Deity

slept in his bed for two nights after a party.’

Poole shrugged and gestured towards Alice behind her back. ‘His mother is worried, Gordon. There must be something you can do.’

Grey sighed heavily. ‘You’re not making this very easy.’ His face lit up for a second. ‘Does he have any serious medical issues? That would justify a report.’

Mrs Kennedy shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Any sign of violence or a struggle at your home?’

‘There’s a sticking plaster in the bin with a little blood on.’

‘How much blood?’

‘About half an inch in the middle.’

Grey chuckled and threw his palms up. ‘Then maybe he grazed his knee. I’m sorry, but I’d have a job to classify Kyle as even low risk.’ He gave the woman a pointed look to ensure she’d got the message. ‘Look — go home. He’s probably there waiting for you to feed him. I’ll notify the local nick and have a word with the hospitals, unofficial like, to keep an eye out for him. If he’s not back after the weekend, give us another ring and we’ll start the process. Fair enough?’

Len nodded his understanding and guided the tight-lipped woman towards the entrance. She turned back suddenly and pulled something from her handbag, unfolded it and placed it on the counter. ‘This was on his bed with his phone.’

Brook had heard enough and was preparing to return to his office when the grey-haired man looked up at him. To his surprise, the man nodded at him.

‘Inspector,’ he said stiffly.

Brook nodded back. ‘Hello,’ he replied, for once remembering to omit the pause for a name he didn’t know. He looked again. He did vaguely recognise the man now but couldn’t place him. After the couple left, Brook sauntered over to the counter.

Sergeant Grey stiffened in the effort to suppress his hostility. ‘Inspector. Didn’t see you there.’

‘Who was that man, Sergeant?’

‘Len Poole? He used to be the Chief Pathologist at the old Derby City Hospital. Before that Pa-’ Grey pulled himself up quickly. ‘Before that Asian guy took over.’

Brook looked into Grey’s eyes and gave him a lingering stare. Finally he said softly, ‘Dr Habib. And he’s Indian.’

Grey pulled a face that said what’s the difference? but managed to keep his reply neutral. ‘That’s him. Len married into decent money and retired early. His wife was a bit of a looker. No accounting for taste, I say. I heard she died a couple of years ago. He seems to have found a replacement though, eh?’ Grey laughed suggestively but Brook didn’t accept the invitation for man talk.

Instead he sipped his tea and raided his memory banks. Len Poole. He could place him now, though he hadn’t known him well. They’d only worked a couple of cases together during Brook’s first months in Derby and before Poole had left his job. He hadn’t been invited to the retirement dinner.

He picked up the small leaflet left by Mrs Kennedy and absent-mindedly wandered off reading it. Grey smiled maliciously at Brook’s back and picked up his pen.

Brook pulled the small A5 leaflet towards him and turned to his computer. It was very simple text on colour and could have been designed and produced on any PC. The few words were in red lettering on a black background.

DEITY

Take Control

Live Forever

Young

Beautiful

Immortal

At the bottom of the page was a website address. Brook typed in the address. The website was closed for refurbishment.

Several hours later Brook put down the phone and looked around the small Incident Room at his colleagues, either cradling phones under their ears or drawing lines through their list. He looked at his own defaced list. Not one disgruntled undertaker arousing suspicion or given the sack. It seemed staff turnover in the industry was very low because of the unique nature of the skills required for their work. Employees were invariably committed to the profession for life. Everyone in the funeral business knew everyone else, and no one Brook had spoken to had experienced the kind of difficulties which might sound alarm bells. From the looks on the faces of his team, they were encountering the same story.

He stepped past the bank of computers and checked there was water in the kettle that Rob Morton had had the foresight to bring in, as well as a jar of instant coffee and two pints of milk. He switched the kettle on and looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven on a bright warm Sunday morning.

Brook made coffee for everyone and walked over to look at the large map that nearly filled one wall. He stared at the bridge in Borrowash then at the approximate location of Shardlow gravel pit — approximate because many of the flooded pits were not on the map, having been dug out after the map was published.

The land between Derby and the M1 was flat and wet. Broken ground was home to two rivers as well as the many manmade lakes and waterways created by the extraction of building materials — an excellent place to hide the dead.

Brook took a sip of his coffee, again recalling the image of the body from the gravel pit — the swollen face, the pale buttery flesh. But even before the incision in the flank had been located, Brook had known this was the same MO. He knew enough forensics to realise that a body with organs intact should have been bloated from the decomposition gases but this. . vacant vessel, this receptacle of some mother’s hopes and dreams. . had been exsanguinated and efficiently gutted like a pig at the abattoir.

‘Penny for them,’ said Noble, at Brook’s shoulder.

‘Stick it in your pension, John. I can’t get a handle on this at all.’

‘I know what you mean. Seems like we’ve only got half a crime here.’

‘Exactly that. We’ve got one dumped body that hasn’t been killed. And now a second that presents as the same MO. So what’s the motive?’

‘Maybe Habib and Petty got it wrong. Maybe McTiernan was forced to drink himself to death. That would make it murder.’

‘It still doesn’t get us a motive.’

‘Some grudge against the less fortunate,’ shrugged Noble. ‘There could be a million reasons. Maybe one of Charlton’s sexually assaulted schoolkids is finally getting even. Or maybe it’s a necrophiliac with a thing for black- toothed vagrants.’ He smiled. ‘Motives aren’t always obvious with a nut job.’

‘Nut job,’ repeated Brook with distaste.

‘Or maybe Habib’s right. Maybe someone’s making haggis with human offal.’

‘And black pudding with the blood,’ added Brook. ‘A psychotic butcher with a taste for human flesh — don’t think I didn’t consider it, John. But if someone has the privacy to do this, and the skills to process body parts so efficiently, they wouldn’t need to risk dumping the bodies where they can be found.’

‘So why dump the bodies at all, you mean?’

‘More questions than answers at this stage.’

‘Maybe our guy likes the adrenalin rush, people knowing what he’s doing. That way he creates a climate of fear. He scares the public and feeds on that.’

Brook shook his head. ‘Who’s going to be scared? No one paid any attention to McTiernan. As Charlton said, this is page eleven stuff.’

‘The second body might change things.’

‘Not if it’s another. .’ Brook cast around for a suitable word.