Calley
had been a wealthy young man with everything to live for. Now
he was simply a sack of deteriorating meat without soul or
function.
Something caught Bolt's eye, and he leaned down, squinting.
'What is it?' asked Mo from a few feet away.
'Do you mind if I move the body, Keith?' he asked DCI
Lambden.
Lambden asked the photographer if he was finished, and the
other man replied that he was. 'OK,' he said, 'but be careful. I
don't want anything contaminated.'
Bolt ignored Lambden's irritable manner. He was used to the
territorial instinct of provincial detectives whenever they dealt
with him and his colleagues, as if they thought the arrival of the
National Crime Squad at a crime scene was some sort of official
slight on their reputation. Slowly, he used both gloved hands to
prise apart the upper portion of Calley's thighs. The other two
men had come closer, and they noticed it immediately.
'What on earth's that?' exclaimed Lambden in a voice that
was an octave higher than it needed to be. Mo just exhaled. He'd
worked organized crime for several years now and was well used
to seeing signs of torture on both the living and the dead.
The crotch of Calley's jeans was badly blackened and charred
where a number of separate burns, each approximately the size
SB
of a two-pence piece, had been made. Someone, it seemed, had
slowly and deliberately held a naked flame to his groin, and not
just once either. Four, possibly five times, the marks merging
together.
For a while no-one said anything. The other SOCO officers
and the photographer came over and looked at this discovery,
and the photographer took a couple of pictures. Bolt picked up
one of Calley's arms and inspected the wrist. There was a faint
but noticeable line of reddish skin about half an inch thick running round the wrist like a bracelet. He checked the other
wrist. There was the same colouring. Ligature marks.
'He must have had some real enemies,' said one of the
SOCOs.
'Either that,' said Bolt with a sigh, 'or he had something
someone wanted very badly.'
When I was seventeen, Jack 'n' me and two other friends got
arrested on suspicion of stealing a car. We hadn't stolen it. It was
ja crappy old white Ford Escort van and it belonged to Jack.
lHaving been the first to pass his driving test, he'd bought it
llourth or fifth hand for about a hundred quid, and on most of
[the summer nights of that year he'd come and pick up the rest of
vtts in it. Whoever he picked up first - almost always me, even
though he'd moved more than a mile away by that point - got
the front seat, while the other two had to make do with sitting
on a mangy old rug in the back among the rusty tools, bits of car
and all the other crap that had accumulated there over the
months. We called ourselves 'The Van Gang', and our nights
consisted of driving round looking for something to do, which
could involve a visit to one of the few country pubs that would
serve us, or a girl's house, or just a detour off somewhere
isolated so we could do our bit for teenage rebellion by puffing
away on a couple of joints and while away the time giggling
inanely. They were good days, all in all, more innocent than they
sounded, and though my involvement with drugs was pretty
brief, I don't recall it ever giving me any ill effects.
Anyway, the indicators on Jack's van didn't work, and one
night near the end of summer when we were driving around
aimlessly, he made a right turn, naturally without signalling, in
front of a police car parked in a layby. The cops came after us
and pulled Jack over. They were an officious-looking pair and
the lead guy looked more like an accountant than a defender of
law and order. But I remember being scared, even though I had
no dope or anything else illicit on me. It was just the thought of
being on the receiving end of the attention of the police, as
if they could somehow find out about all my other youthful
indiscretions and bring me to account for them.
The first question the accountant
had been a wealthy young man with everything to live for. Now
he was simply a sack of deteriorating meat without soul or
function.
Something caught Bolt's eye, and he leaned down, squinting.
'What is it?' asked Mo from a few feet away.
'Do you mind if I move the body, Keith?' he asked DCI
Lambden.
Lambden asked the photographer if he was finished, and the
other man replied that he was. 'OK,' he said, 'but be careful. I
don't want anything contaminated.'
Bolt ignored Lambden's irritable manner. He was used to the
territorial instinct of provincial detectives whenever they dealt
with him and his colleagues, as if they thought the arrival of the
National Crime Squad at a crime scene was some sort of official
slight on their reputation. Slowly, he used both gloved hands to
prise apart the upper portion of Calley's thighs. The other two
men had come closer, and they noticed it immediately.
'What on earth's that?' exclaimed Lambden in a voice that
was an octave higher than it needed to be. Mo just exhaled. He'd
worked organized crime for several years now and was well used
to seeing signs of torture on both the living and the dead.
The crotch of Calley's jeans was badly blackened and charred
where a number of separate burns, each approximately the size
SB
of a two-pence piece, had been made. Someone, it seemed, had
slowly and deliberately held a naked flame to his groin, and not
just once either. Four, possibly five times, the marks merging
together.
For a while no-one said anything. The other SOCO officers
and the photographer came over and looked at this discovery,
and the photographer took a couple of pictures. Bolt picked up
one of Calley's arms and inspected the wrist. There was a faint
but noticeable line of reddish skin about half an inch thick running round the wrist like a bracelet. He checked the other
wrist. There was the same colouring. Ligature marks.
'He must have had some real enemies,' said one of the
SOCOs.
'Either that,' said Bolt with a sigh, 'or he had something
someone wanted very badly.'
When I was seventeen, Jack 'n' me and two other friends got
arrested on suspicion of stealing a car. We hadn't stolen it. It was
ja crappy old white Ford Escort van and it belonged to Jack.
lHaving been the first to pass his driving test, he'd bought it
llourth or fifth hand for about a hundred quid, and on most of
[the summer nights of that year he'd come and pick up the rest of
vtts in it. Whoever he picked up first - almost always me, even
though he'd moved more than a mile away by that point - got
the front seat, while the other two had to make do with sitting
on a mangy old rug in the back among the rusty tools, bits of car
and all the other crap that had accumulated there over the
months. We called ourselves 'The Van Gang', and our nights
consisted of driving round looking for something to do, which
could involve a visit to one of the few country pubs that would
serve us, or a girl's house, or just a detour off somewhere
isolated so we could do our bit for teenage rebellion by puffing
away on a couple of joints and while away the time giggling
inanely. They were good days, all in all, more innocent than they
sounded, and though my involvement with drugs was pretty
brief, I don't recall it ever giving me any ill effects.
Anyway, the indicators on Jack's van didn't work, and one
night near the end of summer when we were driving around
aimlessly, he made a right turn, naturally without signalling, in
front of a police car parked in a layby. The cops came after us
and pulled Jack over. They were an officious-looking pair and
the lead guy looked more like an accountant than a defender of
law and order. But I remember being scared, even though I had
no dope or anything else illicit on me. It was just the thought of
being on the receiving end of the attention of the police, as
if they could somehow find out about all my other youthful
indiscretions and bring me to account for them.
The first question the accountant
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