Dead water, p.5
Dead Water, page 5
“No surface ones.”
“Then?”
The pathologist met his gaze.
“I’m halting this post-mortem.”
“What? Why?”
“There is evidence of sharp force injury: her tongue was cut out.”
CHAPTER 6
Rego felt a jolt of electricity rush through him. The atmosphere in the room had become charged, tense, and he felt a renewed sense of urgency. This wasn’t suicide or an accidental death, this was murder. And although he was almost certain that he recognised the victim’s tattoo as gang-related, he was determined to keep an open mind. But cutting out the tongue – someone was sending a chilling message.
It also meant that his budget was shot. The basic £2,000 post-mortem was now going to increase to £6,000 for a forensic post-mortem. And there was another problem: DCI Finch informed him that only three doctors in the whole of Cornwall could perform a forensic post-mortem.
Fuming at the delay, Rego worked from his laptop as a new pathologist was sought urgently.
He commandeered a table in the hospital’s staff break room and ran through the actions that needed to take place.
He needed to inform the Major Crime Incident Team at Camborne and get them up to speed; then Interpol, and Border Force who checked passenger lists at Newquay airport and for the ferries; he wanted a drone at the scene where the body was first spotted to see if they could find an entry point for the body, although dumping at sea seemed more likely. He also needed information on the weather conditions, sea temperature and currents for the probable hours that the body had been in the water. He wanted to check one final time whether missing persons reports had thrown up any possible matches, and as a priority, the victim’s fingerprints had to be actioned.
But before he could do any of these things, he needed to get his team in place.
He updated DCI Finch who told him that the Force Intelligence Bureau had assigned the case name ‘Operation Volt’.
“Sir, I’ll need a good analyst for all the data we’ll be pulling on this one. Who usually does this at Penzance?”
“Tom Stevens has done the course, but he usually brings in DC Eagling from Camborne. She’s very experienced, I’d use her.”
Along with a detective’s gut feeling, a good analyst could make or break a case: reading and collating statements, as well as other intelligence such as telephone billing, then assessing the questions that needed to be answered and running the data through sophisticated software programs.
She’d need to differentiate between single strand intelligence, their source and their credibility: had it been corroborated; was it intel that wasn’t in dispute? She’d need to follow the national intelligence model, known as 5 x 5 x 5 which scored the credibility of the intel – and on the same basis, who would have access to it.
She’d need to pull together all the strands and disseminate them appropriately. And they’d need to feed in information from CrimeStoppers and Neighbourhood Watch programmes – you never knew where information was going to come from.
Analysts would produce a sort of Venn diagram linking overlapping areas of intelligence. The charts were documentary exhibits, and could be challenged by the defence.
He hoped DC Eagling was as good as his boss said.
Rego was stunned when Finch further informed him that MCIT at Camborne were too busy to take the case and that DC Eagling would also have to be the Exhibits Officer, oh, and that Rego would be heading up the investigation.
Since when was MCIT too busy to take on a murder case like this? Then he reminded himself that he hadn’t shared his other suspicions with anyone yet.
Irritated with himself, he called the Penzance station so that they could make space in the HOLMES room. He smiled grimly to himself – the police loved their acronyms. Home Office Large Major Enquiry System described the rooms which contained a complete computer system to manage all major incidents.
A woman having her tongue cut out and body dumped at sea definitely fell into that category … even without Rego’s additional concerns.
And he needed to order a fob key that worked.
Rego also hoped that forensics would be able to clean up the image of the tattoo – he had his own theory about that and had forwarded the blurry image to a friend at the National Crime Agency.
His phone beeped with a text to let him know the forensic pathologist had arrived. Anxious to be at the start of the new post-mortem, he strode down the corridor, frowning as his phone rang again.
“Rob! I thought you’d gone to Devon to enjoy a quiet life and clotted cream sandwiches.”
Rego gave a sharp laugh as he listened to his friend’s familiar Brummie accent.
“Not so far, and I’m in Cornwall. I wouldn’t mind a clotted cream tea.” But I’ve definitely been put off seafood for life. “A woman’s body was found floating near Penzance this morning. First thought was a suicide but her tongue has been cut out. I’m on my way to the forensic post-mortem now. The pathologist says livor mortis indicates that the body was lying on its back for eight to twelve hours – possibly more – before being dumped at sea. The tattoo I sent you was on her right ankle.” He took a deep breath. “The image is pretty blurry. I just want to know if … if you see what I see,” he said cryptically.
“I’m opening your email now.”
There was a long period of silence and all Rego could hear was the rushing of blood in his head.
Finally, Vikram’s voice came back on the line.
“It’ll need to be cleaned up, but yeah,” he paused. “It looks like a double-headed eagle on two pistol butts: the Hellbanianz.”
Rego grimaced and unconsciously walked faster.
He’d come across the Hellbanianz on one of his last cases in Manchester. They were a gang of street dogs, dealers and enforcers affiliated to Albanian organised crime. Their logo was the double-headed eagle of the Albanian flag but shaped into the handles of back-to-back revolvers.
More usually found in London over the last twenty years, the Hellbanianz had recently begun expanding their territory. Rego wasn’t a sailor and he had no idea how far the woman’s body might have travelled while it was floating around the coastline, but it definitely hadn’t come from East London, Manchester, or Liverpool – three Hellbanianz strongholds.
This was one time where he really didn’t want to be right. He’d held onto a faint hope that Vikram would tell him he was seeing things that weren’t there. But now he’d had his worst fears confirmed.
“I was afraid you’d say that,” Rego said tightly. “What the hell is an Albanian gang tattoo doing in Cornwall?”
“I don’t think they’re there to build sandcastles,” Vikram said.
“Can you run dentals against any known miss-pers or affiliates?” He paused. “Or informants.”
“On it,” Vikram said. “I’ll put the word out with our International Liaison Officers on the Far Europe Desk and let you know if we get any hits.”
“Thanks, Vik.”
“Watch your back, Rob.”
It was good advice. People who crossed the Hellbanianz didn’t usually live to talk. Rego wondered how the dead woman had been involved. Could she have been an informant? If she was registered, he’d soon know.
Back at the pathology suite, he was introduced to Dr Manners, a straight-talking woman with iron-grey hair and a ramrod posture. She went to work straightaway.
She conferred with Dr Blake, then began the Y-incision through the chest, removing, inspecting and weighing the organs.
“The stomach is empty except for gastric juice. I’d say she hadn’t eaten for the last 12 hours of her life. I can’t smell any alcohol, but I’ll do a blood analysis, of course. Hmm, that’s interesting.”
She paused. Rego was standing far enough back that he couldn’t be sure what the pathologist was looking at.
“What is?”
“There’s no water in the lungs but there is some blood. Quite a lot of blood.”
“Which means?”
“Not sure yet, but it’s unusual. I’ll send bone marrow for analysis.”
She went on to examine the key blood vessels and nerves, then with a deft U-shaped incision from ear to ear, removed the scalp to search for blood or bruising, then checked the outer surface of the skull for nicks or fractures
Using a handheld surgical saw, she cut out a section of bone from the skull and removed it with an odd sucking sound. Rego looked away.
“No signs of epidural haematoma or subdural haematoma.”
Rego interpreted that as no sign of blunt force trauma or that the brain had been rattled around inside the skull following a car crash, explosion, or anything with similar G-forces.
Once the brain had been extracted and preserved, Dr Manners pulled off her gloves.
“Her tongue was removed using a sharp instrument with a short blade – possibly a retractable Stanley knife, box cutter or utility knife.” She paused. “And the victim inhaled so much of her own blood that she effectively drowned in it.”
CHAPTER 7
As she walked home, Tamsyn fumed. She was annoyed that she’d let Chloe get to her and she was irritated with herself. Now they had to work together, and she hated to think what lies Chloe might be spreading. There was no point trying to get on Chloe’s good side because she didn’t have one.
Tamsyn hadn’t seen her since she’d left school and it had been an unpleasant surprise to learn that the enmity was still there. But why? Was she jealous? Was it because a warranted Police Officer was higher in the pecking order than a civilian investigator? Even a newbie officer?
Whatever the reason, it boiled down to one point:
“Born a bitch and just grew bigger,” Tamsyn muttered to herself.
All the same, it worried her. She needed to get along with the other officers. She needed to know that they had her back, and they needed to know that they could trust her the same way. She hoped Chloe would go back to the Camborne station sooner rather than later. Maybe she should try to talk to her – dealing with conflict resolution was a big part of the job.
Am I over-reacting? Am I being a wimp? Then she remembered how the Inspector had stood up for her, how he’d shut Chloe down quickly. Unfortunately, Tamsyn didn’t have that sort of seniority, but his no nonsense approach was one she needed to emulate.
And there had been one other good part to the day – meeting Rosie Flowers. Tamsyn wished that she was on her team. Maybe she’d get to work with her at some point.
As she approached home, she was hyper aware of still being in her uniform. She glanced around her, wondering if anyone she knew had recognised her, and how long it would be before all the neighbours knew that she’d joined the force. One of her trainers had told recruits to keep it low key. In his strong Scouse accent, he’d explained:
“Not everyone likes the bizzies, but you also don’t want neighbours knocking on your door on your day off to tell you about Mrs Jones down the road who’s ignoring the hosepipe ban, or Mr Brown’s grandson who always drives his souped-up Skoda at the speed of sound.”
She’d taken the advice to heart and slipped through the front door like a thief.
Despite the early start and busy day, Tamsyn was still fizzing with excitement after her first shift as a police officer, but off balance, too. Someone had died, a woman, a young woman, and it must be wrong to feel so … so alive. She was disappointed that the cottage was empty when she got home. Not even little Mo was there to greet her. She didn’t know what to do with the energy firing through her body and the storm of emotions brewing inside her.
As she listened to the emptiness of the cottage, Tamsyn realised that she’d forgotten to turn on her personal phone and saw that she’d missed two calls from Jess. She made herself move, walk into the kitchen, make a cup of tea and phoned her back.
“Hey wench! I’ve been waiting to hear from you. So, how was it?” Jess asked sounding hyper the way she always did. “Did you arrest anyone? Were you nervous? Excited? Bricking it?”
“No, yes, yes and hell yes,” Tamsyn laughed and pulled a face, a little surprised to hear that her own voice hadn’t changed. “I was a bit nervous, but I just wanted to get started, you know? I feel like I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”
“I bet you were amazing,” Jess said encouragingly. “But I get it. I feel the same – I want to start my life, get my career going. Wait a sec,” and the sound became muffled for a few seconds as Jess switched to a video call.
Tamsyn could see unfamiliar floral wallpaper in the background.
“I’ve only got a couple of minutes because I’m showing this house to clients in a few minutes. Ugly wallpaper, right? I know what I wanted to ask you: what are you going to do if you have arrest someone we know?”
“Oh, God! Don’t even joke about it! That would be a nightmare!”
“Would you arrest me?” Jess grinned at her.
“Only if you start dating the bartender with the dodgy tache in Mangos who fancies you.”
Jess laughed.
“So, how’d it go today?”
I saw a dead body.
“Pretty intense, but good, really good. I met the station’s new DI and ended up going out to Lamorna with him.”
“What was at Lamorna?”
Tamsyn paused then lowered her voice, not because anyone was listening but because she felt she should. It felt respectful.
“A body had been washed up there.”
Jess shrieked.
“Oh my God, seriously? A dead body? Like, really dead?”
“Yep, very dead.”
Jess pulled a face. “Oh that’s gross! Did you have to touch it?”
“No, it was just … sad. I just kept thinking that she was someone’s sister or daughter…”
“It was a woman?”
“Yeah, but I’m not really allowed to say anything else so you’d probably better not tell anyone. Actually, I’m not sure I’m supposed to tell you…”
Tamsyn’s voice trailed off and she frowned.
“Yeah, you’d have to arrest yourself, and that would be bad,” Jess laughed, unfazed.
“Seriously, Jess, you can’t tell anyone what I said.”
“Yeah, alright, keep your hair on,” she said, sounding miffed. “I won’t say anything. So, what were the other officers like? Any hotties?”
Tamsyn relaxed, back on more familiar ground. Ready to be that Tamsyn again, the one who joked with her bestie about guys and dates and which clubs to avoid in Falmouth.
“I guess, a few,” Tamsyn admitted. “There’s this ex-Royal Marine who’s totally built. He’s about eight or nine years older than us, but he’s just started today, too. I didn’t really get a chance to talk to him though.”
Jess blew a raspberry at the screen.
“That’s rubbish! I’d have been all over that!”
Tamsyn laughed. “I know you would. But I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to date anyone at work.”
“You don’t have to date them – just have some fun, surf and turf,” Jess snorted. “Oh shit, I gotta go – my new clients have arrived. I’ll talk to you later. Love ya!”
“Okay, later! Sell some houses.”
But Jess had already ended the call and Tamsyn was left holding her silent phone, feeling oddly empty. She tried to shake off the feeling of unease, but it clung to her like a sea fog that rolls in on a hot summer day.
Jess worked for her parents who had an estate agent business in Porthleven. She didn’t have to worry about working her way up the food chain of promotion because one day, she’d own it and be the boss.
Tamsyn was a little envious of Jess’s certainty, of knowing her place in the world. Because although Tamsyn loved going fishing with her grandfather, they’d both known for a while that she wouldn’t be joining the generations of Poldhus who’d spent their lives at sea.
Instead, she’d worked in hospitality for two years and as a lifeguard in the summer months, until her application to join the police had been accepted. She’d wanted it for a long time but had never felt that they’d take someone like her until she’d been to the Royal Cornwall Show and talked to a recruitment officer. He’d persuaded her that a trained lifeguard had a lot to offer the force. He’d even suggested that working in a pub was useful training. She’d certainly learned how to deal with drunks and shut down any attempts by them to hit on her.
Tamsyn settled in a chair with her mug of tea and read a few pages from one of her textbooks, but traffic regulations couldn’t hold her attention. She kept seeing the dead woman’s body, naked and vulnerable, but no longer animated, no longer a person – just an empty shell. Feeling unsettled, tired and wired at the same time, she decided to go for a run.
As she pulled on shorts and a t-shirt, her thoughts returned again and again to the body on the beach. Who was she? Where had she come from? Was anyone missing her?
When she checked the Cornwall Live website on her phone, she saw that a press release had been issued with the basic details: a woman’s body had been found near Lamorna Cove that morning; a request for information, and a Freephone number. Maybe that was enough. Maybe by the time she started her next shift, they’d have the answers.
And at least she didn’t have to worry about Jess telling anyone now. Tamsyn knew that she couldn’t run her mouth like that again, but it would be weird not being able to tell Jess about her days.
She knotted the laces on her trainers tightly, warmed up with a few stretches, then headed out, following the footpath upwards, past Trezelah Farm to the narrow granite spine that separated the north and south coasts, then looped around the ancient settlement of Chysauster.
She paused to take in the sweeping views and wipe the sweat from her eyes, wondering what challenges the officers on the late shift were facing, feeling a deep sense of pride that she was one of them now.
The sun was lower in the sky and Tamsyn turned back for home, loping downhill, following the stream.
Before, she’d run because she’d enjoyed athletics at school and was good at it; during her A-Levels she’d run to de-stress.
