Steven Dunne - Deity

‘He’s not going to travel here naked,’ said Brook. ‘And if he’s a suicide, in my experience, he wouldn’t undress without leaving his clothes where they could be found, maybe with a note in the pocket . . ’

‘Goodbye cruel world,’ added Noble.

‘Okay, so maybe not a suicide,’ conceded Pullin.

‘Could be a skinny-dipper,’ offered one of the ambulance crew.

‘A swimmer?’ Brook looked down at the bleached corpse then bent to look at the deceased’s hands. They were open and empty. ‘No, he’s not a swimmer or a suicide for that matter. His hands are wrong.’ He looked back to the bridge.

‘The hands?’ asked Noble.

‘I’ve seen a couple of drownings, John. Even suicides jumping into the water will try and grab hold of something when they go under. They can’t help it. It’s a reflex.’

‘He’s right,’ Pullin said reluctantly. ‘Their hands usually clench tight with the effort to hold on to something. Any-one drowning in a river will have stones or weeds locked in their fists.’

‘And this guy’s hands are open.’ Noble nodded.

‘Is this even a swimming spot?’ asked Brook, darting a look at Pullin.

‘Hell, no. Far too dangerous,’ replied Pullin. ‘The current’s not slow and the bank’s too steep to be sure of getting out. Even kids won’t risk it.’

‘Someone might if they were drunk,’ added Noble.

‘But they’d still be able to struggle and grab on to things in the water,’ said Brook.

‘Maybe he dived off the bridge for a swim and was knocked unconscious,’ ventured Noble. ‘He wouldn’t be struggling then.’

Brook pointed to the cadaver’s wasted left arm. ‘He doesn’t look like any kind of swimmer to me. Not with that physique.’ The torso was almost skeletal and the muscle tone underdeveloped. ‘And look at these needle-marks. This looks like a drug abuser to me. Probably a heavy drinker too.’

‘Right. Face and hands,’ agreed Noble, turning over a pale dead hand. The face was covered with blotches and cracked blood vessels. Several old cuts and abrasions on the hands and knees as well as the face, added to the impression that here was a man who injured himself regularly. They’d both seen the signs before. The extremities of the heavy drinker took the brunt of damage from falls and fights, befitting the lifestyle of those who derived nourishment from a bottle and a needle.

‘Some of these injuries could have occurred in the water though,’ said Noble, indicating other scrapes and grazes.

Brook examined two vertical cuts descending from each nostril of the man’s swollen and bent nose, clearly broken in the past. ‘These wounds below his nose look post mortem, maybe from sharp stones or discarded metal in the river.’ Something caught Brook’s eye. ‘Look at these marks on his neck.’ He leaned in for a better look at two small puncture wounds, one on each side of the windpipe.

‘Maybe we’re looking for a vampire.’ Noble grinned.

Brook glanced up without amusement then turned his attention to the corpse’s various tattoos. They were of poor quality and all in the same washed-out blue. ‘ Flower of Scotland ,’ Brook read from one.

‘Guess he’s from Scotland,’ observed Noble, with a straight face.

Brook must have been light-headed from lack of sleep because now he smiled though he made sure Noble didn’t see it. ‘Good spot, John,’ he said drily. ‘These tattoos don’t look professional to me.’

‘Prison ink, I’d say,’ replied Noble. ‘Might give us a lead with ID.’

Brook turned over the man’s now bagged right hand after a glance at one of the Support Officers for approval. The knuckles had love tattooed on them, one letter on each knuckle. ‘No doubt he’s got hate on the other hand.’ He stood off his haunches.

‘Why not just tattoo criminal on their foreheads and have done with it?’ said Noble, to a few appreciative chuckles.

Brook looked at Pullin. ‘Couple of days, you say — Keith.’

Keith Pullin was a man who didn’t give his opinion lightly; he gazed at the corpse, rubbing his chin. ‘I reckon,’ he answered finally. ‘There’s no rigor mortis though — which muddies the waters a bit. It all depends whether he died before he went in or not. Given the hands, I’m thinking maybe he was dumped, already dead, in the water. There’s no foam around the nostrils and mouth either, which you’d expect from a drowning.’

Brook knelt again to turn the icy palm back up. Even through the protective plastic, the bagged hand told a story. Like the back of his hand, there were many of the scars from battles with the hard walls and pavements of modern city life.

‘Looks like we can still get prints,’ observed Noble. ‘He’s likely to be in the system for something.’

Brook nodded absentmindedly. He ran his latex fingers through the man’s hair and sniffed his own hand then stroked the cold face with the back of his hand and sniffed again.

‘What is it?’ asked Noble.

Brook touched his fingers on the man’s smoothly shaved cheek. Then he rubbed them together and held them to his nose. ‘I don’t know. I think he’s had something applied to his face.’ He offered his hand to Noble. ‘Can you smell that?’

Noble sniffed then shook his head. ‘Can’t smell a thing — I’m a smoker.’

‘Lucky you.’ Brook had one last sniff. ‘Make-up? Maybe someone’s tried to make our friend look a little more lifelike, cover all the blemishes and broken blood vessels, probably post mortem.’ He dropped his hand and looked at the head of the corpse. ‘And see the hair? Look how well groomed it is — as if it was cut recently.’

‘And the face is shaved as well. Think he’s been tarted up for the coffin?’

Brook glanced across at Noble. ‘Let’s hope it’s that.’ Noble returned a grim smile.

Brook stood up and looked again at the bridge 150 yards away. The road across headed north into Borrowash village. ‘Let’s have a look over the bridge, just to tick it off. Is the Police Surgeon on his way?’

Pullin nodded. ‘Keep your eyes peeled for those clothes,’ he added.

Noble looked up expectantly as Brook turned back to Pullin with the briefest tic of annoyance. But instead of thanking him for a lesson in basic detection, Brook managed to dredge up a strained smile.

‘Good idea, Keith,’ he said, catching Noble’s approving glance. Clearly he was trying to mend fences. Pullin’s demeanour, however, remained sullen. Either he was still annoyed with Brook or had succumbed to the solemnity of standing over a life ended.

‘When we’ve seen the bridge, let’s find a cafe, John. I’m gagging for a cup of tea.’

‘Shouldn’t we wait for the PS?’

‘We’ll be back.’ Brook made to walk away but then turned back. ‘What’s that?’ He knelt to point at something in the dead man’s side. ‘There.’

Everyone gathered to follow Brook’s finger indicating an area almost hidden underneath the body.

‘I don’t know,’ said Pullin, peering closely at it. ‘Looks like a bit of thread or string. Give us a hand,’ he said to a colleague, and they rolled the corpse on to its side. The thread was visible now, the end of half a dozen large overlapping stitches along a five- to six-inch wound. The assembled officers narrowed their eyes to examine them.

‘That looks like a serious wound,’ offered Noble. ‘And very recent.’

‘Have you ever seen a wound with stitches like that?’ asked Brook. He looked around the assembled team, opening the question to all comers.

‘Looks like something you might see on a blanket or a sail,’ said one.

‘Or a tent,’ said Pullin. ‘I’ve never seen anything that loose on a wound of that size. Unless it’s a DIY — maybe he did it himself after a fight or something.’