Chris Simms: Killing the Beasts

Nikki interrupted, 'So you've been round the rest of the house?'

Jon nodded.

'OK,'said Nikki. 'I'll probably need a scraping from your suit for fibre analysis at some point.'

'No problem,' Jon replied. 'On realizing the body hadn't been checked for a pulse, I re-entered the house and, using a load of magazines for footplates, got to the body. Obviously she was dead.'

Nikki raised her eyebrows. 'Magazines for footplates? Nice bit of improvisation.'

Jon smiled briefly. 'One other thing. There's a cup on the draining board next to the sink and another on the kitchen table with a kiddy-style picture of a snail on it. They're worth bagging up as potential evidence — someone was drinking out of them recently. Problem is the CSO made a brew for the mum in the one with the snail on the side.'

Nikki shook her head. 'We'll be lucky to get anything off that.'

At that moment the ambulance pulled up, so Jon moved his car to allow it to reverse into the mouth of the driveway.

The pathologist and photographer approached the house, pausing on the front doorstep to put on white overshoes, caps and face masks. Laying rubber footplates out before him, the pathologist led the way inside. Almost immediately the front room was filled by white flashes as the photographer went about his work. Ten minutes later the pathologist reappeared in the doorway and beckoned the ambulance men in with the stretcher. Stepping carefully on the footplates, they disappeared into the property.

Nikki and Jon moved round the side of the vehicle, out of sight of the small crowd of onlookers who had now gathered.

'How's giving up going then?' asked Nikki, still looking towards the house.

He thrust his hands into his pockets as if to stop them scrabbling around for a cigarette. 'Doesn't get much easier. I haven't had one since before the Commonwealth Games though.'

'That's bloody good. How long is that — three months or so?'

'Yeah, about that. Did you find it a nightmare for this long?'

'Did? Still do. Though on fewer and fewer occasions. Pubs are the place to avoid for me. That and meetings about the divorce with my solicitor.'

'Your ex is still acting the prick then?'

'Oh yes, he's really honing that skill of his nowadays.'

Jon's lips tightened in sympathy and he said, 'Well, just thank God no kids are involved I suppose.'

Nikki let out an incredulous laugh. 'There's no way that's ever going to happen. I've seen too many friends go on Prozac immediately after they give birth. Motherhood? No bloody thank you. Anyway.' She clapped her hands together softly to end that part of the conversation. 'You're still using chewing gum. Is that to fight your cigarette cravings or to make sure your breath smells sweet for me?' Impishly, she glanced up at him.

Enjoying the game, Jon caught her eye then looked skywards, only to see Alice's face in the clouds above him. Quickly he looked down and said with a smile, 'In your dreams, Nikki — you know I'm way out of your league.'

'Cheeky bastard,' she laughed, and went to jab him in the ribs.

Jon caught her fist just as the ambulance men reappeared with the body, the pathologist following along behind. Clicking instantly back into professional mode, Nikki pulled her hand free and walked back round the ambulance. Once the body was safely inside, she got the ambulance men to sign their names in the log book for people who had entered the crime scene. Meanwhile Jon had stepped over to the pathologist. 'Any ideas?' He pulled off his face mask and started removing the white shoe covers. 'Well, I'd say death occurred due to suffocation. All the signs are there: bluish lips, ears and nails, petechiae — burst capillaries around the eyes and on the eyeballs themselves.'

'And the white stuff blocking her airway?'

'It's not any sort of secretion I've seen. I'd say she's had the stuff pumped down her throat somehow, but until I've seen in her lungs and stomach, I can't say for sure.'

'Can you start the autopsy?'

'Yes, that's fine. Of course, I'll hand over to the home office pathologist as soon as I can confirm it wasn't natural causes.'

'OK — can one of you call me as soon as you know?' said Jon, handing him a card.

He turned to Nikki. 'I need to get away and interview the mum. Can we completely seal the house until the autopsy result is confirmed? If it's suspicious you can arrange for forensics to come over.'

In a voice kept low so none of the onlookers could hear, she said, 'Tighter than a camel's arse in a sandstorm.'

Jon winked in reply and walked over to his car.

After a bit of persuasion Mrs Mather had accepted the fact that her fingerprints, a swab from the inside of her cheek for DNA testing and combings from her clothes for fibre analysis were needed. After that, she answered Jon's questions about her daughter, Polly.

Twenty-two years old, single, keen on music and clubbing, worked in the Virgin Megastore on Market Street. As was often the case with people hovering at the edge of an industry, she had ambitions for a more central role. In Polly's case she was lead vocalist of a band, The Soup.

The beer cans and full ashtrays in Polly's front room were the result of the band having been round at her house the night before. Because he had recently been her daughter's boyfriend, Mrs Mather had a phone number for the band's bass player, Phil Wainwright. She asserted that the split had been amicable — the result of Polly wanting to travel round the world while he wanted to concentrate on gigging and trying to find a record deal.

Shortly after Jon had arranged for a patrol car to take her home, his mobile went. It was the home office pathologist. The autopsy had been handed over to him because there were only small amounts of the white substance in the oesophagus and trachea, and none in the lungs or stomach. This meant it had definitely been introduced from the outside, probably while she was still alive. What was confusing the pathologist was how it could have got there. He explained to Jon that, for the cough reflex not to function, a person would have to be in a coma or under very heavy sedation. In his opinion this was the case — the substance had formed a neat plug at the back of the girl's throat with almost no evidence of her choking and spluttering. Therefore, with the victim unconscious at the time of the substance being introduced, a third party had to be involved.

'So we'll need a toxicology report then?'

'Yes. If she was subdued with a hospital anaesthetic — propofol or maybe sodium thiopentone — it should be present in her blood in the form of metabolites, but I haven't found any marks so far to suggest she's been injected. Of course, in order to find evidence of narcotics, a full toxicology analysis will be needed. We haven't got the necessary facilities here.'

'Right — can you prepare a blood sample for me? I'll get it sent down to the forensic science lab at Chepstow.'

Next he called DCI McCloughlin. 'Boss? It looks like murder.'

'OK, open an incident room. Ring round and see which stations have any rooms available and I'll start getting a team together for you.'

'Will do.'

After finding a room at the divisional headquarters in Ashton, Jon decided to give Phil Wainwright a ring. As soon as the phone was answered Jon could hear loud talking and music in the background. A second later a gruff voice said, 'Hello?' It was spoken loudly, as if the person was anticipating not being able to hear very well.

'Is that Phil Wainwright?'

'Yeah! Who's this?'

'Detective Inspector Jon Spicer, Greater Manchester Police.'

'Oh, hang on.' The voice disappeared and Jon could hear only background noise until a door shutting caused it to suddenly grow fainter. 'Sorry, you caught me behind the bar. This is about Polly?'