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30th March 2014
Thurstan stood looking over a plump, damp body that lay on its back, both arms splayed out to the sides, the right leg bent at the knee. Had it not been for the neat bullet hole in the centre of the forehead and the pool of congealed blood cradling the head, he may have been forgiven for thinking the deceased had been attempting some sort of ‘twirly’ pirouette before succumbing to gravity and a heart attack.
It was 6.10 a.m. There was a slight but persistent drizzle and somewhere out there, beyond the clouds, the sun had risen.
“Time of death?” Thurstan asked the Forensic Medical Examiner, who’d just stood up from inspecting the body.
“As far as I’m concerned, the indications are that death occurred sometime around midnight, give or take. We’ll know more after the post mortem.” He hesitated. “Unless you need anything else, I’m off to my bed.”
“As good a plan as any,” Thurstan told him with a smile. They shook hands and the FME nodded to Degsy.
When he’d gone Thurstan said, “Interesting graffiti,” pointing towards the word ‘Pedo’ sprayed in large red letters over the white painted front of the Georgian terraced house on whose pathway the body lay. He took in the scene as he slowly walked up and down. “Judging from where the spent case was found, I’d say the shooter stood about there.” He pointed to an area about ten feet into the garden from the front gate. “What did you say he did for a living?”
“Dead man? He was an ex-City councillor, retired several years ago now.” Degsy thumbed through his notes. “Drank in the pub down the road regularly. Lived here all his life; initially with his parents and when they died thirty years ago, on his own.”
“Well, I’ve never heard of him,” Thurstan replied absently. He was eyeing the graffiti again. “Who found him, Derek?”
“The milkman, Boss. Around quarter to five this morning.” He briefly studied Thurstan’s expression. “Are you wondering how long that’s been there? According to his neighbour, it wasn’t there when she came round to push a birthday card through his door at 10.30 last night. There’s a security light, over there, that clear globe, see it? Comes on automatically and lights up the entrance steps and the door, so she says she’d have seen it, had it been there. Thing is, the light’s not working now. The bulb was unscrewed. Looks ok, but it’s not connected. One of the Bobbies discovered it. No prints on the cover or bulb, just smears. Probably wearing gloves.”
Thurstan beckoned over the CSI who had just bagged the spent shell case.
“I just need to look at that a moment,” he said pleasantly. Taking the small plastic bag he quickly examined the contents from several angles and handed it back. “Thanks, you can carry on.”
They walked back up the path in silence and into the street. Thurstan had a good look around taking in the various styles of houses, their locations, possible views and probable occupants. “We need to get a house-to-house up and running as soon as possible, Derek,” he said eventually.
“It’s being sorted, Boss. Arthur will have a team out here within an hour so we can capture some of these people before they disappear for work but, at the moment, the closest neighbours didn’t see or hear a thing.”
Thurstan was silent for a while, deep in thought, then announced quietly: “So Derek, we have a seriously accurate shooter using a nine milly semi-automatic pistol, unheard and unseen. Sound familiar?” Thurstan shot Degsy an inquisitive look.
“I get the point, Boss. Can you be certain though, without forensics, that it’s a nine millimetre? You’re going to tell me it’s your military training, aren’t you?”
The DCI, nodding an acknowledgement to a passing Officer, replied in a low voice: “No, Derek. I’m going to tell you it was written on the base of the empty case.”
Turning, he patted Degsy gently on the arm. “Come on, we need to speak to the Crime Scene Manager just to firm things up. Go and grab him, will you – he’s over there.” Thurstan pointed to the rear of a vehicle bearing the logo ‘Scientific Support’. “I’ve just got to do something.” And with that, the DCI walked back to the body which was now covered and awaiting removal under the direction of the attending Coroner’s Officer. He stood before it, thoughtfully, then murmured: “Happy fucking birthday, Councillor.”