Steven Dunne - Deity

Noble looked up to shake out any questions then continued. ‘You won’t be surprised to hear that Forensics don’t have a lot to go on after immersion. However, Tommy McTiernan’s corpse had undergone an unusual. .’ He paused, looking for the right word before glancing at his superior for vocabulary.

‘Procedure,’ finished Brook.

‘Procedure,’ echoed Noble. ‘McTiernan’s body was drained of blood and his internal organs and intestines had been removed.’

‘Not while he was alive?’ asked Gadd.

‘No. McTiernan was already dead. He died of alcohol poisoning.’

Gadd’s face clouded over. ‘Alcohol poisoning? That’s usually self-inflicted.’

Noble looked at Brook then back at DS Gadd. ‘Yes.’

‘So he wasn’t murdered?’

‘Probably not,’ replied Brook softly. He paused to look across at Jane Gadd, wondering if she was going to ask why five CID officers were about to spend their weekend on this. It was a legitimate question but she’d clearly decided against it.

Noble continued. ‘Shortly after death, Tommy’s organs were removed and, we assume, whoever removed them began the process of preparing his body for embalming. His hair was cut, he was shaved, his nails were clipped and the body was washed and treated with chemicals.’

‘So if he wasn’t murdered, McTiernan’s disposal is what? A DIY burial gone wrong?’ asked Morton. ‘Or a funeral home mix-up, maybe.’

‘It has been known, especially where there’s no next-of-kin to claim the body, or kick up a fuss,’ continued Noble. ‘Given the nature of the procedure, we’re fairly sure McTiernan hasn’t been in the state system and hasn’t had an official post mortem. But right now we don’t know.’

‘There was a case in Colchester five or six years ago,’ said Cooper. ‘A trainee undertaker sent the wrong number of corpses for cremation and before he knew it, he had a spare stiff on his hands. Rather than fess up to his boss and risk the can, he panicked and buried it in a field.’

Noble winced, awaiting the inevitable.

‘Fess up?’ queried Brook. ‘Are you American, Detective Constable?’

‘Sorry, sir,’ replied Cooper with a sheepish grin. ‘I pick up all sorts of slang from the kids.’

‘Do you?’ said Brook, unmoved. But a second later he smiled after a sudden inspiration. ‘How are the kids?’

Cooper’s mouth fell open. ‘Erm, they’re fine. Sir.’

‘Good. Glad to hear it, er. . Dave. You must bring in some pictures some time.’ Brook caught the amused glance from Noble, who quickly returned his eyes to his notebook.

‘The funeral home angle isn’t a bad one,’ continued Noble, ‘because of the degree of cosmetic care. And we will look into the possibility of a mix-up tomorrow, but there are problems with that theory. Whoever dumped the body went to the trouble of stealing bollards and at least one Road Closed sign to block access to traffic either side of the bridge. Only when the road was closed did he tip the body in the water.’

‘Pretty cool-headed,’ agreed Cooper. ‘Seems to point away from a random undertaker panicking.’

‘And the fact that we now have a second body, as yet unidentified, but in similar condition, would seem to confirm that,’ said Brook. ‘So tomorrow we’re going to get on the phone and talk to all the funeral directors in the surrounding area. We don’t have time to visit face to face yet, and they may be closed on a Sunday, but if we ring them, they’re likely to have an answering service to redirect calls or provide a contact number so they don’t lose business. Speak to them at home if necessary and if you have a website, follow up with an email.’

‘You’re not expecting them to admit they’ve dumped bodies illegally.’

‘Course not,’ said Brook, ‘but use your experience. Shortlist any firm that reacts badly to the question or rings any alarm bells with you at all. The other information we want is the name of any disgruntled employee, past or present, who has caused problems, particularly with regard to their attitude to the corpses.’

‘Such as?’

‘Whoever performed this procedure has specialist knowledge and may have been in the industry. So we want names of anybody they consider took a morbid interest in the preparation of remains, that sort of thing,’ explained Brook. ‘Maybe someone’s had to be sacked recently because they had some sick hang-up or acted inappropriately in some way. I’m sure I don’t need to spell it out. Get names and addresses for follow-up on Monday. And the name of anyone who lives east of Derby, where the bodies were dumped, goes to the top of the list.’

Gadd, Morton and Cooper scribbled down their questions.

‘Do we think there’s a sexual motive?’ asked Gadd.

‘Not at this time,’ said Noble.

‘Anything else we need to know?’ asked Rob Morton.

‘Two things,’ said Brook, looking at Noble. ‘Although McTiernan’s internal organs were removed, the heart was replaced and stitched back into the body cavity. Why, we don’t know. Secondly, the brain had been attacked and cut up using a homemade tool which was inserted up the nose and into the cavity.’ Brook watched his team cringe. ‘Pieces of brain were then removed via the nostrils, we assume using some kind of sharp hook on the tool.’

‘Jesus,’ said Morton. ‘Why?’

‘We don’t know, though removing the brain with all the other organs reduces decomposition and improves the embalmer’s chances for successful preservation.’

‘So if you do get a lead on a suspect ex-employee, find out what it was they did to the bodies, without revealing that MO,’ said Noble. ‘We keep that to ourselves to weed out the cranks.’

‘The Embalmer,’ nodded Cooper, pleased with himself. ‘Catchy.’

Brook drove home late to Hartington and was tempted into the garden to drink in the early summer air and a small glass of Aberlour malt whisky. As he settled on to the bench, a jet-black cat dropped from the drystone wall on one side of his small sheltered garden. It bounded up to Brook and threw itself at his feet, wriggling around his ankles until Brook gave it the required attention. ‘I’ve nothing for you, Basil, sorry,’ he said, scratching the cat’s neck. ‘Or me,’ he added, feeling his stomach rumble.

After ten minutes without provisions, Basil stalked away to resume his nightly rounds and Brook trudged indoors after he’d drained his drink. He yearned for a cigarette and resolved to buy some at the earliest opportunity. Noble was right. Cigarettes were Brook’s only weakness and it was stupid, if not impossible, to impose rigid control over every aspect of his life. Without an Achilles heel, Brook wasn’t human but a robot, unable to function, unable to do his work. Being a detective was not just a job to Brook, more a calling, a calling that required him to know about weakness — and if he tried to eradicate his own, how could he understand those of the murderers, armed robbers and rapists he was employed to catch?

Back in his kitchen, he opened the fridge. It was empty except for the half-eaten baked potato he’d picked at the previous night — and the night before that, he seemed to remember. It was going black. He tipped it into the bin and rummaged around the cupboards. He hadn’t eaten for a day, by dint of neglect rather than choice, and he knew he needed fuel to keep going.

The cupboard was bare. Not even tins. But there was a bottle of ketchup, a packet of tomato Cup-a-Soups and an egg carton with two eggs left. Brook fried the eggs and dabbed the yolks with ketchup then ate them mechanically before hauling himself up to his bedroom.

As he climbed into bed, he had a flashback of the pale yellow carcass from Shardlow Gravel Pit lying at his feet that same day. He shook the memory away. It wouldn’t be wise to go to sleep with such an image seared into his consciousness.