The Depths Read online

  “OK, so our man hid the photo where it wouldn’t be found, either to protect it, from sentiment, or because he shouldn’t have had it. Let’s take the first and last. Hiding it for those two reasons means that he either feared or expected someone to go looking for it. Who? Who would have looked in his pockets?”

  He scanned the small group impatiently. “Suggestions? Oh, come on, wake up you lot!”

  Des’ interest was piqued. It was like one of the murder detective dinner parties that he went to with his wife; the ones that he never solved and she, frustratingly, always did.

  “You mean who would have looked in his pockets apart from his killer?”

  Craig shrugged. “Apart from, or as well as. We can’t know when our victim hid that photo in his coin pocket.”

  John’s mind went immediately to Natalie. “His wife.” At Liam’s smirk he added hastily, “If she was checking his jacket before she took it to the dry cleaners, that is.”

  The smirk widened.

  “Natalie do that often, does she?”

  The thought of the feminist surgeon doing anything so domestic made everyone but her husband laugh. Instead, the pathologist tapped his nose mysteriously in a show of machismo that none of them, not even his best friend, believed.

  “You don’t know half of the things that Natalie does for me.”

  He gave a knowing laugh that made Craig, seeing his deputy preparing to demolish the medic with a pointed retort, direct everyone hastily back to the case.

  “Focus, please. OK, more suggestions? So far, we have wives looking in pockets for domestic reasons, or perhaps even because they’re suspicious of their husbands. OK, our John Doe might not have wanted his wife to find the girl’s photo if he was up to no good, but it’s unlikely that a woman could have exerted enough force to hold him down and drown him. John?”

  “Not unless she was a body builder. It took considerable force to leave those bruises and they were man-sized.”

  “So you’re confirming now that our killer was a man?”

  “Yep.”

  “OK, good. That rules out half the human race anyway. More suggestions, please. If John Doe wasn’t hiding the photo from his wife, then who else did he think might have been looking for it, and why?”

  Des interjected thoughtfully. “Who, might have been one of the girl’s male relatives. Why, could have been them searching for proof of what our John Doe had done to her.”

  Liam shook his head firmly, which finally removed his lingering smirk about Natalie. “Except he obviously didn’t find the photo, hence no proof our Vic was a paedo. So why kill him?”

  “But by then the father or brother might have been so wound up that his suspicions might have made them kill anyway.”

  Craig furrowed his brow for a moment and then turned to his deputy again. “Tell everyone why that doesn’t work, Liam.”

  “Because an angry male family member would have given our John Doe a hiding before he drowned him-”

  Craig raised a hand to halt him so he could check the point.

  “Any signs of a fight on the PM, John?”

  “None. There could have been some on his hands I suppose, but they’ve gone. There were a few abrasions and cracks but they fit more with bashing against stones in the water and they happened after death. And before you ask, no, there were no prints anywhere on the body. Des can tell you if there were fibres.”

  Craig glanced at the forensic lead and he shook his head.

  “Just vegetation and a few dead insects. Sorry.”

  Craig nodded his deputy to continue.

  “So with a male relative of the girl there’s no way our Vic would have got off without having his head beaten in. In fact, violent assault would have been a more likely way of killing him than drowning; it fits better with a crime of emotion. Just holding him down in the water till he drowned would be too clean a death for someone suspected of killing your child.”

  Craig grinned with pride. When Liam concentrated he was a damn good cop.

  “Exactly. Liam’s right; the death was far too clean. Our victim was killed calmly and in cold blood by someone unrelated to the girl in that photo. Which tells us that either the girl’s photo had nothing to do with the reason he died, or it had but the killer wasn’t a relative of the girl. And if they were looking for the photo, which we can’t know, we can say that although its discovery might have been something that our John Doe feared, they definitely failed to find it. OK, Liam-”

  John gave a low whistle, something that was sufficiently rare to stop Craig in his tracks.

  “That confirms it...”

  “What?”

  “The reason for the bruises’ positioning.” He stood up. “I’ll show you. Stand up, Marc.”

  The detective obliged, looking bemused.

  “OK, now face me, and bear with me while I demonstrate something.”

  Craig moved into position. “Crack on.”

  He was surprised when a moment later the pathologist gripped his shoulders with such strength he would never have credited it as coming from his slim frame.

  “Blimey, John, when did you start working out?”

  The medic gave a smug smile. “Six months ago, but I didn’t mention it because I knew you lot would just take the piss.”

  He tightened his grip and tried to push Craig vertically down towards the floor. That was where he reached the limit of his strength; the detective merely smiled at him and didn’t shift.

  “Sorry, but I started gym work thirty years before you, remember. But go ahead and make your point.”

  John conceded defeat and removed his hands.

  “OK, so, if I attack you, grip your shoulders and try to push you down under the water to drown you, first, I’d have to be taller than you, and second I’d have to be considerably stronger. Also, you would struggle and try to fight back.”

  “OK...so, what height was our John Doe?”

  “Five-eight and slim, although he’s pretty wiry, so fit I’d say. That means his attacker was taller, quite a lot taller I’d say, and a great deal stronger too.”

  “And if the killer had attacked face-on and we’d found him soon after the attack he’d likely have had some injuries, probably on his face or torso, yes?”

  Liam chipped in. “Or legs if our man had kicked him before he’d managed to shove him underwater. But none of that helps us, Doc, ’cos those injuries would’ve healed ages ago.”

  “True. But this wasn’t a frontal attack. Look at the bruises I would have left on Marc’s shoulders coming at him from the front. My finger bruising would all have been on his back, except for my thumb gripping the front just above his clavicle.” He motioned to Craig. “OK, now turn around.” After repeating the experiment for a moment both men retook their seats and the pathologist continued speaking.

  “The finger bruises I found on our John Doe were all on the front of his shoulders, so they could only have been made if his assailant had pushed him under the water from behind.”

  The words made Craig frown. “I could see that being easy if he’d already been in the water and then someone had come at him from above and behind, but no-one goes swimming wearing a suit! And the odds of someone being suicidal and already having walked into the water to drown themselves, then being coincidentally killed by an obliging passerby are... well, absurd.”

  John shook his head, “What if our victim was on the shore by the water looking around for something? His attacker could have run at him from behind, caught him by surprise, and then pushed him quickly into the water and straight down.”

  Liam nodded. “Coming from behind’s another thing that goes against a passion based assault. Those come face-on. This wasn’t personal, boss.”

  “Mmm... except...” Craig considered for a moment. “I can picture your scenario working physically, John, and it may not have been strictly personal, Liam, I agree, but there is another dimension here, I’m sure of it. Assaults from behind are usually unemotional,
yes, but rarely hands on. Why bother to run at someone and push them down into the water when you could hit them with something or shoot them in the back? Once you initiate physical contact with your victim you’re adding another layer to a killing.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to shoot him in case we did ballistics on the bullet?”

  Des shook his head. “He could have dug it out before he left.”

  Suddenly Craig palmed his forehead. “Of course! I’m stupid. There was no extraneous violence here and no sign of a fight, and coming at our Vic from the back suggests an unemotional, efficient dispatch, OK. But more than that...”

  He locked eyes with his deputy and they both nodded. “The killer didn’t want to face him because they knew each other somehow. But not well, not enough to have strong passions involved. The killer knew his victim peripherally somehow, but the motive for killing him wasn’t emotional, it was something else. Practical. Our victim wasn’t just murdered he was dispatched.”

  Liam nodded. “I’m not even sure that he wanted to kill him.”

  Craig nodded furiously, his mind a skein of thoughts that he was trying to unravel. “Yes, yes, you’re right. But he thought he had to kill him for some reason, and he couldn’t look in his eyes as he did.”

  Des had been listening with widening eyes. “A lot taller, much stronger, no struggle, dispassionate, and not a relative of the girl. And now you’re saying they knew each other peripherally, and he probably hadn’t really wanted to kill him but needs must! That’s quite a theory without even having your victim’s name. Now you just have to prove it.”

  Liam sonorous chuckle filled the room. “Aye, well, there’s always that.”

  John was shaking his head. “No. I don’t believe it. If someone tells me to turn my back and they’re planning to kill me I’m not going meekly, I’m going to fight!”

  “And maybe he did, John, and the months in the water have destroyed the signs, or maybe he was caught unawares and our killer ran at him and shoved him in and under. But I stand by what we’ve said and only time will show whether we’re right or not.”

  Craig smiled and returned to a thought he’d had earlier. “Liam, make a note that I need Davy to check out the original of the girl’s photo in more detail, will you. Right, let’s move on. Why was our dead man even in the area in the first place? Looking at his suit I’d have said he was an office worker. It certainly wasn’t country gear.”

  John nodded excitedly. “It was an Armani. They’re fifteen hundred bucks a pop.”

  Craig smiled at the ‘bucks’. Cowboys and gangsters; exactly the same as when they’d been at school.

  “OK, so, that’s an anomaly. A wealthy office type found dead in an abandoned country quarry. Anything on his time of death, John?”

  “He’s been dead between three and four months, and cause of death was straightforward drowning. His lungs were full of water and algae, definitely inhaled as he died and was gasping for breath because the algae was so far down in his airways. And like I said, the size and location of the shoulder bruising fits with a man’s hands holding him under from behind. There were no other injuries other than the odd skin tear that fits with banging against the rocks, and a couple of broken ribs. Contact fractures.”

  “Contact from a fist?”

  “No. They weren’t displaced inwards, just hairline cracks. I’d say he hit the rocks as he went under or bobbed against them later. He was dead when they happened.”

  Craig rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “OK, good. We’ve got an initial picture of what happened. We’ll need his stomach contents and blood analysis to see if there’s anything interesting there, Des. Maybe we’ll find something useful on his last meal. Do a mineral analysis on his bones too, please. Let’s see where he was from if it wasn’t Rownton.” He motioned at the screen. “Now, can you sharpen up the girl’s photo any?”

  “I can’t but Davy could. I’ll send it across.”

  “What about our Vic’s prints and facial features, John?”

  “His fingertips were taken by insects or maceration, and so was some of his face, but I can try to reconstruct that from his skull X-ray if you give me a day.”

  “Half-a-day.”

  The bartering was interrupted by a loud jingling of bells that startled Des and made Liam laugh.

  “Is that your computer alert, Doc?”

  The pathologist gave a sheepish nod. “I had Kit down here on Sunday so I changed it to one she liked and forgot to put it back.”

  The D.C.I. snickered. “I wouldn’t bother. It suits you.”

  Craig got back to the point. “What was the noise for, Tinkerbell?”

  John glanced at his screen.

  “It’s the dental X-rays. They’ve thrown up a result!”

  Des was impressed. “That was quick! It never does that upstairs.”

  Before the difference in broadband speeds between the pathology building’s floors sparked an argument about medical privilege, Craig asked the important question.

  “And our victim’s name is?”

  John scanned the screen hurriedly, the tone of Craig’s question saying that he didn’t want to wait.

  “Stuart Kincaid. Date of birth the first of August nineteen-seventy-five. Forty-three-years-old. I was right about his age.” He tapped a few keys and shook his head. “OK, I’ve only run a first level check but he doesn’t seem to have a criminal record.”

  Craig nodded. “Davy will dig deeper. Google him and see what else you can find, John.”

  A few taps later and an image of their victim in better days appeared. The biography beneath it declared him to be the managing director of a company called Kincaid Holdings in Portaferry, a small fishing and sailing town on the tip of the Ards Peninsula.

  John read aloud. “It’s a shipping and export company. Do you want me to check it out at Companies House?”

  Craig shook his head. “Our lot can do that.”

  “Fine. Well, at least ID-ing him saves me having to reconstruct this skull.”

  Des nodded. “And me a mineral analysis.”

  Liam sat forward eagerly. “Is there anything on there about his family? Did he have a daughter?”

  The medic scrolled down swiftly. “Nothing on his company bio... but let me search again.”

  A longer wait this time yielded Stuart Kincaid’s personal information.

  “OK, this is from twenty-seventeen’s Ulster Bazaar, a piece on the Down Royal races. It looks like Kincaid’s company hosted a hospitality event at it.”

  He moved down the page, reading aloud, “Wife Luisa... a veterinary surgeon. And...they have two children.” He took a deep breath before adding, “Sons. Fourteen and sixteen.”

  No-one spoke, all of them watching Craig’s rapidly changing thoughts hurtle across his face.

  Stuart Kincaid had only had sons, and unless they were extremely precocious neither was old enough to have fathered the little girl in the photograph. So was she a child that Kincaid had fathered by someone else? And if she wasn’t Kincaid’s daughter or granddaughter then what was she? A cousin or a niece perhaps?

  The detective breathed in and out slowly, trying not to let his thoughts return to the dark place where they’d originally jumped. But it was unavoidable. Stuart Kincaid had had a photograph of a small girl hidden in his pocket so the possibility had to be faced; their dead man might have been a paedophile.

  He shuddered, remembering the day when someone had tried to take his younger sister Lucia from their garden in Holywood; a convicted paedophile they’d discovered later, but at the time just a pervert that his nineteen-year-old self had caught and beaten half to death. It had almost landed him in jail and with a very different life to the one that he had now, and he remembered every day just how lucky he was. It made him think of Annette again as well; she was the only member of his team that knew the truth about that period in his life.

  The episode had left him with a particular loathing of anyone who harmed children, almo
st above any other sort of criminal, and in a thought that he kept firmly to himself Craig decided that if Kincaid did turn out to be a child molester, he would buy his killer a drink before he locked them up.

  But the possibility that their victim was a paedophile was still only one of many that they had to explore, so to make sense of things the detective motioned his friend to let him at the computer and logged into the UK and Ireland wide missing persons’ databases as well as Interpol’s and Europol’s.

  After minutes of search screens flashing past in silence, the thought of what might appear stopping all conversation, Craig paused on a screenshot and typed in some additional parameters, launching a much slower search. Finally, he sat back and gave a nod as an image identical to the photograph that they’d found in Stuart Kincaid’s pocket appeared.

  He turned the screen around to face the others, speaking in a subdued voice. “Bella Mary Westbury, born May twenty-twelve-”

  Liam cut in, determined to find something positive to say about the little girl before the axe dropped.

  “Almost seven now. Lovely age.”

  Craig carried on reading as if he hadn’t heard. “Missing since the twenty-ninth of August twenty-fifteen when she was aged three and three months. She disappeared from the back garden of a house in Nice in the South of France and hasn’t been seen since. Her father and all male relatives and neighbours were ruled out early on, so the case was labelled a stranger abduction...” His voice quietened further and faltered... “She’s... presumed dead.”

  “Fucker!”

  There was no disagreement with Liam’s description of the girl’s abductor, in fact Craig added to it himself.

  “Anything that involves children deserves the death penalty.”

  John’s eyebrows shot up. “A minute ago you were telling us off for that!”

  “That was vigilantism. This wouldn’t be. The courts would try them fair and square first.”

  “But you’ve always been anti death penalty.”

  “Where kids are concerned I could be persuaded to make an exception.”

  He darkened the screen, seeking solace in logic.