Scotty knew, the second Saira let slip that she thought it had been ‘quiet’ for a weekday, that the beasts of hell would be unleashed. Police officers never used that word. The closest they’d come was ‘Q’. There was a time when anyone daring to use the full word would be banished to the bakery to buy their weight in doughnuts as punishment.
Those days were gone but it didn’t stop him berating the young PC like a Newsnight interviewer.
Thankfully, so far she’d been right, and having enjoyed a rare coffee overlooking the opulent yachts in Brighton Marina, she was now driving them down Bear Road for a meeting with University of Sussex security about drug dealers on the campus.
‘Charlie Oscar to any unit for Hollingdean Waste Transfer Centre,’ came the distinctive tones of Linda Simons, who’d been a radio controller since before Scotty was a fresh-faced probationer.
‘Shall we offer up?’ asked Saira.
‘She’s not said what it is,’ said Scotty. ‘Could be a load of shite. Let’s see if uniform respond.’ 117
‘Really, Sarge? We’re literally down the road.’
Scotty sighed. ‘Is it your mission to piss me off today?’ He picked up his radio from the centre console. ‘Charlie Sierra Nine One, PC Bannerjee and I are close by. What have you got?’ He turned to Saira. ‘I’m not getting my bloody pen out, this is all yours.’
‘No change there then,’ she said with a smirk.
‘Charlie Sierra Nine One, thanks for that. We’ve had a call from the site manager. A landfill truck has just dumped its load and there appears to be a body amongst the rubbish. Can you attend?’
They looked at each other and Scotty shook his head.
‘Roger that, ETA two minutes.’
Scotty shuffled in his seat as Saira upped the pace. She circled the Gyratory and headed up to the dump. Having parked up in a visitors’ bay, they’d spent a good ten minutes trying to find someone in charge when they saw a man ambling away from a line of dustcarts.
‘Can I help you?’ the man, dressed in what could charitably be called smart casual, said.
Instinctively, Scotty and Saira reached for their warrant cards, unfolded them and waved them in the man’s general direction. ‘Police, you called us?’ said Scotty.
‘Oh, I was expecting the proper police. I’m Sean Baxter, the site manager.’
‘Sorry to disappoint,’ said Scotty, looking at his jeans. ‘You’ve found a body?’
‘Yeah, he’s a bit mashed I’m afraid. One of the trucks dumped him. Bound to be another bin sleeper. Wanna have a look?’
‘That’s what we’re here for,’ said Scotty, following the man towards a stadium-sized warehouse.
Since Brighton and Hove City Council had replaced individual waste collections with huge communal wheelie bins, they had become the shelter of last resort for the homeless and late-night revellers alike. Thankfully, most woke to the sounds of the bin lorry machinery hooking on just as 118they were about to be lifted. Some weren’t so lucky and they were tipped into the crusher, only emerging when the lorry was emptied. Half the problem for the police was identifying the mangled corpses.
It seemed that Baxter and his team were well used to the protocols when a body was found; all operations had paused, which didn’t seem to bother the workers as they vaped away outside the guarded area.
‘Just over here.’
The stench almost felled Scotty as he stepped into the gloomy cavernous dump. Saira seemed to be bearing up better but the cocktail of rotting food, excrement and a thousand other stomach-churning odours made keeping his breakfast where it belonged his sole priority. If he so much as hinted he was about to puke, word would be round the police station faster than a dose of dysentery.
As he approached, the vague shape of the body emerged from the surrounding waste like a magic eye picture. It was almost impossible to distinguish where the body’s tattered rags stopped and the garbage started.
‘Well, he’s definitely dead,’ said Saira.
‘Thank you, Dr Bannerjee,’ was all Scotty could risk saying in case solid matter chased the words from his mouth.
He sneaked a hand to his nose as he neared the mass. By some fortune it lay face up and the jaws of the truck, whilst making mincemeat of his lower limbs, had spared his head.
Despite his initial reaction, Saira had made a great call in choosing to respond to this, as they had the best chance of identifying the corpse if it was a rough sleeper.
The site manager watched on as Scotty girt himself to move in for a closer look. Saira hovered behind him.
The light wasn’t great and, while the man’s head was intact, the remnants of what looked like a kebab and dirty nappy made his task tricky. He shone his torch in vain.
‘You got a stick, or a pole or something? I need to get a look at his face,’ he called to Baxter. 119
‘Sarge, should we take some photos first?’ asked Saira.
‘Yes, I was about to,’ he lied.
He took out his work phone and snapped half a dozen pictures of the man’s head as they had found him. When he’d finished, Baxter handed him a litter-picker. Scotty gingerly clipped the nappy and moved it to one side, then did the same with a lump of pitta bread. Nudging a few stray teabags and chips aside, Scotty held his nose and went in for a second look.
In an instant his nausea deserted him and something between rage and excitement took over. He flashed three more photos, then stood up.
‘Right, I want everyone out of here,’ Scotty barked to Baxter, despite the fact the site manager was the only one in the warehouse.
‘What, has he been murdered?’ came the reply as he did as he was told.
‘I’ve no idea but, if it’s who I think it is, he’ll be glad he died before I met him,’ muttered Scotty as he dialled Bob Heaton’s mobile.
Despite having his arm locked into a cast for the foreseeable future, and the indescribable agony he endured with every step, Bob was in his office. The murder of DC Pete McElroy had plunged every officer and civilian, past and present, into deep mourning. As usual when any member of the police family died, colleagues from across the country replaced their Facebook profile picture with a blue horizontal line on a black background as a mark of respect.
Bob would never shake the feeling that he was responsible. But there was no time for self-pity and reflection. He and DS Luke Spencer had a trial to prepare for, and they needed to work out if that was still viable with their star witness dead.
Bob rested his injured arm on the desk, shooing away a pile of files that he dared not open. He brought up the latest CPS memos and updates from Luke on his computer, just as the sergeant walked into the room.
Unlike Bob’s default look of having dressed drunk and in the dark, Luke was incapable of appearing anything but ready for an audience with the king. In his spare time he played semi-professional football in the 120National League South and bore the look of a sportswear model.
He sat down without Bob having to invite him.
‘Boss, you sure you should be here?’
Bob grinned. ‘Did you know you are the first person to say that? Oh, no, hang on, you’re the hundred and first. What else would I be doing? Trusting you to run the show?’
Luke shook his head and smiled. ‘Fair enough,’ he said as he tapped at the laptop on his knees. ‘How are you feeling about Ged? I mean Pete.’
‘Gutted, guilty, worried all his hard work was for nothing. That’s just for starters.’
‘Me too,’ said Luke. ‘I never met him but you still feel it, don’t you?’
‘A hundred per cent. Have you told CPS?’
‘Yes, and they don’t see it as so much of a problem to the trial as we do.’
‘Really?’ Bob shifted in his chair, then his back screamed for him to make no sudden movements.
‘Yep. I’ll ping you this. It’s their latest advice, which confirms what they told me on the phone just now.’
Bob waited for his emails to refresh, opened the most recent one from Luke and scanned the attachment.
He nodded. ‘Blimey, I wasn’t expecting that. So, providing we can produce the original recordings and Nick, the cover officer, is available to give live evidence, we’ve got an arguable case to have Pete’s evidence admitted.’
‘That’s the gist of it, guv. On the phone they were at pains to point out that it’s not a foregone conclusion and we’re no doubt going to get battered by the defence, but at least they’re not throwing the towel in.’
‘Did they say whether the jury would be told Pete had been murdered?’
‘Yeah, I asked that. They thought we might lose that argument. They would just be told he’d died, but I’ll take that if we can get all the conversations in.’
‘Me too,’ said Bob. ‘Have you given your statement yet about this?’ He raised his plastered arm a fraction. 121
‘Yes, on Friday. I don’t think I was much help, mind you. For a detective, my powers of observation were on a par with Mr Magoo’s.’
‘I’ll use that in your next appraisal.’
Luke was about to reply when Bob’s phone rang. He raised a finger to ask the sergeant to hold on, then accepted the call.
‘Hi mate, what can I do for you?’
Bob felt his face drop as he took in what Scotty was telling him. He wedged the phone between his shoulder and ear then typed, bringing up the incident log on the computer-aided dispatch.
‘Give me the CAD number,’ he said, and typed again, then beckoned Luke to come round to his side and pointed to the screen.
As he listened he interjected with the occasional ‘Right’ and ‘I see’.
When Scotty had finished, it was Bob’s turn.
‘Send me a photo of the body and don’t let anyone near it until Luke and I get there. Let Major Crime know. If this is the bloke who killed Lizzie, they’ll be all over it. Great work Scotty.’
Bob stood up. ‘Grab some keys, Luke and, this time, try to get me back here in one piece.’
Half an hour later, Bob, Luke, Scotty and Saira had been joined by the duty senior investigating officer, DCI Claire Jackson. All had pored over the body-worn video footage of Lizzie’s killer and the corpse in front of them.
‘Shame we couldn’t get any offender’s DNA from Lizzie,’ said Claire. ‘Still, despite him being mangled by a dustcart, I’m certain it’s the same person.’ They all nodded and mumbled their agreement. ‘I’m not treating it as suspicious yet but as an unexpected death under investigation. I want to know who he is, why he killed Lizzie and how he got here. Thanks everyone, leave it to us now.’
All but Claire stepped away from the body and Bob wandered out of the warehouse. He glanced back and saw Scotty’s head drop. He was about to walk over, then had second thoughts. The big man needed a few moments alone. 122
Instead, he found the number of someone who should know and tapped it. It was answered on the second ring.
‘Bob, don’t tell me you’re at work,’ said Jo.
‘Where else would I be, ma’am? You got a minute?’
‘One sec,’ she said and Bob heard a door close then footsteps. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Take this how you want, but a couple of pieces of good news.’
‘God, I could do with that,’ she said.
‘It looks like the trial is still on. It’s not going to be easy but CPS think we’re in with a chance providing we, or rather they, can persuade the judge.’
‘Excellent, and the other bit?’
Bob described what had happened at the refuse centre and how Scotty, having his wits about him, might just have closed the Lizzie murder enquiry. Jo’s response was more guarded than he’d expected.
‘Assuming Scotty is right, it’s a bit of a stretch to accept he happened to turn up dead, don’t you think?’
‘It does happen,’ argued Bob.
‘On the telly maybe, but given what Scotty’s unauthorised source said …’
‘Spanners?’
‘Yes, bloody stupid name by the way. Given what Spanners said, we can’t assume this bloke, whoever he is, acted alone. Nor can we assume he wasn’t taken out himself.’
‘As in murdered?’
‘Why not? He’s served his purpose, but in front of witnesses. If there is this big conspiracy going on, the sooner he’s out of the way, that’s one less vulnerability. Let me speak to Claire Jackson. She needs to put some effort behind this. See you later.’ She ended the call, leaving Bob to stare at the mute handset, wondering why he’d stoked her fire in the first place.