This charming man, p.5
This Charming Man, page 5
‘Isn’t it?’ said Mason, dancing what looked like, to Sturgess’s untrained eye, a bit of a salsa. ‘His missus has a lot of single female friends. It will be a target-rich environment, if you get my meaning.’
Sturgess did. He imagined most of the corpses in the mortuary did too. Mason wasn’t exactly subtle. Generally speaking, Sturgess’s small-talk abilities were poor; however, they were immense in comparison with his capacity for laddish banter. He nodded, hoping that would cover all eventualities.
It appeared to, or at least Mason was too enraptured by his unrealistic visions of a British summer barbecue being like a trip to Hugh Hefner’s Bunny Ranch to notice, much less care.
‘I bloody love a barbecue.’ Mason stopped beside a gurney upon which lay a body covered by a sheet. His face dropped. ‘Oh. Ehm. Probably not the best of segues, that. So this is the body you’re here for.’ He placed his hand on one corner of the sheet but didn’t lift it. ‘Can I ask – I thought you were on your uppers?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I mean, no offence, mate, but I thought you were looking at suspension and …’ Mason left the sentence hanging.
Sturgess could see from the expression on the pathologist’s face that he realized his barbecue-based delight might have made him overly chatty. It was clear he was now regretting venturing into this territory.
‘That all got sorted out.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘So, about this body?’
‘Yes,’ said Mason, handing Sturgess a surgical face mask before pulling up his own. ‘It’s a weird one, all right – even by your standards.’ He drew back the sheet.
Sturgess resisted the urge to pull away as the sickly-sweet stench of charred flesh assailed him. The body before them was badly burned from head to toe, its lower jaw hanging open as if locked in a never-ending scream.
‘From my understanding, the deceased was hit by an HGV moving at high speed.’
‘Well, thirty miles an hour,’ said Sturgess.
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Mason. ‘Princess Parkway, wasn’t it? Still can’t believe they changed the speed limit there from forty to thirty. No need for it. I got a ticket on it last year. Big dual carriageway.’
Sturgess didn’t say anything. It was hard to take his eyes off the body. The mouth in particular.
‘Anyway,’ said Mason, refocusing. ‘The reduced speed limit was of no benefit to Mr Crispy here.’
‘Have you come up with any explanation for the flames?’ Sturgess had interviewed the HGV driver personally and the man had sworn blind that the first he’d seen of the victim was when he’d stopped the lorry and got out. The body had been lying in front of the vehicle, tallying with the female witness’s account of how the man had leaped into its path, thereby avoiding going under the wheels. None of which gave any insight into why the body had burst into flames.
‘Honestly,’ said Mason, ‘we’re stumped. No accelerants on the body and, from what I’m told, he went up fast. If there was something on his clothes, it burned away quickly and without leaving a trace. Plus, his clothing survived reasonably intact. Like he was the thing that burst into flame.’
‘Spontaneous combustion?’ asked Sturgess.
‘I mean, yeah – that’s technically what it is, but we’ve none of the why. While spontaneous combustion is a recognized if unexplained phenomenon, there’s no recorded incident of it occurring due to a massive trauma such as a vehicular collision. I’ve sent some queries out, but I’ve not heard of anything like that.’ Mason waved a hand up and down the body. ‘And seeing as the driver had an extinguisher in his cab and doused him quickly, if he’d not done so, this dude would’ve ended up a lump of gristle.’
‘Right,’ said Sturgess.
‘And then there’s the teeth,’ said Mason. He took out a pen and pointed at them. ‘Overly developed canines, to be exact.’
‘How unusual is that?’
‘Well,’ said Dr Mason. ‘Some people’s canines are just naturally pointed, but not to this extreme. You can get it done as a cosmetic procedure, though. There’s a temporary version involving resin or, if you’re full-on mental, you can get them filed down and have caps put on. But …’
‘But?’
‘This is neither of those things. This is, for want of a better word, natural. How firm is your ID on this guy?’
‘Reasonably,’ said Sturgess. ‘The flames were put out fast enough that we recovered a wallet containing ID identifying him as Phillip Butler. We also have a phone that’s been verified as belonging to Butler. The general build, height, et cetera fit what we know.’
‘Right,’ said Dr Mason. ‘Only I rang his dentist, ahead of his records being sent over, and there’s no suggestion that Mr Butler was sporting this kind of a messed-up grill when they saw him last.’
‘OK,’ said Sturgess, ‘so it’s possible this might not be him.’
Both men looked at each other, neither giving voice to the point that if it was Butler, he’d somehow grown the teeth recently.
Mason broke the silence. ‘We’re doing a DNA test to confirm. Oh, and by the way, the dentist did mention that Mr Butler had an emergency appointment booked in for the day before he died, but he never showed up.’
‘Interesting,’ said Sturgess. ‘Anything else?’
‘Oh, we’ve not even got to the weird bit yet.’
Sturgess raised an eyebrow.
‘We did the content analysis of Laughing Boy’s stomach. No drugs, no accelerants—’
‘Were you expecting to find something?’
Dr Mason shrugged. ‘No, but, like I said, we’re still mystified by the flames. Y’know what old Sherlock said about once you’ve eliminated the impossible? We did find something else, though …’
Sturgess resisted the urge to roll his eyes as Mason played it out. ‘And what was that, Doctor?’
‘Blood. But not his.’
‘You’re kidding?’
Mason shook his head.
‘And it’s—’
‘Human? Yes. We’re running it for DNA. And before you say it, I have asked the lab to rush both sets of tests.’
‘I appreciate it.’
‘All part of the service.’
Sturgess was all set to turn away but stopped himself. He lowered his voice. ‘Charlie, can I ask … Everything you’ve just told me, you say it like it’s nothing. I mean, I know you deal with a lot here, but still.’
‘Are you asking how I keep my chipper demeanour?’
‘If you like.’
‘Drugs,’ said Mason, with a chubby-cheeked grin. ‘I’m on these really good ones. My GP is a happy-pill dispensing machine. Do you want his details?’
‘No, I’m good.’ After an awkward pause, he added, ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem. You’re a single man, aren’t you, Tom?’
‘Yeah.’
Mason slapped his hands together. ‘How would you fancy coming to a barbecue? I could use a wingman.’
Sturgess pulled his phone out of his pocket. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to take this.’ He answered the phantom call. ‘Sturgess. One second.’ He put his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Mason. ‘You’ll ring me when you have any update?’
Mason nodded.
And then, because life is not only weird, but also occasionally unforgiving, Sturgess’s phone rang for real. He looked at the device and floundered. ‘I must have hung up or …’
Mason turned and walked away. Sturgess didn’t quite hear what the other man said as he did so, but he could guess.
CHAPTER 7
It’s funny how the human mind works. Hannah hadn’t really processed just how insane the set-up Banecroft had shown her in the cellar was until she had pulled Grace aside and explained it to her.
It was Grace’s look of disbelief, her genuine gasp of horror that really brought things home. The office manager then used her left hand to steady herself against the reception desk and her right to bless herself again and again.
‘We must call the police,’ she said a little too loudly.
‘We can’t,’ said Hannah.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Banecroft—’
‘That man doesn’t even use a shower!’
‘That may be,’ said Hannah, ‘but I’m afraid he’s right about this. We have to assume that somebody is after Stella, and the most important thing is to protect her. Oh, damn it!’
Hannah caught Grace’s disapproving look.
‘Sorry, I just remembered that before I left, I promised Stella she could come and stay in my spare room for a couple of weeks. I totally forgot that with all the …’
‘She definitely cannot do that,’ said Grace.
‘I know,’ said Hannah, ‘but we also can’t tell her why. The poor kid doesn’t know which way is up and she’s terrified of everything right now, including herself. She almost ran away last time there was trouble. We can’t risk it.’
‘Where would she think to go?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Hannah, ‘but she might be more concerned about protecting other people than looking after herself.’
‘Oh no,’ said Grace softly.
Hannah placed her hand on Grace’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be OK.’
‘And you are quite sure about the police?’
Hannah tried to keep her voice calm. ‘They can’t deal with this kind of stuff. They didn’t last time. Banecroft is right. The best thing we can do is find out who’s behind it and then make sure they can’t try anything like it again. That’s the most sensible thing.’
Grace nodded. ‘There are a couple of men in my church. Big men. God-fearing but also a little on the wayward side.’ She licked her lips nervously. ‘If I asked them, they could go round to these builders and knock some heads together.’
Her last words sounded as if she were repeating something she’d heard on a TV programme. Hannah knew that Grace, despite her religious ways, loved a good crime drama.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Hannah, although she wasn’t exactly sure she was correct in that. Banecroft had been a little vague about their endgame. ‘First off, let’s find out who got them to do this and we’ll take it from there. It makes more sense to investigate than to tip our hands.’
‘Where the hell is everybody?’ roared Banecroft from the other room.
For Grace’s benefit Hannah rolled her eyes. ‘Banecroft might be a monster but destroying someone who’s crossed him like this is what he lives for.’
‘If everyone isn’t in this room in thirty seconds, I’m going to lose my one-ing two.’
It took over ten minutes for all the staff to gather in the bullpen. Even with Banecroft’s impressive vocal range, he hadn’t been able to reach Reggie, Ox and Stella, who had gone to make use of the facilities in the nearby Admiral’s Arms pub.
Banecroft and Grace had stood there, pointedly not looking at the pile of firewood to which his swear board had been reduced while he and Hannah had been downstairs. Hannah had interspersed her awkward small talk with firing off furious texts to the other three, telling them to hurry back. She was relieved when she heard them coming up the stairs.
‘About time,’ thundered Banecroft. ‘It’s barely mid-morning and half my staff has already trooped off to the pub.’
‘We had no choice,’ said Reggie. ‘This office is now entirely lacking facilities.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Ox, ‘and it turns out Dennis is pretty hardcore when it comes to the toilets-are-for-customers’-use-only rule, so I had to have a …’ He caught Reggie’s alarmed look just in time. ‘Diet Coke.’
Banecroft shook his head. ‘Unbelievable.’
‘To be fair,’ said Hannah, ‘people do need to use the bathroom somewhere.’
‘No, they don’t. Neither Bernstein nor Woodward used a bathroom for the whole of nineteen seventy-three.’
Nobody said anything to this. Some lies are too big even to begin to grapple with.
‘So …’ said Hannah. ‘Moving on.’
‘Yes,’ said Banecroft. ‘We have a story about a vampire to look into. Hannah will be taking point.’ He jabbed a finger at Ox. ‘And you, as our resident vampire expert, will be backing her up.’
Ox pointed at Reggie. ‘Actually, he’s the one who knows all about vampires.’
‘Really?’ asked Banecroft.
Reggie nodded.
‘Well, that’s no good,’ continued Banecroft. ‘I need you to drive me somewhere.’
Reggie pointed back at Ox. ‘Actually, he’s the one who can drive.’
‘Excellent,’ said Banecroft. ‘That worked out well.’
Ox looked like a man in a game of pass the parcel who’d been left holding the package when the music stopped, and who had just noticed it was ticking.
‘Whoa,’ he said. ‘Hang on. I’ve got that big story about the crop circles outside Warrington to finish.’
‘Indeed, you do,’ said Banecroft. ‘On top of that, you’re now working for this paper’s special operations department. Think of it as a promotion.’
‘Does it come with a pay rise?’
Banecroft barked a laugh. ‘Good one. I knew one of you was funny, but I never could remember which one it was.’
‘But,’ continued Ox, ‘can’t you drive yourself?’
‘No,’ said Banecroft. ‘It turns out you need a valid licence to do that. Typical nanny-state nonsense.’
Ox nodded in Stella’s direction. ‘You had her drive you last time.’
‘I did,’ said Banecroft, glowering at Ox, ‘but she has important work to be doing here.’
‘I do?’ said Stella, looking up from her phone expectantly.
‘Yes.’ Banecroft turned towards Hannah.
‘Ehm … yes,’ said Hannah. ‘We … need you to do some filing.’ She cringed.
‘Oh, brilliant,’ said Stella, folding her arms and letting her hair fall back over her face. ‘That sounds way better than the vampire thing or whatever “special operations” means.’
‘Excellent,’ said Banecroft, choosing to ignore the sarcasm entirely. ‘Glad that’s all settled. You two,’ he said, pointing at Hannah and Reggie, ‘are Team Vampire. Along with following up with the police, you’ve got that source to chase up.’
‘We do?’ said Hannah.
‘Yes,’ snapped Banecroft. ‘The thing.’
Hannah and Reggie exchanged a look.
‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Hannah.
‘The thing,’ Banecroft repeated irritably. ‘I gave it to you last week.’
‘I wasn’t here last week.’
Banecroft slapped his pockets. It was like watching a particularly awful close-up magician. His search yielded three crumpled packets of cigarettes, which he tossed on the desk in front of him, a half-eaten pork pie and, then, a tea-stained envelope.
‘This,’ he said, handing the envelope to Hannah.
‘This is addressed to me! And you opened it?’
‘I was covering for you while you weren’t here, so I was doing everything instead of almost everything. No need to thank me.’
‘On that, at least, we are agreed.’ Hannah opened the envelope and pulled out the note inside. ‘This is from Mrs Harnforth.’ Hannah had met the paper’s owner only once, but she left an impression.
‘I know. I read it – obviously!’ Banecroft clapped his hands together before Hannah could respond. ‘Right, along with all of the above, this afternoon’s editorial meeting is happening right now.’
The announcement was met with a chorus of groans.
‘But,’ protested Reggie, ‘I haven’t had time to prepare.’
‘Ha,’ said Banecroft, ‘I take it back. You’re the funny one. Last week you suggested a special feature on what noises ghosts make. Prepared. That’s some funny stuff.’ He snatched his collection of half-empty cigarette packets from the table. ‘You’ve all got until I come back from having a pee to get what we will laughingly refer to as your thoughts in order.’
‘But we haven’t got running water,’ said Grace.
‘Yes,’ said Banecroft. ‘The good Lord has blessed me with many gifts, including male genitalia. Ergo, I can pee anywhere. Out of windows, in woods, in that plant pot beside your desk …’
‘Don’t you dare,’ warned Grace.
Banecroft waved a hand theatrically in the air as he left the room. ‘Too late!’
Grace looked round the room. ‘He wouldn’t, would he?’
Her colleagues avoided her gaze.
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she sighed, ‘I need to go and burn an asparagus fern.’
CHAPTER 8
Stanley Roker leaned back on his stool, pushed away his glass and belched loudly. Susan, the girl who had served him every day for over a week now, was long past the point at which she felt obliged to hide her disgust.
‘Jesus, Stanley.’
Stanley said nothing in response. Instead, he reached into his pocket and popped a couple of the antacids he now took before, after and, often, during meals.
Everyone knows there are five stages of grief. What is less well known is that there are five stages of sympathy. Stage one is the sympathetic ear. Susan had lent hers for the first two days. Concerned nods, a tilt of the head, listening to Stanley as he told her his woes. She had tried to give him numbers to ring and suggested people to talk to.
Stage two is the pick-me-up. She’d spent less than a day on this. Stanley wasn’t one for the ra-ra speeches and Susan was too Mancunian, by both birth and nature, to be able to pull off the requisite level of positivity.
Stage three is tough love. This was certainly more in Susan’s wheelhouse. She’d given Stanley the mother of all rollocking bollockings, so much so that another customer – a middle-aged woman with a maternal air and a yappy dog – had felt moved to intervene, berating Susan for her lack of compassion. That same woman proceeded to sit there and listen to Stanley for about an hour, during which time she rocketed through stages one to three at record speed. She’d absconded after her dog had decided to bite Stanley on the ankle, and left a large tip in her wake by way of an apology to Susan.
