smoking a cigarette stolen from his daughter’s handbag. It was just after five and he had the world to himself. The telephone destroyed his reverie and Brook launched himself barefoot back into the house to answer it before Terri could wake.
‘John. What is it?’ said Brook, breathless.
‘Jock or Phil?’ asked Brook.
Terri pulled the VW on to Meadow Road and as close to the crime-scene tape as she could manage. Brook opened the door before the car had stopped and stepped out. The noise of the river was more apparent here over the quiet buzz of Derby’s city centre.
‘You’re sure you can find your way back?’ he said to his daughter.
Terri was yawning again but managed an affirmative grunt with a nod for back-up. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said once her jaw was back under control.
Brook closed the passenger door and watched her reverse the car and speed away. He turned to see Noble heading over to him. They exchanged nods then Noble led Brook across the small triangular green space towards the concrete wall at the river’s edge. The increasing noise of the weir was competing with the occasional car roaring over the St Alkmund’s Way flyover nearby.
The river bank had clearly been a hive of activity but now the body was recovered, men and machinery stood idle, as Scene of Crime Officers walked to and from the screens hiding the corpse from potential onlookers. As he approached, Brook nodded to Keith Pullin and a knot of other emergency workers sharing a joke and a cigarette.
‘Who is it?’ he said to Noble.
‘It’s hard to tell. But it’s not Jock or Phil Ward. It looks like one of our students.’
Brook shot him a glance. ‘Male or female?’ he asked quickly.
‘Male. He’s been in the water several days and the blows to the head are probably from being smacked around at the bottom of the weir.’
Without knowing why, Brook’s heart began to beat a little easier. He arrived at the body laid out on a plastic sheet. It was a well-built young male, fully dressed. The face and neck were discoloured and the body was severely bloated from the gases of decomposition. The eyes were gone, devoured by fish and microbes.
‘Several days?’ said Brook, walking around the corpse.
‘Probably more than a week, with that much bloating,’ observed Noble.
‘Then why didn’t he surface sooner?’
Noble nodded towards a pile of wet stones. ‘The body was partially weighted down or it would have popped up sooner.’
‘No ID?’
‘Nothing in his pockets except this.’ Noble pulled out an evidence bag. It contained a smaller, sealable plastic bag. Inside were the mushy remains of a few tablets.
‘Ecstasy?’
‘Or PCP. That’s cheap at the moment.’
Brook got down on his haunches. The clothes were intact along the body’s left flank but from the bloating and the youthful clothing and haircut, Brook already knew this wasn’t the work of The Embalmer. ‘You’re right. It’s not one of our vagrants,’ he muttered. ‘Messing with our heads, all right.’
‘Sir?’
Brook looked up at Noble. ‘How could I be so wrong?’
‘I don’t see. .’
‘I didn’t take it seriously, John. Four young people are missing and I didn’t take it seriously.’
‘Nobody did.’
‘Well, it’s serious now.’ Brook looked at the recently bagged hands, clenched into a fist, bright green weeds protruding from between the knuckles. ‘Where’s Higginbottom?’
‘Been and gone. He said from the teeth he’s confident it’s a teenager. Definite drowning and no obvious signs of foul play.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Well, the stones rule out an accident.’
‘Maybe some of this head trauma will turn out to be premortem,’ said Brook.
‘Higginbottom says not. He also said rigor’s dissipated so the deceased has been in the water at least five days, but to float with stones in his pocket is more likely a week or more.’
‘So around the night of the party would be about right.’ Brook stood back from the body. ‘Russell or Kyle? Can you tell?’
‘No.’
Brook ran his eye over the Nike trainers, the green combat trousers, Derby County football shirt and green flak jacket. The jacket had large open pockets from which the stones had been removed.
‘Last seen wearing?’ prompted Brook.
‘I’ll need to check the paperwork,’ answered Noble. ‘I’m pretty sure Kyle was jeans and a blue hoodie.’
‘You’re right.’
‘What about Russell?’
‘His mum wasn’t sure,’ answered Brook. He turned away and stepped from behind the screen leaving SOCO to photograph, scrape, bag and tag the remains before removal to the mortuary.
He walked with Noble to the edge of the river. ‘Speaking of Yvette Thomson, do you remember Len Poole saying he didn’t know her?’
‘At Alice Kennedy’s, yes.’
‘I think he lied. I dropped off Russell’s computer last night and Len was there and they didn’t behave like strangers.’
‘Maybe they’re not. Len’s originally from North Wales, same as her. Don Crump told me last night when I dropped into the lab. And don’t forget he’s moving back there with Mrs Kennedy.’
‘Chester’s not in Wales, John. And why would Len Poole’s name come up?’
‘I didn’t mention him but Don’s put in nearly thirty years. He knew Len before he retired. He heard he was back.’
Brook nodded. ‘I suppose Poole must know a lot of the old guard.’
‘I would think. I can run a background on Poole if you want?’
‘I do want,’ said Brook. ‘There’s a connection with Yvette Thomson and I’d like to know what. What news from the lab?’
‘Don was whingeing about SOCO. He said they’re slipping. He’s trying to match the blood from the plaster.’
‘And?’
‘It isn’t Kyle’s, Becky’s or Adele’s.’
‘What about Russell?’
‘That’s just it. SOCO did a number on Russell Thomson’s bedroom and didn’t come up with any useable DNA.’
‘Nothing? No hair?’ Brook looked at Noble. ‘They’ve lived there six months — is that even possible?’
‘Unusual not impossible,’ said Noble. ‘Russell can’t have spent much time there.’
‘It might explain the missing toothbrush.’
‘Toothbrush?’
‘There was only one at the house. It was Yvette’s.’
‘Or maybe SOCO
‘They’ve got a lot on, John, but if that is Russell we just pulled out of the river, they need to get back over there and try again.’
‘What about dental?’ asked Noble.
