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  “Just thinking, Guv,” Caslin said softly, “just thinking.”

  The opportunity for further conversation was broken by Caslin’s phone ringing. Taking it from his pocket he saw the number was withheld. He walked away from the others and hit the answer tab.

  “Caslin.”

  “Good morning, Inspector. It’s Jimmy Sullivan.”

  Caslin’s heart sank and he blew out his cheeks. The last thing he needed was to be fielding enquiries from one of the most annoying journalists in Yorkshire. “Morning, James. What can I do for you? Bearing in mind how busy I am, I’ll warn you, it won’t be much.”

  “I think you can drop whatever it is you’ve got on, for this.”

  Caslin was curious but sceptical. After all, it was Sullivan, “What do you want from me, Jimmy?”

  “For once, perhaps it’s what I can do for you. You’ll not believe what landed on my desk this morning.”

  Forty minutes later, Caslin and John Inglis had made their way into the city centre and were now standing beside Sullivan’s desk. Once freelance, the journalist got a break in a major case involving Caslin, a break that cemented his return to contracted employment. A position at the Post was hardly the leading daily red-top, where Sullivan had made his name but regardless, it was a decent role and a second chance.

  “Who would have thought this for a turn of events, eh?” Sullivan said with a smile. Caslin knew the hack was loving this.

  Caslin gently wiped the side of the desk with his shoe, smearing mud from the reserve on to it and wiping his foot on the carpet tiles to get rid of the remainder. He took a modicum of pleasure in the act. Sullivan noticed and shook his head. “Come on, Jimmy,” Caslin encouraged. “We’ve not got all day.”

  Sullivan reached into the top drawer of his pedestal and retrieved a brown envelope. Placing it on his desk, he indicated it with a nod. Caslin donned a pair of latex gloves and picked it up. The flap had not been sealed and he gently eased out the contents, a Polaroid snapshot of a young woman, easily identifiable as Natalie Bermond. The light where the picture was taken was evidently poor and the background was a plain block-work wall, without detail. Natalie was visible, sitting with two hands holding up a copy of the Post to camera. Her expression was fearful, haunted even, with wide eyes that appeared to be pleading for help. Raising the picture closer, both Caslin and Inglis peered at the newspaper she held.

  “Yesterday, September 16th,” Sullivan offered in an attempt to spare their eyesight.

  “You’re sure?” Inglis asked.

  “The lead story is our probe into dodgy spread betting at the racecourse,” Sullivan offered. “Unmistakable. The runaway granddaughter of a local MP wasn’t holding readers” attention.”

  “Well, that’s proof of life,” Inglis said, catching Caslin’s reaction too late.

  “Proof of life, eh?” Sullivan said aloud. “So, the missing has become the kidnapped, getting juicy. Have you spoken to him…or is it them?”

  Caslin ignored the question, flipping the photo over and reading the handwriting on the reverse, whilst Inglis flapped at a response to Sullivan. The message simply read, “30K be ready for the call”. Inglis was still attempting to nullify the journalist when Caslin butted in.

  “Who’s had hold of this, Jimmy?”

  Sullivan thought for a moment, “Me, my duty editor and…only those working in the mail room, this morning.”

  Caslin examined the envelope again. There was no postmark, “Hand delivered?”

  Sullivan nodded, “I guess so, yeah. Are you going to tell me what’s going on? I told my editor the other day, you lot were onto something big-”

  “How would you know that?” Inglis challenged him. Sullivan shrugged, flashing him a half smile. The DCI had never run across Sullivan before.

  “Don’t worry, Guv,” Caslin said. “You have to spend at least fifteen minutes in Jimmy’s company, in order to fully depreciate him.”

  Sullivan laughed, “That’s harsh, Inspector. Very harsh indeed.”

  “Not a word of this leaves your building, Jimmy,” Caslin said firmly.

  “Now hold on a-”

  “Not a word,” Caslin reiterated. “Get your editor on the phone. We’re going to need to have a little chat. While you’re at it, you can chase up the mailroom staff and any CCTV footage of your post box.”

  Sullivan sat back in his chair, exhaling heavily and fixing Caslin with a stare. He knew not to mess about when Caslin used that tone. “You don’t want much, do you?” he said, lifting the receiver.

  Chapter 14

  “She was still alive when she went into the water.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “The volume of water in her lungs is categorical,” Dr Taylor stated. “Cause of death is drowning and definitely in the river, samples of which were taken and match up.”

  “What can you tell me about the head wound?” Caslin asked, moving to get a better view. Dr Alison Taylor had carried out the post-mortem the same day she received the body, following Melissa’s identification by her mother.

  “That was a significant blow to the side of the head. It caused a massive depressed skull fracture and subsequent intraparenchymal haemorrhaging,” she looked up, interpreting Caslin’s expression. “A bleed on the brain that proves fatal in over forty percent of cases.”

  “Would she have been conscious?”

  “After the blow?” Dr Taylor clarified, Caslin nodded. “Highly unlikely. My guess would be she was struck down and either fell, or was thrown, into the river. Death followed soon after.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Volume of blood in her system, the heart must have stopped pumping shortly after the injury.”

  “What caused it, in your opinion?”

  “A large object of irregular shape and somewhat weighty. There were no splinters or elements of rust in the wound, which could indicate if it was a timber or metal object. However, it is possible that the pressure of the river’s current may have cleaned the wound, washing them away.”

  “What about these other injuries?” Caslin asked, pointing to the deep scratches he observed when Melissa was pulled from the water.

  “They’re fingernail abrasions. You can tell by the curved nature of the scratches, wide at the start and narrow at the end. Very unusual, I must say.”

  “How so?” Caslin asked.

  “Their locations,” Dr Taylor said. Pointing at various parts of Melissa’s body, she continued, “In sexual assault cases, we expect to find these wounds on areas where the assailant traditionally attacks. Notably these are the breasts, genitals, inside of the thighs and the anal region. Now we do have some signs of that in this instance but also to the shoulders, waistline, forearms and legs. I must admit I haven’t seen the like of it before. Not in such volume, anyway. They were recent, though. The blood and lymphs hadn’t the time to dry, indicating they were very fresh indeed.”

  “How long ago?”

  “These injuries form bright red scabs when they dry, which are slightly raised, within a twelve to twenty-four-hour period. The process hadn’t occurred so they were definitely ante-mortem and therefore very recent. All of which helps me to set a time of death, which I estimate to be five days ago.

  “That puts her in the water sometime early Saturday, of this past weekend?”

  “I agree,” said Dr Taylor. “I’ll be able to be more specific once my test results come back.”

  Caslin considered that for a moment, “Any other signs of sexual assault?”

  Dr Taylor appeared thoughtful, retrieving her notes from a table, off to the side. “I’m not convinced that she was sexually assaulted, although some signs point in that direction. She’d recently had intercourse but there is none of the usual trauma one would expect in a violent assault. No tears or vaginal abrasions, for instance.”

  “Perhaps the violence came later?” Caslin suggested.

  “Possibly,” Dr Taylor conceded. “With that said, can yo
u see these shallow bruises?” she leaned in and directed Caslin to two areas, one at the top of the inner left-thigh and another, below the hip on the right. “They are caused by underwear being forcibly removed, usually torn off, rather than taken. Have you found her underwear?”

  Caslin shook his head, “Not yet, still searching.”

  “Well, expect the fabric to show signs of damage,” she frowned. “So, you see my dilemma. The bruising indicates force, whereas the internals show nothing of the sort.”

  “Anything useful from underneath her fingernails, signs of defensive wounds or dare I ask, semen samples?”

  Dr Taylor smiled at him, it was a knowing smile, “The water has cleaned away most forensic evidence, as I’m sure you well know but…”

  “But,” Caslin said, returning her smile.

  “But I was able to retrieve some scrapings from under the nails. I’ve sent them to the lab already. You’ll have to chase Leeds for the results. As for defensive wounds, no, I’ve not found any. All adds to the confused picture, doesn’t it? I found this interesting,” she said, indicating Melissa’s feet, heavily ingrained with dirt on the sides and to the soles. These too, had many scratches but were clearly different to those on the rest of her body. “She was moving barefoot across rough, muddy ground. Evidently, she wasn’t used to doing so, the skin has considerable damage. I doubt she was too careful about where she put her feet.”

  “Maybe she didn’t have a choice,” Caslin replied thoughtfully. “Have you got anywhere with the other body?”

  Dr Taylor indicated for him to follow her. Together, they walked to the other end of her pathology lab.

  “I’ve only managed the preliminaries, so far. Therefore, I can’t give you very much, except that you have a further two victims.”

  “Two?” Caslin enquired. His tone, one of surprise. “Are you certain?”

  Dr Taylor nodded enthusiastically, “Oh absolutely, yes. Unless you’ve come across a woman with two left legs before, I haven’t. I would estimate that I have barely half the remains in their entirety. Your searches are still going on at the scene?”

  “Yes, of course,” Caslin replied. This case was turning more sinister by the hour. The forensic team at the scene had thus far produced four hessian sacks, the contents of each varying in size and degradation. “What else do you have? Anything we can use to identify them?”

  “That will prove difficult. I don’t have hands or feet and nor do I have a head, for either of them. I can tell you they are definitely female, that’s clear from basic examination of the pelvic area, although the genitals have been removed-”

  “Removed? What, surgically?”

  “Nothing as precise, I’m afraid but bone structure doesn’t lie. I would estimate their age range, with a reasonable degree of accuracy, between twenty-five and thirty-five.”

  “Too early for cause of death, I know but any idea how long they’ve been out there?”

  “I’ll need to run a battery of tests to be sure but my best guess would be around six to nine months. As for cause of death, with what we have, it would be pure conjecture at this point. You might get a DNA hit from the database but if not, without more to work with, I’ll tell you now, it will be nigh on impossible to identify them.”

  “Are you able to determine whether they were killed at the reserve or merely dumped there?”

  “I would say they were dumped. There’s little or no mud or foliage present on the bodies which you would expect if they had been butchered at the scene. I choose that term particularly carefully. The mutilation is severe but has been done with reasonable precision, not in a frenzied manner. I think they died elsewhere and were then dumped.”

  Caslin’s mind went into overdrive. Their initial search hadn’t turned up any more remains. Presumably the rest would be held in other sacks but if they had been thrown into the river, or dumped in another location, finding them may prove difficult. Each of those already retrieved had been secured with cable ties, leaving the contents with no opportunity to spill. The missing heads, hands and feet were both intriguing and macabre, at the same time. Was it a case of concealing the identity of the victims or were they merely awaiting discovery? Another thought that came to him was the least palatable, that they were grisly souvenirs, trophies retained by the killer.

  “I don’t mean to be pushy, Alison,” Caslin began, “but when do you think you’ll be able to tell me more?”

  Dr Taylor thought about it for a moment, “Tomorrow evening,” she said confidently. “Perhaps over dinner?”

  Caslin’s eyes flicked up, meeting hers, unsure if he heard correctly. “Dinner?”

  “Unless you already have plans, or can’t spare the time,” she said, flushing.

  “No, no, not at all,” Caslin stammered. “Everyone has to eat. Dinner sounds great.”

  “Good,” Dr Taylor replied. “I’ll get us a table. How about seven-thirty, at Domenicos?”

  “Sounds great,” Caslin said, immediately noting the repetition and clenching his eyes shut with that realisation.

  “I’ll book it.”

  Caslin left the mortuary with more than case facts spinning through his head. Despite the horrendous details he had just seen and heard, he was upbeat and he knew why. The previous year he had surreptitiously tried to engineer a date with Alison Taylor, almost succeeding, until a case got in the way. Believing the opportunity to be long since passed, he consigned her to the file of might-have-beens, perhaps doing so too early. The timing was little better on this occasion but he would find a way.

  His phone began to ring as he made his way down the steps outside, it was Terry Holt.

  “Sir, I’ve got nothing to link Summerbee with Durakovic and his business is clean. I thought I’d take a look at these previous cases he was involved with, maybe run down the witnesses and associates, see what turns up. Maybe somebody will remember something they didn’t mention before?”

  “Good idea, Terry,” Caslin said. “This guy knows how to play and you only learn that through experience. If you haven’t found a link then it follows that he’s hiding it pretty well. I also want you to check with Vice to see if there are any other prostitutes that have gone missing in the last six to nine months, particularly if they worked for, or were associated with, Anton Durakovic. How did you get on with Handanovic?”

  “No hits, Sir,” Holt replied. Caslin wasn’t shocked by that. “He’s not known to us. I can’t find any record of him anywhere.”

  “Get back to me when you have something.”

  Caslin hung up. Finding no link between the two didn’t mean there wasn’t one. He realised he could be wrong about Summerbee but Caslin wasn’t prepared to scrub him off the list just yet. There was no doubt in his mind that this man was concealing something and he planned to find out what. He went to put his phone away but changed his mind, calling DS Hunter instead. She answered quickly.

  “What’s going on with the Bermonds, any news?” he asked.

  “Tim’s arranged the money with the bank. They’ll transfer it into Natalie’s account via BACS, overnight. We’re all set for a call, this end. Catherine and Tim are nervous but that’s understandable. It’s edged with some relief after seeing her photo.”

  “Any word from Tech on Natalie’s laptop?”

  “Sorry, Sir,” Hunter apologised. “What with everything, I haven’t had time to check in with them. I’ll get on to it.”

  Caslin asked to be kept informed and hung up, setting off into the city centre. The feeling that this kidnapping wasn’t all that it was supposed to be came rushing back to him. Everyone was hoping that the money transfer would signal a communication as to Natalie’s whereabouts but Caslin’s instincts told him that wouldn’t happen. There was more to this than they were aware of. However, currently Caslin felt blindfolded, waiting on another to instigate the next phase of the operation. Stuart Nicol hadn’t turned up yet and a man of his profile never stayed in the shadows for long. Caslin couldn’t help but wo
nder why he had dropped off the radar. The CCTV footage obtained from outside the newspaper offices offered little. A figure, whose features were so obscured by dark clothing and a balaclava, that Caslin couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman. The envelope and photo had been sent to forensics for processing, a lingering hope of DNA or a fingerprint, all that Caslin had to cling to.

  Returning his thoughts to Melissa Brooke, he pondered the inconsistencies within the evidence. If Alison Taylor was right, in that the others were dumped there after being dismembered, then why would a killer change his modus-operandi for Melissa? Killers were inherently ritualistic in how they went about things and rarely deviated from successful routines. Statistically that was the case anyway. However, there would always be exceptions and those were the hardest killers to track. Images of Melissa running through the brush, pursued by her assailant in the darkness, came to mind. He couldn’t help but empathise with the fear she must have experienced. Had she fought for her life? Had she fled, only to be caught and killed?

  Whether or not she had fallen into the water or been thrown, was another angle that he contemplated. Falling would have carried her away from the killer, thereby robbing him of the opportunity to dismember her in the same fashion as the others. Whereas, had she fled from him, or perhaps wounded him in some way, he may have been unable, or unwilling to carry out his usual procedure. An apparent knowledge of forensic practices of identification could have led him to throw her into the water, knowing that this would destroy the majority of evidence. If the latter was the case then he was forensically aware. This would signify there was an intelligent killer out there, someone well versed in police procedure. One thing was certain, if he had killed several times, then he would almost certainly kill again. Caslin had to get to him before he sought to satisfy that hunger once more.

  The hum of the traffic almost drowned out the sound of his ringing phone. Scrabbling around in his pocket, he managed to answer it before the voicemail kicked in.

  “Hi Nate,” an upbeat and familiar voice said. “I thought you could do with a pick-me-up.”