15
The morgue was only a few streets away from the station. Carmichael sat in silence looking out of the side window. Having second thoughts, Daniels suspected. She had no time to chivvy her along. The young DC had made her bed. Now she’d have to lie in it. Her own thoughts were on the fire. The most likely scenario, assuming the dead were actually identified as Jamie and Mark Reid, was that the father had been watching the game, had a few beers and fallen asleep, only to wake too late to save his son.
In most murder enquiries, crime scene investigators would lift forensic traces of hair, blood and skin. But the fire had been so intense such evidence had been destroyed. Daniels didn’t need telling that there’d be very little to go on. Arson, with or without intent to endanger life, was a senseless act, an offence most right-minded people would baulk at. But then Daniels knew she wasn’t dealing with right-minded people. You had to be switched wrong to set fire to a house with people inside.
So who was she dealing with?
And what was the motive?
A scare tactic, perhaps? A random attack carried out by idiot kids? A drunk from the party in the back lane last night? A joke that went horribly wrong? It wouldn’t be the first time. The crime scene was bang smack in the centre of the area most visited by the city’s fire service, if recent reports were anything to go by. She’d read once that nearly forty per cent of fire-setters were aged between ten and seventeen. Of those, the majority were male. But she couldn’t afford to make that assumption. So was it the house or the person inside who was the target? Maggie Reid was the tenant. The dead man no longer lived there.
By the time they reached the morgue, Mark Reid’s identity had been confirmed by dental records faxed to the pathologist, Tim Stanton. The victim’s name was being withheld from the press and public until his extended family were informed. Both his parents were alive. But given the state of their son’s body, they wouldn’t be asked to view it. There was really no point. Mark Reid was unrecognisable as the man he once was.
‘With no dental records to go on, the child’s identity is more difficult to establish,’ Stanton told her. ‘I’ve sent his DNA for analysis, although it’s almost a foregone conclusion that it is Jamie Reid.’
Daniels nodded, her eyes drifting past him to a bank of freezer units along the far wall, each one containing a cadaver. In cases where identity had not yet been established, they were assigned a number; the rest were labelled with the name of the deceased – Bridget McCabe among them.
A few feet to her left, Carmichael was finding it difficult to drag her eyes away from the charred remains laid out in front of her. She’d never seen anything like it before and never wanted to again. Daniels’ argument that this one would be too harrowing a case for her was proving to be spot on, though she would be the last to admit it.
Harsh words, spoken by Gormley during her very first involvement in a murder enquiry almost a year ago, echoed in her head as she stood there now. A dressing-down, uttered in anger to curb her over-exuberance back then: Murder victims are people, Lisa . . . flesh and blood, like you and me . . . it’s not a game. At the time, Carmichael had slunk away to a quiet corner to lick her wounds, taken aback by the harsh tone of his voice.
How right he was.
In her wildest dreams, she could never have imagined her first post-mortem would be like this. The gruesome corpse she was looking at was but ten months old, someone’s treasured child, nephew, grandson. His father lay on the next slab along, a hero in Carmichael’s eyes, dying in a heroic attempt to save the boy from harm. The fingers on his hands fused together as he’d attempted to mount the stairs of 23 Ralph Street.
Carmichael looked away as a wave of revulsion hit her.
‘You OK, Lisa?’ Daniels had seen more experienced officers than Carmichael buckle at the sight of victims far less horrific than the ones in front of them now.
The DC nodded, probably scared to open her mouth in case no words came out. Daniels had known she wouldn’t learn much from this post-mortem. Normally, forensic examination could aid detectives in so many ways. It could identify the size, type and shape of a weapon, shotgun or handgun, if a firearm was used. How tall or short an offender might be, based on the angle of a wound. It was even possible to deduce whether the assailant was left-or right-handed. But this case was very different. From what Stanton was telling them, there was no physical contact between victim and perpetrator . . .
‘No obvious wounds to inspect,’ he concluded.
Carmichael breathed a sigh of relief as Stanton put down his scalpel and declared that he was done. He moved to a stainless steel sink and scrubbed up with a stiff brush, rinsing his hairy arms under a running tap, which he expertly turned off with his right elbow. He dried his hands and pulled down the sleeves of his scrubs.
His findings were conclusive and said with confidence.
‘Cause of death, smoke inhalation and nothing more. No evidence that either victim has sustained any pre-mortem injuries. I’m sorry, Kate. That’s all there is. There is absolutely no evidence here to suggest an attempt to hide or disguise an alternative cause of death.’
16
Minding the gap between the platform and the step-board, a tall redhead entered the first-class carriage of the 13.28 Newcastle to King’s Cross train with only one minute to spare. A young male porter showed her to her seat. He smiled, handed back her ticket, and wished her a pleasant journey, then scurried off with a big fat tip burning a hole in his pocket.
The redhead sat down, conscious of eyes turned in her direction.
An attractive man followed her on: white shirt, red tie, good watch. Removing his jacket, he hung it on the peg provided, then took the seat opposite, his nose twitching as he picked up her scent, a smile playing on his lips that said: I ’d like to fuck you right there in your seat.
She smiled at him with her eyes as well as her mouth.
He took out a MacBook and began work, concentration etched on his face. She wondered how long he could keep up the pretence. As a little girl she’d always been the centre of attention, always been told that she was special. Too special for her own good, her mother used to say; a comment that was usually accompanied by a good hard slap.
She settled back for the boring journey south, leafing through magazines and then staring blankly out the window at the lush green countryside, the occasional church steeple in the distance, a row of terraced houses close to the track, unsettled by thoughts of her unhappy childhood. A ticket inspector interrupted her reverie before they reached Durham, where three Japanese men boarded the train, one wearing a face mask like they do in Tokyo.
Takes all kinds.
‘Any refreshments, Madam? Sir?’ a young woman asked as they got going again.
She ordered coffee and her admirer did the same. Someone close by ordered lunch. The redhead’s hunger had nothing to do with food. The man opposite looked up, the sexual chemistry between them now crystal-clear. She moistened her lips, allowing her tongue to linger a little longer than was necessary. It worked every time. The guy was practically drooling.
Melting under her gaze, he loosened his tie, placed his hands on his laptop to make out he was working. Pushover. He was hers for the taking. And there was still a whole two hours and – she glanced at her watch – forty-eight minutes to go until they reached their destination.
Her phone rang.
Saved by the bell.
She took the call but didn’t speak. ‘Is everything OK?’ the Cypriot said.
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘Any problems, you bail.’
‘Relax, I told you the matter is in hand.’
The redhead hung up, looking back at her new friend. Shame she had better things to do today than having sex with a stranger, albeit a very attractive one. In just under four hours, she’d enter the lion’s den and face the most important meeting of her entire life. Question was: could she pull it off?