To his left, another ashen-faced constable with watering eyes barred entry into the room behind him.
Filtering out was a strong, overpowering odour Gardener couldn’t place. It smelled of blocked drains and rotten garbage.
“What is that smell?”
The PC pointed to the room.
“Is there a body in there?”
“If that’s what you can call it.”
“What would you call it?”
He hesitated before offering. “A mess!”
“Who found it?”
“The landlady. About half an hour ago. Maybe a bit longer, sir.”
“What’s your name, son?”
“Benson, sir. Paul Benson.”
Benson had curly ginger hair with brown eyes. His smooth voice and pleasant manner indicated he was either a little shy or he felt intimidated in the presence of a senior officer. His face bore the scars of teenage acne. Gardener estimated his age as early twenties. Benson appeared to be standing up well, considering what he’d apparently seen.
“Take me through what happened.”
“The desk sergeant took a call. The landlady was complaining about an offensive smell.
He asked her if that was all and she said no. She wouldn’t go into detail but she couldn’t open the door, and she needed us, quickly.”
“So, you came straight away?”
“Yes, sir. We could smell it as soon as we entered the premises. Me and Rick Johnson. He’s the one you probably passed by on the way in, being sick.”
“We met briefly.”
“Anyway, we came up here. The landlady was still trying to push this door open.” He pointed to the room behind him. “I persuaded her not to go in. She gave us grief, but did as I asked.”
“Have you been in the room?”
“No, sir. Just poked my head round the gap in the door from where she started to open it.”
“I’m still here,” shouted the girl on the stairs. “About time you all fucked off and let us get some sleep.”
Gardener glanced over the banister at her glaring up at them.
He addressed the constable while still staring at the girl. “Go down to her flat, take a statement. Don’t let her mess you around. I don’t care how late it is. Keep her in there.”
Paul Benson nodded and did as he was asked.
Gardener turned to the apartment door. The lock was intact, no damage to the woodwork.
As he pushed on it, he felt resistance. He pressed harder, sliding his head through the gap to see inside. His eyes went wide with horror as the door opened.
“Jesus Christ!”
Chapter Four
As Benson approached the girl with her baby, standing before the doorway to her flat, she glared at him in disgust.
“How many more of you lot are there? I’m trying to get me fuckin’ kid to sleep. People been paradin’ through here all night. Don’t care for how much noise you make.”
Benson studied the girl, startled at her appearance. He figured she was no more than seventeen. Her long black hair sat matted and unwashed upon her head. She sported a purple bruise under her left eye, uneven teeth, and puncture marks on her arms. She wore scruffy faded denims and a ripped black T-shirt. Appalled by her unkempt appearance and rancid odour, Benson took an involuntary step back.
“I need to take a statement from you, miss.”
“You’ll be lucky,” she replied. “Seen what time it is?”
“Look, it won’t take long. What’s your name?”
“Why?”
“Don’t give me any grief. The boss man up there’s in no mood for games.”
“Really? Who does he think he is, Dirty Harry? What’s that fucking hat all about?” she mocked.
Gardener’s voice from the landing above stopped her in her tracks.
“Are you going to get that statement, Benson, or do I have to spend all night in this human cesspool?”
Benson opened his mouth to reply when Gardener spoke again, much louder.
“You can tell her if she doesn’t cooperate, I’ll nick her for obstruction and have her down the station so fast, she’ll think her feet have been spit-roasted.”
The girl’s expression changed. “Nicki Carter,” she said sullenly. “Has anyone told him about police harassment?”
“Have you been here all night?”
“Yeah.”
“Give me five minutes and a statement and I’ll leave you in peace.”
Chapter Five
The flat bore all the characteristics of the rest of the building: shitty carpets, warped wood, peeling wallpaper. No doubt the room smelled under normal circumstances, but he doubted it could compete with the decayed remains on the carpet.
The corpse had somehow disintegrated inside the clothing. A bubbling brown mess remained, which leaked across the floor. It was basically a skin sack hugging a skeletal frame. The brown gunge was still secreting its way through the clothing. Gardener’s brain worked overtime trying to assess the cause of such a rapid deterioration.
A few things came to mind. Acid, paint stripper, or possibly even a poison of some kind. The most prominent question by far, though, was whether or not it was something contagious.
One floor below, there was a young baby to consider. The child would be far more susceptible than any adult. He sighed. Two solid weeks without a break or a partner, and now a riddle the size of the Dead Sea Scrolls. He had no choice. He would have to return to the front door, stop anyone else from entering the building. The crime scene had probably been contaminated already. He needed to make a call.
There were two distinct directorates within the Crime and Response service – each with its own bronze, silver and gold command structure. Response had already worked. The uniforms had attended. Gardener was Crime, and bronze. His Detective Chief Inspector, based in the control room, was silver. They were twenty-four seven.
Gardener called DCI Briggs and declared a Hazchem incident.
Within thirty minutes, the boys in the suits arrived and cordoned off the
