘What about?’

‘If you let me in, I’ll explain.’

‘No. If you want me to let you in, you’ll explain first. If I judge it to be important then you can come in.’

Mironova looked round the deserted windswept farmyard with exasperation. The lack of welcome had been apparent from the moment she’d pulled up. ‘Howlingales Farm’. The name couldn’t have been more appropriate. The notice fixed to the gatepost read, ‘Strictly No Admission Without Authority. No Representatives Without Appointment’. Alongside this notice was another. Below the picture of two Dobermans the caption read, ‘Guard Dogs Running Free’. Further down was the chilling addendum, ‘You Have Been Warned!’

‘It’s in connection with two skeletons we’ve recovered from Lamentation Tarn. We understand you rent grazing land there. You may have seen something significant.’

There was a pause. ‘Wait two minutes.’

Mironova reckoned it was nearer five before the intercom buzzed. ‘When you hear the door click, come in. Walk down the hall, past the stairs and go into the room on your left. Don’t go into any of the rooms on your right, not if you value your safety.’

She heard the electronic lock disengage and pushed the door. As she walked down the hall she heard ferocious baying sounds from her right. She increased her pace as she passed the staircase and reached the room as directed. The man looked up from his computer. He was quite good looking, slim and tall, and seated at a large old-fashioned desk containing a very up-to-date PC. It wasn’t exactly how Clara had expected to see the farmer but then nothing about this visit had been like her expectations. He scowled at her furiously. ‘Mironova? What part of Helmsdale’s that from?’

She smiled. ‘It isn’t from Helmsdale, it’s from Belarus.’

‘Bugger me,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s a hell of a way to go home to Minsk after a day’s work.’

It was Mironova’s turn to be surprised. ‘You know Minsk?’

Wardle smiled patronizingly. ‘A farmer would know about a country whose exports include tractors and fertilizer. Well, are you coming in or are you going to stand there all day?’ When she entered the office she was able to see Wardle more clearly. ‘Tell me what you want to know.’

Clara explained about the bodies. She was slightly surprised by Wardle’s calm acceptance. She commented on this. Wardle was devoid of humour. ‘Nothing you’ve found surprises me. I go there to check my sheep. As soon as I get out of the Land Rover I want to be away. The place depresses me. To be perfectly honest, it scares me as well. That might sound ridiculous from someone who served in two war zones but this is different. I’m glad when it’s time to leave, I can tell you. Don’t you think it’s significant there’s been no attempt to build there? That valley looks beautiful on a warm day when the sun shines and the heather’s blooming. Yet you never get picnickers or walkers up there. I’ll tell you something. I’ve known that place and hated it all my life. My father used to take me when I was a kid,’ Wardle grimaced. ‘On a farm everyone has to help. Even then Cauldmoor frightened me like no other place has since. I thought I’d seen the back of it and didn’t miss it.’

‘Why? Do you think the valley’s haunted or something?’ Clara half smiled.

‘I’m not sure I believe in things like that. And if you don’t mind, I’d rather not dwell on the idea. I’ve to be up there at night during lambing and if I thought there were ghosts roaming around I’d not stand it five minutes. All I’ll say is I’m not happy being there alone. Especially not at night.’

‘Have you had any strange experiences up there? Anything you can’t understand or explain? Heard or seen anything unusual?’

Wardle stared long and hard. When he spoke it was as if the words were being forced from him. ‘Every spring I’m there a lot. Some of my ewes get tupped early so I’m on with lambing from the beginning of January. Some years we don’t get much snow but there are always bloody sharp frosts. I have to rely on my own resources. The vet can’t get out in time, and besides which I’ve no way of calling him. There’s no phone signal this side of Bishop’s Cross. Three, maybe four winters ago I was out there a few weeks earlier than normal. It was a clap-cold night. One of those when the stars are out and that means a keen frost. I drove on to Misery Near where the ewes were penned. I left the Land Rover engine running. There was no moon so I was using the headlights as well as my torch. I didn’t fancy running the battery down and finishing up stuck there or walking ten miles for help.’

Wardle paused and looked at Clara. ‘I didn’t park too close to the pens in case I frightened the ewes. They’re skittish enough at the best of times. I checked them and saw none was ready. I was about to go back to the Land Rover when I heard a sound. It was silent out there, even the wind wasn’t howling. The breeze was coming off Stark Ghyll side, that’s across Lamentation Tarn, so it would carry any sound towards me.’

‘What did you hear?’

‘I’m not sure. I know what it sounded like. Whether I’m right’s another matter.’

‘Go on,’ Mironova encouraged him.

‘I thought it was a splash. As if something really heavy had dropped into the tarn. I could have been wrong. I didn’t hang around to investigate. I dismissed it at the time because I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to be up there on my own. I fancied the idea of someone else being there even less.’

Superintendent Pratt looked at Nash with interested speculation. They were sitting in Pratt’s office at Netherdale where Nash had called in to update his superior. ‘You went there to recover a body and by the end of the day you’ve recovered two. Now you want authority for the diving team to look for more. Isn’t two enough?’

Nash smiled. ‘It is and it isn’t, Tom. Given that we know two young women have been murdered, I’d be happy if that were the end of it. But I’m not sure it is.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s a hunch, no more.’

‘I’m sorry, Mike. I can’t justify a diving crew’s expenses. Not for the time it would take to search that lake. Bring me something substantial and I’ll authorize it. But not on the strength of a hunch. What plans have you regarding the bodies you’ve recovered?’

‘There’s very little we can do yet. Most of our hopes are pinned on the post-mortems. We’re facing a long, hard slog to get anywhere. Identification will rely on dental records or DNA. We can check all women who’ve gone missing within the timescale, but only when we know what that is.’

‘When will we know?’

‘When I hear from Mexican Pete. He said something on the
phone that gave a clue. He reckoned they’d been down there several years.’

‘Did he explain why?’

‘He said the ambient temperature of the water at the depth the divers reported would be very low. That plus the concentration of peat as the predominant soil substance would tend to act as
preservatives
. He said it would only be natural predation that could have speeded up the deterioration.’

‘What did he mean by that scientific mumbo-jumbo?’

Nash smiled grimly. ‘He said there would have been less decay if the fish and other creatures had refrained from dining on the corpses.’

Pratt, hardened as he was, turned pale. ‘I’m so glad I asked. On second thoughts, I prefer the scientific version.’

‘He did give one piece of positive news, though. He reckoned he might be able to tell us something about the weapon.’

‘Have you any other ideas?’

‘I’m waiting until Mironova reports her conversation with the farmer. Then I reckon we’ll search the area round the tarn. It’s a long shot but we’ve two unidentified corpses. Someone snuffed the life out of them in cold blood.’

‘It’s making you angry.’

‘Yeah, sometimes murder is just sad, because much of the violence is avoidable. Domestic quarrels that have got out of hand, violent acts committed in the heat of the moment. It’s when I see crimes like these, committed against defenceless women that I get angry.’

‘Those are two big assumptions you’ve made. I mean that the women were defenceless and were killed in cold blood. You got any facts to back them up?’

‘Not really, apart from the fact that they were shot in the back of the neck; classic execution technique.’

Back in Helmsdale Nash stared sightlessly at the wall, his thoughts far away. Clara stood in the doorway watching him. She’d seen Nash drift off into a semi-catatonic state before when he was trying to work out how a crime had been committed. Was he visualizing a crime scene or something else? Recently, she’d often seen him like this, even when there was no crime to solve. It had happened far
too often. Clara thought the time was right for her to confront the situation head on.

‘What’s up, Mike, you trying to work out what happened at the tarn?’

Nash shook his head. ‘I called at the clinic when I was in Netherdale. I’m surrounded by crime and its after-effects. Not just at work, when I leave here I take it with me.’

‘That sounds as if the job’s sickening you. You’re not thinking of chucking it in, surely?’

‘No, I suppose I’m just a bit down. To start with, Cauldmoor spooked me. The thought of those girls executed and dumped in that bloody lake made things worse. Then I went to see Stella.’

‘How is she?’

‘There’s no improvement. I think she’s beginning to lose heart. She won’t tell me what her consultant says. She won’t allow me to talk to him. She won’t even let me go with her when she sees him.’

‘Isn’t the physiotherapy doing any good? I thought the
prognosis
was hopeful; the specialists were confident she’d walk again sooner or later?’

‘It’s certainly not sooner, and I’m beginning to think it won’t be later. I reckon she’s half way to being institutionalized.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘She’s convinced she’ll be tied to that wheelchair for life. I think she’s starting to give up, subconsciously I mean. She’d never admit it.’

‘Isn’t there anything you can do?’

‘No, that’s the trouble. It makes me feel bloody helpless.’

‘Really? Or do you still feel guilty that she’s in a wheelchair whilst you’re leading a normal life?’

‘That too. I can’t rid myself of the notion that if she hadn’t got involved with me she wouldn’t be in the state she’s in.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’ Clara’s tone was sharp, dismissive. ‘For one thing, Stella was involved before you met her. Whatever you’d done, she’d still have been taken hostage. So get rid of these crazy guilt notions. Stella would be the first to say it. You saved her life. Why beat yourself up because that life isn’t normal yet. That won’t help her.’ Clara paused to let her words sink in. ‘Would it do any good if I went to visit her?’

‘I don’t know, Clara, but I don’t suppose it would do any harm.’

‘I will when I get a minute. Speaking of visits, do you want to hear how I went on at Howlingales Farm?’

‘Oh yes,’ Nash forced his mind back to business. ‘What did you make of Wardle?’

‘He’s okay, I think. Not quite what I was expecting. He’s
paranoid
about security and scary about Cauldmoor. He’s well educated and down to earth,’ she paused and added. ‘It makes what he told me all the more remarkable.’

She went on to relate Wardle’s tale.

‘Three or four years ago, are you sure?’

‘It’d have to be,’ Clara reminded him. ‘Remember what the guy from the angling club said about Wardle leaving the army. That was only five or six years ago.’

‘True,’ Nash conceded. ‘Well, that’s something. But I don’t think it’s enough to convince Pratt.’

Mironova looked puzzled.

‘I was trying to persuade Tom to authorize another search by the Rubber Johnnies but he won’t okay it without proof.’

‘Why do you want to do that?’

‘Because I think there may be more bodies at the bottom of Lamentation Tarn.’

‘Let’s start with the location,’ Nash said. The three were seated in the CID office at Helmsdale. The premises were purpose-built and contained all three emergency services. As yet, the team was still settling in.

‘The tarn is so remote we can discount eyewitnesses, even if we knew when the victims were murdered. Those bodies have been in the water so long there seems little point in examining the area. Nevertheless, we have to, if only to avoid the charge of negligence.’

‘Have we any idea how long they’ve been there?’ Pearce asked.

‘Not yet. Unless we turn up something in our search, any
information
about the victims will depend on the autopsy and Ramirez’s analysis. I’m scheduled to meet him later.’

‘What do you want Viv and me to do?’ Mironova seemed anxious for action.

‘Organize the search party and collect the information from the angling club secretary. If you’ve time, start trawling the computer for young women under the age of thirty-five reported missing over the last ten years. Concentrate on the search party and the angling club first. Identification is going to be slow, so if we discover some clue at the tarn it could be invaluable. Not that I’m counting on it. I’ll want every member of that club interviewed and their keys accounted for. Someone had access to those boats. Another thing. When I was at the bothy I picked up a fishing log for the current season. It records the date, the catch and who was fishing. There’s a column devoted to guests. Find out the club policy on visitors and how strictly they enforce it. I want to know about everyone who’s visited the tarn.’

‘What’s your thinking, Mike?’ Pearce asked.

‘It’s so remote. It makes me wonder how the killer selected it. It’s not as if it’s Windermere or Loch Ness. You won’t find it marked on any maps. As well as interviewing the club members, I think we should talk to all the guests we can.’

‘That should keep us out of mischief,’ Mironova muttered.

Sitting at his desk in Sarajevo, Janko Vatovec regarded the figures on the screen with satisfaction. Figures were a source of delight to him. He regarded them as the life-blood of his business, and for Janko, life itself was a business. Janko was born in Slovenia, raised in poverty by a mother who fed him when she was sober and when she could afford to. His father departed when Janko was ten, but he left a lasting impression. One characterized by physical and sexual abuse.

Janko learned early that people were of little importance. Their value lay only in what they could contribute to his prosperity. This enabled him to cast aside troublesome burdens such as family ties and scruples. In their place were the twin goals of power and wealth.

Seeking these, Janko entered the conflict between the warring factions of the former Republic of Yugoslavia. Not as a combatant but as a supplier. Janko didn’t ask which side the buyers of his
military
hardware represented. He merely counted the money and examined each banknote before he released the munitions. He asked no questions. If the arms were used to kill old or defenceless people, mothers or babies, it was of no concern to Janko. His wasn’t the finger on the trigger.

He’d been annoyed when the war ended. But he found that those who enforced the peace represented an even greater source of income. It didn’t take him long to spot a niche in the market. It was the supply of a commodity required in peace and war alike. He had a willing, eager customer base and a vast supply of raw material. Moreover, it was an operation he could run on a hands-on basis, with a little assistance from a few associates.

It was hardly surprising he was pleased by the figures.

Lulu was afraid. Unhappy and afraid. She could barely remember a time before the fear and unhappiness. Added to this deep well of misery, Lulu bore a sense of shame and self-loathing. These were
part of her daily life, as was the violence and abuse from which it stemmed. So much a part that she’d almost come to accept them.

Almost, but not quite, for there still remained a tiny grain of something she might have called hope had it been stronger, or spirit, had she been free to express it.

It remained locked deep inside. It survived despite the abuse. She was only thirteen when it started. It came when three strangers entered her village in Moldavia and approached her parents. They said they’d heard good things of the couple’s eldest daughter. Their employer was a senior figure in the establishment, based in the capital, who required domestic servants. They would pay Lulu a handsome salary. They would provide her parents with money. Her parents were overjoyed. Lulu’s future was secure, and they would have one less mouth to feed, one less body to clothe.

Two years later that mouth was fed only the basic necessities and that body was clothed in garments totally unsuitable for a fifteen year old.

Lulu’s body showed the malnutrition and abuse she’d suffered. Her illusion of a well-paid job, supporting her parents and siblings, had been shattered the night she’d been taken from her home. She’d been heartbroken at leaving, but proud to help them, proud she’d been chosen for such high honour. The shattering of the
illusion
began before the car had gone five miles from the village. The driver stopped the car and the passenger from the front joined his companion in the back, one on either side of Lulu. As the driver continued towards their destination the others took turns to rape her. After a while the car stopped so the driver could change places with one of the others.

Lulu didn’t know if she reached the capital. Her pain and anguish was continuous. Terror at what would happen to her, the unmitigating shame and knowing she would never be able to face her family again. After the journey she was dragged into a building and locked in a dark, windowless room. The only light switch was outside the door. Sometimes it was flicked on so Lulu could eat the meagre food provided. More often it was switched on so someone could look at her through the inspection flap. Later a stranger, sometimes alone, often accompanied, would enter and the
nightmare
would begin again. A nightmare that would go on for what
seemed endless hours. In which Lulu was repeatedly raped, sodomised and forced to have oral sex with strangers.

Disorientation and violent sexual abuse continued for weeks. She was even forbidden to use her own name as part of the
subjugation
process and had to suffer the corruption of it her captors foisted upon her. So Ludmilla became Lulu and Lulu became their property. An asset that would earn them money.

Lulu was a prize asset but her homeland was not the best place to exploit it. They had ceased to think of her as her; she’d become ‘it’. Lulu was auctioned off through the wonders of the internet and transported overseas. She was sold on and her new owners were quick to realize a profit on their investment. Despite all she’d suffered, Lulu was still a good-looking young girl.

Lulu knew nothing of this. All she knew was her tormentors had changed. Her slavery was as complete as before. Even worse, she didn’t speak their language and they couldn’t understand hers. They managed to communicate their desires in other ways.

Lulu was held prisoner in a room containing only a bed. She was allowed out under guard, to cook and clean for her captors. That was how Lulu spent her daytime. At night at least one of the men would want sex, usually more than one, often whilst the others watched and commented. Lulu didn’t understand the words. The meaning was unmistakeable. Their desire for her seemed
inexhaustible
.

Lulu’s hope grew day by day, like a fragile seedling in a frosty climate, its hold on life precarious. She didn’t know where she was but at last she had something she’d not had since her captivity began. Lulu had a plan. She planned to escape. She knew how she was going to do it. She also knew what she was about to do was a terrible thing, but terrible things had been done to her. She knew she ran the risk of even more dreadful retribution. She didn’t care. Nothing could be worse than what she’d endured.

Nash was speaking to Ramirez. ‘Considering the state of the bodies, the place they were found and the length of time since they were dumped, I don’t think we’ve a cat in hell’s chance of
identification
unless you can come up with anything. I hope you can give us some sort of a lead. We’re going to be reliant on you.’

‘I realize that. I might be able to tell you a little, or again I might be able to tell you a lot. What you really want to know is the extent of what my examination will reveal. Right?’

‘I’ve never seen a case where deterioration is so complete. It’s a bit like being called in to investigate the murder of one of the pharaohs.’

‘I think you’ll find the remains of the pharaohs would be in better condition than those in the mortuary drawers,’ Ramirez told him dryly. ‘But I get your point. This is a far from normal enquiry. If we get lucky I could tell you their names, addresses and dates of birth. That relies on us getting a match from their dental records. For that we need them to have been British citizens who had regular dental treatment.

‘Failing that, given time I should be able to tell you their age, give or take a year or two. Where they come from, their ethnicity and any diseases they contracted. If your enquiries turn up someone who may be related to them I could either prove or disprove that also.’

Nash stared at the pathologist in surprise. ‘Are you joking?’

Ramirez smiled and shook his head. ‘I rarely joke about work. Let me explain. X-rays can show evidence of medical conditions such as stress fractures or broken bones that have healed after setting. There’s a standard procedure that can determine age. It’s particularly effective in pre-adults and up to the age of thirty, so we’re lucky they were young. We can also gauge conditions like anaemia or periostitis, that’s inflammation of the periosteum and soft tissue surrounding the bone. That’s usually associated with traumatic infection. That might mean injuries, more commonly of the sort associated with a physically demanding occupation. Iron deficiency, anaemia, is symptomatic of malnutrition and a high pathogen load, i.e. bacteria or viruses that can cause diseases. All of which is routine.

‘The most spectacular results stem from advances in DNA analysis. We can identify genetic characteristics and associate them with specific locations. The genetic signature from different regions is distinct. Although each individual’s DNA is unique, every locality has a broadly similar gene pool. That means we can trace someone’s origin to a specific region and with the advance of a new
technique called “familial DNA” we can identify enough
similarities
to place someone within a family.’

Ramirez tilted his chair back so he was balanced on the back legs. He gripped the edge of his desk with one hand. ‘Of course, the jewel in the DNA crown is the ability to identify someone’s genetic forbears via mitochondrial DNA.’

He smiled at Nash’s look of bewilderment. ‘Mitochondrial DNA is passed from a mother to her offspring. It’s indestructible. If you provide me with a tiny scrap of mitochondrial DNA from your pharaoh, for example, I could tell you,’ Ramirez kept his face straight, ‘who his mummy was.’

‘I thought you didn’t joke about your work?’

‘I couldn’t resist that. What I’m saying is by using mitochondrial DNA we could give as positive an identification of the victims as if someone had looked at them an hour after they died.’

Nash nodded, ‘The problem is going to be finding someone to provide a cross-sample.’

‘I understand that. Of course it takes a long time. You have to grow the strands that form the DNA chain.’

‘Where’s Clara?’ Mike asked.

‘Gone to collect the angling club membership list. How did your meeting go?’

‘Pretty well. Ramirez reckons the skeletons will tell us a lot about the victims, where they were from and how they died. The only drawback is it’s going to take time. I don’t suppose a few weeks will be critical.’

‘The press have got hold of the story. The
Netherdale Gazette
’s headline this evening is “Angler’s Grim Catch”. Their reporter was on earlier asking for a quote.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘I said I could confirm both victims were definitely dead.’ Pearce grinned. ‘Then I told him, “pick the bones out of that”.’

Nash winced. ‘I’ve noticed you’ve started making lousy puns. I’m afraid it’s infectious. Even Mexican Pete’s doing it.’

He looked round as Mironova walked in. She waved a sheaf of papers. ‘I’ve got the details of the members of the angling club, plus the retired ones and, those who resigned. All the keys have been
returned. They have quite a neat system. You pay a joining fee, £500 at present. If you leave, that gets paid back but only after you’ve returned any club property. That includes the keys to the bothy, the boathouse and the boats.’

‘That’s not much help,’ Nash objected. ‘They could have been copied.’

‘That would only work for a year. The locks are changed before each season. Members only get their new keys once they’ve paid their subscription.’

‘That’s helpful. Do you know how long the club’s been going?’

‘About sixty years. Before the war, Bishopton Estate kept the fishing for themselves. However, the father and eldest son were killed in the war. The estate passed to the younger son and he’d no interest in either the estate or fishing. Several local anglers got wind of it and approached the estate manager. A lease was agreed and Bishopton Angling Club was formed. Angling’s become so popular the club’s gone from strength to strength. That’s why they’re strict on controlling guests. If someone’s name isn’t in the guest books it means they haven’t been to the tarn. The penalty for not recording all the information is expulsion.’

‘We ought to interview the landowner or whoever’s in charge.’