“Are any of them missing?”
“Well, I’ve still got mine.”
“Okay. I’ll check and see where the other two are.” Gardener paused before asking, “And you’re sure he had no visitors?”
“Not that I know of. Why do you keep asking?”
“Curiosity, Miss Bradshaw. There was no forced entry. In my opinion, Herbert Plum was not only murdered. He actually knew his killer.”
Chapter Fifteen
Six-thirty on a Saturday evening and the incident room stood full, not a prospect any officer relished. Gardener assembled his team quietly and efficiently. They listened while he went through the contents of the pathology report he’d only recently received.
It noted the recorded condition of the body as expected: advanced state of decomposition. Fitz placed the time of death between seven and eight o’clock in the evening. DNA from the victim’s hair matched a comb taken for evidence by Scenes of Crime. Plum’s dentist identified his false teeth.
The sixty-year-old skeleton contained evidence of osteoarthritis in some of the joints. Most hard tissue still remained, but all soft tissue had broken down. A liquid analysis contained traces of sodium, potassium, calcium, phosphate, chloride and amino acids.
Fitz had been unable to find any proteins. Not even a trace. The pathologist’s conclusion stated the body’s state was consistent with ‘complete rapid proteolytical decomposition’. The cause of death was unknown.
“Doesn’t tell us much,” said Briggs.
Briggs had held the senior position for a little over a year, having transferred from Liverpool. Gardener had been in line for the promotion when the position became available, but Sarah’s death had removed the possibility. Gardener didn’t have a problem with that, but he suspected Briggs did. As a result, their relationship had improved very little in the past year.
Gardener returned to the path report. “Cause of death unknown. Anyone have any theories?”
“I thought it was acid at first,” Anderson replied. “But Fitz has blown that one.”
Gardener stared at the findings, mystified. “What kind of a compound can destroy your entire insides in the space of two or three hours?”
“There’s a lot of dangerous stuff out there, boss,” said Reilly. “Back in Northern Ireland, we have terrorist groups that specialize in killing people with a mixture of lethal cocktails. I’ve seen the remains of some of those people. I’ve never seen anything like this, though.
“I came across a bloke in a warehouse once, bit of a mess. He’d crossed one of these groups. Held back some money he was supposed to have been collecting for them. When they caught up with him, they trapped him, kept him locked up for days. Then they cut him all over with razor blades. Only small cuts, mind.”
Gardener noticed Reilly’s eyes glaze over as he talked.
“Once the cuts had been opened up a little more, they covered him in manure. The smell was the least of his worries. You see, manure is usually full of nasty little things called gas gangrene bugs. Once they’re inside, you’re in trouble. The terrorists walked away and left him to rot. I found him a few days later. His whole body was in an advanced state of gangrene. His limbs were black. He’d actually started to fall apart at the seams.”
Gardener exhaled a long breath, trying to imagine what Reilly had described. “Well, it’s not gas gangrene, but whatever Plum was subjected to was probably just as lethal.”
DC Thornton, Anderson’s partner, took a sip of coffee. “It would certainly narrow down who to look for. Surely, it’s medical. A doctor? A chemist? It has to be someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“I’ll go along with that,” Gardener said. “It wasn’t a random killing. It was planned. Whoever did it knew whom they wanted and where to find him. Despite the internal mess, it was a precision kill. Swift, accurate, little time wasted. There was no forced entry, no signs of a struggle. He knew his killer.”
“Makes you wonder what we’re chasing,” said Colin Sharp. “It was pretty extreme.”
“I think our killer wanted to inflict pain. They wanted revenge. Have you any idea what Plum must have gone through? What kind of pain he felt? The change his body went through? Was he still alive while it was happening to him?”
“Jesus Christ!” said Briggs. “He must have been on fire inside. And that’s another thing. How did it get inside? Was he made to drink it?”
“Who knows?” said Gardener. “So, we have a sixty-year-old man, lives on his own. Has no relatives, no visitors, no phone calls, yet his death, and what he did with his life, are a big mystery.
“You all have a photo of Plum and a copy of the path report. I want answers. Who was he? Where did he work? Find out his last movements. I want to know Herbert Plum better than I know myself. Keep the report to yourselves, but use the information to your advantage. He wasn’t just killed, he was obliterated. I want to know why.”
Gardener turned to Anderson and Thornton. “You two are going to love this. I want you to cover every sex shop in the area with his picture. Plum’s flat contained pornographic books and DVDs, and a variety of sex toys suitable for both males and females. Find out where he bought them.”
“Can we watch them first? We might be able to tell you ourselves,” replied Thornton with a grin. An anaemic, six-foot rake of a man, with grey hair, which was never quite free of dandruff, Thornton was so thin he continually reminded Gardener of a POW.
“Nothing would surprise me, Frank.”