A Licence to Murder Page 2

  Sandra Ferguson was cuddling one of her dogs on her lap while the other lay at her feet. Both dogs started howling as soon as Wilson opened the passenger door of the Land Rover and climbed in. He waited patiently for the noise to abate before turning and looking directly at the young woman. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Wilson and I understand you’re the person who found the torso.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Wilson could see that Ferguson was in shock. He thought she would normally be pale anyway, but her face was currently ghostly pale. He reckoned that she was somewhere in her mid-twenties. She was an attractive young woman with black curly hair and clear blue eyes. He could see the marks of the tears where her mascara had run. The day she found the woman’s torso would be in her memory until the day she died. ‘Do you live locally?’

  She held the dog on her lap close. ‘Firmount Crescent, not far from the care home.’

  ‘Would you prefer to talk to me there?’ Wilson turned as Browne opened the driver’s door and sat into the Land Rover.

  ‘No, here’s fine. I don’t know what I can tell you though.’

  ‘Just explain how you found the torso and what you did when you saw it.’

  ‘The dogs got away from me and wouldn’t come back. They’re little brats when they get off the lead. I could hear them scuffling in the bushes and called them out. But, of course, they ignored me, so I went in after them. I could see that they were digging in the ground and at first I thought it might be a dead animal. Then I saw the skin. I picked up a branch and started to root around where the dogs were burrowing. Once I knew for sure it was a body, I put the dogs on their leads and I called 999. I’m afraid I also vomited.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. Do you walk the dogs here every day?’

  ‘Most mornings.’

  ‘And you’ve never seen anything strange going on?’

  ‘I often see a few joggers, but nobody burying a body.’

  ‘Do you work locally?’

  She looked quickly at her watch. ‘Oh Jesus, I forgot all about work. I’ll be fired.’

  ‘No you won’t,’ Wilson said. ‘And you won’t be going to work today. Give Detective Sergeant Browne the phone number of your workplace and he’ll make all the arrangements with them. You’ve received a very big shock, which probably hasn’t fully hit yet. Sergeant Browne will arrange for a car to take you and your dogs home. When you get there, make yourself a nice cup of tea.’ He didn’t tell her that she would probably spend the rest of the day wrapped up in bed crying.

  Chapter 6

  Dr Andrew Muriuki pulled his car up as close to the crime scene tape as he could. He climbed out and removed his sky-blue plastic jumpsuit from the boot. He had recently qualified as a pathologist and had expressed serious reservations about taking the locum position covering Professor Reid’s leave of absence. Although Belfast was no longer the murder capital of the United Kingdom, a quick examination of the files indicated that he might have to deal with a least one murder during his sojourn in Belfast. Now his knowledge was about to be put to the test and he was worried that it might be found wanting. He saw that the forensic van had already arrived and assumed that the several figures in white plastic jumpsuits moving around in the undergrowth were forensic officers. He had just completed dressing himself to look like an overgrown condom when he was approached by a very tall, well-built man wearing a suit and moving with an air of authority. He removed his bag from the boot and stood by his car.

  Wilson extended his hand as he approached the new arrival. ‘Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson, and who might you be?’

  Muriuki shook the extended hand. ‘Dr Andrew Muriuki, I’m replacing Professor Reid during her leave of absence.’ Reid had left him very detailed notes on the procedures at the Royal Victoria and the open files that would require his attention. However, it was her assistant during their tea breaks who had filled him in on the cast of characters he would meet in the hospital and the local police force. Heavily featured in their discussions was the man standing in front of him. He had been told that the policeman who was also Reid’s lover was an imposing individual, but he was not prepared for the angle he had to crane his neck at in order to look into Wilson’s eyes. Muriuki had been taken from his mother before he was five months old, principally because she had twice tried to kill him by throwing him into the village’s long-drop latrine. As a result of being underfed as a child, his growth had been stunted and he was happy that he had reached a height of five feet five inches.

  Wilson looked down on the pathologist. Two red-rimmed dark eyes looked back at him from behind glasses that resembled bottle tops. He looked for all the world like a young student or an aspiring actor auditioning for the role of an African Harry Potter. He’d heard that Reid’s locum was a Kenyan but that was about it. The words ‘leave of absence’ brought home to him the indefinite nature of Reid’s stay in Los Angeles.

  ‘I understand that we’re dealing with a torso of a woman,’ Muriuki said, levelling his gaze at the area where the forensic team was at work.

  Wilson followed the pathologist’s stare ‘The head, arms and legs are missing. As soon as you and Forensics are through I intend to organise a detailed search of the park for the missing body parts, including the use of the cadaver dogs.’

  ‘Then I’d best get to work,’ Muriuki ducked under the tape and strode towards the crime scene.

  Wilson was two yards behind him. He wanted to see how Reid’s temporary replacement handled himself.

  The forensic team had already exposed the full torso and one of them was taking photographs of the scene. Wilson noted that the head had been removed from the shoulders and the arms from the shoulder sockets while the thighs had been severed at the hips. What remained was the chest, the pubic area and the rear.

  Muriuki could see that the dissection of the body had been done in the most rudimentary fashion. The operation had certainly not been carried out by a medical practitioner. He would leave it to the forensic technicians to establish the implement that had been employed. He knew that the police would be interested in the cause and the time of death. The decay process was under way, but he wouldn’t be able to give an estimate of the time of death until he had a chance to test the growth of maggots in the lab. There was very little he could do here. He stood up and turned to face Wilson’s chest.

  ‘Anything?’ Wilson asked.

  Muriuki started walking towards the cars. ‘The murder didn’t take place here and neither did the amputations. The earth is clear of blood. Other than the dismemberment, there is no sign of violence on the torso. I would assume that the head, arms and legs were removed so as to disguise the way in which this poor woman died. I’ll need to run some tests on the rate of maggot growth back at the lab before I can give even an estimated time of death. I’ll carry out a full post-mortem on the torso and let you have the results as soon as they’re available.’

  Wilson was impressed. He doubted that Reid would have been able to go any further. It looked like they would have to locate the head and the limbs if they wanted to find out how the woman died, and who she was.

  As they exited from the bushes, they saw that an ambulance had pulled up alongside the Land Rovers and two paramedics were standing outside the crime scene tape. The chief of the forensic team approached them carrying a body bag. ‘Are you finished?’ he addressed the question to Wilson, who in turn looked at Muriuki.

  The pathologist was already heading towards his car. ‘I’m finished. Tell them to deposit the torso at the Royal Victoria mortuary.’

  Very businesslike and very professional, Wilson thought as he watched the small man slip gracefully out of his jumpsuit. Reid would be missed, but her replacement didn’t appear to be the worst pathologist he’d worked with.

  Chapter 7

  Wilson peeled off his jumpsuit and placed it in a plastic bag. He was standing at the top of the escarpment looking across the park to the Holywood Golf Club in the distance. He was no land surveyor, but he estimated that there were more than two hundred acres of wood and bush directly in front of him. If there was a better place close to Belfast to hide a body, he didn’t know it. Except, he wasn’t dealing with a body. All he had was a torso. There were no wounds on the torso itself so the cause of death would remain undetermined, unless by some miracle the cadaver dogs find something or another couple of stray Jack Russells decided to help out. Searching Redburn Country Park was going to take time and be resource-intensive. This was the part of policing that the politicians didn’t think about when they played the numbers game. It’s easy to cut the number of police officers and trumpet the positive impact that could immediately be seen on the bottom line. But solving crimes requires resources, which means boots on the ground. This evening, or tomorrow, some half-assed journalist like his friend McDevitt would start writing about the threat to young women from the man, or men, responsible for carving up whoever the torso belonged to. Twenty years ago there would have been dozens of detectives on a case like this. Today it will be him and his small squad of journeymen aided and abetted by a few dozen uniforms spending their days tramping round a two hundred acre park looking for a patch of disturbed ground. Good luck with that.

  ‘Tea,’ the chief of the forensics team thrust a cup in Wilson’s direction.

  ‘Thanks.’ Wilson took the cup. ‘Sandy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye, I hope you like sugar. We find it helps.’ He took a slug from his own cup.

  Wilson tasted his tea, five spoons of sugar for sure, possibly more.

  ‘She’s all packed up and away,’ Sandy said. ‘We’ve taken some soil samples but there’s not much else. The ground has been pretty well churned up. I don’t blame the wee girl or her dogs. It just is what it is. If there’s any ev
idence about, we’ll find it. Mind you, I wouldn’t like the job of searching this park. I live in Dundonald and we used to come here with the kids. There are plenty of nooks and crannies.’

  ‘I was thinking the same thing. The uniforms won’t thank me.’ Wilson finished his tea. He could still feel the sweetness in his mouth. He passed the cup back to Sandy.

  ‘Do you think the other bits are buried close by?’ Sandy asked.

  Wilson looked across the green fields and woods that covered the park. ‘Could be, but if we do find the rest of her I’m going to buy a lottery ticket.’

  Browne joined them. ‘Ferguson is away home. We’ll call on her tomorrow for an official statement. I’ve contacted her employer and explained the situation. Is it time for the cadaver dogs?’

  Wilson looked at Sandy, who nodded. ‘Make the arrangements. We’re also going to have to close the park while the uniforms carry out a detailed search. I’ll give the chief super a call and see what can be arranged within the limits of the budget.’

  ‘You’ll have the photographs before close of play today,’ Sandy said. ‘And the forensic report as soon as possible. Best of luck with this one, you’re going to need it.’ He turned and started walking back to the van.

  ‘Any thoughts, Boss?’ Browne asked.

  ‘We need to find the head and the limbs. Otherwise we’re up shit creek without a paddle. Check the CCTV situation in the area. My guess is that there isn’t too much. There’ll be some at the golf club no doubt, but it’ll be bugger-all use. Harry will have to manage the search of the park. There are three issues that I’d like to clear up quickly. Where exactly was she murdered? How did she die? And last but by no means least, who the hell was she? Someone has gone to great lengths to deny that information to us. Why? What is so important about this murder that we have to be left completely in the dark? On the face of it, I can’t see any of these questions being answered without the expenditure of an enormous amount of shoe leather.’

  Chapter 8

  Detective Constable Peter Davidson was living the dream. On most nights he exchanged his dingy bedsit in central Belfast for Irene Carlisle’s four-bedroomed home in Hillsborough. He regularly clapped himself on the back for having the courage to follow up on the widow Carlisle’s subtle encouragement. Their arrangement was entirely suited to two mature individuals. He had learned that Irene’s life had not been the bed of roses most people might have expected. Her husband was a career politician and as time progressed his interest in politics had increased and his interest in his wife had diminished. She was ready for some male attention and Davidson’s life had been devoid of female companionship for some time, so their arrangement had been mutually agreeable. He was keeping quiet about his understanding with Irene. He was supposed to be investigating the possibility that her husband’s suicide had in fact been murder. His boss, Ian Wilson, wouldn’t be at all happy about his extracurricular activities. He was five weeks into the investigation and he was getting nowhere. That wasn’t exactly true. He had learned that the hospice dealing with Jackie Carlisle had received a call on the morning of his death cancelling an appointment that involved him receiving a morphine injection. He knew for certain that neither Carlisle nor his widow had placed that call, but he was still having trouble getting the hospice to agree to their telecom provider releasing the data on the calls for the day in question. The pace of the investigation didn’t bother him and since it was an off-the-books exercise, Wilson was allowing him a free hand. So far there were only two leads to follow up, the phone call and the source of the morphine. The tox report from the autopsy had established that the shot of morphine Carlisle had received had been almost one hundred per cent pure and that the quantity injected was sufficient to kill a dray horse. There were few enough places in Belfast where product of that nature could be obtained. One of those sources being new ganglord Davie Best. A dead politician and the possible involvement of a gang-boss didn’t auger well for the health of the person investigating the connection. It was a case of treading very carefully and not awakening the monster.

  Davidson had got into the habit of dropping by the widow Carlisle for an early morning coffee. In order to cover for this activity he was also canvassing the neighbours concerning the day of Carlisle’s death. He had just enjoyed a cup of coffee and a cuddle with Irene and as he was leaving he noticed a car in the driveway of one of her neighbours who had been away on holiday when he did his house-to-house. It was a fine autumn day with relatively few clouds breaking up the blue of the sky. Davidson was in a positive mood when he marched up the tarmacked drive and knocked at the door of the imposing residence.

  The man who answered the door was slightly older than Davidson and was wearing a check shirt with a cravat. Davidson suppressed a smile. Who the hell in this day and age wore a cravat? He produced his warrant card. ‘Detective Constable Davidson.’

  The look on the man’s face showed that he had had very limited contact with the police. ‘Has something happened? It’s not my son is it?’ The accent was south of England.

  ‘No, sir, nothing like that. You are no doubt aware that one of your neighbours, Jackie Carlisle, was found dead recently.’

  ‘Yes, we all knew Jackie, life and soul of any party. Great fount of inside stories and all-round nice chap. What’s the problem?’

  ‘No problem, sir, we’re just looking into suspicious movements on the day Mr Carlisle died. His life had been threatened and while we agree with the coroner’s verdict of suicide, we’re anxious to follow up on any threats he might have received just before his death. You didn’t happen to see anything suspicious on the day he died?’ Davidson knew his story was full of holes. The problem with lying is not that one gets caught in it but that one has to keep thinking up new lies to validate the original one.

  The man thought for a moment. ‘No, I didn’t see anything unusual. I think I was gardening that day. The roses needed pruning, the damn things always seem to need pruning. I remember seeing Irene leaving and a short time after that a chap got out of a car and went up the drive. Jackie must have been expecting him because the door opened and he was admitted immediately.’

  ‘Is there anything you can tell me about the man?’ Davidson withdrew his day-book from his pocket.

  ‘He was a big fellow, six feet plus. He was wearing some kind of white jacket. I think there was another chap in the car he got out of.’

  ‘You mean a white sports coat?’

  ‘No, damn it, if I meant a white sports coat I would have said so. It was the kind of jacket that a chef or a doctor might wear. I went inside just after that so I didn’t see him leave. Is that suspicious enough for you?’

  Or a male nurse, Davidson thought. And yes, it was bloody well very suspicious. ‘And Mr Carlisle let him in immediately?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Are we finished?’

  ‘More roses to prune, sir?’ Davidson put away his day-book. And when he looked up the door had been shut in his face. He smiled before turning and walking back down the drive. Most people would have let Carlisle’s death go and been satisfied to bid him good riddance but not Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson. No, his boss had an antenna that could pick up the weakest signal of a crime. He was the kind of man who worried a small inconsistency into a major line of enquiry. The cancelled phone call. The large overdose of pure product. And now the two men, one possibly wearing a nurse’s uniform. He was enjoying his little gallop with Irene Carlisle and he hoped that this new piece of information wouldn’t put an end to it. Whatever way you spun it, the prime suspect in a murder enquiry into the death of Jackie Carlisle was his merry widow.

  Chapter 9

  Chief Superintendent Yvonne Davis held her head in her hands. The man sitting across from her had just blown her budget to smithereens. Redburn Country Park was two hundred and fifty acres of woodland, bush and scrub. Searching it for the body parts of the obviously murdered woman would cost a fortune in overtime and pull officers off the roster. ‘We’ll have to search the whole park,’ she said, more or less to herself but loud enough for Wilson to hear.