Missing pieces, p.3
Missing Pieces, page 3
‘So, where does that leave us now? One obvious possibility is that she never was reported missing. If that is the case, we have to ask, why not? The pathologist at the time estimated her age to be between eighteen and twenty-five; how can someone of that age not be missed? She was a daughter, maybe had siblings, she had friends, she probably had a job, probably a boyfriend, maybe a husband… Under what circumstances could none of them report her as missing?’
Greene looked around – it was not a rhetorical question. Freeman watched them, and she wasn’t surprised when Serena said, ‘Maybe she was just really unpopular?’
Clive Betts nodded in agreement and said, ‘I think DC Butler should take the lead on this one, sir. She can empathise with that.’
There were one or two smiles and Betts received the appropriate one-fingered gesture from his target. The management did not need to intervene – everyone in the room could take care of themselves as far as the banter was concerned.
Greene took it up again – ‘If and when we discover who she was, Serena’s comment could be pertinent. We’ll need to look carefully at why those closest to her didn’t report her as missing. Another possibility is that someone did, and for some reason that report was never connected to the investigation at the time. As I said, it seems to have been done properly, but someone,’ – tapping the red folder with a forefinger – ‘will need to check through these again. All three hundred and four of them. Not the most stimulating of jobs.’
Serena’s hand was raised and Greene nodded, expecting it. She said, ‘I think DC Betts should take the lead on that, boss. He’s not the most stimulating of people.’
Betts made some riposte but it was lost in the laughter. Greene caught Freeman’s eye but she gave a shake of her head – she didn’t need to take over the briefing just now. Greene said to them, ‘When we started reviewing cold cases, this was just one of a dozen. It’s risen to the top of the list for several reasons. One is the twenty-year anniversary angle which we’ll use in the appeal. Another is that it remains a genuine mystery, and that should get some interest. It appears online in a variety of places, and someone here will be looking at and recording all those references; there are chat groups which discuss these things, believe it or not. Has someone ever said anything to suggest they might know something we don’t?
‘There is a lot of material from the first investigation still in storage. It’s been at Hunston but some of it’s beginning to arrive here – I want that all to be catalogued and sorted before we begin going through it. Priti isn’t in today but she’ll be the ideal person for that job. As soon as it’s listed, we’ll divide it up. But the key thing, as you already know, is that many of the tissue samples taken from the body have not…’
Greene paused, aware that Freeman was watching and listening.
‘… have not stood the test of time well. Even though it’s been twenty years, matters have advanced so quickly that we might get material from the body now which will tell us more than the original samples could at the time. And forensic archaeology barely existed back then. We have someone from Cambridge lined up for that and…’
Freeman thought he had been his usual diplomatic self. The truth was that there had been a major cock-up in the storage of samples, and not just from this case. Norwich were already asking awkward questions of those responsible, and if certain defence lawyers got wind of it, there could be a rash of appeals involving the re-examination of evidence they knew was now suspect. She wouldn’t want to be fielding that lot.
Greene had finished speaking and he was looking at her. She’d missed it but guessed it was something to do with the exhumation order. She said, ‘The Coroner is on board with it – we’re just waiting for a signature. Then it’s the Ministry of Justice, which I’m told should be a formality because there’s no one to object to us opening the grave.’
Waters said, ‘Just the vicar of St Marys, where she’s buried, ma’am.’
‘Really? What’s his problem with it?’
‘He’d rather she be left in peace, ma’am.’
She stared at Waters as if he had voiced the idea himself, before she said, ‘Hmm. And I’m sure the person who killed her feels exactly the same. I don’t think the vicar has any say in the matter, Chris, but if someone has to take tea with the Bishop, I hope you like cucumber sandwiches. Denise, where are you with the CPS on Melanie Haines and Trudi Mercer?’
‘All finished, ma’am. We’ve sent everything they asked for.’
‘Good. So we’re all on this. It’s an opportunity for glory, for-’
Her iWatch pinged a message. Freeman glanced at it and back at the detectives in front of her. She said, ‘That’s the Coroner giving us the go-ahead to apply for the order.’
A couple of nods, a thoughtful look here and there. To Freeman’s knowledge, only her second-in-command had done anything like this before. After the pause, she looked seriously at Betts and said, ‘You’re a bit of a gardener, aren’t you, Clive?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Why?’
‘Just wondering whether you could bring in a couple of shovels tomorrow. And maybe a wheelbarrow?’
Chapter Four
It must have been light before five o’clock. The blinds were drawn but the morning seeped in around the edges, and the contours of the room, the outlines of the bedroom furniture, were half-lit and half in shadow. The birdsong from the back gardens that had awoken him through April and May was falling silent now – spring was over, summer had begun. The only sound was the quiet breathing of the woman sleeping next to him.
He reached cautiously for his watch, doing his best not to wake her. Five fifteen, and five minutes before the alarm he had set the previous evening. He cancelled the alarm, estimating that he had maybe ten more minutes in the bed before he had to get up, take a shower, get a shave, make himself something to eat and then drive fifteen miles to dig up a body. All in a day’s work… But as far as he knew, this was something Smith had never done. The team had been under strict instructions not to reveal to anyone that the exhumation would take place but after the event it would become public knowledge, and he would be interested to know what his former sergeant thought about the matter.
Making as little noise as possible, he turned back onto his right side and looked at her. She lay facing the same direction and so away from him but her left arm was behind her. He eased the duvet up to cover her naked shoulder, and then he lifted some of her long dark hair just a little so that it caught the dim light – he was still fascinated by its weight and by the natural highlights in it, sometimes a coppery tint in the sun but now almost a blue-black here in the shadows of their bedroom. He spread it across the pillow between them and then reached down, finding her hand.
He took the fingers into his own: long, slender, piano-player’s fingers – he liked the thought of holding her hand while she slept and knew nothing about it. Gently he manipulated her hand until he could touch the third finger and feel the ring – he turned it slightly so that the single diamond was perfectly central and then he ran his thumb over the setting. He rotated the ring again very slightly, still remembering the relief that he had guessed correctly and that it fitted perfectly as soon as he had put it on, not quite a fortnight ago.
She didn’t move at all, and so when she spoke in a surprisingly un-sleepy voice, he was not expecting it. She said, ‘If you’re thinking about taking it off because you’re having second thoughts, you can forget it.’
In his three years at university, Waters had drunk coffee no more than half a dozen times. But now, after several years as a police detective, he had developed the habit. As he operated the press in the kitchen, he told himself he wasn’t going to get religious about it like some people he knew, and then discovered he had counted precisely five seconds of steady continuous pressure at the end of the procedure, just the way one of those fanatics had told him it must be done. In some respects though, he was still his own man – courageously, after disposing of the grounds in the recycling bin, he went back to the steaming mug and only needed to stir it because the milk had gone in first. Just a little milk because it was the first cup of the day and a very early one, but it had been in that cup before the Caffè Verona – which was itself a blend rather than a single estate; thus two heresies had been committed before breakfast. Not bad going.
Miriam would drink coffee sometimes, but only in the late morning – she was a tea person, and perfectly content with decent quality bags from a supermarket. He lifted one now from her mug and dropped it into the bin; yes, Smith, made in the mug, no teapot involved. Then he took both drinks into the bedroom. He placed Miriam’s on the corner of the low bedside table, using the width of one finger to position it the exact distance from the edge so she would find it easily with her own fingers.
She wriggled back until she was resting against the headboard, pulling the duvet up to cover herself as if she was still shy with him. She was self-conscious to the point of insecurity at times, something she had revealed to him as they got to know each other better – he had realised eventually that in losing her sight as a child, Miriam had never looked into a mirror and observed her beauty as a grown woman. And that was a tragedy in itself because she turned heads every time she walked into a room, and she had never seen that for herself.
She reached out a hand and their fingers interlaced – something they did often as an unspoken substitute for looking at each other. She said, ‘So, a big day, today. Are you going ahead with it? Not tempted to pull a sickie?’
No, he said. Freeman wanted two of them present, and her second-in-command, DI Greene, had volunteered and then asked Waters, suggesting quite seriously that it would look good on his CV. And attending an exhumation was not something he, Waters, wanted to pass on to a junior officer. He could also have admitted to some curiosity as to the process and how it was to be conducted.
Miriam said, ‘But after twenty years… It will be just bones, won’t it?’
‘Probably. I don’t know how long a coffin lasts. Inside, I’m guessing it will be mostly bones. I don’t know what they would have buried her in – we have the clothes she was wearing, as part of the evidence. A shroud, I expect. But they can tell a lot from bones these days.’
She was appropriately quiet for a time, visualising it, something he knew she could do better than most sighted people. He squeezed her fingers and asked what she had planned for the day, and then they both smiled because anything she said in answer was going to sound mundane to the point of absurdity. She said she was going into the shop in the morning to help Patsy with a delivery, and in the afternoon she had three piano students, one after another; Miriam’s reputation as a teacher had grown quickly and she now had as many adult students as children.
She said, ‘All right – enjoy your day. Can I just ask you to do one thing for me?’
‘Just one thing?’
She dug her nails into his hand a little and told him he was already going to be late – Waters moved closer to her, close enough to kiss her, and whispered, ‘OK, what’s the one thing?’
She said, ‘Just make sure you wash your hands properly before you come home tonight.’
As he drove through the Norfolk countryside and through one of those delicate mists that precede a fine day, Waters found himself in a reflective frame of mind. He had already seen more dead people than most of us see even if we live to a great age and lose all those we know and love. He had been up close and personal with some of those bodies, had been the scene of crime manager responsible for them. He had attended a post-mortem and he had been present at the burials of two young people – Wayne Fletcher, his first proper investigation, and, recently, the funeral of Roxanne Prescott, which had been moving enough to reduce even DCI Freeman to a few secret tears.
But this, as Smith might have said in one of his more workaday metaphors, is a whole new ball game. We’re going to open a grave and remove the mortal remains of a young woman which have lain there for twenty years – when she was buried, Waters was still at primary school, still in short trousers, still thinking that being a train driver was the best job in the world. We’re going to hand over those remains to people with skills and knowledge undreamed of when Smith was a rookie detective constable, in the hope that they will be able to give us something, give us a clue that will help us to give her a name. And then we can begin the search for the person or persons who killed her.
He slowed a little, anticipating the turning that would be signposted for the tiny village of Stone Warren. Much to Freeman’s annoyance, it had taken almost another week to arrange the exhumation after the afternoon when she had got the Coroner’s agreement. Three days had been spent trying to explain to various Home Office officials that the reason no close relative had given their consent was that no one knew who the woman was – therefore her close relatives were proving rather difficult to contact. Eventually the matter had risen to bureaucratically dizzy heights; a permanent under-secretary, who is someone much more important than he or she might appear from their title, had been in touch with Assistant Chief Constable Devine at Norwich. After lengthy discussions, the permanent under-secretary had been convinced that detectives in the shire counties did not in fact dig up the deceased on a whim, that there was a most serious purpose to the exercise and therefore consent should probably be given, all things considered. John Murray said we should be proud – we do administrative delay better than anyone except maybe the Italians.
Outside the church there were far too many vehicles for half past six in the morning. Automatically now, Waters noted them, relating the different models to the officials he knew would be present; at the end of the line he could see Tom Greene’s silver Volvo S90, and he parked behind it. Greene had three times the distance to come but it was no surprise at all that he was here first. Waters got out and then realised the DI himself was still in his vehicle – as he approached, the door opened and Greene joined him on the walk towards the lych-gate of the churchyard.
Waters said he hoped he wasn’t late, and was told he wasn’t but if he had been it wouldn’t have mattered much – and then the detective inspector said, ‘I’ve had a call from the forensic archaeologist telling me they’re going to be late. They got lost.’
Greene saw his companion’s raised eyebrows and added, ‘Yes, doesn’t fill one with confidence. We’re asking them to minutely examine a skeleton and they can’t find the churchyard…’
Waters said, ‘This is going to take some time, isn’t it?’
Greene shrugged and said he didn’t know. He’d been involved in one of these many years ago but only as junior officer – he had never played a part in arranging an exhumation before this one. He held up the briefcase that seemed to accompany him wherever he went and said, ‘I hope we have everything we need in here. The last time I spoke to the Reverend Gray on the phone, he was still objecting and still looking for a way to prevent this.’
A small group of people had assembled by the back door of the church. There were nods but no words until Greene introduced himself and Waters – this was followed by the others giving their names and stating what part they were playing in the matter. Mr Coe senior of Coe and Sons, Funeral Directors, was present along with one of the said sons; they had provided the new casket and would carry out the transporting of the remains to the police mortuary. They were by far the most appropriately dressed for the occasion in funereal black, and Mr Coe – whom one suspected had had much practice in all things afterlife – spoke in most sombre tones. The son he had chosen to accompany him remained as silent as the grave they were about to open throughout the entire process.
The middle-aged lady turned out to be the environmental health officer from the district council. Her green wellington boots had to be standard local authority issue because a matching pair were on the feet of the younger woman next to her, who was a health and safety officer from the same council; apparently one was here to assess the risk of contamination and the other to ensure that no living person was endangered during the excavation of the grave. What either of them would do in the event of either hazard becoming an actuality, Waters found difficult to imagine.
An older man with a clipboard introduced himself as Mr Wallace, the senior county registrar for births, marriages and deaths – his primary job today was to ensure that the correct grave was opened. Waters wanted to ask whether they often got the wrong one but the mood established by now was a solemn one, as, of course, it should be.
After a short silence, it was Greene who spoke again, thanking them for their attendance, and for arriving at such an early hour as the protocols required. The detective inspector had effectively taken charge – it was obvious no one else had any intention of doing so. Greene said, ‘The forensic people will be with us shortly. If everyone else is present then, shall we make a start?’
Mr Coe raised one hand and said, ‘We are waiting for the vicar.’
After a pause, Greene said, ‘Oh. Has there been any sign of him?’
Waters had looked about and noticed that the heavy, iron-hinged door of the little church was partially open – and when he listened, straining his ears, was that a man’s voice he could hear, low and intoning, the words inaudible?
Mr Coe nodded in the direction of the door as he answered Greene’s question – ‘The Reverend Gray was here when we arrived. He has gone to change. And to pray.’
For a year or two after he finished his basic training in the police service, Waters had kept up the habit of writing notes more or less daily. Over time, this had diminished to writing down a few key events, and recently there had been too many distractions as soon as he went through his front door. But he thought he might write about this occasion because there was a great deal to remember when arranging an exhumation, including leaving time for prayer.
