Buried (DC Jack Warr #1) - Lynda La Plante Page 0,25

barely even noticed that other people were in the room when he was on a roll. Without bothering to say hello to his visitors, he pointed to ‘Sheila’, lying flat on his back on the table in front of them.

‘The DNA sample I took from his bone marrow hasn’t turned up any matches in the national database. So, if you can find me a direct or familial DNA sample to match it to, I’ll tell you who “Sheila” is. What I can tell you is that he was dead before the fire started, because there’s no smoke in his lungs.’ Foxy flicked the wall-mounted light box on, backlighting an X-ray of the man’s skull. ‘The blow to the back of the head is what killed him. The fracture itself is extensive and this darkened patch directly beneath the fracture is the resulting intracranial haemorrhage. He’d have died quickly. What’s left of his teeth tells me that he’s late 30s to mid-40s. I broke his hips and knees to straighten him out, so I can also tell you that he’s five foot ten on the right side and a foot shorter on the left.’

With a howl of laughter, Foxy threw the severed, bagged left foot at Jack – who instinctively caught it before dropping it onto an empty mortuary slab once he realised what it was.

‘Prick,’ he mumbled, trying not to laugh in case Ridley was still in a bad mood.

But Ridley was laughing, too. He seemed different with Foxy ‒ far more casual. Perhaps because there was no crossover between them, no stepping on each other’s toes. Ridley couldn’t do Foxy’s job if his life depended on it, and vice versa. All that left room for was pure, mutual admiration.

Foxy carried on talking. ‘Based on what’s left on the bones, I’d guess “Sheila” was around eleven and a half stone, twelve stone, something like that. And he’s white. So, no ID, but a great starting point for missing persons. You’re most welcome.’

‘Take that description back to the squad room and get them to put it into Missing Persons. Off you go.’

Ridley dismissed Jack with a wave of his hand.

*

It was a long day of desk and phone work, but on his way home, Jack took a detour through Hackney to drop in on Kenneth Moore, the Formula One engineer who had worked with Jimmy Nunn back in the seventies. Jack had an address, but no phone number, so he had his fingers crossed that Ken was in.

Outside the tower block, he called Maggie and left her a voicemail.

‘I’m going to be working late, so if you fancy a takeaway around midnight, I’ll bring one back with me. Text me if you can and . . . well, if you can’t, I’ll see you in the morning. Love you Mags.’

The lift in Kenneth Moore’s block was out of order and Jack figured out his flat had to be on the eleventh floor. God, he wished he’d had the man’s phone number. He looked at his watch: 9.30. Across the street was a social club. He’d check there before tackling eleven flights of stairs. Jack’s ‘gut’ was playing a big part in these two cases – the Rose Cottage fire and the search for Jimmy Nunn. He liked this change in himself and hoped it would be permanent.

Jack walked into the club and silence fell while everyone sized him up. They seemed to guess he was a copper.

‘Is Ken Moore here?’ he asked. ‘I think he might have known an old friend of my dad’s,’ he lied. ‘Jimmy Nunn.’

From the far end of the bar, a round, heavily bearded elderly man shouted, ‘I’ll only talk to you if you pay me the seventeen quid he still fucking well owes me!’

Jack turned to the barman. ‘I’ll have a Beck’s and whatever Ken’s drinking, and one for yourself.’

The barman obeyed silently and the club instantly relaxed back into its previous conversations.

By eleven o’clock, Ken had drunk four pints compared to Jack’s two bottles, he’d not drawn breath, and had said absolutely nothing of interest about Jimmy Nunn. The old man had no sense of personal space and no awareness of how bad he smelt. Jack was squashed into the corner of the room trying to keep a safe distance, but it wasn’t working. Every now and then, Ken’s knee would brush against Jack’s and he’d pull away, fearful of what the brown stain down the front of Ken’s beige trousers might turn out to be. Eventually,