Nameless Kill (5 page)

DC Finch sniggered again.

Brian waited for a response from the microphone and speaker. He wasn’t holding out much hope. And in truth, he’d only come here because it was on the way back to the crime scene, where, hopefully, forensics and the pathologists would have some info for him. Really, he should be in his office typing in banal information about how “nobody saw anything at 20 Rawlinsons; nobody saw anything at 24 Rawlinsons.” Screw that. He might be getting on a bit these days, but the day he found comfort behind a desk inputting information instead of out on the beat solving cases was the day he keeled over and died.

A crackle from the speaker took Brian by surprise. He was just about to tell the others to try back here
again
later, not that it’d be worth it.

Instead, he heard a small voice from the speaker: “Is that you kids again? I told you to stop pressin’ that bell. I‌—‌I told you‌—‌”

Brian lunged for the microphone button on the metal box. “Mrs. Delforth,” he said. “It’s…‌it’s Detective Inspector Brian McDone. From the Preston police. I’m here with some colleagues about the‌—‌”

“Is this about them kids messin’ about with my bell? How good of you, officer. How good of you to check on me. ‘Cause they keep on pressin’ it, I tell you. They keep on‌—‌”

“We…‌we wondered if we could come through and have a word? Just to the door. It will only take a moment. Just to ask a few questions about whether you’ve seen anything strange around here the last few days.”

Brian heard a whistle from one of his colleagues just behind him. He saw DC Finch pointing through the gates. When Brian looked, he could see a short, grey-haired woman holding a corded phone to her ear, peering through the flowery curtains in her white nighty.

Brian raised a hand. Held the microphone button down once more. “It’ll only take a few minutes. I promise.”

Mrs. Delforth held eye contact with Brian. Squinted at him.

Then, she smiled. “A bit of company would be lovely. Tea or coffee, officers?”

Chapter Seven

As much as Brian wanted to get to the Avenham Park crime scene and see whether forensics had discovered anything worth his attention, a nice strong cup of tea made by Mrs. Delforth was a pleasant late morning interlude.

Brian, Brad, DS Carter and DC Finch all sat around Mrs. Delforth’s living room with a cup of tea in hand. The tea tasted good‌—‌just the right strength‌—‌but the white cup in Brian’s hand was chipped and there was a little film of dust around the rim that suggested Mrs. Delforth hadn’t had tea-drinking guests for a very long time.

In fact, the whole room gave off the impression that she didn’t get many guests. The decor was like something you’d see in the times of World War Two. The carpet was a dark, mouldy shade of green, various bits of it upturned and loose. The chairs that they sat on, all supping their tea, were far too spongy, and a similar shade of sickening green. Around the room, there were various antique items‌—‌old clocks, which looked to have stopped ticking long ago. Various antiques of many shapes and sizes stacked up in the corner of the room. Black and white photographs in dusty frames with faded out pictures of people Brian could barely make out.

The place smelled musty, too. Like that classic old person’s smell. What was it about old people that made them smell that way? Was it something they released? If so, what age would he start giving it off? Sixty? Seventy?

Hopefully later rather than sooner.

“Enjoying your tea?” Mrs. Delforth asked.

Brian gulped down a sugary mouthful of hot tea and smiled at Mrs. Delforth. “Delicious, thanks. Anyway, we just thought we’d pop by to see‌—‌”

“We have a few questions we wouldn’t mind you answering,” DS Carter cut in, glaring at Brian with those squinty brown eyes that said, “I’m the HtoH here. I’ll do the talking.”

Mrs. Delforth kept on grinning at Brian with her few teeth as DS Carter placed a questionnaire on her lap.

“Mrs. Delforth,” DS Carter said, impatience in her voice. “It’s our duty to inform you that there’s been a really terrible crime in your area.”

Mrs. Delforth’s wrinkly old eyelids narrowed. She looked at the standard HtoH questionnaire printed from HOLMES and scanned down it with her spindly old finger. “But I…‌but I thought this was about‌—‌about the kids. About those bloody kids who always bash on my doorbell. What’s…‌what’s this about?”

“Murder,” Brad cut in, staring into space.

There was a moment’s silence around the room. Mrs. Delforth’s face warbled into all sorts of shapes and expressions, getting her head around Brad’s bloody stupid splurting of the crime. He’d said it without a care in the world for the thoughts or opinions of a poor old lady.

“Murder? I…‌Oh good grief.” Mrs. Delforth rose to her feet with a struggle. Her bottom lip shook as she walked towards the pile of old hoarded items and started shuffling them around, metal clinking, papers crumpling against each other. “I…‌I thought it was just kids messing around. But murder. Murder. Oh, goodness. God save us all.”

“Mrs. Delforth,” DS Carter intervened, glaring at Brad as he examined the room. “We don’t mean to alarm you. We just want to know if you’ve seen anything out of the ordinary over the last couple of days.”

Mrs. Delforth shook her head as she returned to her chair. Her hands fumbled with the edge of her nighty. “No. Oh no. I‌—‌I don’t go outside unless I need to go to the shop. And‌—‌and even then my daughter helps me out. Lovely girl, she is. Not been in a few weeks, but gets the online shopping thingy for me. Lovely girl, my Claire.”

DC Finch tutted. The feeling inside Brian matched Finch’s actions. They were wasting time here. The housebound old nutter didn’t have a clue what had happened to the mystery unidentified girl on Avenham Park. And surely now forensics and the pathologist would have some information. Clothing. Potential DNA or fingerprints. Shit‌—‌even just a confirmation of the cause of death would suffice at this stage.

“Well we appreciate your hospitality,” Brian said, standing, placing his empty tea cup down on the dusty wooden coffee table. His mouth was awash with tea leaves, which had clearly sneaked out of the teabag as Mrs. Delforth squeezed them just too hard. “We should probably‌—‌”

“The girl was found down in that stream at the edge of the park,” Brad cut in. He pulled open the brown curtains and pointed through the stained windows, out at the lengthy grass and towards the trees of the Avenham Park stream about two-hundred metres in that direction. “She was found with her hands bound together. Looks like her ankles were tied up too, but came loose at some point. From our preliminary studies, it looks like she was strangled.”

Brian held his mouth closed, resisting intervention, his cheeks heating up. DS Carter’s mouth had opened. DC Finch looked like a rabbit in the headlights, standing there holding his cooling brew. What the hell was Brad thinking speaking to this old woman in this way?

“Now we appreciate your cooperation,” Brad continued, turning to face Mrs. Delforth, “but we need to know if you’ve seen anything. Anything out of the ordinary. Kids in the garden. Weird noises. Anything like that. It could be key.”

Mrs. Delforth’s eyes were watery and bloodshot. Her lips were shaking more than ever. Fuck. If they hadn’t already scared three shits out of Mrs. Delforth, Brad had gone and done it now. She was just a defenceless old woman. They’d get more sense out of a pet dog, or something, than this woman.

Brian cleared his throat. Glared at Brad, his cheeks burning. “Mrs. Delforth, we don’t mean to‌—‌”

“I don’t hear nothin’ other than the kids bashing me doorbell or that nigger music.”

Brian felt like he’d been slapped around the face the moment the old woman said the “n” word. “I’m sorry, the um, the…‌Are these the kids that harass you that you’re referring to‌—‌”

“I’m on about the niggers,” Mrs. Delforth repeated, so much sincerity in her voice that she didn’t seem to think she was saying anything wrong. Probably didn’t know, in all truth. But it wasn’t cute. Not like Vanessa used to find it when her dad said some kind of racist slur. It was naive. And naivety got right on Brian’s tits.

“What about the…‌these people, Mrs. Delforth?” DS Carter asked, picking up where Brian had stopped.

Mrs. Delforth shook her head and muttered a few words under her breath. Then, she pottered across her dusty green carpet towards the door. “That bloody nigger shop. Boomin’ music keeping me awake at night since they moved over here twenty years ago. Need to learn our rules, they do. Savage, still. Not racist, just truth.”

Brian couldn’t bring himself to nod or smile in feigned agreement. Instead, he just listened.

And secretly hoped a black kid would throw a brick through her window one day.

“I think Mrs. Delforth is on about the African Connection store on Church Street,” DC Finch said. Hearing him speak with his high-pitched voice made for a pleasant change. “Just‌—‌just outside our search radius.”

“Yes, yes, that’s the one,” Mrs. Delforth said, raising her finger. “African-bloody-Connection. Like we need connecting to them bloody Africans.”

Brian made a mental note to ask DS Carter to take a look at the African Connection place. She was HtoH officer, he didn’t want to piss on her parade any more than it had been pissed on. But if they were a local business, regardless of Mrs. Delforth’s racist slurs, they could be helpful. Other than a corner shop that Carter had already checked out, there weren’t any other businesses round these streets, so that place could be helpful.

“We all appreciate your help, Mrs. Delforth,” Brian said, holding out a hand. The old smell of this place was starting to get to him, as was the mugginess. The tea was leaving an over-sweet aftertaste in his mouth. “Now just fill in this questionnaire and…” He looked up. Saw DS Carter frowning. “I’ll let DS Carter walk you through it. Just be‌—‌be aware that if you hear anybody ringing that bell of yours, it might be the media. And stay safe‌—‌”

Brian’s goodbye speech was cut short by the vibrating of his phone in his black trouser pocket. He reached in, automatic in the way he responded to it, and looked at the screen.

His stomach did a little leap when he saw the name: Jeeves. The pathologist.

He lifted the phone to his ear and walked out of the room into the even mustier smelling corridor.

“Jeeves. I’m on my way soon. Please tell me you’ve got something for me.”

Jeeves was silent for a few seconds. Brian could hear birdsong in the background.

“Jeeves?”

“Detective Inspector, I think it would be wise if you or your deputy paid a trip down to the crime scene as soon as possible. There’s something…‌some things I believe you’ll want to hear.”

As Brian opened the heavy wooden door of Mrs. Delforth’s impressive house, he prayed to God that Jeeves had good news for him.

A cool breeze that smelled of mowed grass covered him as he walked outside.

He prayed to God, but he knew from the tone in Jeeves’s voice that not all was fine and dandy.

Chapter Eight

Brian soon arrived at the scene of the crime. Even though it was only a five minute walk from Mrs. Delforth’s house, the way he was panting suggested he’d run a mile.

There was a little plastic tent set up over the body right across the stream. Around it, forensics wearing protective equipment scanned the area, lifting rocks, doing something in the water‌—‌all sorts of stuff to do with blood, DNA and semen, the science of which Brian had never really been arsed to try and understand. He waded through the water, wearing light, waterproof protective gear of his own that a fellow officer had provided him with upon arrival. He felt like a fucking Slitheen off Doctor Who in this thing, but what was necessary was necessary.

“McDone.”

The voice came from just beyond the tent. It was from one of the three faceless people zipped up in their protective gear. The one to the far left stuck a thin thumb up at Brian, and Brian knew right away that it was Jeeves.

Brian approached the tent, holding his breath, trying his best not to look inside at the body without preparing himself. The distant tang of Mrs. Delforth’s sugary tea lingered on his tongue. “Please tell me you’ve got something for me, Jeeves. Please.”

Jeeves shrugged. His face was hidden by the hood that was wrapped around him like Kenny off South Park. “Well, unfortunately it’s very hard to get a good look at the girl’s body when it’s in such a position. Forensics have been doing the usual tests, and I expect there’ll be at least some DNA traces or fibres that come back, especially from that…‌you know. The headwear.”

Brian nodded. He looked down at the tent. If he squinted enough, he could still see the girl underneath it.

“I need her on the table to have a proper look at her, but I understand your reluctance to remove her from the scene just yet.”

“We need to make sure we’ve got everything covered. Any official word on the cause of death?”

Jeeves shrugged again and grabbed the opening of the tent. He opened the curtain, and Brian saw the girl there.

The pale skin of her hands, bound by those white bandages, which also wrapped loosely around her feet.

And the antlers. The antlers on her pink-hat-covered head. The pink hat over the sheep wool style covering.

“You can see for yourself that it’s quite clear she drowned,” Jeeves said. “Now we just have to check these materials she’s wearing. And I’m almost certain that we’ll be able to get some DNA from her killer once we‌—‌”

“Wait,” Brian said, forcing Jeeves to rewind a little. “Drowned? What about…‌the mark on her neck. She’s been strangled, hasn’t she?”

A slight pause from Jeeves.

Then, a word that Brian hadn’t heard him mutter in a long, long time.

“Ahh,” Jeeves said, confirming that Brian’s suspicions were incorrect. “There is a wound on her neck. But that was clearly distorted by the amount of time she’s spent in the water, which I’d put at a day or two from my early examinations. No, look right here.”

Jeeves crouched down and pulled open the curtain of the tent a little more. He reached carefully towards the girl’s head and propped it upright.