Steven Dunne - Deity

‘Nobody did.’

‘Well, it’s serious now.’ Brook looked at the recently bagged hands, clenched into a fist, bright green weeds protruding from between the knuckles. ‘Where’s Higginbottom?’

‘Been and gone. He said from the teeth he’s confident it’s a teenager. Definite drowning and no obvious signs of foul play.’

‘Suicide?’

‘Well, the stones rule out an accident.’

‘Maybe some of this head trauma will turn out to be premortem,’ said Brook.

‘Higginbottom says not. He also said rigor’s dissipated so the deceased has been in the water at least five days, but to float with stones in his pocket is more likely a week or more.’

‘So around the night of the party would be about right.’ Brook stood back from the body. ‘Russell or Kyle? Can you tell?’

‘No.’

Brook ran his eye over the Nike trainers, the green combat trousers, Derby County football shirt and green flak jacket. The jacket had large open pockets from which the stones had been removed.

‘Last seen wearing?’ prompted Brook.

‘I’ll need to check the paperwork,’ answered Noble. ‘I’m pretty sure Kyle was jeans and a blue hoodie.’

‘You’re right.’

‘What about Russell?’

‘His mum wasn’t sure,’ answered Brook. He turned away and stepped from behind the screen leaving SOCO to photograph, scrape, bag and tag the remains before removal to the mortuary.

He walked with Noble to the edge of the river. ‘Speaking of Yvette Thomson, do you remember Len Poole saying he didn’t know her?’

‘At Alice Kennedy’s, yes.’

‘I think he lied. I dropped off Russell’s computer last night and Len was there and they didn’t behave like strangers.’

‘Maybe they’re not. Len’s originally from North Wales, same as her. Don Crump told me last night when I dropped into the lab. And don’t forget he’s moving back there with Mrs Kennedy.’

‘Chester’s not in Wales, John. And why would Len Poole’s name come up?’

‘I didn’t mention him but Don’s put in nearly thirty years. He knew Len before he retired. He heard he was back.’

Brook nodded. ‘I suppose Poole must know a lot of the old guard.’

‘I would think. I can run a background on Poole if you want?’

‘I do want,’ said Brook. ‘There’s a connection with Yvette Thomson and I’d like to know what. What news from the lab?’

‘Don was whingeing about SOCO. He said they’re slipping. He’s trying to match the blood from the plaster.’

‘And?’

‘It isn’t Kyle’s, Becky’s or Adele’s.’

‘What about Russell?’

‘That’s just it. SOCO did a number on Russell Thomson’s bedroom and didn’t come up with any useable DNA.’

‘Nothing? No hair?’ Brook looked at Noble. ‘They’ve lived there six months — is that even possible?’

‘Unusual not impossible,’ said Noble. ‘Russell can’t have spent much time there.’

‘It might explain the missing toothbrush.’

‘Toothbrush?’

‘There was only one at the house. It was Yvette’s.’

‘Or maybe SOCO are slipping.’

‘They’ve got a lot on, John, but if that is Russell we just pulled out of the river, they need to get back over there and try again.’

‘What about dental?’ asked Noble.

‘Get on it. Yvette and Russell have moved around a lot but there must be records.’

They turned and walked towards the group of emergency rescue workers chatting by the river wall. Pullin nodded at Brook.

‘Keith,’ Brook said, after a pause to double-check his memory.

‘That’s correct, Inspector,’ answered Pullin with a grin. His colleagues joined in. They obviously knew the background to his reply.

Brook pressed on. ‘How deep is it down there?’ he said, looking down at the water.

‘Deep enough.’

‘We’re missing four students,’ continued Brook. ‘This looks like one of them. Could there be more bodies down there?’

Pullin narrowed his eyes. ‘If they’re weighed down — it’s possible.’ There was a long pause. ‘Would you like us to have a look?’

Brook smiled his reply and Pullin turned away disconsolately to brief his divers.

Brook sauntered along the river wall, looking across the Derwent to Riverside Gardens, with its steps leading down to the water. Swans and ducks were gliding around on the deceptively still surface. Beyond stood the City Council House and further round to the right an inquisitive crowd was gathering on Exeter Bridge even at such an early hour.

‘Tell me we’ve got some film to look at, John.’

‘Cooper’s already at the Control Room.’

A commotion from Meadow Road turned both their heads. A yellow taxicab was pulling away and its passenger made a bee-line for the boundary tape.

‘Let me through,’ shouted a female voice. She tried to duck under the tape but a Constable grabbed her and held her fast.

‘Let me go. I want to see my son.’

Brook and Noble ran up to reinforce the human barrier.

‘Is it true you’ve found a body?’ panted Yvette Thomson, still wriggling to be free. Their faces confirmed it. ‘Is it Rusty?’

‘We don’t know yet,’ said Brook, putting a hand on her arm.

‘I want to see him.’

‘I’m sorry, you can’t,’ said Noble.

‘How did you know we’d found a body?’ asked Brook.

She hesitated. ‘Someone phoned me.’

Brook glanced over at Noble. He shook his head.

‘Is it Rusty?’ she demanded.

Brook didn’t reply. In most of these situations, he could usually walk away from distressed relatives, safe in the knowledge that someone far more sympathetic would be available to offer comfort and soothing platitudes. Eventually he decided to put his faith in the facts. ‘It’s a young man but it’s hard to identify him. He’s been in the water a while.’

Yvette stopped struggling and steepled her hands over her nose and mouth. ‘Oh my God.’

‘Who phoned you about the body?’ asked Noble.

She seemed not to have heard him. ‘Let me see him.’

‘We can’t allow that,’ said Noble. ‘They’re still processing. .’

Yvette Thomson broke free and ran towards the screens, Brook and Noble in pursuit but she was too fast for them. She reached the screens and stopped dead in her tracks.

‘Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.’ Her eyes, like small moons, were fixed on the bloated remains. Brook reached her and tried to turn her away but she shook him off and continued to stare. Eventually she turned away and ran to a nearby bench. She sat down and put her head between her knees and threw up.

Brook and Noble gave her some room. Eventually Brook approached her with a tissue. She accepted it without a glance at him, instead gazing straight ahead. ‘How can you. .?’ She looked at the ground, the sentence unfinished.

‘I’m sorry you had to see him like that,’ said Brook quietly.

She shook her head, still looking at the ground. Then her head snapped up, searching for Brook’s eye. ‘It’s not Rusty.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Certain. It’s the hair. The zigzag — I think it’s Wilson Woodrow.’

Brook walked with Noble back to his car. ‘Playtime’s over, John. Pick up Jake McKenzie.’

‘Arrest him? On what charge?’

‘He was there at Kyle’s assault. Use that.’

‘There’s no evidence he took part.’

‘Then he’s got nothing to worry about, but if we arrest him we can get DNA. Maybe it’s his blood on the plaster in Kyle’s house. And get a warrant for his computer and phone and do the same for Fern Stretton and Adam Rifkind. I want all the text messages and emails and Facebook messages they’ve ever sent to, or received from, Adele, Russell, Kyle and Becky. If one of them sent a carrier-pigeon ten years ago, I want to know about it.’