Читать книгу DCI Warren Jones - Paul Gitsham, Paul Gitsham - Страница 8

The light drizzle had started within minutes of DCI Warren Jones’ arrival at the scene of the fire. He’d almost welcomed the phone call at first, an hour and a half after the alarm had been raised at twenty past nine that night; he was well on his way to yet another comprehensive Scrabble defeat by his wife Susan. Now, even though the precipitation slid off his plastic-coated paper suit, he’d changed his mind.

‘You’re clear to enter the scene, sir.’ The familiar, portly figure of Crime Scene Manager Andy Harrison was easily identifiable, even with his facemask on. ‘Professor Jordan has done his preliminary examination of the body, and it’s ready to be transported.’

‘Tony, do you and Moray want to join us?’

DI Tony Sutton was standing a little way off, also dressed in a paper scene suit. Beside him stood DC Moray Ruskin – whose huge bulk meant he had to bring his own suits to crime scenes in case the CSIs didn’t have his size in the back of their van.

The path between the outer cordon and the doors to the old chapel was shielded from the rain by a hastily erected tent, and the proscribed route to the front entrance was covered by raised plastic boarding to protect any undiscovered shoe prints or other trace evidence.

‘What did the kids who phoned it in have to say for themselves?’ asked Warren as the three police officers carefully picked their way along the walkway. A slip now would not only be undignified, it might also destroy evidence.

‘Not much.’ Ruskin had replaced his facemask. This combined with his thick beard and broad Scottish accent, meant Warren had to listen carefully to the man’s report.

‘They were a bit cagey about why they were here; they’ve admitted that the carrier bag of nasty-looking cider is theirs. They also had some matches and fire-lighters, both still sealed in their original packaging and unused. They’re only fifteen and wearing death metal T-shirts, so I’m guessing tonight’s plan was a bit of drinking in the local graveyard, perhaps a bonfire to keep warm, and if all went well, a bit of hanky panky.’

‘Hanky panky? I’m pretty sure the last time anyone used that phrase was before you were born,’ scoffed Sutton.

‘I was trying to use language that you old folks would understand.’

‘Cheeky sod.’

‘What did they see?’

‘Very little. It was dark and they were trying not to trip over, so they weren’t really paying attention. Neither of them saw anyone or heard anything. The first they knew of the fire was the smell of smoke, then they spotted a glow from the undercroft windows. It wasn’t until they heard the screams from the victim that they realised it was serious. They claim to have phoned the fire brigade immediately.’

The three men were now at the entrance to the chapel. The heavy, wooden door was wide open. More plastic boarding covered the ancient stone floor.

To the left of the doorway was the entrance to chapel proper; to the right, a low archway led to a flight of steep, stone steps that descended into the original, medieval undercroft. Portable lights running off a generator chased away the shadows. Nevertheless, the shiver that ran through Warren wasn’t only due to the late-night chill.

‘Did the witnesses step into the chapel or disturb the scene?’

‘The young man tried to open the chapel door, but it was locked,’ said Ruskin. ‘He walked around trying to find another entrance. His companion stayed back by the tree-line and called 999.’

‘We’ll need their fingerprints and shoeprints to exclude them,’ said Warren. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s getting pretty late. Where are they now? Have their parents been informed?’

‘They’re in the back of a car. I believe there is some debate over whether we should phone their parents or just drop them off outside their homes.’

‘I’ll bet,’ said Sutton.

‘It’s not a pretty sight, officers,’ said the CSI that greeted them at the entrance. ‘The stairs are only wide enough for one person at a time; make sure you don’t trip over the hoses or the power cables. Try not to brush against the walls, or the door, in case there are any loose fibres we haven’t collected yet and mind your head, the folks that built this place were tiny by modern standards.’

The instructions were easier said than followed, especially for Ruskin, who eyed the narrow stairwell dubiously.

Taking the lead, Warren stepped carefully into the space. Despite his facemask, the lingering smoke was starting to make his eyes sting. As he descended, a familiar smell joined the odour of singed wood. Petrol? A few more steps and another aroma entered the mix. The smell of burnt meat. Behind him, he heard Tony Sutton breathing through his face mask.

‘I hate bloody fires,’ he grumbled.

The undercroft was huge, its farthest reaches fading to invisibility beyond the few square metres illuminated by the CSIs working the area closest to the stairwell.

‘Stay inside the marked area, we’re going to need to do a fingertip search of the rest of the room once we’ve removed the body,’ instructed CSM Harrison, who’d joined them.

The figure curled in the foetal position next to the toppled chair was dead. Of that there could be no doubt. Most of the corpse’s clothes had been burnt away, along with much of the skin on the torso and the legs; that which remained was charred and split. The hair on the victim’s head was all but gone.

The sight of the burnt flesh seemed unreal underneath the powerful lamps, yet it wasn’t that sight which Warren knew would dominate his dreams. Warren knew that fire caused the tendons and connective tissue in a body to shrink, but that knowledge failed to make the corpse’s rictus grin and protruding tongue any less haunting.

‘The flames were pretty much out by the time the firefighters broke in. A paramedic first responder confirmed the victim was deceased.’ Warren recognised the American accent of Professor Ryan Jordan, one of Hertfordshire’s registered Home Office pathologists.

‘What else can you tell us, Prof?’ asked Sutton, as he circled the body.

‘Not much until we get him back to the morgue and I do the post-mortem. I can’t tell if he died of burns, smoke inhalation or something else, although I’m told the kids that discovered the body heard screaming, so I suspect he was conscious at some point. Like I said, I’ll know more later.’

‘“He?” Definitely male then?’ asked Ruskin.

‘Almost certainly, although again I’ll be more confident after the PM. The muscles have contracted, which makes it difficult to estimate build; I’d be prepared to go out on a limb and say he’s not a child, but anything more will have to wait.’

Warren looked at the chair lying next to the man; a sturdy affair, the wood looked scorched but not burnt.

‘One of the seats from the chapel, you can see the kneeler fixed to the back,’ offered Harrison.

‘Why didn’t it catch fire?’ asked Ruskin.

‘The fire investigators will tell us for sure, but my nose suggests that the body was doused in petrol before being set alight. You can see that his clothes clearly caught, and then his skin, but the petrol probably vaporised and didn’t soak into the wood sufficiently for it to catch.’

Ruskin’s voice was thick when he spoke.

‘Who would do such a thing?’

Before Warren could answer the young officer’s rhetorical question, Harrison spoke up.

‘Don’t jump to conclusions, son.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Sutton.

‘We found a petrol canister and matches next to the body, alongside some whiskey and a pill container. The container was melted from the heat and only part of the label is visible. I reckon you’ll get the prescription details but not the patient’s name. They’ve been sent off for analysis. And I’ve not seen any sign that the deceased was restrained.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Warren.

‘Well, the door from the chapel to the undercroft was locked; I’m no locksmith, but the large metal key we found next to the chair looks like it matches the only entrance to this place.’

It took a few moments for the importance of the discovery to sink in.

When Ruskin finally spoke, his voice was filled with horror.

‘You mean the victim did this to himself?’