The Kill Call - Stephen Booth

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he could do about that, except hope she did it soon. If he mentioned it to her, she’d know something was wrong.

      While he dried himself, he went through the sequence of events again. From the first scent of that sweet smell in the hut, the knowledge that someone else was present, to the panicky call he’d made to the emergency services. And then hurling the phone as far as he could into the first suitable place he came to.

      Well, that was stupid. He should have thought more carefully about where he disposed of the phone. The call was probably a mistake, too. But they couldn’t trace him from that, could they? It wasn’t his phone, after all. He’d tried to wipe it clean before he got rid of it. Fingerprints were one thing he did know about.

      It was just that momentary opportunity, the desire that had overtaken him when he’d seen the phone just lying there, and the bulging wallet with all that money in it. All that money. The temptation had been too much. Anyone else would have done the same.

      But he hoped the man wasn’t really dead. After the incident with the vagrant, he’d assumed that he recognized death. Assumed, too, that he could clear out and watch the action, with no one any the wiser. No one to know that he’d been there.

      Sean shuddered as he re-lived the moment the corpse had seemed to come back to life. Like a scene from a horror movie. A bloodied zombie with a hole in the head, but sitting back up and reaching out blindly, gripping his arm with fingers that dug deep into his skin.

      That had been what made him run. He’d run from the old huts until his breath was ragged and a stitch jabbed unbearable pains into his side. He seemed to have run for a long, long time through the rain before he stopped. For a few minutes, he’d actually tried to think logically, wondered whether he ought to go back, so he could do the right thing and sort everything out. But he’d looked at his watch and realized how long he’d left it. Far too long for him to look innocent.

      Then he’d finally made the call. As quick as he could – no name, no location, no return number.

      And Sean had discovered that he was on the moor, in the middle of the dark heather and the capped mine shafts. And he’d known where he could dispose of the phone. He’d climbed the fence and watched it tumble out of sight, heard the smash as it hit the rocks on the bottom. No one would be calling that phone again.

      It was a pity, though. It had been a nice new Sony Ericsson with video calling and everything. At least he still had the money.

      Sean was feeling calmer now. He dressed in clean clothes, wished that he had a smoke available to steady his hand, then lay down on his bed to wait until he was called. He plugged in his iPod again. Not Coldplay this time, but the Kaiser Chiefs: ‘I Predict a Riot’.

      And Sean finally allowed himself to dream about what he could do with the money he’d taken. The money that had belonged to the dead man.

       6

      When Fry finally got back to her body on Longstone Moor, she found her DI, Paul Hitchens, waiting for her. He hadn’t even bothered walking all the way to the scene, but was leaning against a car at the rendezvous point.

      ‘Death verified, Diane?’ he said.

      ‘The paramedics were here first. The ME has confirmed.’

      ‘Life pronounced extinct, as the old boys used to say.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      Fry knew that police officers weren’t officially trusted to verify death. Not unless death was obvious. Since procedures failed to define ‘obviously dead’, it generally meant decapitation or an advanced stage of decomposition before any officer could exercise judgement.

      ‘Cause of death?’ asked Hitchens.

      Fry shook her head. ‘There’s an obvious head injury. But we’ll have to wait for the preliminary PM report.’

      ‘It could have been a fall, though? Wet grass, plenty of stones lying around. Or a slippery cow pat – I’ve done it myself. What did he have on his feet? Appropriate footwear?’

      ‘No, sir,’ admitted Fry.

      ‘And the emergency call – that could have been some passerby not wanting to get involved. It happens all the time.’

      ‘In the town, maybe. But out here? It’s difficult to imagine a passer-by up at those old huts, anyway.’

      ‘The owner of the phone that the call was made on – he’s from out of the area, right?’

      ‘Yes. We’ll track him down, of course.’

      ‘So have we really got suspicious circumstances here, Diane?’

      She hesitated. The expense of calling in a Home Office pathologist was only justified when there was substantial evidence of suspicious circumstances, the proverbial foul play. The DI wouldn’t want to get caught out trying to justify the expense in the face of an ‘accidental death’ verdict by the High Peak coroner.

      ‘This body has no ID. That’s a good indication of suspicious circumstances in itself, isn’t it?’

      ‘Maybe.’

      Fry noted his reluctance. The decision was his at this stage, as the senior officer present. Personally, she had a strong feeling about the body in the field, but she was wary of talking about feelings. The notorious detective’s ‘hunch’ didn’t fit well with the pragmatic, evidence-based decision-making processes that came with the training. It sounded so old school.

      ‘All right,’ she said. ‘So he could have left his wallet and car keys at home, if he went out for a walk. He could have worn his nice new brogues instead of bothering to change into something more appropriate. I can see that’s possible. But why wouldn’t he have taken a mobile phone?’

      ‘He could have walked out of the house in the middle of a row with his wife. Slammed the front door without picking up his keys or phone, and decided not to go back for them.’

      Fry turned away. ‘Done that yourself, too, have you?’

      ‘What did you say, Diane?’

      ‘Nothing, sir. I was just saying that it was more likely horse droppings than a cow pat. We’ve got hoof marks all over the scene.’

      ‘There’s your first line on a potential witness, then.’

      ‘Yes, I’m on to it,’ said Fry. ‘But without more resources out here, it’s going to be totally impossible to interview all the hunt supporters. Anyway, I’m convinced they’re just going to close ranks.’

      Fry thought of the SIOs’ mantra: What do I know now? What do I need to know? How am I going to find out? On the other hand, her most important question might be ‘How much are they going to let me find out?’

      ‘Think of another approach,’ said Hitchens.

      She sighed. ‘We could round up the sabs. There aren’t anywhere near as many of them.’

      ‘There you go, then. Anyway, a confirmed ID is your first priority.’

      ‘Naturally.’

      The DI studied her for a moment, and waited until a SOCO passed out of earshot.

      ‘Are you all right, Diane?’ he said.

      ‘Yes, sir. Fine.’

      ‘Good.’

      It was well known that Hitchens had been asking everyone in CID if they were ‘all right’, ever since the arrival of the new detective superintendent. Probably it was a form of caring for staff morale.

      ‘An ID by tomorrow then,’ he said. ‘Top priority.’

      ‘It’s early days, sir.’

      ‘Of course.

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