Steven Dunne - Deity

‘Maybe.’ Brook moved closer to examine the wound. On an impulse he prodded the corpse on the chest. Next he felt along his stomach. ‘Well, well. That should make the post mortem more interesting, though I’m guessing our friend here may be no stranger to the process.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Noble.

At that moment, the two men holding the corpse let it roll back into position and as it settled, watery red liquid, viscera and, strangest of all, what looked like a couple of small leaves gushed noisily from the wound, causing all but Brook to jump away in shock.

‘Shit!’ shouted Noble, forgetting one of only three rules Brook had laid down to him when they started working together. ‘Don’t swear in my presence, John. It betrays a mind that’s not under control. Speak proper English if you know any. Oh, and one more thing, don’t ever call me Guv.’

Brook laid a hand on Noble’s shoulder. ‘Easy, John. We’re not in the Met.’

‘Sorry,’ replied Noble. ‘But you saw that?’

Brook looked at his DS. ‘I saw. And this is no drowning.’ He stood gazing at the bridge and began to walk down the path towards it.

‘Why so sure?’ asked Noble, moving to follow.

Brook turned and smiled back at his DS. ‘Because he hasn’t got any lungs.’

Brook stood on the bridge and looked over each wall in turn, down to the river bank on either side.

‘What are we looking for?’ Noble finally asked.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘But you’re sure the body was dumped from here.’

‘A man with no clothes and no lungs has to be dead before he hits the water. Someone’s transported him to the river and this bridge has to be the easiest spot to dump the body.’

They looked down at the undergrowth on either side of the river for any sign of disturbance but could see nothing. Nor could they spot any clothing or bundles that might contain clothes. The two uniformed officers returning from the weir continued the search at ground level but Brook and Noble were unable to direct them to anything of interest.

Across the fields their colleagues were working around the pale carcass on the plastic sheet, scraping, photographing and bagging head and feet. Another officer was erecting a screen to shield their activities from the occasional early morning jogger and dog walker.

As time wore on, traffic began to increase and cars passed them in rotation on the single track road, depending on the traffic lights either side of the two bridges. On one rotation, Dr Higginbottom, the duty Police Surgeon, drove towards them and slowed down when he saw them. Noble indicated the dirt track which would take the doctor to the scene and he continued on with a wave.

‘Busy road,’ said Noble.

‘During the day,’ replied Brook.

‘But even if it was the middle of the night, assuming our John Doe was dumped from this bridge, someone took a massive gamble on not being seen by a passing car — especially if they were actually parked up on the bridge. I mean, it’s not wide.’

Brook nodded. ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t take that chance but maybe they were desperate.’

‘They?’ enquired Noble.

‘Or he or she. But even a body that light needs lifting.’

‘It’s a low wall,’ observed Noble. ‘One person could do it, I reckon.’

After a further few minutes of unproductive examination, the two detectives continued north towards the second bridge spanning the railway line. A dirt-track drive for a farmhouse set back out of sight from the road had a sign warning trespassers about CCTV cameras. Brook raised an eyebrow at Noble.

‘We’ll check it out.’

‘It’s probably for show, but . . ’ Brook shrugged.

Crossing the railway bridge, the first houses of Station Road appeared. Jason Wallis, sole survivor of The Reaper’s attack on the Wallis family several years before, had lived briefly with his aunt further up the road. Brook tried to remember which house.

‘Didn’t young Wallis live on here?’ asked Noble.

‘I believe he did,’ Brook replied, but his mind had already moved on. He looked around, his gaze alighting on a stack of traffic cones on the pavement. ‘You were right, John. It is just one person. And he or she wasn’t desperate at all but very calm and rational.’ Noble looked at Brook, wondering if he was going to explain his reasoning. Instead, Brook walked over to the cones, counted them then looked back down towards the river. ‘This road goes south past Elvaston Castle, right?’

‘Right.’

‘And beyond?’

‘Through Thulston, then on to Shardlow or the A50.’

‘And beyond the A50, the M1,’ Brook remembered. He returned his attention to the cones. ‘Make a note to check with the Highways Agency when they last did any work here. It’s possible that whoever dumped our friend, faked a road closure.’

‘That’s a lot of forethought,’ said Noble.

‘That’s what worries me.’

‘And he’d need more than cones. Maybe a Diversion sign or something.’

Brook nodded. ‘Get DS Gadd and a couple of uniforms over here. We’re going to need a canvass of all the nearby houses as soon as possible before memory fades. See if anyone noticed anything.’

‘Not very likely if it was the middle of the night.’

‘No — but hold that thought, John. It’s time for a cup of tea. There was a cafe at the junction when I came past — might be open now.’ Brook jerked a thumb at the cones and made to set off along Station Road. ‘My treat as you’re guarding the evidence.’ Noble sagged on to a nearby fence and pulled out his cigarettes.

Brook removed the lid from his polystyrene cup and watched the ambulance depart. Dr Higginbottom squelched over from the river bank in his Wellingtons, fastening up his trademark leather bag. He removed his glasses when he stood beside Brook and Noble, and eyed their hot drinks.

‘Well, you were right, Inspector. He doesn’t appear to have any lungs, or indeed any internal organs. I didn’t want to poke around inside or disturb the stitching in case this turns into a murder inquiry . . ’

‘Why would there be any doubt, Doctor?’ asked Noble.

Higginbottom smiled. ‘There’s always doubt, until there’s certainty, Sergeant. Now, who said that? I can’t remember. But suffice to say, without a detailed examination, all I can do here is assure you that the subject is deceased and that he died before he went into the river. Keith Pullin seems to be in the right area for how long the body’s been in the water. Between one and three days, very roughly. The body has the right amount of cutis anserina .’

Like most of the medical experts Brook knew, Higgin-bottom liked to confuse his audience with a bit of Latin before explaining in layman’s terms. It was all those years they were forced to study a dead language and it had to be justified with a certain level of showmanship.

‘Which is?’ asked Brook deferentially.

Noble smiled. He was pretty sure Brook already knew.

‘Gooseflesh,’ replied the doctor smugly. ‘At a guess I’d say he died a couple of days before he went in the water, but don’t hold me to it. Do you want that tea, Inspector? I didn’t have time for a drink before I got the call.’ Brook handed his cup to Higginbottom and watched dismayed as the PS removed the lid, drained the contents, then handed the cup back with a contented sigh. ‘But as to murder, it’s impossible to be definite about Cause of Death without an autopsy. It could even be natural causes. One thing, he didn’t drown, even before his lungs were removed. There’s no haemorrhaging of the middle ear and no sign of cadaveric spasm. That’s when-’

‘We know,’ said Brook, dispensing with deference after the theft of his drink.