A Killing Karma Read online

  ‘Who found him?’ Casey asked quietly.

  ‘Some old bloke out walking his dog,’ Catt told him. ‘Name of Cedric Abernethy. Eighty if he's a day. He only lives along the way.’ Catt nodded towards the line of terraced houses that backed on to the alley. ‘Number fifty-two. He found the body at seven thirty. He said he always goes the back way, via the alley, when he takes his dog for his daily walks and the body wasn't there when he set off just before six.’ In an undertone, Catt confided, ‘And although this Mr Abernethy is a World War Two veteran, and made in the stiff-upper-lip tradition, I'd go easy on him. He was so shaken up by his discovery that the uniforms first on the scene let him return home. One of them is with him now.’

  Casey nodded. ‘Quite right. We don't want another death on our hands, particularly not that of a veteran.’ Not in addition to the John Doe in the alley and the two unofficial bodies they already had. He paused. ‘Do we know if this Mr Abernethy touched the body at all?’

  ‘According to what he told uniform, he just checked the pulse in the victim's neck, but otherwise didn't disturb the body. He immediately got on the phone and rang nine-nine-nine.’

  Casey nodded. ‘We'd better speak to him now. Is he fit to be questioned?’

  'I think so. But if you hang on a tick, I'll send one of the girlies along to check on him.’

  Casey's green eyes showed his disapproval at this non-politically correct wording.

  ThomCatt held up his hands in admission of guilt and said, ‘Sorry, boss.’ But the tiny grin which hovered at the corners of his mouth made a mockery of his own apology and of the PC brigade and all its works. Catt's insincere apology was further belied by his calling, 'Hey Annie, my darling, do me a favour?’

  His non-PC approach did not seem to Casey to have caused the young female constable offence. On the contrary, she hurried towards Catt as if eager for more of his ‘darling’s. But that was Tom: whatever he had that the female of the species liked, he had it in spades as the never-ending procession of girlfriends through Catt's bachelor flat proved. It was a talent that didn't win over Superintendent Brown-Smith, who was PC through and through and who heartily disapproved of Catt's easy ways.

  The young woman officer was soon back with the information that Mr Abernethy was fit to be questioned.

  Catt led the way around the corner to the front of the row of terraces, nodded to one of the uniformed officers outside Mr Abernethy's home and walked up the short path. Casey followed him.

  Another uniform answered their knock and showed them into the small front sitting room with its solid, dark furniture which made the room seem even smaller than it was. Thickly patterned nets screened the windows and half their surface was covered by heavy drapes which made the room even darker. The room was like a cocoon against the modern world and Casey wondered, since he had found the bloodied remains of their John Doe, how safe Cedric Abernethy felt now behind its protective shell.

  Mr Abernethy sat, looking quietly composed, in a well-worn, straight-backed armchair to the right of the meagre fire. Although certainly elderly and looking thin and frail, he sat with a military bearing and was clearly made of sterner stuff than he appeared.

  But then, Casey reminded himself, their witness was of that generation who knew about hardship, be it on the battlefield or elsewhere. After quietly eliciting a few more brief facts, Casey, having been invited to sit in the matching and equally well-worn armchair on the opposite side of the fire, said, ‘You told the uniformed officers that the man was dead when you found him, Mr Abernethy. Is that correct?’

  Cedric Abernethy nodded. ‘I've seen enough dead bodies in my time to recognize when the spirit has left.’ The old man raised thick-veined and age-spotted hands from his knees before he let them fall again. ‘No one could lose as much blood as that man must have — to judge by the stains on his trousers — and still survive. He was dead all right and had been for some time, I think.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else around when you found the body?’ The man's assailant, having sliced open a main artery, was likely to be heavily blood-stained.

  But, Casey soon learned, they weren't destined to have an early suspect in the investigation, because Mr Abernethy shook his head and told them, 'I saw no one. Not a soul, from the time me and Timothy left home to the time I returned and rang nine-nine-nine.’ He stroked the rough, greying head of his terrier. The old dog gave a gruff ‘woof’, though whether this was to offer doggy comfort to his master or to confirm his words, Casey couldn't tell.

  'I wondered, Mr Abernethy,’ Casey said tentatively, ‘whether the location of this man's death might indicate he was local. Did you recognize him?’

  Again, Cedric Abernethy shook his head. 'I don't believe so. But I know few young people; they have little time for an old dodderer like me. Besides, so many young men look alike, don't they? With their heads half-scalped by the barber and with that scruffy stubbly growth of beard that simply looks slovenly. Grow a beard or don't grow a beard. That in-between look just appears messy and indicates a sloppy lack of personal hygiene. Shame they've done away with National Service. Some of today's young men could do with a sharp burst of military discipline.’

  Mr Abernethy met Casey's gaze and gave a brief smile. ‘Sorry. It's one of my hobby-horses. But the appearance of young men these days is, I suppose, the same rule that says all old men look the same — bald, jowly and with glasses. The same rule seems to convince all old women that they have to perm their hair. Some sort of generational unofficial uniform.’

  Mr Abernethy — neither bald, nor jowly, and with piercing grey eyes that wouldn't have shamed a bird of prey — clearly hadn't either voluntarily or involuntarily adopted the uniform of the aged male.

  But, for all his composure, he was able to tell them nothing more. After thanking him for his help, Casey, anxious the question might be construed as an insult by the old soldier, tentatively asked if he was okay after the shock of finding the body or whether he would like them to contact his doctor.

  ‘Thank you, no. I'm fine. Anyway, all he'll do is give me a sedative, thereby postponing any nightmares from tonight to tomorrow. What's the point of that? Not that I'm likely to suffer nightmares, anyway. I'm long past them now. Don't trouble yourself, Chief Inspector. I'll be all right. I've seen a lot worse in my time. But thank you for your concern.’

  After he had handed Mr Abernethy a card and had extracted a promise that their witness would contact him if he recalled anything more, Casey left, with Catt at his heels.

  ‘There's CCTV in the High Street and Carey Street,’ Casey commented as they returned to the scene. ‘Worth checking to see if our victim shows up.’

  Catt nodded. ‘I'll get straight on to it.’

  By now, forensic and uniform between them and doubtless having struggled against the wind, had erected protective screening around the body. Having pronounced life extinguished and given his preliminary findings, Dr Merriman was on the verge of departure. He nodded a brisk goodbye to Casey and set off to the mortuary without another word.

  Since they had left the scene to speak to Cedric Abernethy the number of gawping bystanders had grown. But as Casey had instructed, they and the press were herded to the far ends of the street in which the alleyway was found. Further guards were set at both ends of the alley in case some enterprising journalist attempted to gain an advantage over his colleagues. Such a precaution was a bit late, though, Casey noted. Already, one or two of the more forceful of the Fourth Estate were stationed at bedroom windows in the houses facing the alley; he could see their cameras jutting brazenly through the wide-flung windows and recording every movement. They must have bribed the householders to gain such a grandstand view. Casey, imminently expecting word of his connection to the commune killings to leak out through the sieve of careless talk, was surprised he didn’t already feature prominently in their sensation-hungry rags.

  After watching forensic go about their painstaking routines for a few minutes, Casey said to T
homCatt, ‘We can do nothing further here. I'll see you back at the station. Finding our victim's identity is our first priority.’

  They fought their way through the crowds to their respective cars and drove to the station.

  It didn't take long to retrieve the CCTV tapes and get the house-to-house questioning set in motion. But after viewing the tapes, Catt told Casey that the victim didn't feature on any of them.

  ‘Must have been brought the back way and avoided the cameras,’ he said.

  Casey nodded. ‘We'll just have to hope the house-to-house teams discover something, though as it seems he was dumped in that alleyway before most people stir out of their houses, the possibility of getting information from such a source is likely to be slim at best.’

  Casey hated John Doe cases. At least with an immediate identity they had something to start from. But here, he would just have to hope the pictures of the dead man he had instructed the photographer to forward to the media brought forth some results.

  As it happened, and though he had yet to discover this, finding out the victim's identity turned out to be the easy part. Unfortunately, discovering who had wanted the man dead and in such a way, looked likely to be a far more lengthy job.

  Chapter Seven

  Catt perched on the corner of Casey’s desk. He must have paid a visit to the gents' toilet since returning to the station, because his hair was now so immaculate one would never have thought the wind had dared to play with it. He swung his right leg as he awaited the allotment of another job. ‘By the way,’ he said to Casey, ‘there's a woman in reception I think might interest you.’

  'Oh yes?’

  'I overheard her reporting her husband missing as I came back from viewing the CCTV footage and I hung around to earwig. Said husband sounds an awful lot like the John Doe we found in the alley. Even down to the clothes he was wearing.’

  Casey snatched up the telephone and got through to the front office. ‘You've a woman in reception who's reported her husband missing. Don't let her leave. I'm coming right down.’ He asked the woman's name, replaced the receiver and hurried to the ground floor.

  Casey entered reception and saw a tall, well-built woman at the counter. He walked towards her. ‘Mrs Oliver?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘I'm DCI Casey. I understand you've just reported your husband missing?’

  ‘That's right.’

  ‘Perhaps you'd like to come up to my office and we can talk?’

  For a moment, Mrs Oliver looked vaguely alarmed at this invitation as if she would have felt easier talking to some junior officer. She certainly seemed surprised that an officer of his rank should concern himself with her missing husband. Then she gave a faint shrug and followed Casey to the keypad-controlled door that led to the main body of the station. She waited while he keyed in the entry code. He opened the door and held it for her to go through.

  Once in his office, he asked if she had a recent photo of her missing husband.

  ‘Yes. I thought it would be useful, so I brought this.’ She reached into her capacious handbag and, from one of the side pockets, pulled out a glossy eight by ten inch photo and handed it to him. ‘That picture was taken last year. It's a good likeness.’

  Casey nodded as he stared at the photo. There was no doubt that it was their John Doe. He stared for a few moments more at the photo as he gathered his thoughts and decided how to best break the news of her husband's violent death. But before he did that, he checked on what her husband had been wearing. As he'd expected, the clothing was a match for their cadaver.

  ‘I’m afraid, Mrs Oliver, that from the evidence of the photograph and clothing, I have some bad news for you. A man answering your husband's description was found dead in an alley in the town this morning.’

  She stared at him without uttering a sound, but her shock showed in the tightly-clenched fingers on the handles of her bag.

  ‘Of course, to be certain, we need someone to identity the body. Is there someone, a relative, say, who could do that?’

  Mrs Oliver shook her head.

  ‘What about friends who know your husband well?’

  She shook her head again and said, ‘There's his work colleagues, of course, but I'd rather not trouble them. Besides, if the man you found is Gus, then I'm his widow.’ She sat up straighter in Casey's visitor's chair and said with a determined edge to her voice, ‘I’d prefer to do any identifying that's necessary.’

  ‘Very well. If you're sure.’ Defeated in his desire to spare her the ordeal of identifying the man who seemed likely to be her husband, Casey tried another friendly overture. ‘Have you a neighbour who could stay with you?’

  ‘No. There is no one.’ She hesitated, then said, 'I need to know, Chief Inspector. One way or the other. I need to see him and know for certain.’ Her voice became stilted as she added, ‘If I don't see the body I'll always wonder if it was really my husband. If he’s really dead.’ Her voice petered out and she sat still and silent, her head bowed.

  Casey broke into her reverie. 'Of course. Don't worry. We'll take you along to view the body shortly, seeing as there is no one else to do it. I'll get it organized. But before I do that, I need confirmation of your husband's name. You called him Gus. I presume that's short for Augustus?’

  ‘No. It's short for Gustav.'

  'I see. Your husband was foreign, perhaps?’ He hoped not or it could widen the extent of the investigation considerably.

  ‘No. He is as English as you or me. The name was just a fancy of his mother's.’

  Relieved, Casey nodded and said, ‘If you'll wait here, I'll get that viewing arranged. I won't be long.’ Casey left his office and made for the main CID office; he didn't want to talk about her dead husband in her presence. Perhaps he was being unduly sensitive, but he thought a degree of sensitivity was called for in the circumstances, especially as she seemed to have no one to turn to, no friends or family to support her.

  Catt was hovering outside the door and he waylaid Casey as he came out. ‘So, what's the verdict?’ he asked. ‘Is our cadaver this woman's missing husband?’

  Casey nodded. ‘Seems so. Mrs Oliver brought a photo in and it's the dead spit of our John Doe. Our guy's name is Gustav Oliver. Gus for short.’

  Catt raised his eyes on hearing the dead man's first name and through pursed lips he asked, ‘Foreign, was he?’

  ‘Not according to his widow. His mother just had outlandish taste in names.’

  ‘Good to get a confirmed ID so quickly, anyway.’

  Casey nodded again and headed for the nearest CID desk to ring the mortuary.

  The visit to the mortuary was soon organized and they were shortly on their way. As well as Catt, Casey had collected Shazia Khan, one of the station's female officers, to accompany them and provide support for Mrs Oliver during her identification ordeal. Dr Merriman had rung to tell them the post-mortem was scheduled for that afternoon. For Mrs Oliver's sake, Casey was thankful she would view the corpse before the post-mortem. Even though such viewings were arranged with as much delicacy as possible, the PM would naturally leave its mark and many found the ravages left behind on the body upsetting.

  The journey to St Luke's, the local hospital, didn't take long. Neither did Mrs Oliver's examination of the body. After staring intently for several long moments, she confirmed the dead man's identity. She pulled a handkerchief from her coat pocket and dabbed at her eyes before turning away for some much needed privacy. After giving her several minutes in which to compose herself, Casey took her arm and ushered her gently out of the viewing room. ‘I’ll take you home,’ he told her.

  Once back in the car, he said, ‘I’ll need to ask you some questions about Mr Oliver's movements, but that can wait till tomorrow if you prefer.’ For himself, he would like to find out as much as possible as soon as possible, but Oliver's widow was entitled to some consideration. Even so, he was relieved when she declined his offer.

  ‘I’d rather get any questioning ove
r and done with, Chief Inspector,’ she replied. ‘Get all the unpleasantness over in one go.’

  ‘As you wish. But we can take you home and interview you there.’

  As Alice Oliver gave directions to her home, Casey realized how shockingly close her house was to the alley where her dead husband had been found; she might have stumbled over his corpse herself. She would now have to pass the alley every day as, although in different streets, her home and the alley where her husband's body was found were separated by little more than fifty yards, the alley being in a quiet road which led to the centre of town.

  Mrs Oliver's home was an imposing detached house with a double garage situated in a short cul-de-sac. It was a modern house but featured several Georgian adornments, like a pedestal over the front door and a uniform allocation of expensive modern sash windows. The house was in a mixed neighbourhood with large, detached properties mingling cheek-by-jowl with cramped Victorian terraced houses similar to the one around the corner in which Cedric Abernethy lived.

  According to Alice Oliver, once they had arrived at her comfortable but plainly furnished home and were seated in her double-aspect drawing room, her husband had left the house around nine o'clock on Friday evening. It was now Monday.

  Puzzled, Casey asked, ‘Why didn't you report him missing earlier, Mrs Oliver? You must have been worried.’

  ‘Yes. Of course I was, but I didn't think you would take my worries seriously when he'd been missing such a short time. Only children merit such immediate concern. Gus is — was — an adult, after all. It was only when another night came and went and he still hadn't returned that I felt justified in reporting him missing. He often stayed away from home overnight, you see. Sometimes for two nights, without telephoning me, so I wasn't unduly concerned. But, of course, when two nights stretched into three, I knew something must be badly wrong.’