earlier that morning, as a demonstration of his willpower.
Brook flicked through the pages of the
A-Z
and stared at the sparse countryside to the south and east of Borrowash,taking in the minor roads accessing Elvaston Castle and Thulston. He didn’t know the area well but it seemed very flat and he knew from his trips along the A50 to the M1 or East Midlands Airport, that the land on either side of the carriageway was prone to flooding. Indeed, even without flooding there was sufficient water around the confluence of the Rivers Trent and Derwent to merit a marina at Shardlow for the nautically minded.
Brook pulled the
Yellow Pages
from another drawer. His eye glimpsed a mangled, half-smoked cigarette butt behind some old papers, covered in dust and fluff. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked it out of the drawer and brushed it clean like an old soldier polishing his campaign medals. He stared lovingly at the butt for longer than necessary then threw it resolutely in the bin, chuckling noiselessly at the absurd sense of achievement that followed.
Noble walked in, holding papers. ‘We’ve got more uniform searching up and down the river, just to be thorough. Nothing yet. On the plus side, DS Gadd’s organised a door-to-door on Station Road and, apparently, someone leaving early for London on Tuesday did see the road was closed. Every other resident says the road was open later that morning so it looks like you were right. Our perpetrator faked the closure while he dumped the body.’
‘When was this?’
‘Two days ago.’ Noble consulted a scribbled note. ‘A Mr Hargreaves left his house at three thirty in the morning to drive to London. He couldn’t cross the bridges and had to take the A52 instead.’
‘Three thirty,’ Brook said thoughtfully. ‘So we’re unlikely to get witnesses walking the dog.’
‘Whatabout anglers? They get up at all hours to bag the best spots.’
‘Get uniform to speak to every angler on that stretch. And maybe run off some notices to post near the bridges. Any chance of decent forensics?’ ventured Brook, though he already knew the answer.
Noble shook his head. ‘SOCO weren’t confident, not at the scene anyway.’
Brook nodded. ‘Water washes away many sins, John – though I prefer malt.’
‘They did find a large piece of cloth in the river nearby. They’ve bagged it for tests but we don’t even know if it connects with our John Doe.’
‘What about the bridge?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Let’s hope the body gives us an ID. What’s that?’ asked Brook, looking at the sheaf of papers.
‘Statement taken from the lads who spotted the victim in the river.’ Noble handed the report to Brook, who skimmed it briefly.
‘Let’s call him the deceased until we’re told it’s murder, John.’ Brook yawned heavily and tossed the papers on to the desk. ‘Decent lads?’
‘Solid kids from good families. No juvey—juvenile cautions,’ Noble corrected himself before Brook caught his eye. ‘And those CCTV cameras near the bridge were dummies.’
‘Any other cameras locally?’ asked Brook.
‘In Borrowash? Hardly. The only excitement round there seems to be the odd broken wing mirror.’
Brook put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. ‘All this careful planning suggests our man’s a murderer.’
‘Man?So you’ve definitely ruled out multiple suspects.’
‘I think so. Statistically we’re looking for a male, especially as our John Doe may have needed lifting. And, whether he has accomplices or not, he was on his own when he dumped the body.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The traffic cones,’ replied Brook, looking up at Noble to see if he wanted to take the reins.
Noble lifted his shoulders in a gesture of defeat. ‘What about them?’
‘He couldn’t carry the cones as well as a
Road Closed
sign. Two people could have done it. After he dumps the body, he’s in a hurry so he picks up his sign
. . .
’
‘
. . .
and leaves the cones stacked
Brook flicked through the pages of the
A-Z
and stared at the sparse countryside to the south and east of Borrowash,taking in the minor roads accessing Elvaston Castle and Thulston. He didn’t know the area well but it seemed very flat and he knew from his trips along the A50 to the M1 or East Midlands Airport, that the land on either side of the carriageway was prone to flooding. Indeed, even without flooding there was sufficient water around the confluence of the Rivers Trent and Derwent to merit a marina at Shardlow for the nautically minded.
Brook pulled the
Yellow Pages
from another drawer. His eye glimpsed a mangled, half-smoked cigarette butt behind some old papers, covered in dust and fluff. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked it out of the drawer and brushed it clean like an old soldier polishing his campaign medals. He stared lovingly at the butt for longer than necessary then threw it resolutely in the bin, chuckling noiselessly at the absurd sense of achievement that followed.
Noble walked in, holding papers. ‘We’ve got more uniform searching up and down the river, just to be thorough. Nothing yet. On the plus side, DS Gadd’s organised a door-to-door on Station Road and, apparently, someone leaving early for London on Tuesday did see the road was closed. Every other resident says the road was open later that morning so it looks like you were right. Our perpetrator faked the closure while he dumped the body.’
‘When was this?’
‘Two days ago.’ Noble consulted a scribbled note. ‘A Mr Hargreaves left his house at three thirty in the morning to drive to London. He couldn’t cross the bridges and had to take the A52 instead.’
‘Three thirty,’ Brook said thoughtfully. ‘So we’re unlikely to get witnesses walking the dog.’
‘Whatabout anglers? They get up at all hours to bag the best spots.’
‘Get uniform to speak to every angler on that stretch. And maybe run off some notices to post near the bridges. Any chance of decent forensics?’ ventured Brook, though he already knew the answer.
Noble shook his head. ‘SOCO weren’t confident, not at the scene anyway.’
Brook nodded. ‘Water washes away many sins, John – though I prefer malt.’
‘They did find a large piece of cloth in the river nearby. They’ve bagged it for tests but we don’t even know if it connects with our John Doe.’
‘What about the bridge?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Let’s hope the body gives us an ID. What’s that?’ asked Brook, looking at the sheaf of papers.
‘Statement taken from the lads who spotted the victim in the river.’ Noble handed the report to Brook, who skimmed it briefly.
‘Let’s call him the deceased until we’re told it’s murder, John.’ Brook yawned heavily and tossed the papers on to the desk. ‘Decent lads?’
‘Solid kids from good families. No juvey—juvenile cautions,’ Noble corrected himself before Brook caught his eye. ‘And those CCTV cameras near the bridge were dummies.’
‘Any other cameras locally?’ asked Brook.
‘In Borrowash? Hardly. The only excitement round there seems to be the odd broken wing mirror.’
Brook put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. ‘All this careful planning suggests our man’s a murderer.’
‘Man?So you’ve definitely ruled out multiple suspects.’
‘I think so. Statistically we’re looking for a male, especially as our John Doe may have needed lifting. And, whether he has accomplices or not, he was on his own when he dumped the body.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The traffic cones,’ replied Brook, looking up at Noble to see if he wanted to take the reins.
Noble lifted his shoulders in a gesture of defeat. ‘What about them?’
‘He couldn’t carry the cones as well as a
Road Closed
sign. Two people could have done it. After he dumps the body, he’s in a hurry so he picks up his sign
. . .
’
‘
. . .
and leaves the cones stacked
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