“You got it, guv,” Bartholomew said quietly.
Dillon just grunted. He was beginning to feel very queasy, surrounded by so much blood and gore. It was almost enough to make him consider becoming a vegetarian.
“I don’t know if it’s relevant or not, guv, but the first message he left, the one in Quaker Street, was all written in capital letters. Well, look at this one. It’s a mixture of caps and small letters,” Bartholomew pointed out. Jack studied the message again, wondering why he hadn’t spotted the difference.
“You’re right, Nick. Well spotted! Mind you, until we get it photographed, and the two messages are compared by a handwriting specialist, we won’t know whether or not the deviation in styles helps us any.”
As they turned to leave the increasingly oppressive room, the torchlight flickered across a rickety table in the far corner, making its shadow dance up the side of the wall like a distorted phantom. Dillon noticed dark shapes on its surface, and he made a reluctant detour to check them out. “Oh my God, Jack. You’d better take a look at this.” Neatly arranged on the dust-covered table were what remained of the girl’s internal organs, which had been carefully removed from the now empty carcass.
As Jack edged forward for a closer inspection, a large brown, oily shape shot out from beneath the table, disappearing into the shadows by the hall door. All three men recoiled at the sudden movement and Tyler took an instinctive step backward, bumping into Dillon’s arm. “Shit! I hate those damn things.”
Dillon shone the dragon light back and forth, up and down, until he was satisfied that the room was clear of rodents. When he finally let it settle on the organs again, he saw that one – was that a heart? – had at least two big lumps missing from it.
“I think it’s been partially eaten,” Tyler said, struggling to keep his voice even. The culprit was presumably the rat that had just fled.
“We need to get the crime scene guys in here, pronto,” Dillon said. “While there’s still something left of the victim to preserve.”
Bartholomew felt something drip on his face. He placed his hand on Dillon’s arm, guiding the beam of light towards the ceiling. “Now what…?” Dillon demanded, and Jack could hear the unease in his voice. Bartholomew pointed upwards. He couldn’t bring himself to speak.
Above their heads, the remainder of the dead girl’s intestines had been wrapped around the empty light socket in the ceiling, draped across the room like make-do Christmas decorations, and then fastened to the boarded-up window.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Bartholomew muttered, sickened by the rooms organised carnage. This was the work of a demon, not a man.
“None of us have,” Tyler informed him, his voice brittle.
They returned to the street and the luxury of fresh air. Other members of the squad were already arriving, having been dispatched from the incident room by Murray.
Copeland headed straight over to Dillon, carrying a decision log. “I thought you might be in need of one of these,” he said, waving the log in the air.
“What? Oh, thanks.” Dillon said, relieving him of the decision log. He was tempted to tell George that what he was really in need of was a double brandy.
“You alright, boss? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Copeland was surprised; he couldn’t imagine too many things upsetting Dillon.
“Fine, George, fine. The smell in there is a little overpowering, that’s all,” Dillon explained, blowing the tiger-balm from his nose.
Copeland nodded his understanding. As an advanced exhibits officer, he knew all about bad smells. “The forensic team has been called out, and the FME will be here within the hour. What do you want me to do first?”
“Make sure that uniform lad’s doing the scene log properly, please, George. Usual routine: record the details of everyone going in or out of the crime scene, along with times and reasons. Get him to show me, Nick and the DCI as going in fifteen minutes ago and coming out now.” He checked his watch to confirm the exact times.
“Oh, and there are a couple of civvies who went in before our arrival. Make sure he’s got their details. Also, we need to arrange enough lighting for several rooms as a matter of urgency and to make sure we have enough evidence bags and glass jars for a lot of exhibits. Oh yeah, we’ll need a fucking great big net as well.”
“Net?” Copeland sounded perplexed. “What do we need a big net for?”
“To catch the oversized rats that are dining on our victim, George,” he said patting Copeland’s arm.
“You’re joking!” Copeland exclaimed, his jaw dropping.
“You’ll see for yourself in a minute. Someone’s going to have to stand guard in there, and who better than our best exhibits officer? Oh, and George, take my advice and tuck your trousers into your socks; it’ll stop them running up your leg.” He winked at Copeland who was looking rather pale.
Just then Dillon caught sight of Bartholomew. “Are you feeling okay, me old mate? You know, after going in there?” He studied Bartholomew’s face carefully.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Bartholomew said in a shaky voice. “But if it’s all the same to you, I don’t want to go back in.”
“Don’t worry. You’ve done your bit. But I do need you to start the initial door-to-door enquiries. And tell the locals to set up a second cordon thirty yards back from the first one. That should be enough to protect the scene.” As he spoke a couple of Panda cars pulled up, providing some much-needed additional resources.
“No problems, boss. Leave it to me. Just let me know what the DCI says to those poxy reporters, will you?” Nick said, breaking into a weak grin,
“Count on it.” Dillon patted him on the arm and made his way back to Tyler.
“I’ve got the ball rolling here, Jack. And George has brought you a present.” He handed the carbonated decision log to Tyler.
“Oh, great,”
