LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Eight

       Near Shaugh Prior, Devon. Wednesday 21st October. 6.48 p.m.

      ‘That John Layton’, as it turned out, had been delayed by an RTC which had blocked the Tavistock Road.

      ‘Nightmare,’ Layton said as he supervised the unloading of equipment from a van up in the lane. ‘You lot go blazing off at one hundred miles an hour but by the time I head out there’s an accident involving a bus and a car. Coincidence? I think not.’

      ‘Get on with it,’ Hardin said. ‘That poor lad’s probably been lying in a tunnel for the best part of twenty-four hours.’

      ‘Right you are.’ Layton shrugged. ‘Still, can’t do much until the pathologist gets here.’

      ‘Give me strength. If this farce continues much longer, the CC will have tags for the lot of us.’

      ‘Hey?’

      Layton didn’t get an answer because Hardin turned and walked away. The CSI looked at Savage for an explanation.

      ‘Let’s just say that since Maria Heldon took over, the DSupt has developed a castration complex. Now, shall we get down to the scene so we can at least be ready when Nesbit arrives?’

      Ten minutes later, suitably attired in her PPE kit, Savage returned to the tunnel. The darkness of earlier had now gone, banished by a number of halogen lights set atop a series of tripods. She found Layton a little way in, hunched over the bag of clothes, the whole area bleached with white light. Beyond, several more sets of lights led up to the body, while, even deeper in, shadowy figures wielded spotlights and head torches as they searched the rest of the tunnel.

      ‘What do you think?’ Layton said as Savage approached.

      ‘I think this is a dump site,’ Savage said. ‘Whatever went on, it happened somewhere else. Hence the bag containing the clothes.’

      ‘Bloody sicko.’ Layton stood and held a hooded tracksuit top in his gloved hands. ‘You know, when I started in this job I was quite liberal. Rehabilitation, understanding, treatment not punishment. Over the years my left-leaning political outlook hasn’t changed much, but my views on what should happen to these kind of people has.’

      ‘You’re not the only one.’ Savage patted Layton on the shoulder. ‘Seeing this sort of thing hardens us, I suppose. And I’m with you. Hanging’s too good for them.’

      ‘Yeah, you’re right.’ Layton bagged the top. ‘I just hope you’re there at the bust.’

      ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

      ‘Savage Justice. Haven’t you heard the banter at the station?’ Layton paused, a wry smile on his lips. ‘That Harrison guy, he burned to death in a car you were tailing. Those twins who killed women on Midsummer’s Day: one committed suicide while the other fell down a mineshaft and broke his neck. Then there was the Chief Constable: you discovered him sitting in his car with a vacuum cleaner hose attached to the exhaust pipe.’

      ‘Bloody hell, John, you’re kidding me, right? Is this sort of stuff going round the canteen?’

      ‘It’s not malicious, Charlotte. They’re saying it in admiration. They probably don’t quite believe the stories themselves, but they’d like to think they were true.’

      ‘Well, they’re not, OK?’

      ‘No, of course not. Still, I don’t think the rank and file would be too bothered if they were.’

      ‘Well I am bothered. You don’t know—’

      ‘Here he is. About bloody time.’

      Savage turned to see a thin, stick-like figure silhouetted against the glare of the lights. Dr Andrew Nesbit, the pathologist. As he moved closer, the details on the silhouette filled out. Like Savage and Layton, Nesbit was wearing a white coverall, but as he walked towards them he was struggling to close up the front, the zip having snagged the tweed jacket beneath. Without the white PPE, Nesbit would have resembled an elderly actor who’d come to audition for the part of Sherlock Holmes, although he was sans deerstalker and pipe and wore a pair of half-round glasses.

      ‘Charlotte. John.’ Nesbit jerked a thumb back over his shoulder and then managed to free his jacket and zip up the coverall. ‘These crime scenes will be the death of me one day. Nearly broke my leg coming down the path to the railway line.’

      ‘You’re not the only one, Andrew,’ Savage said. ‘I think the DSupt is thinking of installing a stairlift. Although a forklift might be more appropriate where he’s concerned, don’t you think?’

      ‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’ Nesbit paused and peered at Savage over his glasses. Then he turned his head, his bushy eyebrows arching as he stared deep into the tunnel. ‘Shall we?’

      Savage, Nesbit and Layton moved on until they reached the last set of lights. The body was lit on three sides by an elaborate series of tripods holding an array of halogens. Now there was no hiding from the horror. The boy’s pale white skin contrasted with the dark stones of the ballast he was lying on. Apart from the Y-fronts and boots, he was naked. He lay on his side, arms stretched above his head, legs slightly bent. Savage tried to swallow a sudden rush of nausea which rose in her throat. At most crime scenes there’d be something to ameliorate the horror. In a woodland setting there’d be flowers or the sound of birds in the trees. In the city you could hear a constant background noise, reminding you that although you stared down on death, elsewhere there was life. Here in the tunnel there was nothing but the dank smell of the underworld.

      Savage and Layton stopped a few metres from the body and allowed Nesbit to approach alone.

      ‘Do we know the boy’s name and age?’ Nesbit said.

      ‘Jason Hobb,’ Savage said. ‘He was just eleven.’

      ‘Just eleven? That says it all, doesn’t it, Charlotte?’

      ‘Yes. He’ll never be anything else but eleven and a headline in the papers.’

      ‘Quite.’ Nesbit put his bag down on the concrete and then stepped over and surveyed the body. ‘There’s wounding on the hands. Cut marks. Not much blood though. I think he died somewhere else. The body was brought here afterwards.’

      ‘I wondered if that was the case,’ Savage said. ‘What we can’t quite work out is his attire.’

      ‘No? Well, we’ll leave his underwear and boots in place until the PM.’ Nesbit moved closer to the body and knelt. He touched one of the arms and then bent to the head. His gloved fingers examined the boy’s neck. ‘Seems the killer used a ligature. Did the boy have a belt?’

      ‘No.

Скачать книгу