‘And the severing of the hand caused death?’ Savage asked.
‘Too early to say that, Charlotte, but it is possible.’ Nesbit stared at the body for a moment and then reached forward and pulled the man’s right sleeve up. ‘There’s something else here. Strange.’
Savage moved closer and Nesbit pointed at the forearm. There was a rectangle of skin marked with black and white stripes in a crude pattern resembling a zebra crossing.
‘Appears to be paint,’ Nesbit said touching the arm with a gloved finger. ‘Dry too. Never seen anything quite like it.’
‘Not a tattoo?’
‘No, this is on the surface of the skin.’
‘Can you get that thing out of his nose? The business card?’
‘Let’s see …’ Nesbit reached for the black tube and teased it from the nostril and then flattened the card and showed it to Savage.
‘Fastwerk Bookkeeping,’ Savage said. ‘Notte Street. That’s close to here, back down Hoe Road.’
Nesbit turned to Savage. ‘Can you pass me my thermometer and some wipes from my case please. An evidence bag too. I am going to take a rectal temperature reading, but I’ll need to clean up a bit first.’
Savage opened the bag and found the thermometer unit with its remote probe and a packet of wipes. She handed them to Nesbit. Denton grimaced as the pathologist began to wipe the excrement from between the man’s buttocks.
‘And I used to think nappies were bad,’ Savage said.
‘How’s Pete, Charlotte?’ Nesbit said in an upbeat tone, the question sounding the sort which might be posed at a dinner party. ‘I completely forgot to ask you on Monday. Rude of me, I know. I read in the paper he’d returned. Hero’s welcome, razzmatazz and all.’
The switch from professional to personal matters caught Savage off guard, but she knew Nesbit was prone to small talk in an effort to distract from the task in hand.
‘Fine. Getting cabin fever from being ashore, but the kids love him being back. I am trying to persuade him to swallow the hook.’
‘Hey?’
‘Meaning to give up his command. A desk job would be better for the children and my stress levels.’
‘Come on, Charlotte,’ Nesbit stopped wiping and turned to give her a quizzical look. ‘Pete giving up the sea would be like you giving up all this.’
Nesbit returned his attention to the body and shoved the white probe of the thermometer between the man’s buttocks.
Savage burst out laughing.
Budgeon played the pressure-washer jet across the concrete floor of the barn. Full power, red water sluicing away in rivulets, specks of white bone gliding along them until they disappeared down the drain. As he worked, a distant ache inched its way across his forehead, all the time diminishing until the feeling became not much more than a mild irritation.
It felt good. Fucking good.
At last, things were in motion and he’d made a start. Wheels were turning, the freight train on the move. Nothing was going to stop him now. Nothing.
The last of the fat bastard’s blood swirled around the drain cover, a gurgling echoing Frankie’s last sounds.
Please, Ricky, please!
He’d screamed plenty before the final words, blood spurting everywhere as he thrashed around like a fat, sloppy fish flapping on the riverbank. He’d talked too. Plenty. Facts and figures. Everything Budgeon needed to know about Big K’s business, from turnover to throughput. Budgeon had been impressed. Big K had quite an operation running and Budgeon’s South American friends would be keen to get some of the action.
Payday.
Budgeon tidied away the pressure washer and went inside. He’d recorded the local lunchtime news bulletin, and now, back in the house, he played the programme back on the big screen above the fireplace. He sat down on the sofa, cradled a glass of Scotch in his hand and sat back to watch the show.
An establishing shot panned across the scene before the girlie reporter did her piece to camera. Behind her a sign read ‘Public Conveniences’ and the viewer’s eye was drawn over her shoulder, following in the sign’s direction to alight on the dank building in the background. You could almost smell the piss.
Nice camerawork, he thought. The guy should win an award. Nice use of the words ‘toilets’ and ‘paedophile’ by the reporter too. And when they cut away to Lester Close and pictures of the little girl flashed up, Budgeon knew the stuff with Frankie had been genius. The message was clear, and there were those out there who would understand it all too well.
You shall not steal; you shall not deal falsely; you shall not lie to one another.
Lexi, Big K. They knew the code. And they knew the consequences if you broke it. The thief would lose his hand, the betrayer his life.
He rubbed his forehead, aware of a slight discomfort, then he touched the remote, pausing the playback as the reporter began to hand back to the studio.
He took another swig of his drink and swirled the liquid across his teeth before swallowing. The reporter stared out from the TV, smile frozen. She was a pretty one, for sure. A local girl made good, but she wouldn’t be around here for long. London calling and all that.
London.
Another home, and more memories.
After prison, London had seemed the best place to start again. You were anonymous up there, nobody nosing into your affairs, no history to worry about. He’d done fine, made a lot of money. Enough to buy some investment property out in Spain and start to think about retiring to the sun. But then he’d been well and truly screwed and that was what this was all about too.
Why him? It was a question Budgeon had asked himself before. Did he look like the type of guy who enjoyed taking it up the arse? Did he look like a pushover? Of course not. Just the opposite. The only explanation could be that those who’d wronged him were stupid or mean, or both.
Tossers.
The discomfort had turned into a soreness now, a prickly feeling he knew presaged another attack. A few more gulps of Scotch eased the tension and then he pushed himself up from the sofa. He went over to the fireplace, picked a log from the basket and placed it on the fire. A shower of orange sparks flared for a moment before being sucked up the chimney. He glanced up from the fire to the screen just a few inches from his head. This close the pixels on the display were distinct, like thousands of coloured crystals on some sort of collage, each one a part of a bigger picture. If he pressed ‘play’ on the remote, the scene would spring into action again, people would move, speak, smile. Life would go on.
But that wasn’t going to happen. Not for those who’d crossed him.
Budgeon reached across for a phone on a nearby table. Punched out a number, and when someone answered, he spoke.
‘The cop. We set him up next.’
He hung up and put the phone down. Then he took up his glass and gulped the rest of the Scotch, unable to suppress a smile at the serendipity of the situation. He supposed he ought to thank the Herald for printing the picture. A minibus full of kids from North Prospect, Chelsea scarves waving, the pig standing there smiling, along with a couple of PCSOs. Who would have thought he would turn up right on the doorstep like a meek lamb walking to the slaughterhouse?
He returned to the sofa, pointed the remote at the screen and pressed ‘standby’. The reporter’s frozen smile beamed down for a moment before the screen went black.