‘Guv, there’s a third body. A child. It’s bleeding carnage in there,’ he muttered.
This news had by now permeated through the gathered ranks of officers. Their silence, their shocked expressions and their preoccupied stares were evidence that this place had witnessed the most horrific of deaths.
George was a stickler for forensics. Like Aussie DS Fletcher who finds his riverside crime scene trashed in Dead Man’s Footsteps, George could explode on sight should an errant PC traipse over evidence in his size elevens. Practising what he preached, George wriggled into the ‘one size fits no-one’ white protective forensic suit carefully selected from the bin bag of similar garments and slipped on matching overshoes. Providing his name and rank to the well-briefed PC guarding the scene, he climbed the steps and gingerly crossed the threshold through the communal door leading to the two self-contained flats above the club.
Had he not been warned, he would have stumbled over her in the pitch black. If he had, she would not have complained. The dead don’t protest. Hilda Teed’s skull could never have survived the pounding it had suffered. In her dressing gown, she blocked the narrow hallway, lying crumpled in a pool of her own blood and pulverized grey matter.
George had seen all he needed. It was time to step back and get the ‘ologists’ in. Then, as with Grace’s investigations now, the scientists were becoming essential in demystifying murder scenes. Making sense out of chaos was the domain of the eggheads who spent their lives poring over the broken remains of humanity.
The first of these to arrive was the renowned Home Office pathologist Dr Iain West. A veteran of countless homicides across the UK, Iain was the ‘go to’ expert for grisly and complex murders. It always seemed to be either Iain or his wife, Dr Vesna Djuruvic — the real life Dr Nadiuska de Sancha, Roy Grace’s favourite death-doctor — who was on call.
To fill the time while Iain made his way to the scene, George drove the short distance to the police station where DS Dennis Walker was already taking a statement from Paul Teed, Hilda’s twenty-three-year-old stepson. He and his wife Helen had found the bodies, having apparently returned from a trip to Yorkshire.
Paul struck an unremarkable form. Barely 5’8” tall, pasty and not hindered by excess muscle, his quiet, reserved manner meant he would never stand out in a crowd. However, his lack of emotion was puzzling the experienced detective. Helen, who was being interviewed and comforted in another part of the station, was inconsolable.
Police witness interview rooms are soulless places. The poisonous Ashley Harper’s first encounter with the police in Dead Simple was in such a facility. Described brilliantly as ‘small, windowless, painted pea green and reeking of stale cigarette smoke’, they can be a wonderful preparation for a lifetime of imprisonment for those whose dark and macabre secrets are yet to be exposed.
George did not have long until he needed to be back at the scene but he had heard members of staff confiding to officers there that a shotgun was kept on the premises. He was keen to hear what Paul had to say about that. He had offered nothing on this so far. Apologizing politely, George joined Dennis in the interview.
‘Paul, do you remember a shotgun being in the club?’ he asked.
‘A shotgun? No, I don’t think so. Why?’
‘Other people remember seeing one. Don’t you?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Oh, come on, Paul. You lived there yet you seem to be the only person who can’t remember it. Now is not the time to hold back.’
‘Oh, right, that shotgun. Yes I do, now you mention it.’
Dennis and George gave each other an almost imperceptible knowing look.
‘Right, that’s better, Paul,’ said George. ‘Now where is it?’
‘I threw it in the sea.’
‘You did what?’
‘I hate guns so I threw it in the sea a few days ago.’
‘Convenient,’ muttered Dennis beneath his breath.
‘What did your dad say about that?’ insisted George.
‘He didn’t know,’ came the reply.
George and Dennis banked that loose end for tying up later.
Arrangements were made for Paul to stay at the police station. Since he had not yet been arrested, they applied gentle persuasion on him to remain. George made his way back to the club.
Back at the scene, observing the forensic protocols, George, Dr West and SOCO (Scenes of Crime Officer) DI Tilt wrapped themselves in their forensic suits and tiptoed inside. Gently stepping over Hilda, Dr West crouched to examine her injuries by flickering torchlight. They all knew what he was about to say, but he had to announce it nonetheless.
‘Killed by extensive and repeated blows by a blunt instrument to the head. No chance of survival.’ The formal post mortem would come later but in all probability the cause of death would boil down to just that.
They moved on into the flat. Knowing there were at least two more tableaus of horror awaiting them.
George Teed had had a reputation for being larger than life. Now, in death too, he made an impact.
Usually he wore designer suits and gold bling, but that night he was as naked as the day he was born. Lying on his back, he looked as if he had been caught by surprise while leaping out of bed to meet his murderous attacker. Again, a blunt instrument to the head, with which he was struck many times and with great force, was the last thing he would have known. No chance of retaliation; not the slightest sign of a defence wound. The walls, carpets, bedding and furniture looked as if they had been showered by crimson dye. The scene was straight off the set of Hammer Horror.
The worst was saved until last. David Teed was only thirteen. He had been entitled to look forward to a life of hope and achievement. He had harmed no-one. His last memories would have been of running for his life around the flat.
He was still dressed in his pyjamas, and forensics revealed that he’d had no option but to run through his own mother’s blood as she lay dead or dying in front of him. Surely knowing that his dad too had been battered to death, he’d made a frantic attempt to wrench open the patio doors to escape. He had pulled at the full-length floral curtains when his own metal American baseball bat was crunched into the back of his skull. He stood no chance. He died where he fell. There were to be no survivors and no witnesses, apart from the family’s black Great Dane.
To most people, such carnage would be overwhelming. It would shroud all rational thought. In the staring, startled eyes of the dead you can sometimes see the horror of their last moments, the disbelief that their life was about to be so brutally quashed. You may detect a fearful plea for help. Police officers know dwelling on that is no good whatsoever. You have to put that to one side. The dead deserve your professionalism. They don’t need your tears and pity.
There is always some clue, some mistake made by the killer if you know where to look. As Peter James often reflects, the perfect murder is the one that never comes to the attention of the police so with all the others there is always a giveaway, a product of the killer’s panic or poor planning. In the same way that Grace looks for that tiny slip-up when analysing the chicken shed torso murder in Not Dead Yet, so twenty-seven years earlier George had to find the murderer’s Achilles heel by thinking outside the box.
It’s often the simple things that get missed. Some people try to be just too clever. There is a reason Grace talks of ‘clearing the ground under your feet’. The clues are invariably there. You just have to know how to look for them.
Such as the flashing digits on the radio alarm clock that George had spotted, possibly indicating a break in the power supply. Not unusual in itself but, applying the dogged determination of the inquisitive detective’s mind and by layering the little things together, significance starts to shine through. The detectives’ code: ABC — Assume nothing, Believe no-one, Check everything.