Gift Wrapped Read online

  ‘Yes, yes, of course it is ... of course it is.’ George Hennessey patted the cards as his eye was caught by another tourist walking the ancient walls which stood on the opposite side of Nunnery Lane from Micklegate Bar Police Station. The tourist was a loner on this occasion, a middle-aged male, wearing a white, wide brimmed hat, a loud yellow T-shirt and also with an expensive-looking camera hanging from his shoulder. American, George Hennessey thought, for no clear or identifiable reason. The man just looked to him to be a ‘cousin’. ‘So we don’t know the area?’ Hennessey turned back to look at Webster.

  ‘Seems not, sir,’ Webster replied. ‘No police activity there at all.’

  ‘Warthill and Gate Helmsley ... it does sound like the rural north of England, which will now be in all its summer bounty and splendour.’ Hennessey paused. ‘Who is in the CID rooms at present – any idea?’

  ‘Just Thompson Ventnor, sir,’ Webster informed.

  ‘All right ... all right ... myself and Ventnor have to deal with any and every emergency that might come in for the CID this afternoon while you, Reg, have a trip out to the country to arrange and look forward to.’ Hennessey smiled at Webster. ‘You lucky man.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Webster grinned his reply. ‘And just when I was about to address all that lovely, lovely paperwork.’

  ‘Oh that lovely, lovely paperwork won’t go away.’ Hennessey smiled broadly. ‘You don’t need to worry on that score. Her Majesty’s Home Office wants its statistical returns, and by hook or by crook Her Majesty’s Home Office will have its statistical returns.’

  ‘As you say, sir.’ Webster returned the smile, equally broadly.

  ‘So ... you don’t need a large number of bodies, I would have thought. Just two sniffer dogs, their handlers, six con-stables, a sergeant and yourself. That will be quite sufficient.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Webster replied promptly.

  ‘Take an Ordnance Survey map of the area, as large scale as you can find ... you can draw that from stores, and get the crew as close as you can to the grid reference. Then release the dogs and see what, if anything, they find. You know the drill.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Webster stood smartly and left Hennessey’s office.

  What the dogs found within fifteen minutes of arriving at the grid reference was an area of soil at the edge of a field, in which both animals demonstrated great and excited interest. The two brown and white Springer spaniels pawed at a small section of the ground, barked enthusiastically, turned in tight circles and wagged their short tails. One of the dog handlers turned to Webster and gave the thumbs-up signal, calling out, ‘They’ve got something, sir. They’ve caught an interesting scent all right.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Webster replied as the dog handler, a tall and lean constable in a white short-sleeved shirt and serge trousers, clipped the lead back on to the dog’s leather harness and led him to one side, gently patting the dog’s flank as he did so. The second dog handler then retrieved his dog and stood by his colleague.

  Reginald Webster then took one more last survey of the wider area and again he saw a patchwork of lovingly cared-for fields, lush with crops, being wheat in the main, but he noticed a bright yellow field of rapeseed on the skyline in the far western distance. The area, he noted, was interrupted here and there by small stands of isolated trees, all under a vast blue sky and with only the occasional thin wisp of white cloud to be seen. Webster turned his attention to the small area of ground which had so interested the dogs and walked slowly towards it. ‘So,’ he said amid the birdsong, ‘you think something is under the surface just here?’

  ‘It’s definitely going to be rotting flesh, sir, that is certain,’ the first dog handler replied. ‘That’s the only scent that they are trained to respond to ... but whether it is human or not, well, I’m afraid that only honest to God hard sweat and hard graft will tell.’

  ‘I see.’ Webster noted the location of the grave as a bead of sweat ran off his forehead, if it was in fact a grave. It lay amid a small group of young oak trees, all, he thought, to be about ten years old and all in a perfect line, neatly following the hedgerow on the southern, sun-receiving side. ‘Planted,’ he murmured to himself.

  ‘Sorry, sir?’ The first dog handler had clearly heard Webster.

  ‘The trees.’ Webster pointed to the line of young oak trees. ‘I was really muttering happily away to myself but I don’t at all mind sharing them with you – my humble and lowly observations, I mean ...’ Webster paused for a moment. ‘The trees, these young oak trees, have they been planted as if someone wished to leave something behind him ... or her? Ten oaks all in a row ... like pretty maids, each with room to grow, all equally spaced, all south of the hedgerow, as you see, and receiving lots of lovely sun so that in a hundred years’ time someone will walk down that lane,’ Webster pointed to the road upon which the police vehicles were parked, ‘and they will say, “someone planted those trees for us to enjoy today, and planted them a long time ago knowing they were never going to live to see them in all their wonderful mature splendour”.’

  ‘I see. That wouldn’t have occurred to me.’ The dog handler ran his eye along the line of oak trees. ‘I would never have seen that, sir.’

  ‘It probably wouldn’t have occurred to me either,’ Webster replied with a grin, ‘that is, if I hadn’t once tried to dig a hole beside an established tree ... a very big mistake. What happened is that my elderly relative then had to agree to have the fish pond she wanted put in the middle of her lawn and not under the shade of the beech tree as she had planned. I just couldn’t dig through the root plate, you see.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Nevertheless, the trees will help us date the grave, if it is one.’ Another bead of sweat ran heavily down Webster’s forehead. ‘Amazing creatures.’ He smiled at the dogs, ‘Really amazing.’

  ‘The dogs, sir?’ The first dog handler nodded approvingly. ‘Yes, it is truly astounding what they can do. You know, sir, I wouldn’t swap my place in the Dog Branch for any other field of police work. I mean, sir, if I have to be in uniform then this is the place I’d want to be.’

  ‘Good for you. I do like it when I meet a man who’s happy in his work.’ Webster reached into the pocket of his lightweight summer jacket, retrieved his mobile phone and selected the number for Micklegate Bar Police Station. He asked to be put through to Chief Inspector Hennessey upon his call being answered. ‘It’s far too early to say whether or not the remains are human, sir,’ Webster explained. ‘It could easily be a dead sheep, but both of the dogs have picked up the scent of rotting flesh and they have done so right at the map reference in question.’ Webster paused as he listened. Then he continued, ‘Yes, sir, understood.’ He switched off his mobile phone and waved to the sergeant and the con-stables to approach and, as he did so, he made the motion of a man digging with a spade.

  ‘We have a scent,’ Webster explained as the sergeant approached, followed by six white-shirted male constables, each one carrying a long-handled spade. ‘It’s a bit of an exposed place to bury a body, as you can see.’ Webster looked around, as did the grizzled-faced sergeant. ‘Rooftops of two villages can be clearly seen,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir, very exposed, as you say,’ the sergeant responded with a gravelly voice.

  ‘But we’ll have to dig anyway; the dogs have a scent.’

  ‘Understood, sir,’ the sergeant replied. ‘Where?’

  ‘Just here ...’ Webster dug his shoe heel into the area of soil which had excited the dogs.

  ‘Very good, sir.’ The sergeant turned and addressed the constables who had remained silent and who, having followed the hedgerows rather than walking through the crop, had by then formed a straight line. ‘Right, lads,’ he called, ‘there’s work for us to do. First two, please.’

  The first two constables instantly stepped forward and began to dig strongly and determinedly at the sun-baked soil in the area indicated by Webster, who had by then walked away and was standing beside the dog handlers, thus allowing the two constables room to work. Webster watched with interest as the two young men settled down into a steady rhythm, chipping away at the hardened soil. The first two constables were replaced by the next two men in line when, after thirty minutes of hard labour, they had dug a hole Webster guessed to be one-and-a-half-feet deep. After in excess of ninety minutes of digging the first two constables were once again working with their shirts wet with perspiration. One of the constables stood and announced, ‘There’s something here, sir. We’ve definitely got something.’

  Webster stepped forward and glanced keenly and curiously into the hole. He saw that the ‘something’ was a skull ... a human skull. ‘Well, that’s not a sheep,’ he said for want of anything to say. ‘That is definitely not a sheep.’ Then he turned to the sergeant and said, ‘Can you please dig the soil away from the rest of the top of the skeleton so as to expose it, but do not dig beneath it until the pathologist gives the go-ahead?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The sergeant turned to the constables and loudly barked clear instructions.

  For a second time that day Webster took his mobile phone from his jacket pocket and contacted DCI Hennessey.

  ‘Male.’ Dr Louise D’Acre looked down at the skeleton which had by then been fully exposed by careful, very careful, removal of the soil which had covered it. ‘That’s all I can tell you for now. Probably northern European, possibly Asian, but the deceased is definitely a male of our species.’ She also noted how the roots of the nearest oak tree had closely entwined round the skeleton rather than pushing through it. She and DCI Hennessey stood side by side within the white inflatable tent which had been erected over the shallow grave. The skele-ton, they observed, had been laid on its right-hand side and its legs had been folded in a near foetal position. ‘Adult male,’ she further explained. ‘I note clear trauma to the skull. Do you see it, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Hennessey saw the linear facture on the top of the skull. ‘That would have caused quite a headache, I think.’

  ‘It would also have caused instant death,’ Dr D’Acre replied solemnly. ‘At least I can say that it has that sort of potential. There might be more trauma on the hidden side to be considered, but that blow to the head alone ... well, I have known less to cause death, can I put it like that?’

  ‘Understood.’ Hennessey gave a slight nod of his head. ‘Can I ask you, Doctor D’Acre, how old do you think he is? I mean, how old was he at the time he died? That would be very useful in helping us to identify him.’

  ‘Over twenty-five years is all I can say at the moment because the skull has fully knitted together, as you can see, but once I start the post-mortem I will be able to extract a tooth, which will enable me to make an accurate determination of his age at death to within twelve months.’ Dr D’Acre paused. ‘As you see, he has achieved the fifth stage of decomposition. That is to say that he is now almost totally skeletal. He’s certainly been down there a good number of years. This soil hereabouts is rich in beasties the human eye cannot see and the moisture ... but he has a few sinews left ... He’s been down there for less than seventy years ... much less.’

  ‘So work for us?’ Hennessey smiled briefly. ‘No rest for the wicked.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Chief Inspector.’ Louise D’Acre turned to Hennessey and smiled gently but briefly. ‘It is work for you, I fear. Have you taken all the photographs you need?’

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll begin to take soil samples, but other than that I have seen all I need to see here. I’ll supervise the lifting of the skeleton and its placing into a body bag, once you have confirmed that all photographs have been taken. Who will lift the skeleton? Do you know?’

  ‘Whoever,’ Hennessey’s eye developed a wicked gleam, ‘or whichever two constables have the least experience. Whoever has the least years of service.’

  Dr D’Acre smiled. ‘Yes ... that is a good philosophy. The “deep end” approach.’

  ‘I’ll talk to them first, of course.’ Hennessey grinned. ‘I’ll remind them that they did not join the police force to escort little old ladies across the road.’

  ‘They certainly didn’t.’ Louise D’Acre nodded briefly. ‘So to confirm, I’ll remain here until the skeleton is in the body bag. Then I’d like to check the soil underneath the skeleton, because there is the possibility that there might be something of interest to us there. I assume you’ll dig down a little further until you are certain you have reached consolidated soil?’

  ‘Of course, ma’am.’ Hennessey wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.

  ‘I don’t see any non-degradable items like buttons or zip fasteners,’ Dr D’Acre observed.

  ‘Nor do I,’ Hennessey replied.

  ‘That will probably mean he was buried naked,’ Dr D’Acre commented. ‘That’s usually the case with young women, not men, because there is often a sexual component to the murder of women that isn’t present in the murder of men, but whatever.’ She paused briefly. ‘I assume you’ll be witnessing the post-mortem for the police, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Hennessey replied. ‘I will.’

  ‘Good.’ Dr D’Acre turned to leave the tent. ‘I can very easily start the post-mortem today; there is still plenty of time. I am not particularly constrained by time, but Eric is ... I have to bear that in mind.’

  ‘Eric?’ Hennessey sounded puzzled. ‘Sorry ... Eric?’

  ‘Eric Filey, one of the pathology laboratory assistants. He usually works with me. He’s a good man ... a good young man and we are very lucky to have him, very lucky indeed. He’ll willingly work overtime should I have to ask him to but I don’t want to put upon him. I want to keep him on side so I won’t risk antagonizing him. I must be careful not to exploit his good nature.’

  ‘Oh, I fully understand, and Eric ... Of course, how could I forget about Eric?’ Hennessey stepped aside so as to allow Dr D’Acre to exit the tent. ‘Man management is all about diplomacy.’

  ‘I’ll step outside for a moment to let the SOCO officers take the last of their photographs and to allow them space to photograph the exhumation.’ Dr D’Acre moved thankfully out into the breathable air of the field and once again found herself pondering the fortune awaiting the person who invents an air-conditioning system which can be installed in inflatable tents for the use of the police. She, like Reginald Webster, found herself enjoying the rural setting to which her duties on that day had brought her and she was very pleased to be able to exchange the all-pervading smell of formaldehyde for the pleasing fresh country air. As she walked from the tent her eye was caught by a hawk – a sparrow hawk, she thought – hovering above an adjacent field, and she watched as the bird dived purposefully, disappeared from view amongst the wheat and then rose with a small object in its talons. The field mouse dies so that the hawk might live; life goes on. She noticed movement on the road and saw a farmer with a battered, mud-splattered, green canvas-topped Land Rover slow down as he passed the scene of the police activity. Dr D’Acre then realized it would be the talk of the pubs in Warthill and Gate Helmsley that evening and probably for a few more evenings to come. Gossip, she pondered, that just might cause a felon to have a sleepless night, as the news of the skeleton being found would be made public. Dr D’Acre knew that all such talk could be useful to the police; local gossip and wide publicity has all been known to make a felon trip himself up, or even, indeed, to walk into a police station desperately wishing to ease a terrible conscience which has been haunting him, or her, for years. But in this case it was clear to her that the wretched man with a hole in his skull was never intended to be found.

  The skeleton, once delicately raised to ground level, was gently laid on to the black heavy-duty plastic body bag by the two ashen-faced young constables, which was then closed and zipped shut, placed on a stretcher and carried solemnly to the black, windowless mortuary van which had been summoned and, upon arriving, had parked behind the police minibus. Dr D’Acre returned to the tent and looked into the hole and, observing no further human remains or other items of significance, she then vacated the tent and approached DCI Hennessey. ‘Nothing more for me to do here, sir,’ she spoke quietly. ‘I’ll proceed to the York District Hospital and await the arrival of the skeleton.’

  ‘Very well, ma’am. I have a press release to prepare and then to issue, and I will join you immediately after that has been done. I am sure I will not be much delayed.’

  Dr D’Acre carefully studied the skeleton which lay upon the first of five stainless-steel tables which stood in a row in the pathology laboratory of the York District Hospital. It had been found on its side and in a foetal position, and was by then lying face-up with its arms by its sides and legs extended. Also present in the laboratory that afternoon were Eric Filey and DCI Hennessey, both of whom stood at a respectful distance from the dissecting table – Hennessey against the wall and Filey on the further side of the laboratory, against the bench which ran the length of the laboratory and beneath which were drawers containing instruments and other items which might be required by the pathologist. Dr D’Acre, Filey and Hennessey were each dressed in identical disposable green coveralls, complete with cap and foot covering. As on all previous occasions when George Hennessey had observed a post-mortem for the police, he once again found the air of the pathology laboratory heavy with the smell of bleach and industrial grade disinfectant. It permitted no natural light but instead was illuminated by a series of filament bulbs shielded by opaque Perspex screens, which prevented epileptic fit-inducing shimmer to reach the eyes of any person in the room.

  Dr D’Acre pulled down the anglepoise arm which was bolted to the ceiling, so that the microphone at the tip of the arm was level with her mouth. ‘Today’s date and the next serial number, please, Judith.’ She spoke for the clear benefit of the tape which would later, Hennessey knew, be transcribed by an audio typist who evidently knew which information to type and which to omit. Dr D’Acre then turned slowly to Eric Filey and said, ‘This might mean late working for you, Eric. I hope you don’t mind?’