EXCERPT

Prologue

Although he was dead he appeared quite comfortable sitting on the floor of the deep freeze room. His knees were flexed and he rested against the metal casing of the refrigerator motor on the back wall glaring angrily at the dim bulkhead lamp. The deep gash in his throat echoed the rictus grin of his mouth caused partly by rigor and partly by the contraction of muscles as his freezing corpse solidified.

One of his hands was at his side holding a heavy bladed knife with a patterned black plastic handle.

The moisture in the tissues was forming long needle-like ice crystals penetrating the muscles and viscera so that defrosting would make his corpse pulpy and unnaturally soft. At present it had a rocky solidity and would remain so until someone found it necessary to go into the deep freeze room. The muscles had frozen and the joints had locked solid. The room was silent, protected by heavy insulation from any noise from outside, but when the refrigerator motor cut in the corpse vibrated with it.

Chapter 1

I’d already closed the front door behind me when I heard the phone ringing. I knew Peter wouldn’t answer it so I managed to get back inside before it cut off.

“DS Nelson?”
“Yes, Caroline Nelson. Who is it?”

“This is Sergeant Willis at New Scotland Yard. The DAC wants you to go to the nick at Farleigh Green and meet Detective Chief Inspector Calder there.”

I was surprised that the Deputy Assistant Commissioner even knew I existed.

“It’s my day off. What’s it all about Sergeant Willis?”

“I don’t really know. There’s been a death at some fancy research establishment, probably a suicide. Charlie Calder’s going out there to make sure there’s no scandal.”

I’d only been attached to the South Eastern Regional Crime Squad for two weeks and for all of that time I’d been left alone to find my way around the rabbit warren of offices at The Yard. I’d been at West End Central for three years and the transfer was almost like a promotion. I’d be near the centre of things and would deal with more interesting cases.

I didn’t expect to go to suicides. That was a job for uniformed constables not female detective sergeants. Still, this was my first case at my new posting and I’d have to make the best of it even though I’d made plans for the day. Peter was still fast asleep when I closed the front door quietly. I left him a note.

Peter? He’s my - I hate the term ‘boy friend’. It conjures up a fourteen-year-old girl trying out French kissing and learning about her erogenous zones. Lover? I don’t think I really love Peter and I don’t think he really loves me although he occasionally suggests that we should move in together. Squeeze? That’s just vulgar. Significant other? Sometimes I think political correctness goes too far.

I’m very fond of Peter. He’s a friend. Like most friends we like to give pleasure to one another and sometimes, after a good bottle of wine or a jolly party or a moving play, we finish up in bed pleasuring each other. Let’s be honest; sometimes we do it for no other reason than we’re in the mood for it. Peter Price, by the way, is a journalist on a national broadsheet. You’ve probably seen his by-line.

I got into Mabel, my old jalopy, and had trouble starting it. Mabel doesn’t like winter weather and it looked as if it was going to snow. It took longer than I expected to get to Farleigh. The suburb is on the very edge of the Metropolitan Police area on the Essex borders and the police station is on the main road to Southend surrounded by an offshoot of Epping Forest. It was built in the nineteen sixties at the same time as New Scotland Yard in Victoria and shows the same signs of wear and all the faults of sixties architectural fashion.

The desk sergeant thought I was a member of the public coming to complain about something. I showed him my warrant card and he looked down his nose at me. Some of the older ones still can’t get used to female detectives and female sergeants. When they find both in the same body it throws them. He sent me to an interview room where a cloud of cigarette smoke belched out as I opened the door.

There were five men in there all in plain clothes. I knew one of them, Arthur Chisholm a police photographer. We’d worked together before. He was a cheerful fat man who often had to photograph the most sickening crimes but never seemed to let his work worry him. At the end of the day he’d go back to his wife and two teenage boys as happy as he’d been at the beginning.

I knew two of the other men by sight having seen them striding purposefully about the corridors at The Yard although I didn’t know who they were. The other two were probably local CID. They were chatting away noisily as I opened the door but stopped and stared when I came into the room. There seemed to be quite a long silence before Arthur Chisholm greeted me.

“Well sarge, so you’re on this caper too.”

“I’m not even sure what the caper is Arthur. They only said something about a suicide. It must be a bit special for a DCI from the Yard and a team as big as this to be collected.”

The other men relaxed slightly. If I was a sergeant and knew Arthur Chisholm well enough to call him by his first name I must be one of the lads and they could take it easy. This didn’t stop one of them staring at my legs as I sat down. I pulled the hem of my skirt over my knees. If I’d known I was going to be working with the suburban CID instead of spending a quiet day off I’d have worn trousers.

The door opened again and a middle-aged man, plump and balding with a toothbrush moustache on a red face came in. He was dressed in an old fashioned Crombie overcoat and carried a tweed trilby hat in his hand. This must be Detective Chief Inspector Charlie Calder. Whoever he was he did not seem pleased with life. Perhaps he didn’t think that DCIs should be investigating suicides either. He glared at the two Scotland Yard men.

“DC Owen and DC Ferrers. I suppose the DAC thought that he could hide you two out in the sticks where you can’t give him any more trouble.”

Owen, a scruffy looking fifty year old answered cheerfully. “Yes guv. He thought you could take advantage of our experience.”

Calder looked even more sour. “We’ll have less of the guv thank you. You’re not in a television play now. I’m Chief or Chief Inspector or sir. Got it?”

Owen mumbled “Yes Chief.” and shrank back in his chair.

Calder looked at Arthur Chisholm. “You’re the photographer?”

“Yes Chief Inspector.” Arthur knew when to behave himself.

“And you two are the local men? Who are you?”

The stocky bearded man answered smartly, “DC George Cooper sir.”

The younger man, very tall, red haired, quite good looking in a craggy sort of way, built like a brick outhouse, answered “DC Donovan Chief.”

“Donovan? Are you the second row forward in the Met Team?”

“Yes, sir.” Donovan was flattered to be recognised.

So far Calder had completely ignored me. He hadn’t even looked at me. When he did he stared for what seemed a long time although it was probably only several seconds. He took in my five foot six, my figure, (slim, I pride myself, but not skinny), my auburn hair, styled in an urchin cut since an early day in uniform when a pimp I was arresting grabbed me by my ponytail and tried to swing me under a passing bus. (Luckily I had my truncheon out. I managed to respond and I don’t think he’ll ever be a father.) As he stared at me I stared back, calmly but not so that he could say I was insolent.

“You must be DS Nelson.”

“Yes, Chief.”

“Funny, the DAC never mentioned that you were a woman.”

“Perhaps he didn’t think it was worth mentioning. The important thing is that I’m a detective sergeant. Is it a problem sir?”

Calder shrugged. “I don’t suppose so.” He turned to Owen. “Where’s the man who answered the 999 call?”

“He’s in the canteen, I’ll go and get him.”

Calder sat and, except Donovan, they all lit up cigarettes again and were silent until Owen returned with a very young very worried looking uniformed constable.

Calder spoke in what he thought was a benign tone. “Sit down lad. I’m DCI Calder. What’s your name?”

“PC Warner sir. Seven four O.”

“Now what can you tell us about this suicide?”

The boy opened his notebook and began to read in a monotone “I was in Farleigh High Road on duty when I was called on my mobile at ten forty two a.m. and ordered to proceed to the National Institute for Physiological Research on Farleigh Green as a corpse had been found in a refrigerator room on the third floor.”

“All right lad. You’re not giving evidence. Tell us in your own words.”

The PC was not used to dealing with Chief Inspectors and looked as if he thought that the whole of his career depended on what happened in the next five minutes. “Well sir. I was sent up to the third floor. I was met by Mr. Morgan, who’s the laboratory superintendent. He took me to a big refrigerated room called a cold laboratory. In one corner there was a walk in cupboard about five feet square which he said was kept at twenty degrees below freezing. There was a dead man sitting on the floor with a great gash in his throat and a knife in his hand”

Calder raised his eyebrows. “Except for the freezing it sounds like a fairly standard suicide to me. Why all the fuss”

PC Warner looked even more unhappy. “There was a doctor there, Dr Miller, who kept saying that it couldn’t have been suicide and that the man had been murdered.”

“All right son. It’s not your fault there’s a busybody on the scene. You’ll get used to it in time. Who do I have to see there?”

“The head of the department is Sir Sefton Wallace but he’s at a meeting in Brighton. The head of the whole place is Dr. Jamieson Watt. He’s also at a meeting - in Downing Street.”

Calder grinned. “Now I know why there’s a panic. We’re dealing with real VIPs. Have you got a name and address for our deceased?”

“Yes sir. His name’s Leo Garber and he lives at number eight, Brooksby Street. Hackney.”

“Good. You did well son. Thank you.”

The young PC stopped looking worried and went out pleased with himself. Calder looked round. “Let’s go there and have a word with this Morgan feller. With any luck we’ll have it sorted by teatime. Have we all got cars?”