Cold Case (Bob Skinner series, Book 30) by Quintin Jardine

Author:Quintin Jardine
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2018-11-14T16:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Eight

By the time Mario arrived, the body under the tree had been recovered and landed on the northern bank of the Tyne where we stood. Sarah had beaten him to it, and was close to completing her initial examination, with Sauce, suited up, watching her. Fighting all my instincts, I had stayed in the background, too far away for a clear view, but even if I had been standing over him, I doubt I could have identified the remains as those of Austin Brass. I had only seen images of the guy, in the press and on his website; after being immersed in a fast-moving river for several days, the corpse was hardly going to be a perfect match.

The area had been fenced off and all the pathways leading to it had been secured by ‘Police – do not cross’ tape. I heard a twig being crushed behind me and looked over my shoulder in time to see DCC McGuire easing his considerable bulk under the makeshift barrier.

‘Who’s going to be the first to say it?’ I asked as he approached.

‘Just like old times?’ He smiled, but I thought there was a touch of weariness in it. If high office in the police service doesn’t age the holder, he isn’t doing the job properly.

‘I was thinking we must stop meeting like this, but that’ll do just as well.’

‘Austin Brass, DI Haddock told me.’

‘Not confirmed yet, but that’s the suspicion. His car’s—’

‘Parked up the road,’ he said. ‘Sauce told me that too. I saw the tape around it as I passed. Bob, why . . .’

He paused his question as Sarah approached, with Haddock beside her. ‘I’ve done as much as I can here, Mario,’ she told him. ‘I can’t give you a positive identification. He’s been in there for several days and he’s been battered about facially, possibly by the tree trunk he was wedged under. There’s nothing in his pockets, no wallet, no phone—’

‘No car keys?’ I blurted out, then closed my mouth tight, remembering that I wasn’t a player any longer.

‘No car keys,’ she repeated, without a glance in my direction.

‘Can we rule out accidental death?’ the DCC asked.

‘Not before the autopsy.’

I couldn’t contain a chuckle. McGuire looked at me, eyebrow raised. ‘Go on,’ he murmured.

I accepted the terse invitation. ‘My London friends told me a story,’ I began, ‘about a Russian oligarch who was found dead in a snowdrift on the outskirts of Moscow. The police declared it a tragic accident, a hit-and-run. If that was right, it was a small miracle, for the car that hit him managed in the process to relieve him of every form of identification he had on him: wallet, cards, the lot. It took two days to work out who he was, and by that time, all his bank accounts had been emptied and his investment portfolio liquidated. A river will do things to a body, but it’s unlikely to pick its pockets.’

‘Suicide?’ Sauce ventured. ‘Covering all possibilities.’

Mario shook his head. ‘I never heard of one where the deceased tried to hinder identification.

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