Gavin Hargreaves was a local thug, dealer and complete thorn in his side.
He was a man who’d been in and out of police custody for years, served a prison sentence for a drug-related offence, but this hadn’t deterred him. He carried on with his little enterprise, controlling Haverbridge’s seedy underbelly, and he’d just been accused of a serious assault.
Trouble was there were no witnesses and little evidence of Hargreaves’s involvement. If they wanted Hargreaves away for a long time, they had to gather more evidence than they had already but it was a shitty investigation.
No one would put the finger on Hargreaves, such was his power and the fear he exerted over those in his pocket. Even local gangs feared him.
Michael had been working the Hargreaves case for two months now and had no intention of letting it go to anyone, especially not DI David Matthews.
Claire sensed his anger in the silence. She let him stew a few more moments before she gave a half smile.
‘Trust me, Diego, you’ll want to take this one. Right up your street.’
‘You’ve lost me,’ he said, beginning to lose patience.
‘When was the last time you went to church?’
‘Why?’
She paused then said, ‘The deceased was a priest.’
Michael had left the station as soon as he’d ended the phone call with Claire. The roads had been unusually empty for that time of day but the closer he’d driven towards the crime scene at St Mary’s, the heavier the traffic had become.
The hacks and ghouls are already out in full force, he thought as he flashed his warrant card at officers who waved him past the police tape.
A Beds and Herts Scientific Services Unit van came into view and Michael saw a SOCO clad in a white hooded bodysuit, police evidence bag in hand, standing next to it.
Michael exchanged a nod with him as he approached and entered the church.
He found Claire was waiting for him in the entrance.
Her ice-blue eyes studied him from head to toe with no subtlety, as she held out a sealed Tyvek paper suit for him, with overshoes and a face mask.
‘Have you eaten today?’ Claire said.
Michael stopped changing and eyed her suspiciously. Her own face mask was hanging below her chin, the hood of her suit covering her hair. Her face was serious.
He half laughed. ‘I didn’t know you cared.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself. I just don’t want you spewing up and contaminating my crime scene.’
Michael zipped up the bodysuit. ‘Nothing I’ve ever seen in this job has ever made me sick. Not even close.’
Claire’s mouth twitched and she gestured over her shoulder. ‘We’ll see… You’ve never seen anything like this before.’
She raised her hand for him to walk with her before he could ask what she’d meant.
‘The deceased is sixty-two-year-old Father Malcolm Wainwright. The pathologist thinks the time of death occurred within the last two hours. Photography and videoing have been done and the SOCOs finished twenty minutes ago with not a lot to show for it. I’ve got officers on a house-to-house as we speak and the press crawling up my arse.’ She paused. ‘Fucking parasites.’
Michael stared ahead over the tops of the pews.
There were four large lamps illuminating the area near the altar and he knew that was where the body lay.
As he drew closer he caught the glimpse of blood spatters on the flagstone floor, just before they turned into the aisle. He glanced back at Claire.
‘We think that’s the deceased’s. It’s possible these drops of blood fell from the murder weapon, which,’ she said, before he could speak, ‘we haven’t recovered yet.’
‘What was the cause of death?’
Claire stopped in her tracks. ‘That’s anybody’s guess right now, given the state of the body.’
‘What do you mean?’
Claire paused, and then gestured with her hand. ‘See for yourself.’
His eyes narrowed at her in frustration but he kept his mouth shut. He walked ahead, careful to keep to the plastic walkway created to avoid contamination and headed up the aisle.
As the body came into view primal instinct caught him.
Clasping a hand to his mouth he forced himself to swallow the lump of bile that had risen up his throat. His eyes watered at the acidic taste against his tongue.
His eyes darted around Wainwright’s naked and desecrated body, seeing glimpses of red, and pink, then spots of stark white bone.
He looked back over his shoulder at Claire.
She raised her eyebrows. Told you so.
She walked around the large pool of blood, her bodysuit rustling with each step. She crouched down at a distance and observed the body.
‘Whoever did this must have a strong stomach,’ she said as she pulled her mask back up. Michael pulled his own up over his nose and mouth to block out the smell.
Claire glanced up at him.
Michael couldn’t determine whether or not it was with pity or embarrassment; either way he knew he had to pull himself together.
He squatted down next to her. She glanced at him, her eyes narrowed as if to ask him if he was OK. He held her gaze.
‘Don’t spew.’
‘I’m fine.’
She gave him a slight nod, unsure whether to believe him or not, and Michael guessed she probably didn’t care how he was coping. She just wanted to wrap this up and return to the station.
‘We’ll know more when we get the pathologist’s report, but Wainwright may have died from asphyxiation.’ Claire let her words sink in for a moment.
‘I thought it was anybody’s guess?’
‘It’s our best guess so far, taking the discoloration of his face into account, although there’re no ligature marks on the neck.’
Michael stared at the wound to Wainwright’s abdomen. The tear was clean and deep. ‘What about the stab wound?’
‘It appears to have been inflicted first.’
The voice came from behind Michael and
