Page 26

26

Tuesday morning

Hector Powell, the pathologist, arrived less than an hour after the delivery wagon, together with a scenes of crimes team and a recovery vehicle for the burned-out van. The man with the camera tried to slip through the gate in the confusion, but the uniformed policeman had his wits about him. He did let their bacon sandwiches through though, for which Charlie was very thankful. The woman with the tray should be getting a bunch of flowers at the very least. Hector looked enviously at their sandwiches and muttered something about bloody diets as he shuffled himself into a white suit, overshoes and a less-than-flattering mask and cap. Charlie chewed and swallowed as quickly as he could.

Eddy went to collect Kev Watchet to show the pathologist and his assistant where he had found the body. There was no avoiding it this time, and Charlie followed. His leg had become a form of torture; he’d had to lean the crutches, and himself, against a wall so that he could eat and drink.

“That is indeed a body,” Hector said. “And he or she is most certainly dead. Probably he, from the size, but I can’t be sure.”

Charlie flicked a few glances towards the remains of what had been a person but was now nothing but a charred lump of … something he didn’t want to think about. He cleared his throat.

Hector looked up.

“Can’t tell you anything, Charlie. I’ll do the PM as soon as I can, but for now, it’s probably a man and he’s definitely dead, is as good as it gets.”

“We need to know who he is — or rather was,” Charlie said.

“If he or she had any ID, it’s gone now,” Hector said. “Though if it comes to it, we can probably get DNA. Can’t you identify the van?”

Without licence plates or a Vehicle Identification Number, the answer was not yet. He and Eddy watched as Hector and his assistant delicately removed the remains from the van into a body bag. There was a collective sigh of relief from firefighters and police alike as the body bag was put into the mortuary van and driven away from the site. Charlie could hear shouted questions from the gate. The press were still there, then, and they would recognise the mortuary van. Dammit. He called Mags at the takeaway.

“We’ve got the press down here,” he said.

“Same,” Mags said, “and there’s only me. It’s all taped off, but they’ve taken lots of pictures. We need help, Sarge, or they’ll be in the building, collapsing and dangerous or not. I can’t keep them out on my own. The gas safety people are here now, but they are making noises about leaving soon.” Charlie heard the desperation in her voice.

“I’m sending Eddy,” he told her. “And ringing HQ for more bodies. Hang in there.”

Eddy had overheard the conversation, and headed towards the gate, ignoring the shouted questions from the media, who had increased in number. The sun had now well and truly risen, and Charlie could feel the heat beginning to build. A glance at his phone told him it was time to update Mal Kent, but he decided to organise the recovery of the burned-out van first, and that meant clearing the press and the lookie-loos from around the gate. It wouldn’t take a genius to realise that a mortuary van, followed by a low loader carrying the remains of a camper van, were probably related. And to get the gate area cleared meant getting more officers, which meant ringing Kent. With a sigh — instantly regretted as his chest twinged again — he got out his phone.

“We can’t cope,” he said, when Mal Kent answered. “We’ve got the press hanging round both crime scenes, a lorry full of car parts trying to make a delivery, and half a dozen workers demanding to be let in. Plus, a body with no identification, on its way to the mortuary. We can’t identify the burned-out van, because, well, it’s burned out.”

“But apart from that, everything is fine?” Kent said.

Perfect, just peachy, thanks for asking.

“We need this body identified, and that means recovering the van, so we can get the chassis number,” Charlie said.

There was a silence from the other end, and then: “Just look underneath.”

“Leave it with me,” Charlie said.

“I’ll send everyone I can find,” Kent said. “Get that address.” And ended the call.

Charlie gave himself a mental kick for thinking he would need to take the burned-out van back to the police yard before they could find the chassis number. He beckoned to one of the scenes of crimes officers, already dressed in his white suit, and explained what he needed. In turn, he called the driver of the recovery truck.

“Simple,” the driver said, and within a few minutes, the van was dangling in the air with a scenes of crimes officer looking (apprehensively) upwards to find, wipe clean, and photograph the number. Then it was out from underneath and Charlie had what he needed.

The other thing he needed was to sit down, ideally somewhere cool, so he could calmly chase up a name and address for the owner of the van — who might very well be their victim. Instead, he was standing in the sun, crutches bringing up blisters on his hands, listening to the uniformed officer by the gate trying to placate the car parts workers and the press. He called Will Wayward in technical services at HQ.

“I know it’s not exactly your job, but we’re stretched to breaking point, and I need the name and address for this vehicle,” he said.

Charlie heard Will rattling the computer keys, and then,

“Mr Joshua Cameron Pettifor, Thirteen Harvard Close, Colwyn Bay.”

“Thanks, Will. Could you email the information to the Chief Super?”

“No problem,” Will answered, and Charlie thought, no, it probably wasn’t. Will was that kind of person. Unwin had been that kind of person, too. The thought that someone had killed his colleague was a miserable ache.

Suddenly there was a yell from the back of the Mo’s Autoparts building. Charlie hobbled towards the noise. The camper van was now settled and strapped on to the recovery vehicle. The driver and the two scenes of crimes investigators were looking at a pile of debris with horror.

“What is it?” Charlie asked.

“It was a cage holding gasses for air-conditioning systems. If the fire had lasted another thirty seconds, the whole lot would have gone up like a rocket. You think the camper van is a mess now? It would have been pulverised.”