Nick Oldham - Instinct

Bill Robbins, the firearms PC, re-entered the briefing room to gather some paperwork he’d left behind. Donaldson spotted him and had an idea, then trotted out behind Bill, not giving Beckham any response to the threat.

‘Bill — hi,’ Donaldson said, catching up with Robbins.

‘Karl, how’s it going?’ Bill was striding purposefully along the corridor.

‘I’m good. You?’

‘Well, back on firearms training, which is a step in the right direction,’ he answered, turning into the stairwell.

‘That’s great news — but we still have the inquests to come?’

‘Yes, but I’m not worried.’ He started down the concrete steps, Donaldson at his heels. ‘Henry’s been fantastic and the force has been OK-ish. I was justified in what I did, so I’m not losing sleep, other than worrying about my aim.’

‘You were superb actually — hey, what’s your role today?’

‘Do you mean on this half-baked operation?’ he said, still talking over his shoulder as both men descended the stairs. ‘Oops — hope I haven’t said anything out of place?’

‘Not as far as I’m concerned. You saw through it?’

‘Always a cynic where the security services are concerned. They’re crap and they never tell you the truth.’

‘Amen to that,’ Donaldson said, proud of his status as a law enforcement officer, which seemed so much higher a calling. ‘So what is your role?’

‘Just roving quality control, ensuring everyone knows their jobs, keeps on the plot. Welfare, that sort of thing.’ They had reached the lower ground floor on which the custody office and garages were situated.

‘Erm, any chance of tagging along with you today?’

‘Not a problem as far as I’m concerned.’

‘As I’m supposed to be here as an observer,’ Donaldson said, ‘I’ll ride shotgun.’

They returned to the murder scene in Henry’s Mercedes, in which Rik had driven him to the police station in the course of the panic attack, or whatever it was that Henry had suffered. Rik coveted the coupe but Henry, a bit meanly, had always denied him the opportunity of driving it. Henry therefore suspected that Rik had seized on the chance when his brain had gone into free-fall.

Back at the crematorium, the mechanics of running a murder scene were well underway. The road past the cemetery was sealed off other than for essential traffic, and a diversion put in place. The scientific support vehicles were there, as were several paper-suited and booted individuals carrying out their tasks. Henry parked up in much the same place as on his first visit, this time drawing up behind a beautifully restored E-Type Jaguar that made him smile a little. He knew who owned it.

A little away, leaning on an unmarked police car, was PC Driver, the officer who had found the girl’s body on his travels. He was drinking coffee, looking forlorn. Henry walked across to him.

‘Are you OK?’

The officer, a man in his mid-forties, shook his head. ‘No, boss, still can’t get over it.’ His left hand massaged his neck continually in a motion that Henry associated with shock.

‘No — not your usual occurrence in Poulton.’ Henry gave him a wan smile. ‘Why don’t you get yourself home? You’ve done a good job here, no need to stay on.’

‘Thanks. I’ll just get my statement done, first.’

‘OK, do what suits.’

Henry and Rik were logged back on to the scene, clambered into new paper suits, ducked under the tape and approached the ten foot high screen that had been erected around the body to keep out prying eyes. A tent was due shortly.

During the journey Rik had batted about a few ideas about what might have happened to the girl. Henry had tried to concentrate on what he was saying because he didn’t want another brain-freeze attack. He began planning his investigative strategy so as not to lose track. He’d stuck to the formula many times before so it was imprinted in his grey matter — under normal circumstances, that was.

Henry parted a gap in the screen like he was stepping through stage curtains, but in front of him was the scene of a real tragic death, not some country house murder with men in tennis shorts, ladies in twinsets and pearls, and dour mustachioed detectives solving the crime, often without evidence.

There was, however, the stereotypical comic character to lighten proceedings, who, at that moment, was on his haunches, down by the side of the girl’s head, his back to Henry and Rik, instantly recognizable by the large ears sticking out at right angles from his narrow head. Henry walked up behind him and cleared his throat.

The man did not react. He was focused, his latex-gloved hands touching the side of the victim’s head, talking softly into a microphone fastened to his head, the recording being made digitally on a machine in his shirt pocket. This was the owner of the E-Type Jaguar.

Henry coughed again.

Still the man did not turn round, but instead said patiently, ‘Henry, I know it’s you. If you don’t mind, I’ll just finish off what I’m doing, then I’ll be right with you.’

Henry grinned at the admonishment, slid his hands into his pockets — by sliding them through the gaping holes in the sides of the zoot suit — and let his eyes wander around the scene.

Although the crematorium was on the outskirts of Poulton, it was rural and quite isolated, certainly not overlooked. The girl’s body had obviously been dumped here from a car, and as there was nothing overlooking the gates, that deed could easily have been carried out unobserved. Making things much more difficult in terms of finding witnesses.

The man with the ears stood upright and turned slowly to Henry as though a huge wing nut was being twisted.

‘Hello Doctor-Professor,’ Henry smiled.

‘Henry Christie! My God, feels like years since we met over a dead body.’ Professor Baines, the Home Office pathologist, beamed at Henry. The two men had known each other for many years and developed a good relationship, often cemented by a trip to a local hostelry following a messy post-mortem in order to discuss the case informally. And, usually, to pass comments on ladies. Baines was the Home Office pathologist for the area, but over the last couple of years, because of other work, stand-ins had covered for him. Henry was relieved it was Baines today, though. Locums were OK, but they sometimes came with their own peculiar problems. Baines thrust out a bony hand to shake Henry’s and Henry noticed, not for the first time, how narrow Baines’s body was, accentuating the effect of the ears.

‘Good to see you back at the sharp end,’ Henry said, as they shook. ‘I hear you’ve managed to wangle yourself an OBE. Services to teeth, or something.’

‘Services to dental pathology,’ Baines corrected him. He specialized in teeth and had built up a database over the years of all things connected to teeth, including the various methods dentists from all over the world used to carry out their work. This was all with a view to help identify dead people. He had been particularly busy in Central Africa as well as Bosnia, where mass graves were still being dug up to this day. It just wasn’t news any more.

‘Well, congratulations. Did you meet the Queen when you got your gong?’

‘Nah, some royal lackey or other. Guy called Charles. Had ears like mine.’

‘Ah, a minor royal.’

‘And you,’ Baines said, moving closer to Henry. ‘I heard about Kate. I’m truly sorry.’

‘Thank you.’

‘However,’ Baines said, standing back, ‘it frees you to work the field again, eh?’

Henry blinked, then smiled. ‘Y’know, I think I needed someone to say something like that to me.’

‘Henry, if I can but help,’ Baines said solemnly.