Chapter 2
Bronze
wiped the surface down, threw the cloth in the sink and pulled the freezer door
open, lifting the ice-cream maker bowl out, holding it with oven-glove clad
hands. The bowl had been in the freezer
for nearly thirty hours, after his previous attempt at making rhubarb flavour
ice-cream, which had failed. The mixture
to be used in the bowl was sat in the fridge and was about to be put into
action.
As
the ice-cream maker started its mixing, Bronze noticed a car travelling slowly
across the front of his apartment, stopping just past his parking area and then
reversing. Internally he growled; how
did Jehovah Witnesses, Mormons and double-glazing salesmen know when he was in
the middle of a complex, time-limited and important process?
The
growl became external when he saw the tall, suited man with mud trailed down
his lower trouser legs get out of the car, check his notebook and home in on
Bronze’s apartment. ‘Not a Mormon, then,’ he muttered to himself.
*
Starling
had been aware of the seventeenth century mansion sat on the outskirts of his
patch, had turned up to a couple of domestic disturbances over the years. The building, locally known as Tyson’s Folly,
housed dozens of apartments, some single floor, some duplex, plus an extensive
labyrinth of apartments being developed on the west wing, evidenced by the
crane sat to Starling’s right and the ribbon of ants carrying building
materials in.
The
apartments on the ground floor made up most of the duplex properties, with a
basement area serving as one of the floors but with access primarily from the
car park to what was essentially the upper floor. The numbering sequence was a little bizarre,
with the apartment he wanted numbered G76 – he assumed the G stood for ground
floor but could only guess at why the developer chose 76. He knew the
apartments were all on the original rear face of the mansion, with a separate
development for the ornate frontage in the planning pipeline, probably once the
west wing development generated enough cash.
Outside
the apartment sat a vintage red-coloured Alfa-Romeo Spider soft top, with the
roof down. The cockpit was empty and an
aftermarket steering wheel lock that Starling hadn’t seen in use since the late
nineties made a passing attempt at car security.
The
apartment front door looked sturdy and externally the apartment looked
well-tended to, which wasn’t the case for many of the adjacent properties that
exhibited varying levels of neglect. The
door didn’t have a knocker or a bell but did sport a CCTV camera just above it
out of reach of anyone visiting without a step ladder. He rapped the door smartly and was about to
repeat the action when the door opened rapidly, catching him in mid-rap.
‘What
do you want?’ growled the stocky man with close-cropped hair stood opposite him
who, Starling correctly presumed, to be Bronze. Starling pulled out his
warrant card and showed it to the man.
‘Mr
Bronze?’ he asked as Bronze studied the warrant card carefully.
‘Just
Bronze,’ came the curt reply as the inspection of the card was completed. ‘I’m busy,’ he added.
‘I’m
with north Wales Police,’ explained Starling, to find Bronze’s hand in his
face.
‘I
read your warrant card. Doesn’t stop me
being busy,’ he answered, looking across the hall to the churning ice-cream
maker. ‘I’m making rhubarb ice-cream,
the last batch didn’t work and I’m at a critical point right now,’ he added. Starling tried to weigh up the man; he was
used to members of the public either opening up their doors or making a bolt
for it. To be stonewalled over a batch
of home-made ice-cream was a first for him.
‘Perhaps
I can come inside, and we can chat about your expertise in the Bronze Age while
you make your ice-cream,’ suggested Starling.
Bronze considered this for a moment, looked across the hall once again,
then walked towards the kitchen, leaving the front door open. Starling closed it carefully behind him.
Starling
stood back while the man calling himself Bronze fussed over the mixing process,
scraping overspill back into the bowl and adding flavouring to the mixture. ‘Timing’s critical, too quick and it doesn’t
mix well, too slow and it melts while you’re working on it allowing the mixture
to separate out,’ he explained. Suddenly
he stopped the machine, scraped the mixture into a waiting plastic container,
clipped a lid on it and put it in the freezer in the space the bowl had
occupied. In an unhurried way he placed
the bowl and implements in the sink and ran some hot water, cleaning everything
without looking towards his guest. Starling
stood awkwardly, resting his back to the edge of the kitchen door watching
Bronze tidy up his kitchen. Bronze
placed the last item from the sink in the draining board and picked up a towel.
‘Why
do you want to chat about my Bronze Age expertise?’ he asked, wringing his
chunky hands in the towel, throwing it on to the draining board alongside the
implements that were drying.
‘You
were recommended by Sir Roger Witham-Hart,’ Starling said, noting Bronze’s head
snap up.
‘Captain
Witham-Hart?’ he asked, knowing it would be the same ghost from his past. ‘I haven’t heard of him for some years. I bumped into him on a reunion bash a while
back, he must have taken my details down. How do you know him?’ he asked, indicating a
kitchen chair for Starling to sit at.
‘I
don’t, or didn’t until today,’ answered Starling, looking around the room. It was basic, masculine.If a woman used it, it
didn’t show. ‘I asked him to comment on
some artefacts we found at a local murder scene. He thought they might be late Bronze Age
originating from the Balkans, which given they were scattered on a Flintshire
field seems a stretch.
‘He
admitted it wasn’t his field of expertise and suggested the long route to get
them assessed was via the British Museum, a shortcut might be via yourself. Apparently, you’re an expert in the period,’
added Starling. Bronze sat quietly, arms
folded, listening intently. He didn’t
offer anything, didn’t ask anything. Just silence. Starling was to learn that Bronze didn’t
answer questions that weren’t asked, and only chose to answer ones that were
asked if he believed they were relevant.
‘I
was wondering if you could take a look at the artefacts,’ suggested Starling,
reaching for his briefcase. Bronze unfolded his arms and stood.
‘Tea?’
he asked.
*
Bronze
had repeated Sir Roger’s process of scrutinising the artefacts, initially by
eye, then using a loupe he had hanging off the back of the kitchen door. Unlike Sir Roger he didn’t offer a running
commentary, he just pulled each item in turn and inspected it. While Starling sipped his tea, Bronze roamed
the kitchen, pulling drawers and assembling a pad, pens, kitchen scales and an
old wooden rule that looked like it had started life in a secondary modern
school decades earlier. He grunted,
blinked, ran his glasses on to the top of his head and made copious notes in a
small, neat hand.
‘Do
you mind if I photograph them?’ he asked. Starling reached into his bag
and brought out copies of the forensic photographs he’d had made earlier.
‘Will
these do?’ he asked, passing the photos to Bronze, who flicked through them,
matched them to the seven items on the desk.
Starling leaned forward and added, ‘It’s an ongoing investigation and
until we understand where these have come from we’d prefer the images aren’t
shared. They might be stolen,’ he
suggested.
‘Almost
certainly are stolen,’ said Bronze, putting the loupe on the table, sitting
back and grasping the large mug of tea he’d ignored for the last twenty
minutes. ‘The captain was correct about
the origin, wrong about the age. They’re probably five thousand, two hundred
years old give or take, made in the Balkan region in the Copper Age and are
exceedingly unique. And valuable, I’d
suggest.’ He added, looking at the artefacts.
‘Copper
Age?’ asked Starling.
‘Nobody
in the UK,’ said Bronze, ‘well, virtually nobody in the UK,’ he corrected
himself, ‘talks about the Copper Age because we didn’t have one here. In Europe the art and science of smelting tin
and copper was preceded by an age of copper. In what we now call the UK we
never got to establish a pure copper technology base, we imported the bronze
technology from Europe, elevating us from a predominantly stone implement
society to a metal society in one step, whereas in Europe they took more
incremental steps. That’s why the Bronze
Age was such a paradigm shift in the UK, we might have been late to the party,
but the technological change was massive. The irony, of course, was that we had massive
copper deposits here, with the mine down the road in Llandudno alone being one
of the largest in Europe, which then became a massive exporter of copper.
‘But
the Balkan region also had massive copper deposits, and they led the way in
establishing the Copper Age much earlier. I believe these artefacts originate from that
region and that period,’ said Bronze, gently pushing one of the evidence bags
away as if to make a statement.
‘Found
in a field near here?’ he asked. Starling nodded, explained in a
circumspect way about the body and the violent form of death. Bronze pursed his lips and considered the
facts as presented.
‘Did
the Captain describe my full skillset?’ he asked.
‘He
alluded to you being more than an IED specialist, not that I want to diminish
that role. He said something about he would follow in your physical
footsteps because he felt you would keep him safe,’ replied Starling.
Bronze grinned, his face lighting for the first time.
‘In
those circumstances, with Serbian booby-traps at every turn, everyone relies
implicitly on their IED specialists. There were plenty of opportunities to go home
in a body bag, IEDs were just one.
‘But
I developed a science I call forensic detectorism. To predict where an IED, or for that matter, a
Bronze Age settlement, requires a lot of legwork, analysis, knowledge not only
of people and society today but often an in-depth knowledge of past societies. Putting a spade in the ground should be the
last stage of a forensic detectorist, as putting handcuffs on the wrists of a
villain should be the end game for your profession,’ he said, looking Starling
in the eye. Starling looked at the
thick-set man in front of him and realised he was probably offering more than
an evaluation of the artefact. Bronze
wasn’t finished, though.
‘These
artefacts shouldn’t be in this country unless in a museum or a private
collection. Scattered around a body in a
field suggests that either they held no value for the killer or that he left
them there.’ Starling blinked at that
suggestion.
‘The
killer left them there?’ he asked. ‘Why?’ Bronze shrugged.
‘At
this point we don’t know; all I know is that he has chosen to leave them on the
ground. Of course, if it was a crime of
vengeance then perhaps killing the victim was the only thought in his head and
he didn’t see or care what was scattered.
‘Was
there a hole in the ground?’ he asked. Starling shook his head – he'd left the field
before they’d moved the body, but photographs of the crime scene after the body
had been moved didn’t show any holes local to the crime. The provisional theory was that Vanes had been
killed at that spot by strangulation or even by having his neck snapped, then
the shovel being driven at force into his skull.
‘Would
you expect one?’ he asked. Bronze settled back; this could be an
interesting discussion.
‘Are
you aware metal detecting is one of the fastest growing hobbies in this
country?’ he asked. Starling took a turn
at shrugging; he was aware of the clubs, the rallies swamping fields, the
increasingly common big finds that needed the courts to decide if those finds
belonged to the Nation or the finder.
‘Sure,’
he answered, not entirely convinced. They used to say that about golf, he thought,
realising the parallels – gear acquisition, niche terminology, ambles disguised
as having purpose. Bronze leaned forward, now on a hobbyhorse.
‘Every
year more and more people join the hobby, the equipment is becoming more
sophisticated, the fields are becoming swamped with detectorists. And every year, month, week and day there are
more finds than ever. I guess pockets
have had holes in as long as coins have existed, but coinage has never had so
little value than now, however the old coins being found today probably
represent the difference between survival and starvation for the average family
in the past. Unless the British have
engaged in industrial scale carelessness over the ages, we need to think about
why there is still so much stuff being found,’ he said, holding his mug up,
offering a top up. Starling checked his
watch, decided he could afford a few more minutes and nodded.
‘Natural
disasters, wars, local village disputes?’ he suggested.
‘Geologically
stable for millennia, reasonably resistant to meaningful invasion, sporadic
enough to expect finds to be in very distinct eras. I believe there are other reasons in place. You’ve probably heard the best place to hide
is in plain sight?’ Bronze asked, putting the refills down. ‘My view is the best place to hide is
underground, in plain sight. In times of
danger, greed, excessive taxation people hide assets by burying them, with the
aim of recovering them later. Some don’t
survive long enough to dig them up, others forget where they left them, you’re
the policeman, you suggest other reasons,’ he said.
‘You
have a dead detectorist killed at night in a field not usually used by
detectorists. He could be a nighthawk,’
he suggested.
‘Nighthawk?’
asked Starling.
‘Nighthawk. A person who trespasses and detects without
permission. In the main detectorists
follow a moral code, one that is actually underpinned by law, so technically
your province,’ Bronze said, adding, ‘Finds that are likely to be valuable are
declared and often the courts decide if the finder can keep them, or whether
they belong to the Crown. By the way, your chain of evidence might need to be
maintained well beyond your investigation – even if you can’t find evidence
that they have been stolen, you might need to let the courts decide who gets to
keep them. I’m fairly certain your
victim’s family will be back of the queue for these.
‘But
rogues who don’t follow the code are called nighthawks, often carrying out
their metal detecting activities at night. That could explain why this person appeared in
the field overnight, violently killed.
‘It
doesn’t explain why he was killed and why the artefacts were distributed around
his body. He didn’t dig them up, it
seems. Was he about to bury them, in plain sight?’ suggested Bronze.
‘Can
I take a look at the crime scene?’ he asked.
*
Starling
drove away from Tyson’s Folly with the artefacts, a promise from Bronze to
write up an expert review of them and an agreement in principle that Bronze
could visit the crime scene once he’d been eliminated from the enquiries. In Starlings’ notebook were details about
Bronze that most people never found out about him, details only the likes of
the Force Pension Service, the Taxman and now the police were allowed by Bronze
to hold. He also offered to provide a
DNA sample as well as his fingerprints, and Starling guessed they would be in
the system already for the same reasons Starlings’ were. He guessed that if he
dug deep enough this wasn’t Bronze’s first murder investigation.
He
had guidance on where to approach over the artefacts to find out if they were
on an Interpol watch list, and Bronze offered the names of local crooks who
might be tempted to fence them. Starling
recognised most of the names, but agreed it was a useful subset to start
enquiries.
As
he drove, he got a message that Loham had preliminary results so he headed for
the morgue.
*
The
fedora was hanging on a hook outside of the autopsy room at the Wrexham Maelor
hospital. Underneath the fedora were a
pair of sandals. ‘Loham’s in the
building,’ muttered Starling, entering the double doors into the chilled room.
Loham was finalising the Y stitching on the chest and was about to embark on
the big clean up. Vanes’ emancipated
body stretched out on the dissection table; a tag neatly attached to the big
toe of the right foot declaring the name of the owner.
‘Starling,
just in time,’ said Loham, clad in surgical gown and boots. All his tools were
laid out in a neat line, the internal organs bagged and lined up in size order,
the table already cleaned of body fluids.
Starling approached the body, took in the excessively white body, the
cleaved skull pinned neatly, the arms and legs parallel to the body. Starling worked with a couple of other ME’s
and Loham took the biscuit for neatness. He was both good and very tidy, which from a
chain of evidence perspective alone was a boon.
‘Official
cause of death?’ asked Starling, looking over the body.
‘Technically,
the spade through the skull. The
pinprick blood bursts around the eyes suggest the initial attempt at
strangulation was largely successful, the blood flow from the brain where the
spade sliced through indicates the heart was still beating when the final blow
was struck. Whether the victim would
have survived without that blow is moot; he clearly had a lot of oxygen
starvation up and until the spade followed gravity, if he’d survived, I doubt
you’d have had a statement worth a carrot to rely on.
‘Your
investigation team probably has determined he’s early forties, although at
first glance he looks a lot older. I’m guessing he does a sedentary job
as the muscle wastage is pronounced. No
serious underlying illness apparent, he probably had a good forty more years to
look forward to, and you can quote that in court if it helps with the
sentencing. I’ve taken his fingerprints
as per usual protocol and you’ll have a DNA record on the database by the
morning, if the servers are running effectively, which I doubt,’ mused Loham. Starling was always fascinated by how quickly
Loham would become negative about institutional matters; nothing was ever just
ok with the doctor, especially where computers were involved.
‘So
that’s it then, his life summarised as a desk jockey, and halfway through?’
asked Starling, hoping that if he ended on Loham’s table his body would tell a
more interesting story.
‘That’s
about it, Starling. Pop over to my
office in about half an hour and I’ll run you through the forms. Cross the tees, so to speak,’ he added, wiping
the surfaces one more time. Starling looked at his watch, realised that
most of his team doing background checks, family liaising, creating storyboards
and so on would be back with their families by now. It was only the likes
of Loham and Starling that burned the candle at both ends.
‘Sure,
I’ll grab a bite to eat in the staff canteen,’ he said.
*
Half
an hour later, on the dot, Starling entered Loham’s office, notionally shared
with two other doctors but Starling had never seen either when he visited. The two desks that weren’t Loham’s were piled
high with patient notes, folders bulging with paper telling the life story of
people literally from cradle to a trajectory that was hurtling to their grave. Pens, staplers and post-it notes littered the
few potentially clear spaces on the desks.
Conversely,
Lohan’s desk was the epitome of the clear desk policy the hospital no doubt
insisted upon, like most large organisations tried and usually failed in
enforcing. A computer monitor sat tidily
to the side, an FM radio sat centre place perched on a textbook on physiology,
a container filled with nested mini containers that Starling knew from previous
visits would have contained snack-sized foods such as nuts at the start of the
day. As the day would have progressed
the mini containers would have been pulled out, the contents dipped into, and
the containers replaced into the mother ship until at this relatively late hour
all were empty.
In
front of Loham was the only document Starling needed to see at this time:
Vanes’ medical record. It was, like
Vane, thin to the point of being emaciated which, given his age, wasn't
unusual. Most people have little use for
the NHS outside of injuries and the odd appendectomy until their middle years,
then the hospital visits start to increase as the body wears out and the ritual
abuse of nicotine, alcohol and lack of exercise starts to take its toll. Most of the documents in the folder would have
been on one or more of the hospital databases, but almost certainly not all,
definitely not together. Loham held the
folder up.
‘I
expect you want to see this?’ he asked. He always asked that question. Starling did, but he wanted to know about the
other item on Loham’s desk.
‘Sure,
but – are you drinking wine?’ he asked. Alcohol in the workplace wasn’t permitted in a
hospital, nor in a police station, but in line with decades of stereotypes
Starling kept a bottle of single malt in his bottom drawer for the obligatory
end of shift snifter. He wasn’t
surprised the tradition occurred in hospitals, just didn’t expect to see it in
Loham’s office.
‘It’s
San Pellegrino, an orange drink,’ answered Loham, holding the wine glass up. ‘I
prefer to drink it in a wine glass, it’s more refined,' he said. Putting
the glass down he picked the folder up.
‘Had
an appendectomy age seven, which wasn’t a surprise. I’d noted the absence. But the spinal injury from a glider accident
in his teens meant he probably succumbed to the rear attack more readily than
you or I might have, which means I have to modify my conclusions a tad,’ he
said, passing the folder over.
‘In
what way?’ asked Starling, flicking though the predominantly mundane notes and
medical reports most people accumulate over their lives.
‘I
determined that the person attacking would have been a tall, strong person. The prior injuries suggest that the spine
would have collapsed sooner than I predicted so the attacker needn't have been
that strong.
‘Or that tall,’ he said, raising his glass.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the US Bronze is on a countdown promotion starting Sunday 14th September at $0.99 for the eBook, rising to $1.99 on the 17th September before reverting to the full price of $2.99 on the 20th September. All promotions commence at 8:00 am PDT on the stated days.
Bronze is available on Amazon in eBook, paperback and hardback format
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Follow me on Twitter: @RayASullivan
email me at raysullivan.novels@yahoo.com
Check out my comedic ramblings as Throngsman on www.newsbiscuit.com
No comments:
Post a Comment