No Place to Hide

‘It is,’ Dave said. ‘But, there’s no point having a force that can’t be trusted. Unless you’re Robert Mugabe or Bashar al-Assad, I suppose.’

Dick grunted. ‘Which Fast-track isn’t, is he?’

Dave laughed. ‘I reckon he’d like to be though. Only way he’s going to get the respect he thinks he deserves.’

‘Also while we’re out here,’ Pete said, bringing the conversation back on track, ‘I want someone in the Blue Boar tonight, to see if Millic turns up there. If so, I want him followed. I want an address for him. But there’s a lot else to do before that. We’ve got a killer to catch.’

*

Pete draped his jacket over the back of his chair, sat down and switched on his computer. As he reached for the mouse, his phone beeped. He checked the screen. One missed call. Recognising the number, he called back.

‘Morning, Doc. You rang?’

‘I did. I have two exhumed bodies on the tables in the mortuary. And I think you ought to get here as soon as you can, Peter.’

Pete felt something swoop in his chest. ‘Any particular reason, Doc?’

‘Initial examinations suggest that our theory is probably correct.’

‘Ooh. OK, I’m on my way.’ He ended the call, switched off his computer and stood up again. ‘Going to the mortuary. The doc’s got something to show me.’

‘Careful, boss. Statements like that are what rumours get started on.’

‘Well, you concentrate on the other rumour we were talking about earlier and see if you can come up with something useful.’ He hooked his jacket off his chair and headed for the door.

*

Doc Chambers looked up from the steel cart he was working at, the overhead lights glittering on his short stubble of grey hair. He set down the large forceps he was using and stepped forward, stripping off his gloves to shake hands.

‘Peter. Good to see you.’

‘How’s it going?’

Two of the four steel autopsy tables were occupied. The bodies had been cleaned and laid out ready for examination. The pathologist had been in the process of laying out his tools to begin the first of them.

‘Interestingly,’ he said. ‘Basically, we were right. We have a serial killer in our midst, here in Exeter.’

Pete grimaced. ‘Show me.’

Chambers extended a hand to the body on his left. ‘First, we have the remains of one Donald Tennyson. He was found two months ago. Cause of death was recorded as acute cardiac failure – which, ultimately, is what kills us all, of course – with no clear cause. He had no record of cardiac issues, despite his obvious size, and shows no needle marks, unlike our previous victims. There are a couple of ways that can be achieved nefariously. One of them can still be tested for at this stage. The other can’t, I’m afraid, though it is recorded that he had a substantial amount of clear, colourless, non-alcoholic liquid in his digestive tract. He’d taken a large drink, possibly of water, though we’ll never know now. I’ll take samples in due course.

‘The other case . . .’ He nodded at the body on the second table. ‘A female, twenty-two to twenty-five years of age, identity unknown. Her body shows all the signs of addiction to Class A drugs and the kind of lifestyle often associated with that. In short, she was a prostitute. Tests showed that she was not high when she died. In fact, there were only traces remaining in her system. She was trying to kick the habit. Physical findings are intriguing though. Faint, generalised bruising was noted around her abdomen along with a red mark across her shoulders.’

He crossed towards the body, which was greyish and emaciated by the early signs of decomposition, took a pair of disposable gloves from a box on the side and pulled them on.

‘She was found just over a month ago, down on the Marsh Barton industrial estate. Cause of death was recorded as exposure. You can see the bruising around her stomach – probably more clearly than you would have when she was brought in. One of the advantages of a delayed examination.’

Pete looked down at her. No matter what condition a body was in, he always thought of it as a person, not a corpse. A person who was not conscious, but, nevertheless, a human being. A victim. Someone who had had a life, hopes, dreams and all the rest. Someone who needed him to speak for them, and whose friends and loved ones needed him to find justice for the wrong that had been done to them. And it seemed like this girl had suffered several wrongs in her short life, only the last of which had left her lying on this steel table today, her death unexplained, her killer still out there on the streets, walking free.