Something Evil Comes Read online

  ‘Let’s get started,’ she said.

  As SOCOs attached metal stands to the lights, she set down her case and walked to the stone structure. A heavy-looking wooden cover, a little askew, was resting on it. She leant against the structure to peer inside, feeling the cold from the stone seeping through her clothing and onto her lower body. Straightening, she turned and gestured for lights to be brought, tapping the wood. ‘This has to come off.’

  Two SOCOs lifted and carried it to a corner, one of them returning to it with fingerprint powder, brush and a roll of clear tape.

  Chong gazed into the stone structure at what was now fully visible, the reason she and her colleagues were here. A few seconds to size up the situation and she turned to the senior SOCO.

  ‘He has to come out but before he does I need to get inside for a closer look. We’ll start with photographs.’

  The SOCOs worked around each other in silence, movements coordinated, punctuated by the whir of cameras. She fetched her own from her case, hung it around her neck by its wide strap. Clipboard, pen and a small recording device in hand she returned to the structure. As the SOCOs moved away she approached it, raised the large camera and focused it downwards, firing off several shots in rapid succession, giving each a critical appraisal as she went. Getting a confirmatory nod from the senior SOCO she raised herself to a sitting position on the wide stone edge and swung her legs over the side.

  Crouched inside the chill, confined space she studied what had to be the best preserved human remains she’d ever seen, the damage to the throat the worst. She activated the recording device. ‘Initial observations: deceased young male in excellent state of preservation lying in supine position within a stone sarcophagus located in a semi-basement room of St Bartholomew’s Church, Moseley. Age estimate: eighteen to twenty-five. Dark hair. Clean shaven. Appears to be of average height and build. Dressed in dark-coloured overcoat, zig-zag blue-and-green patterned scarf, black jeans, black boots. Nothing further visible at this time. Frontal aspect of throat appears to have been …’ She searched for a neutral alternative to the two words in her head. None came.

  ‘… torn out.’

  Stopping the recorder she stared down at the damage wrought to the front of the neck, then moved to the right side of the remains. Crouching, she noted a mark just below the ear. Reaching forward she gently pulled down the overcoat collar and gave what was revealed close scrutiny. It was sizeable, darker than the leather-like, grey-to-brown flesh surrounding it and formed from straight lines which nature would never have created.

  ‘Deceased has what appears to be a tattoo on the right side of the neck. Design not yet identifiable.’

  Straightening, she clicked off the recorder, sat on the side of the structure and swung her legs over. Taking out her phone, she selected her assistant’s number. Her call was picked up on the first ring. He was an early bird.

  ‘Igor. Run a data search of MISPERS, please.’ She repeated her initial findings.

  ‘If you find a good fit, tell the chief, let me have the ID details and I’ll take a DNA sample and send it over for final confirmation.’

  An hour later the body had been removed from its resting place and was lying on a white sheet spread over a fully-open body bag. Legs braced, her body angled above it, Chong steadied the large camera and took several shots. They would be added to the ones she’d taken of the body in situ, all of them assembled into a crime scene album. She idly wondered about the deceased’s family if he had one. They probably had photo albums. Evidence of happier days.

  Feeling a presence at her elbow she turned to a SOCO who was holding a shallow cardboard box towards her. She looked down at candles, one flattened and broken, the others intact, their wicks burnt.

  ‘These fit with the community officer’s report of intruders in here,’ he said. ‘We’ll test for prints.’

  As he took them away, Chong picked up voices coming from outside. Eyes on the steps beyond the damaged door, she watched large, outward-pointing feet in blue shoe covers coming downwards, followed by the rest of a tall, heavyset officer, his broad face set. Detective Sergeant Watts. He nodded to Chong, came to where she was standing and got his first sight of the remains. ‘Bloody hell.’

  A dark-haired, younger officer followed him, look down at the remains then up at Chong. She noted that his face had a light tan despite the bright white light which had everyone, apart from Chong herself, looking washed-out. Aware of the blue eyes turned on her, not for the first time she wished away a decade. Pure, light-hearted fantasy. Maybe not so pure. Lieutenant Joseph Corrigan had also taken leave at around the same time as she had, his choice the eastern seaboard of the United States rather than the Far East.

  She nodded at each of them and to Corrigan, ‘How was Boston?’

  ‘Homely. How’d you find Hong Kong?’

  ‘Turned left after India and waited.’

  His thick arms folded, Watts was eyeing the remains lying on the sheet-covered body bag. ‘Some pilfering types got a nasty shock when they came down here.’

  ‘It looks that way,’ said Chong. ‘They left candles behind. SOCO will process them.’

  He gave her an appraising look. ‘The chief says you already know who this is.’

  She glanced towards the remains. ‘I phoned initial examination details to Igor. He found a likely MISPER: Matthew Flynn, resident of Erdington, Birmingham who disappeared in October of last year. Twenty years old.’ She gazed down at the wreckage lying on the sheet. ‘I’ve sent a tissue sample to headquarters for final DNA confirmation. You’ll have to be patient for the result.’

  ‘I can do that,’ said Watts, looking anywhere but at the remains.

  Chong eyed Corrigan, saw the dark brows rise. ‘You don’t say?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m hoping we’ll have it by late today.’

  Watts looked at her. ‘How come you’re so confident who it is?’

  She hooked a finger at both of them. ‘Time for the guided tour.’ They followed her and stood in silence, gazing downwards as she waved a hand over the remains. ‘This is as good as it gets in terms of preservation.’

  ‘Take your word for it,’ murmured Watts.

  She crouched. ‘See here – and here? Those faint lines?’ She looked up at them, finger-pointing the neck. ‘Nature doesn’t do straight lines. This is the ID clincher so far. According to a statement by a work colleague of Matthew Flynn’s, he had a tattoo on the right side of his neck.’

  Watts got down on considerable haunches, his eyes travelling quickly over the remains, wincing at the ragged hole to the front of the neck. He pointed. ‘Apart from that, he looks to be in relatively good nick.’

  Chong raised her hands to the walls and low ceiling. ‘We’ve got this place to thank for it.’ She stood, walked to the stone construction and patted it. ‘Plus, he was inside this. More stone to keep him cold.’ She pointed to a distant corner. ‘That wooden lid kept out the light. Not that there is any down here, even in daytime. There’s no indication of blood spillage or other stains so he wasn’t killed here. Take a look inside his sarcophagus.’

  Corrigan went to it, peered inside. ‘Real cosy.’

  ‘When do we get the rest?’ asked Watts, sounding casual.

  She shot him a reproving glance. ‘Give certain people all you’ve learned from two hours of dedicated work in what feels like a fridge and they’re still not satisfied.’ She walked back to him. At times like this she was as amazed as everyone else at HQ at the simple, off-duty friendship between her and Watts. ‘One of your defining characteristics is that you never disappoint. I was waiting for your Sergeant Pushy alter ego to show up. Listen, because this is how it’s going to be: Mr Matthew Flynn will go back with me to the PM suite. I’ll do a thorough examination of him, the results of which you’ll have in due course.’ She watched his eyes move over the walls and floor of the room. ‘I take it this is the Unsolved Crime Unit’s next cold case?’

  ‘According to the chief, once
DNA is confirmed. I’ve emailed Hanson so she knows.’

  They heard a low buzz. Chong reached inside her forensic suit for her phone and took the call, her eyes fixed on both officers. ‘Yes? That was quick. Thank you.’ She looked up at them. ‘DNA confirmation: Matthew Flynn, initially missing, now known to be deceased. The Unsolved Crime Unit is officially in business.’

  ‘Do we know who’s in charge at the church?’ asked Corrigan.

  ‘The officer guarding the door can tell you. Go and ask him. It’ll get both of you from under my feet.’

  They came up into weak, early light, Watts briskly rubbing his big hands together.

  ‘I’ve just realised how cold it is down there. It goes straight to my feet and – Hey. You!’

  The young officer leaning on one shoulder against the exterior wall, his arms folded around himself leapt to standing.

  ‘Sarge!’

  Watts came close, looking down at him. ‘Who runs this place?’

  ‘A Father Delaney. I told him somebody would be wanting to talk to him. He lives in that big house over there.’

  Watts and Corrigan looked in the direction he was pointing. The church itself occupied an extensive island of land surrounded by suburban roads. The house was beyond an expanse of grass, along a wide path cut through the graveyard. Except for one upstairs window it was in darkness.

  ‘Nice piece of real estate,’ said Corrigan.

  Watts glanced at his colleague. ‘Surprised to hear that from you, Corrigan.’

  ‘Back home, religion’s a big deal but so is finance. We’re kind of realistic.’

  The constable’s excitable voice broke into their conversation. ‘That’s him, Sarge. See that big chap heading over here? The one in the long—’

  ‘Settle down, lad. We see him,’ said Watts.

  He and Corrigan started walking, their eyes fixed on the man coming towards them, vast in girth, jowls spread over his collar. When he reached them he topped both officers by a good five centimetres.

  ‘Who is in charge here?’ he asked, his voice rich yet soft.

  Watts looked at the priest in his long black robe. He wasn’t exactly a non-believer because his mother had chivvied him and his several brothers and sisters to Sunday school. But he wasn’t a believer either. What he was right now was uncomfortable. He held up identification.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Bernard Watts. This is Lieutenant Joseph Corrigan. Full name, please.’

  Notebook out, pen poised, Watts waited then looked up. The big man was staring at a couple of white-suited SOCOs coming up the steps leading from the frigid room beneath the church.

  ‘What’s going on here? What are those people doing? What’s happened? I’ve been waiting at my house for somebody to come and tell me but …’ He caught Watts’s facial expression, pen still poised. ‘Father Anton Delaney. This is my church. Is anybody going to tell me what’s happening? All I was told in the early hours was that there had been an incident and to stay inside.’

  ‘We were just coming to find you.’ Watts jabbed his pen in the direction of the steps. ‘What’s that room down there and who has access to it?’

  Delaney looked from him to the steps then back. ‘It’s the crypt. It’s not used. Hasn’t been for the twenty years I’ve been here. It’s kept locked.’

  ‘Where’s the key?’

  ‘There isn’t one to my knowledge. There’s a small office at the back of the church. It might be somewhere in there but as I said, the crypt is never used …’ Delaney stopped, his eyes on the SOCOs again, his forehead creasing. He looked from Watts to Corrigan. ‘You’re not here about the vandalism and the other things, are you?’

  Watts eyed him, wondering what it was that got a man to take up a life of celibacy. He thought about his own situation. Given what wasn’t happening in his own life, he and the big man in the long outfit had something in common. ‘We’re here to investigate a murder.’ He watched Delaney’s plump face drain and his mouth open, forestalling any further words with more of his own. ‘We need you and whoever else works here to keep away from the church building until that room – crypt – and the grounds around it have been fully processed. It’s likely to take most of today.’

  Face aghast, Delaney shook his head several times. ‘No, no. That’s quite impossible. We have a morning service scheduled.’

  Watts stared up at the fleshy, reddening face, thinking that a Lord who was all-seeing would already have concluded that a service scheduled for today was off. This was the problem with civilians in his experience, or one of the problems, anyway: they wanted crimes investigated but not necessarily at the expense of their own plans. He repeated the gist of what he’d just said, adding detail for Delaney’s benefit. ‘This whole site is a crime scene. It will be guarded and visitors turned away until the crypt and surrounding area have been thoroughly processed. We’ll be speaking to you as soon as we can.’

  Corrigan spoke. ‘We regret any inconvenience to the church, sir.’

  Watts gave Corrigan a meaningful head tilt and moved away. Corrigan was a good officer and he brought added benefits, what Chong called ‘social skills’. A big plus right now was that he knew about churches like this.

  Recalling Delaney’s earlier words he turned back. ‘And when we do speak to you, you can tell us about this vandalism you mentioned.’

  Delaney looked at him, then at Corrigan and walked away in the direction he’d come. ‘He can wait,’ said Watts. ‘Our priority today is the post-mortem results.’

  Hanson looked out of her window at the chill autumn campus. November, now. Did that qualify as winter? It was cold enough. Something about the approach of the year’s end invariably made her reflective. She looked down at the small stone grotesque perched on a ledge just below her window, its little fangs displayed, its wings unfurled, about to launch itself into cold space. Stay on your ledge where you’re safe.

  Her assistant’s voice drifted from the adjoining room and Hanson thought of Maisie and whatever it was that was bothering her. Something definitely was. Or maybe it was the onset of teenage years? The onset of adolescence, so help me.

  ‘Yes, I’ll ask Professor Hanson then get back to you with her response. Bye.’ Crystal appeared in the doorway, blonde hair spikey, lips crimson. ‘Somebody from the local radio station is asking if you’d like to give an opinion on air about offender profiling. Are you interested?’

  ‘No.’

  Crystal grinned. ‘Didn’t think so. Want a refill?’

  Hanson shook her head. ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Anything else I can do for you?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  Crystal returned to her room and Hanson’s attention went back to the view beyond the window. She watched two female students, members of her first year tutorial group chasing an errant hat being buffeted across the grass by a sudden stiff breeze. She was fine. Her promotion to professor had arrived towards the end of the last academic year in recognition of the courses she taught, the psychological assistance she gave to police headquarters and the resultant well-received research papers published in numerous high-profile academic journals on the place of forensic psychology in modern policing, co-authored by Hanson and her three PhD students, principal among them Julian Devenish. She regretted the reduced student contact that promotion brought, but it gave her and her PhD students time to devote to further research which would bring additional financial benefits to the university and kudos to the psychology department. It was how academe worked.

  She left the window for her desk which held several neat piles of papers. Eight weeks into this academic year and she was on top of her new job. Life was good and not only on the work front. Earlier in the year there had been a reconciliation between her and Charlie Hanson, the man she regarded as her father. After several months, the fact that they weren’t biologically related still remained unsaid between them, an elephant she’d thought too big for any room, yet in practice surprisingly easy to ignore. Those had been mo
nths of happy familial discovery for her and Maisie. Charlie Hanson was kind and considerate and her father in all the ways that mattered. Later in the summer he’d had a bad bout of bronchitis, which he hadn’t seemed able to shake off. It had worried Hanson, led her to insist that he move into her home until he recovered. He’d arrived, frail, drained and apologetic. Over recent weeks he’d gradually improved, regained his strength. Lately, he’d begun making comments about going home. She wanted him to stay. Maisie was equally delighted to have her grandpa living with them. Hanson knew she would experience his leaving as a wrench.

  She looked across the campus. From this window she could see a corner of the School of Mathematics. She’d dropped Maisie there this morning, watched as she trotted into the nondescript modern building lugging her school bag crammed with textbooks, dark red curls bouncing, her mood of the previous evening seemingly gone. Hanson had lingered, searching for friendly overtures towards her daughter from the few early students straggling inside, evidence that Maisie was finding her niche among these undergraduates. She hadn’t seen any. She told herself that those students might not be in Maisie’s lectures. She took a deep breath. Stop worrying. Life’s good. She heard the phone again, took another sip of coffee, picking up Crystal’s quick laugh, then: ‘Kate? It’s Detective Sergeant Watts calling.’

  She reached for the phone, heard the familiar voice. ‘Quick. Write this down: St Bartholomew’s. Postcode, B—’

  ‘Wait. I don’t happen to have a pen grafted onto my hand.’

  ‘What’s got you so tetchy?’

  ‘I was fine three seconds ago. You work it out.’