Coffin Dodgers Page 2

  “Dad!”

  “Oh, come off it, David. Your mother was upset to find your bed hadn’t been slept in. She’d made you up a lovely tray. Thought you two lovebirds might enjoy breakfast in bed.”

  Brough’s jaw dropped.

  “Aww!” Pattimore reached across the table and squeezed Peter’s hand. “That would have been nice. Wouldn’t it, Davey?”

  Brough looked at each of them in turn with horror and disgust in his eyes. “Why don’t you two just get a room?”

  They laughed at him again.

  “You can apologise to your mother later,” Peter Brough stood up. “I’ll take the wellies back to the house. You two have had a message.”

  “Oh?” said Pattimore.

  “Is it Serious?” said Brough.

  Peter Brough pulled his gloves on and buttoned his coat. He looked his son in the eye. “I’m afraid so,” he said.

  2.

  Superintendent Kevin Ball was sporting a skier’s tan. His cheeks and forehead were a deep orange and the paler skin around his eyes gave him the appearance of a masked man. He had come directly from Birmingham International but he didn’t keep a uniform pristine in his office for no reason. To tell the truth, he was glad his holiday had been cut short. It was more his wife’s thing, skiing. He only went to keep the piste. She’d been just about bearable during the first couple of days when conditions had been favourable but relations had been strained when a spell of foggy weather had put paid to any outdoor activity and well, frankly, it had been all downhill from there. Or not, rather.

  He’d left her there, glad of a nice juicy murder to call him home. The various members of the Serious Crime Division - Dedley’s elite detective squad - had been rounded up and were dribbling in.

  Detective Inspector Brough was there. A bit uptight, in Ball’s view, but excellent undercover. He was looking particularly uncomfortable that morning, perhaps due to the proximity of the squad’s most recent recruit, the promising young Detective Constable Pattimore. Brough was on a hiding-to-nothing if he thought he could keep his relationship with Pattimore under wraps. Good for you, Ball thought, landing a partner ten years your junior. Not my cup of tea, of course, but well - Ball strove to be modern and ‘with it’ in his attitudes, regardless that no one said ‘with it’ anymore. Anyway, he had to be progressive; it said so in a policy document.

  “Sorry, sorry!” The door admitted Detective Sergeant Melanie Miller, looking flustered and more than a little peaked, Ball observed. “The car,” she said as though that explained everything. She sent apologetic smiles around the room, sat down and stood up again. “I could murder a coffee,” she announced. “Anybody else?”

  The men made various signs and utterances, declining her offer of making coffee or murdering them - they weren’t sure which. Miller bustled away to the kitchen. The men sat in silence, listening to her hum Frosty The Snowman until the boiling of the kettle drowned her out.

  Next to arrive was Detective Inspector Benny Stevens. He looked keen for once. He rubbed his hands in eager anticipation. “What have we here, then?” he gave Superintendent Ball an unwelcome nudge. “What’s the story, Kev?”

  “If you’d care to take a seat, Detective Inspector,” said Frosty the Superintendent, “we’ll make a start.”

  Miller returned with a steaming cup of tea. Stevens swiped it from her grasp, said cheers and took a sip. “Just the job,” he grinned, with drops of hot liquid hanging from his 1970s moustache. “Any biscuits going?”

  “Die horribly,” said Miller. She sat as far away from Stevens as possible.

  “What?” he leered, “So your boyfriend can put me in the ground?”

  Superintendent Ball stepped between them, shielding Stevens from Miller’s most withering glare. “Let’s get started, shall we?” he said in a tone that indicated he had had quite enough of their shit.

  “Um, Kev...” Stevens raised a hand, “Aren’t we missing somebody?”

  Ball glanced around at the assembled faces of the team. “Are we?”

  “He means Chief Inspector Wheeler,” said Miller. “Probably pining his little heart out for her.”

  Stevens stuck out his tongue.

  “Karen’s on a course,” Ball explained. “Won’t be back for a couple of days. It seems our holidays can be interrupted at the drop of a corpse but when it comes to professional development, well... Meanwhile, we’ll get a head start and see what we can make of all this ballyhoo.”

  “What is it, sir?” Pattimore sat up straight.

  “Glad someone’s showing an interest,” Ball smiled. “Jason, is it? Good man. Operate the damn projector, will you? Sodding thing outwits me at every turn.” He handed Pattimore a remote control. Within seconds the whiteboard behind Superintendent Ball was filled with photographs of the mortuary and the unfortunate Vivian Flyte and her blood.

  “Ugh,” said Miller.

  “Time of the month, was it?” offered Stevens. He chuckled. No one else did.

  “This,” Ball gestured over his shoulder, “is - or rather, was - Vivian Flyte. Found with her throat ripped open by one of her own instruments.” He nodded to Pattimore who pressed a button. A picture of the surgical saw sprang up. “Now, there are a few possibilities that could explain what happened to Ms Flyte. Anyone care to get the ball rolling?”

  “Um,” said Stevens, sucking the drops of tea from his moustache. “Bloke or even wench she was operating on - is that the right word, ‘operating’? - I mean he - or she - was already dead. Any road, the person who she was going to chop up - perhaps they wasn’t dead. They jump up and see her coming at them so they fight her off. Stands to reason. Self-defence.”

  He sat back and crossed his arms, pleased with himself. The expressions of his co-workers indicated they thought little of his scenario.

  “Or...” said Miller, thinking aloud, “it was suicide. People can get very desperate at this time of year.”

  “Possible...” said Ball. “Look into that, would you, Melanie? Find out from her colleagues if she was prone to depression or anything of that nature.”

  “Right,” said Miller. She countered Stevens’s dark look with a smug smile.

  “Where’s the body?” This was Brough. He got to his feet, took the remote from Pattimore and zapped through the sequence of images.

  “It’s right there,” said Stevens.

  “No, not that body,” said Brough with grim impatience, “The one she was going to examine.”

  This stunned everyone into silence.

  “What if...” Stevens got to his feet, “What if I’m right? The body wasn’t dead. Got up, killed her and did a runner. Eh? Eh?” He looked to the team for approval but received none.

  “Dead bodies don’t just get up and kill people,” said Ball wearily.

  “That’s my point,” countered Stevens. “It wasn’t dead.”

  They ignored him.

  “What if...” said Pattimore, also standing up, “somebody else came into the lab, killed the woman and then stole the body?”

  This theory was greeted with interest and approbation. Stevens sat down in disgust.

  “I like your thinking,” said Ball. “Have a look at their CCTV. See if there’s any comings and goings that aren’t accounted for.”

  “Right. Yes, sir!” said Pattimore. He grinned but managed to stop short of saluting.

  “Stevens, you can help young Jason.”

  Stevens uttered something unintelligible but no doubt derogatory.

  “Brough, you help Melanie with interviewing the co-workers, family members, anyone who knew Ms Flyte.”

  “Sir,” Brough nodded. Miller offered him a smile. Oh Christ, he thought, she’s not still holding a torch, is she? A cinema usherette with a long service award couldn’t hold a torch as long as Miller. An Olymp
ic runner travelling all the way from Greece - he stopped himself. Miller was in a relationship with that chap Jerry from Dedley Cemetery. It must be six months since they got together but, even so, Brough was uncomfortable with the way she sometimes looked at him.

  “Right then, off you pop,” said Ball. No one moved. The team was accustomed to a more prosaic and earthier dismissal from their leader, the formidable Chief Inspector Wheeler. Ball relented and jerked his thumb towards the exit in the time-honoured fashion of his colleague.

  “Oh, go on then,” he said, “Fuck off.”

  The detectives of the Serious Crimes Division let out a cheer. Before they could head out, the door opened and Detective Inspector Harry Henry came in. He pushed his glasses up his nose.

  “Is this the briefing?” he blinked.

  “Hello, Harry,” said Miller.

  ***

  “You can drive.” Stevens ambled over to Pattimore’s car.

  “No argument from me!” Pattimore pressed a button on his key fob. A few yards away, a car went boop and flashed its lights.

  No sooner had they left the Serious car park when they found themselves caught up in bumper-to-bumper traffic, inching along at the speed of a glacier made out of treacle.

  “Christ alive!” Stevens thumped the dashboard. “If he was here he’d soon part this lot.”

  “I think you’re thinking of Moses,” said Pattimore.

  “Potato po-fucking-tah-to.” Stevens folded his arms crossly. “It’s not usually this busy at this time. It’s the weather. First drop of snow brings out all the fuckwits. You should have let me drive.”

  “I’m such a fuckwit,” said Pattimore.

  They sat in silence, watching the brake lights of the car in front. After a while, Pattimore became aware he was being scrutinised.

  “What’s the matter?” he squirmed. “Have I got shit on my face?”

  Stevens’s eyebrows (dwarfed only by his moustache) flew up. “What goes on behind your bedroom door is none of my business.”

  Ten minutes later, after they had edged along the road a whole dozen yards, Pattimore caught him at it again. “Take a fucking picture if you want. I’ll even sign it.”

  “Piss off,” said Stevens. “I was just - well, I find it difficult to visualise.”

  “What?”

  “You and that toffee-nosed git.”

  “You must mean David. What about him?”

  “I can’t - you know - imagine it.”

  “What?”

  “You and him. Going at it, like.”

  Pattimore turned to look his co-worker in the eye. “Now, why would you want to picture that? I can direct you to some free porn sites if it’s a bit of man-on-man you’re after.”

  Stevens baulked. He looked horrified. “Oh, no! Ugh! No! Ugh! Why would I want to do that? I was just - Stop laughing at me!”

  “Well, stop being funny.”

  “It’s just that I can’t see... him having that kind of side to him. I mean, he drenches his hands in that gel stuff if he touches a doorknob so how does he cope...”

  “With a man’s knob? Let me put your mind at rest. I have no complaints on that score. David’s a very attentive and thorough lover - ”

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  “And that’s not exactly toffee on his nose!”

  “Ugh! Shut up! I don’t want to know.”

  Pattimore laughed at Stevens’s red face and blustering protests. Ahead of them the traffic picked up its pace a little.

  Pattimore was still laughing by the time they reached the mortuary.

  ***

  “Trouble?” Brough was waiting at the passenger door to Miller’s car.

  “What?” said Miller, searching in her bag for the keys.

  “You said ‘the car’...”

  “Did I?” She got in. After a moment, Brough tapped on the window. She let him in.

  “Honestly,” said Brough. He fastened his seat belt. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Are you going to start the engine?”

  “Oh.”

  She turned the ignition key. “Where are we going?”

  “Honestly, Miller.”

  They drove in silence, taking it slowly through the snowy streets of Dedley. The town was muffled by its dirty white blanket. The pedestrians, folded in on themselves, picked their way along slippery pavements that threatened more treachery than the French Revolution.

  “Good Christmas?” Brough ventured.

  “Sick,” said Miller.

  “Are you adopting urban slang now, Miller?”

  “No! I was - sick, I mean. From the moment I woke up on Christmas Eve to - well, I’m not the full shilling now.”

  “Oh dear,” Brough pursed his lips. “You’re not up the junction, are you, Miller?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “I mean, it’s none of my business where you and poor Yorick choose to bury the bone, is it?”

  “You’re right,” Miller said with a snarl, “it’s none of your fucking business. Besides which, Yorick wasn’t the gravedigger. Yorick was the bugger in the grave what got dug up.”

  Brough was astonished. “I have to say I’m impressed, Miller.”

  “You don’t have to say anything.”

  “Shakespeare! You’ve read Hamlet then?”

  “Nah,” Miller shrugged. “Jerry made me sit through it. Mel Gibson is in it.”

  Brough laughed. “Dump that chump! Honestly, Miller, you could do better.”

  “You couldn’t!”

  They finished their journey in silence, albeit a companionable one. Miller pulled up alongside Pattimore’s car. She nodded at it while she locked her own.

  “What’s your take on the new dynamic duo then?”

  “Who?”

  “Your Jason with Cro-Magnon Man.”

  “I can’t say I approve. I suspect Jason actually likes him. Forever talking about him: Stevens said this, Benny said that.”

  “You just watch he doesn’t lead him into bad habits.”

  “Who? Jason?”

  “Either!” Miller grinned. “Both!”

  They headed to the hospital’s records office.

  ***

  Pattimore and Cro-Magnon man were at the actual crime scene. The forensics had all clocked up their overtime and had gone home. There was no one around. Stevens was grimacing, although beneath his outmoded moustache it was hard to tell.

  “It’s too quiet,” he complained. “It’s like a -”

  “Like a morgue?” Pattimore jumped in.

  “Exactly.” He gave an involuntary shudder.

  Pattimore laughed. “Don’t expect me to hold your hand, big fella. Or anything else, for that matter.”

  Stevens muttered an indistinct but undoubtedly homophobic retort. He remained rooted to the spot while Pattimore looked around, as though he didn’t want to disturb anything.

  Pattimore tried a door and was surprised when it was yanked open from the inside. A man in surgical scrubs glowered at him. There were patches of sunburn on his nose and cheeks. Before the man could speak, Pattimore showed him his i.d. Over his shoulder, Stevens did the same.

  “A fine how-do-you-do this is,” the man snapped. “To think, only nine hours ago I was on a beach in Barbados. Left the wife there. Come through.” He strode into the examining room. Pattimore followed.

  “I’ll keep an eye on things out here,” said Stevens. Pattimore gave him a look.

  While Pattimore spoke with the disgruntled mortician, Stevens remained stock still as though his toes had burrowed through the soles of his slip-ons and rooted him to the floor. He could hear the men’s voices from the next room and the low buzz of the fluorescen
t lighting. A thin wash of sweat coated his forehead but he was reluctant to wipe it off in case...

  In case what?

  Oh, pull your shit together, Benny-boy, he scolded himself. Too many late night zombie movies, that’s your trouble. Dead blokes don’t just get up and walk around, you saft apath.

  Pattimore pushed through the swing doors, startling Stevens from his macabre reverie. “Ha! Your face!”

  “Fuck off.”

  Pattimore grinned. “Thanks, Seb; you’ve been very helpful.” He shook the mortician by the latex glove.

  “It’s the inconvenience more than anything,” said Seb with a heavy heart. “Get precious little time off as it is.”

  “A woman died,” Pattimore pointed out. “Just think: if she’d booked some annual leave, it could have been you instead.”

  That sent the mortician’s eyebrows closer to his hairline. He paled beneath his sunburn. He hadn’t considered that possibility.

  “So you don’t think it was a personal attack? You don’t think someone wanted Vivian dead?”

  Pattimore pouted. “We can’t rule anything out at this stage. When can you let us know the results?”

  “Results?” The mortician was clearly rattled.

  “Of the autopsy. You will be conducting Vivian’s post mortem, won’t you?”

  “Oh, yes!” Seb made a grim sneer. “It will be a pleasure.”

  Pattimore headed out but had to come back to pull Stevens away by the sleeve of his tan leather jacket. Stevens perked up as they left the building.

  “So, what did he tell you?”

  “You should have come in with me and then I wouldn’t have to repeat it. What was the matter with you in there? You looked like a man who has realised he is standing on a landmine.”

  “Them places give me the creeps,” Stevens jerked his thumb at the building behind them. “What did Doctor Death say?”

  “Firstly, it’s pronounced De-Ath. He said Vivian Flyte was a solitary figure. Bit of a loner. Good at her job. Bloody good in fact, he said. I don’t think he was trying to be funny. But she tended not to mix with the others. Wasn’t one for socialising.”

  “So no workmates, then?”

  “Nope. Nor none at home neither. As far as he knew. If she had a private life, she kept it exactly that: private. He’s given me her address.”