DI Giles BoxSet Read online

  DI Giles Box Set

  Books 1-5

  Anna-marie Morgan

  Contents

  Death Master

  You Will Die

  Total Wipeout

  Deep Cut

  The Pusher

  Copyright © 2012 Anna-marie Brown

  All rights reserved.

  Edited by A.S.Anand

  Created with Vellum

  To my family and friends and my cats,

  Tommy and Sophie.

  1

  Flesh flies know of the end's approach. They detect chemicals in the breath which tell them of death’s proximity. In the ripe heat of summer, they lay their eggs in the eyes and nose even before the heart has contracted in its final beat.

  They had wasted no time here: the teenage boy fought them back, spitting them out in surprise as he disturbed the rising black mass. The shock of what lay underneath hit him like a battering ram.

  Forgetting his half-opened fly, he clasped his retching stomach and projected its contents into the hedge. The bam bam bam of his pulse almost drowned away the panicked cry from his girlfriend. She stood, hand over her mouth, eyes large.

  Wiping his chin with his sleeve, he reached for his mobile phone and placed himself between his startled girlfriend and the ditch. He hoped they'd come quickly, not that time would make a difference. The woman was dead. The pungent, bilious stench was testament to that. It seemed like forever, but it was only fifteen minutes, until the silence was obliterated by sirens.

  When DI Yvonne Giles arrived, the teenagers were sat, huddled together, shivering from a mixture of shock and cold. It rippled up their necks and heads, like the hit of too much mustard. The girl didn’t speak. The boy stood up and gestured to the detective.

  “She’s over there.” He pushed back his hair, now hanging in lank, rats tails.

  Yvonne squinted as she struggled to banish the dancing imprint of the sun from her retina and focus through the trees. Just below her, partially hidden from view, lay the naked body of a young woman.

  Only deep breaths made it possible to approach the corpse through the smell and the flurry of black invaders. Her plastic suit crackled as she picked her way down the bank.

  The victim lay on her front, head turned to the left, knees drawn up in such a way that her buttocks were displayed for the observer. Her bruised and grazed hands had been tied with thick rope behind her back. The face and lips were unnervingly tinged with blue and multiple contusions and gashes adorned her torso like splashes of paint on a Jackson Pollock. The unseeing eyes were sunken and edged with dark rings and the long, dark hair was clotted into thick, tangled strands.

  From the flattened appearance of the grass and scrub and the mud and twigs embedded in her hair, it appeared that the woman had been dragged for some distance before ending up in the insect-infested ditch at Shotover Hill on the outskirts of Oxford.

  The heat was relentless out of the shade as the DI climbed back up for air which she gulped in huge quantities. She wasn’t sure whether it was the heat, the flies or the blue lights flashing around the field that made her dizzy. Either way, for a moment she was somewhere else, where the landscape was flatter and stretched farther into the distance. White shards of hot metal were littered around the field, mangled and unrecognisable and an acrid smell of burning rubber hurt her nostrils.

  “DI Giles!”

  She turned towards the pathologist David Henderson, who had just arrived with the first of the SOCO personnel. If he had noticed her start he did not mention it. He gave her a brief nod and a reassuring smile.

  “We need everything you can give us as soon as possible,” she said tersely, like someone who had just been caught out.

  “I’ll be able to tell you something in an hour or so, but it could be a week before we have much of the information.”

  Henderson made his way down towards the body, donning surgical gloves from the battered black leather case he always carried. His assistant was already extracting insect pupae from the body and putting them into two separate jars, one of which contained formalin to instantly preserve them at that stage of growth.

  “I understand,” the inspector nodded, following him back down into the ditch. “Why?” She rubbed her forehead.

  “Well there are several things I have to check before I can…”

  “No, why do this to another human being?”

  Henderson paused for a moment. “Monsters do not think like the rest of us.”

  Yvonne’s eyes were translucent pools as Henderson took in her far away gaze. She cast those pools over the body one last time and committed what she could to memory.

  The SOCO officer, concerned about contamination, had begun pegging out a common approach path for all medical and police personnel needing to access the body.

  As Yvonne got ready to leave, more SOCO officers arrived for the finger-tip search. Uniformed officers taped off the area to outsiders and a group of Special Constables arrived to carry out the scene watch - the formal logging of all those going to and from the dead woman.

  “Call me when you have something,” Yvonne shouted over her shoulder as she headed towards the gravel driveway and her car. She was rushing, not looking where she was going and it was pretty much inevitable that she would collide with the police photographer approaching from the opposite direction. He picked up his camera and dusted it off, his movements exaggerated, his face creased in a frown. She knew it was her fault and that she ought to apologise but was too irritated by the delay. In the end it was he who apologised to her.

  2

  The drive back to town was sweltering hot. She increased the air conditioning in her Renault, as the cloying heat threatened to intensify an already developing headache. Adding to her discomfort was the metallic jiggering of a pneumatic drill, as yet another utility company dug holes in the roads for the sake of it.

  Tapping the steering wheel, she glared back at the gargoyles that peered down from the top of Magdalen College and watched as a group of students, dressed in black gowns, exited the main gates. They were at one end of the spectrum in the city of dreaming spires and she so often dealt with the other - the youngsters of the broken estates. Gaunt faces, pock-marked skin and plastic tubs of citric acid betrayed the addiction to heroin. These two extremes breathed the same air. They never met.

  She began parking in the tightest of spaces to the left of St. Aldates Station, just as her mobile bleated a polyphonic rendition of Beethoven’s 'Moonlight Sonata'.

  “Inspector Giles.” She stared at the dashboard, listening intently, steering with one hand.

  “It’s Henderson.” His deep voice vibrated her ear. “I have some preliminaries for you.”

  Yvonne’s bumper creaked the car behind.

  "Shit!"

  "Sorry?"

  Yvonne cringed. “Nothing. You were saying?"

  “She’s young. I’d say early twenties.” Henderson paused. “There's clear evidence of sexual activity as well as a lot of cuts and bruises. She didn’t die where we found her.”

  “Oh?” Yvonne frowned.

  “Well, judging by the pattern of lividity, her body was lying for a considerable time on its back. Both the back and buttocks are very red from where the blood settled, prior to her having been repositioned. I would estimate that she's been dead for twenty four hours or less.”

  The DI made a mental note. “What about cause of death?”

  “Looks like she was strangled, but she was tortured first. For several days, in all probability. She has rope burns on her body and grazes on her knees and heels of her hands. This is all I can tell you at present, except that she was dragged from the gravel roadway, which means that she was probably transported here in a vehicle.”

/>   “What about tracks? Have SOCO said anything?”

  “They’re looking now, but the dirt track up here is used pretty frequently. So, others will have used it this morning.”

  “Thanks, David. Listen, I’m about to go into the station. I’ll see you later at the PM.”

  3

  Inside the hastily-organised incident room, DS Brian Leach scratched his head through wiry, red hair. He leaned back on two legs of his chair, munching the end of his biro as he spoke softly, almost childishly, to whoever was on the other end of the phone.

  “Okay, baby I’ll see you later. Mmm love you too.”

  His chair came back onto four legs with a crunch, almost propelling him onto his desk.

  “Ma’am.” He felt himself break into a sweat. “How was it?” He looked just as he had one time when she had caught him kissing a WPC on the station stairs.

  “Brian.” Yvonne smiled despite herself. “One of these days you are going to fall off that damn chair.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Listen, I’ve talked to Henderson. Get everyone together. I want a briefing in five. Do we have any possibles for who she is yet?”

  Brian scratched his stubble.

  "That's a no, then?"

  “ 'Fraid so." Brian lowered his eyes. “But, I am hopeful. Oxford is not that big. Someone is bound to know who she is.”

  Yvonne sighed. “Well keep on it.” Picking up a black marker pen, she hurried to the main board and waited while Brian rounded up the team.

  “Right everyone, here’s the latest.” The hum died down amongst the CID and uniformed officers as the Inspector began. “The victim was tied up, and there is evidence of sexual assault. She has multiple knife wounds and marks on her neck consistent with strangulation. The post-mortem will be carried out in full tonight and tomorrow. We'll have more details then, but it seems she has only been dead for twenty four hours. I hope we'll have a more accurate time frame after the entomologists have done their work.”

  “Was there any clothing near the body?” Deborah, a Detective Constable, enquired.

  “No. No clothing was found. Have we got any further information from the couple who discovered the body?”

  “The lad who found 'er didn’t know anythin' else, Ma'am but he might think twice before goin' for a leak in a field again.” Mike, another of Yvonne's DC's, added in a heavy Australian accent.

  “Hmm. She'd been there for several hours at least, but it wasn't where she died.” Yvonne turned to her board. I want two of you to go knocking on doors. Find out if anyone saw anything, particularly cars going up the lane at Shotover. At the moment we don’t know exactly how long the body has been there, so any time over the last two days and nights is important. If she isn’t from this area then we need Missing Persons lists for surrounding areas.

  Let's find out who this girl is. I'm hoping that we’ll have her DNA profile and dental cast soon, certainly within the next week. The next forty-eight hours will be absolutely crucial. So, I want everybody flat out on this, okay?”

  4

  The winch let go of the glider and the familiar lurch caused her breath to catch in her throat. They dropped several feet before levelling off and she was glad she hadn’t eaten. It was hot, incredibly hot and the land beneath them wobbled in the haze. Yvonne brought her eyes back to the sandy head in front of her.

  "Alright?", he asked and she could tell from his voice he was smiling.

  "Yes. It's fantastic," she enthused, her eyes examining the way the light played in the curls on the back of his neck.

  "Want to steer?"

  "No thanks," she said looking at the steering pedals with suspicion. "I'm more than happy to leave that to you. Just keep her the right way up."

  He laughed deep and throaty. "One of these days I'll get you to have a go if it kills me."

  "Yeah right. Just don’t crash into the pigs," Yvonne laughed back.

  It was comforting: the soft sound of air as it whooshed over the wings. Yvonne closed her eyes, savouring the moment.

  "I love you." It just came out.

  "I know." He blew on his fingernails and made as if to polish them on his shirt. "I can't help the effect I have on you ladies."

  She giggled then, slapping him hard on the back. "And you're so bloody modest."

  The serenity of the scene below was just what she needed and the quilted land passed slowly beneath their feet: bright yellow fields of rape; green fields of ripening corn and the browning fields of freshly cut hay. In this moment the world was theirs and everything was in its place.

  She reached out to touch him . To touch his hair. But felt only the cold, cold glass of her living room window - grey with reflected rain. That's when she realised she was crying.

  Her cat Tabitha, desperate for attention, had deposited a wealth of small hairs on her Corduroys. The DI dried her eyes and blew her nose, before walking slowly through to the kitchen of her stone cottage in Judge’s Lane. She couldn't see him anymore. She tried to bring back the image but it wouldn't come.

  She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Come on then Tab!”

  Tabitha was impatient and purred loudly as she walked towards her food bowl. Twelve years old, and a little arthritic, her sight was fading and she head-butted the cupboard in an effort to find direction. Yvonne sniffed, furnished the cat’s bowl with tuna and set about preparing her own meal.

  With the garlic and onions frying, she felt better and poured herself an ample glass of Austrailian Chardonnay. She switched on the television with her big toe.

  “Officers continue to comb the area for clues. As yet, the police still have no idea who she is or why she was killed.”

  Yvonne watched as the camera panned around the car park at Shotover and cursed that she had missed the bulk of the report. She thought she caught sight of something flash in the bushes, like sunlight off a lens, and peered more closely at the screen. It didn't happen again, probably a rogue reporter after a good picture she mused.

  A sweet, burning odour curled in from the kitchen.

  “Bugger!” Yvonne leapt up. “The onions!” She ran back to the pan, with its caramelised contents, and turned down the heat. After the day she had had, she needed something vaguely edible. The end product was surprisingly good. She began unceremoniously shovelling it down.

  The phone rang. It was Henderson. “Can you come down to the mortuary ASAP? There’s something you need to see.”

  Yvonne swallowed too quickly and spluttered. “Okay. Give me twenty minutes.”

  "Are you alright?"

  "Yes. I'm fine,” she said, feeling guilty. Having said that she would be at the PM, she had cried off and gone home at five pm with a blazing headache. “Am I allowed to know in advance what I'm coming to see?"

  “Well, you really need to come and have a look at this one.” Henderson was being enigmatic. Sometimes she could almost swear that he got a sadistic enjoyment out of keeping her in suspense.

  “Okay,. I’m on my way.” Yvonne socketed the phone and looked back at her food. She would normally have been disappointed about leaving it but Henderson's call had conjured up the image of the slaughtered girl, and the smell of death from the ditch. She no longer felt any hunger. Throwing on a battered suede jacket, she sped to the door. Tabitha turned her back on her in disgust.

  5

  The mortuary lurked in the bowels of the John Radcliffe Hospital up Headington Hill, South of Oxford centre. As she ran for her car, Yvonne called Brian to ask him if he could meet her there. It was six-thirty pm.

  He sounded aggrieved but she assured him it would be worth his while and as she clicked her phone shut and fumbled with her key in the door lock, she prayed it could be a breakthrough.

  The DI wasn't sure that she liked the pervasive odour of cleaning agents which was, at once, reassuring and at the same time a constant reminder of death.

  As she entered the mortuary, the green-gowned assistants took swabs from a number of key sites o
n the body and from under the fingernails.

  The lifeless form on the cold, steel table brought a lump which clogged her throat. Henderson handed her a chart with the victim’s height, weight and the details of external injuries. The list of wounds was extensive.

  “She was sexually assaulted but there is an absence of semen.”

  “Do you have a time of death?”

  “I think she died somewhere between six and nine pm yesterday evening. I wanted you to see something, before I start opening her up.”

  The assistants helped Henderson rotate the body so that it lay on its front.

  “Look at these marks. What do you make of them?” His gloved hand pointed at the middle of the victims back, just as Yvonne’s Sergeant arrived out of breath and looking sheepish.

  "You need to give up the fags, Brian," Yvonne said without looking at him. She examined the small puncture wounds which were millimetres apart and only just deep enough to break the skin.

  “Well they...” she peered more closely, “they look for all the world as though they were made with a fork.”

  “Exactly.” Henderson ran his hand further along. “And look, these marks could have been made by a serrated table knife."

  “Was he trying to eat her?” Brian had regained his breath.

  “No. That is I don’t think so.” Concentration furrowed the bridge of the pathologist's nose. “The marks are just not deep enough for that. I rather think that he was eating off her back." he pointed at dark red rings just above the girl's right buttock. "These look like red wine rings to me, as though a glass has been resting here. I've taken swabs for testing. Also, I suspect," he indicated an irregular reddish-brown stain, "this appears to be some sort of sauce residue.”