The Simian Curve

By Mark Lalbeharry

A headless corpse is found in a garage belonging to Thomas Tranmore, a maverick scientist who worked for the Ministry of Defence. His house has been stripped of all furniture and possessions, and his bank account emptied. There is no family, few friends and colleagues are reticent in talking about him.

DCI Diane Cresson and her team are assigned to the case. They soon discover that some prominent people seem to know a lot about Tranmore’s recent activities and prove reluctant to share that information. Then another body is found in a nearby lake.

The Simian Curve is a chilling and absorbing tale of murder and deception.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Lalbeharry
• Release date: Jun 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301802838

Book preview

About the Book

A headless corpse is found in a garage belonging to Thomas Tranmore, a maverick scientist who worked for the Ministry of Defence. His house has been stripped of all furniture and possessions, and his bank account emptied. There is no family, few friends and colleagues are reticent in talking about him.

DCI Diane Cresson and her team are assigned to the case. They soon discover that some prominent people seem to know a lot about Tranmore’s recent activities and prove reluctant to share that information. Then another body is found in a nearby lake…

The Simian Curve is a chilling and absorbing tale of murder and deception.

1

It doesn’t take an hour to build a snowman. That’s how long Hattie Lock had been out.

When she first suggested she wanted to build a snowman, her mother had been reticent. Hattie was prone to getting a cold. When she did get one, it lasted weeks—her mother knew that. Hattie was insistent however, saying that it hardly ever snowed, and explaining how unfair it was. She started to stamp her feet, reaching up to strike the table, and in the end her mother capitulated.

Fifteen minutes, she said. Hattie protested. No one could build a snowman in fifteen minutes. Hattie’s mother looked at her.

Hattie was hardly large, only three feet tall. She had a point; it would take her more than fifteen minutes to build a snowman.

Her mother looked through the window. Some of Hattie’s friends were playing outside—small figures running in the snow, throwing projectiles at one another, squealing with delight as they hit their friends, and then ducking, narrowly missing the snowballs thrown in reply.

‘OK, half an hour then, but no longer.’

Hattie smiled and ran to get her coat.

‘Make sure you wrap up warm,’ her mother continued. ‘And take your gloves and your hat.’

‘But I don’t like the hat,’ said a voice, from the hall. ‘It makes me feel itchy. It’s not good.’

‘How do you know what’s good for you?’ her mother replied.

She walked into the hall to see her daughter putting on her shoes, stamping them into place. Hattie put on her gloves and was about to head to the door without her hat.

‘Hat, I said. Put on your hat.’

Hattie stopped by the door but did not look back. She knew what was coming. Her mother went to the cloakroom, picked up a hat and put it firmly on to Hattie’s head, pulling it down over her ears.

Hattie immediately reached for it, adjusting it, and stretched for the front door lock.

• • •

That had all been an hour ago, and now Mrs Lock was going to retrieve her daughter—the snowman-builder.

She put on her shoes and went to the front door. The walkway outside was cold. The whole council block was cold—a coldness that somehow matched the grey of the surrounding buildings. One could turn 360 degrees and all one would see was grey. Grey was the colour of this part of London.

She was hit by a gust of cold air. It made her shiver, and she wondered how her daughter could possibly have survived out here for so long.

The snow in front of her had been disturbed, revealing the path her daughter had taken. Mrs Lock followed it around the building. There it joined the paths of other small feet—Hattie’s friends, Mrs Lock assumed.

She could no longer see the children who had been playing earlier. Funny that. When had they gone inside? She could see evidence of their presence though—deep tracks, dug into the snow—attempts at making snowmen, one of which was only half-complete.

Moira Lock called out to her daughter.

There was no reply.

Another gust of wind blew through the grey courtyard, forcing her to cover her face. She should have come out with a coat—she realized that now. Never mind. She would only be out here a few minutes, then she and her daughter would be back indoors.

She would tell Hattie off: she knew that for sure. She’d said half an hour, and her daughter had disobeyed her.

Mrs Lock picked up her pace. She thought about the scolding she would soon be giving out. ‘Hattie!’ she called. ‘Hattie! Where are you?’

No reply.

In the distance a car drove past, cautiously making its way along, before turning off on to the main road.

‘Hattie! We said half an hour. It’s time to come in.’ Moira Lock stopped, waiting for the reply.

She rounded another corner and found she was near the lockups. ‘Hattie! Are you down there?’

Her daughter wasn’t allowed down there by herself, as she was well aware. Moira Lock could see some tracks in the snow, small tracks, steady tracks. She knew, somehow she instinctively knew, that they were those of her daughter.

She picked up her pace, annoyed with herself for having let her daughter out. The wind blew strongly again. She shivered, pulling her arms around her.

The snow in the lockups was crisp and clean; no one had taken their cars out. She looked about for signs of the snowman her daughter was supposed to be building. Nothing.

Even the kids who had been throwing snowballs, hadn’t come this way. They had probably obeyed their parents, Mrs Lock thought—not going where they shouldn’t go—unlike her daughter. She scowled, and called out her daughter’s name again. That was when she heard something.

At first she thought it was a rattling sound. When she heard it again, she listened carefully. There was a scrabbling… a scratching. For a second, she thought it sounded familiar.

She turned around, listening for the sound again. It was harder to hear this time. The wind had picked up; she waited for it to subside and called out. The scrabbling sound repeated itself and Mrs Lock remembered what it reminded her of: a bird trapped in a chimney.

It had happened that autumn, at her mother’s house. A bird had flown into the chimney and had been unable to get out. The noises it had made had attracted everyone’s attention. Hattie had been scared at first but then fascinated, when her mother and her grandmother had explained what it was. It was her grandfather who had gained access to the chimney and freed the trapped creature.

Mrs Lock was now slightly anxious. She called out for her daughter and listened as the scrabbling sound repeated itself. She knew where it was: it was coming from in between the lockups.

She walked along the row of garages, looking to see if any were open. They were all shut, and for the most part covered over with snow that had drifted.

The lockups were built as one complete unit, each one sectioned off from the next by a dividing wall. Halfway along the road the unit stopped. A second unit began, again partitioned by small internal walls. Mrs Lock reached the beginning of the second unit and stopped. She turned to face the lockups and was shocked by what she saw.

There was her daughter, looking away from her. She was compressed into the small gap between the first and second units.

• • •

The gap couldn’t have been more than four inches wide, but Hattie had managed to squeeze herself into it, and was now trapped. This terrified her mother, but what terrified her more was the fact that her daughter had managed to squeeze herself into such an impossibly small space.

She could make out her daughter’s coat and her hat, but she couldn’t see her face. Hattie’s head was turned, facing the opposite way, and the gap was not wide enough for her to turn back.

Mrs Lock stepped up to the gap and called out anxiously. ‘Hattie. Hattie. Are you OK?’

There was a small mumbling sound.

‘Mummy,’ said a voice, eventually. ‘Mummy, I’m stuck. I can’t get out.’

‘Hattie. Oh, Hattie… what are you doing in there?’

‘I was trying to get through—a short cut. We were playing hide and seek. It was only a short cut, Mummy.’

‘Oh, Hattie.’ Mrs Lock looked up and down the road. Back at her daughter.

‘It’s cold Mummy, it’s cold. Get me out.’

Mrs Lock put her hand into the gap. She reached all the way down, as far as she possibly could, until her shoulder met the wall, stopping her from reaching any further. It still wasn’t far enough. Her daughter had managed to wedge herself several feet in.

‘Mummy,’ said the small voice, again. ‘I’m cold. I want to get out, Mummy.’

‘Hattie, try and reach me. Hold out your arm.’

Hattie was unable to see her mother. She raised her hand, pointing in the direction the voice was coming from. It still wasn’t enough. Her mother couldn’t reach her.

Mrs Lock stretched more, her shoulder pushing against the concrete side of the lockups. ‘I’m trying, Hattie. I’m trying to reach you. Stretch a bit more.’

Hattie extended her arm as far as she could reach.

‘It’s cold, Mummy. I can’t feel my feet.’

‘I know, Hattie. I know,’ said a desperate voice.

Mrs Lock realized she wasn’t going to be able to reach her daughter. She had to get help. Perhaps if she got something from the flat—something she could extend into the gap, so that her daughter could grab hold of it.

‘Stay there, Hattie. I’ll be back soon. Mummy’ll be back in a moment.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to get help. I’ll be back soon. Stay there.’

• • •

Moira Lock ran back to the flat, ignoring the snow that slowed her down. She called 999 and ten minutes later, a fire crew arrived, along with an ambulance.

The officer in charge introduced himself as Greg Lutenzing. As his fellow officers prepared themselves, he leaned into the gap, just as Moira Lock had done.

‘Hattie,’ he called. ‘Hattie, can you hear me?’

A hesitant voice replied, ‘Yes.’

‘It’s OK, Hattie. My name is Greg. Your mum called us. We’re here to help you—to get you out.

‘OK, Hattie. The first thing I need to know is, can you move at all?’

‘I can move my arms,’ replied a quiet voice.

‘OK. Now I’m reaching my hand in. Stretch out your hand. See if you can touch my fingers.’ Hattie did as she was told. The fireman leant all the way in, and waved his fingers, trying to touch those of the small girl.

After several minutes he sighed and pulled himself back.

‘OK, Hattie. Stay put. We’re going to try and do this another way. Just stay calm.’

Lutenzing turned to Mrs Lock. ‘We’re going to try and reach in there with something. See if we can pull her out. She may not be able to move herself, but we might be able to pull her out.’

‘Do be careful,’ said Mrs Lock. ‘She’s only small.’

‘I know,’ said Lutenzing. ‘We understand… Do you know how long she’s been in there?’

‘Over an hour now, possibly an hour and a half.’

From the reaction on the fireman’s face, Mrs Lock knew this wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear.

‘Here you go,’ said another fireman, handing Lutenzing something.

Thanks, Roy.’ He had been handed a pole with which he reached into the gap, pointing it towards Hattie. ‘OK, Hattie,’ he said, ‘I’m extending a pole towards you. See if you can grab it.’

Hattie reached out her arm and felt the pole. She was wearing gloves, and her grip on it wasn’t strong. The moment Lutenzing pulled the pole, it came away from Hattie’s grasp.

‘This isn’t going to work, Roy,’ said Lutenzing, turning back to the fireman. The fireman looked at the next lockup.

‘Greg, we could just break into this thing and go through the wall.’ His voice dipped. ‘That kid isn’t going to have much longer. In this cold, we’ve got to think about hypothermia.’

Lutenzing looked at the lockup. It had wooden doors secured by a solid bolt. He looked at Mrs Lock. ‘Do you know who this one belongs to?’

‘That’s Mr Tranmore’s. He lives in the same block as me.’ She pointed to the block of flats. ‘I don’t think he’s in though.’

‘That doesn’t matter.’ Lutenzing looked at the block of flats. He wasn’t going to trudge to the top and knock on a door, just to see if the guy was in. ‘Roy, bring the bolt-cutters and two hammers.’

The second fireman went to the engine and returned with a pair of bolt-cutters. He used them to cut through the lock. The fireman then opened the wooden doors of the lockup and looked in.

There was no car inside, just boxes covered in tarpaulin. ‘OK,’ said Lutenzing. ‘Measure the gap, to see how far down she is, and mark it off on the inside wall.’ A third fireman got to work doing this. When he had finished, there was a mark on the inside wall of the lockup. This was the spot they were going to break through, in order to reach Hattie.

‘I suggest you talk to her, Mrs Lock,’ said Lutenzing. ‘Reassure her that everything will be fine, and that we’ll get to her soon.’

Moira Lock did as she had been instructed and then stood back, while two firemen began to strike the wall with sledgehammers. The first blow went straight through and the second expanded the gap. By the time they had struck the wall half a dozen times, a hole had been made that was large enough to look through.

Hattie realized what was going on and remained still. The firemen continued to strike the wall and it broke away quicker, the hole becoming larger with every blow. ‘That’ll do,’ said Lutenzing, after another minute.

He leant through the hole and looked up to see Hattie. ‘OK, I’m just going to reach out and grab you. We’ll have you out of there soon.’

Hattie remained quiet and felt something tugging at her coat. An arm went round her legs and she found herself being pulled towards the hole in the wall. The hole was so large they were able to bring her through almost standing up. The moment they had her, two paramedics rushed forward and put a blanket around her. They took her towards their ambulance and Moira Lock followed, stroking her daughter’s hair.

Lutenzing returned to his colleague and looked at the hole in the wall.

‘One of us has got to go up, and tell the guy who owns this what we’ve done.’

His colleague grinned. ‘Flip you for it.’ He reached into a pocket, produced a coin and flipped it. As it came down, he failed to catch it. It hit the floor of the lockup. He bent down to pick it up, and that was when he noticed something. Another presence.

‘Greg. There’s something down here.’

Greg looked at his friend. He was peering under a section of tarpaulin. Greg Lutenzing grabbed the edge of the tarpaulin and pulled it back.

What was revealed made the second fireman pull his head back quickly.

‘Jesus Christ!’

Lutenzing stared. He was older, and the more experienced of the two. He had seen a lot more in twenty years’ service—a lot more filth and degradation, sheer horror and misery. The sight he saw didn’t put him off; rather it surprised him.

He wasn’t sure he had seen anything quite like this. For what lay before him looked like a body. But it was an old body—dried out and desiccated. What was most apparent, however, was that it had been cocooned.

2

It snowed for the next couple of hours. The landscape around the council estate was chequered with tenement blocks. Looking at the sweep of the land, one could see that the tenements gave way to shops, then offices, and eventually to green spaces.

Eight miles away, grey buildings re-emerged. This wasn’t a council estate however; it was an industrial site—derelict, dead, sealed off with perimeter fencing.

But not quite dead. Something was moving. From a distance activity could be seen. Figures, all of them men, were running. They were armed and their movements co-ordinated. At first they moved quietly, but then there was noise.

‘Move it! Move it! Go on, move it!’

The group moved quickly through a doorway. A dark, skeleton-like building stretched ahead of them.

‘Split up. You two to the left; you two to the right.’

Mike Arnett went to the left.

‘You OK?’ said his colleague.

‘Yeah, sure.’

There was a crackling sound in their earpieces.

‘You should see two doors coming up ahead. Take them one at a time.’

The corridor they were in was poorly lit, the building old and dank. The Maglites they were carrying illuminated their way, but they only illuminated small sections of the corridor at a time.

Following the path of the lights were their guns.

‘Paul, you see the two doors?’ Arnett asked.

His companion nodded but Arnett missed the gesture.

A voice crackled in their earpieces. ‘Can you see the two doors yet?’

‘Affirmative,’ said Paul.

‘Good. Proceed.’

Arnett did his best to ignore the voice. He looked quickly across to his colleague. ‘Do you want me to take the first one?’

‘I’ll do it. You cover me.’ It was said in an instructing tone, as if Arnett was the pupil, and he should observe what was to be done. Paul McBain was older than him, more experienced, and altogether more calm. Arnett had noticed this from the first moment he met him, and now, now that they were in the heat of it, Paul’s experience was showing through. He seemed more in control, while Arnett felt excited, and was almost panicking.

Arnett kept telling himself to remain level-headed. He looked at Paul, who was now nearing the first door.

‘Cover me,’ he barked.

Arnett nodded, sweeping his gun and flashlight over Paul’s head.

Nothing there. Arnett checked to the left and the right. ‘You’re clear.’

Paul kicked the door and spun away from it. It only took one kick. The black, damp-ridden door gave way, and swung inward violently. There was noise, and for a moment Arnett flinched.

‘Can you see your targets?’ said the voice from the earpiece.

Arnett reached up, touching it instinctively.

‘I’m going in,’ said Paul. He moved into the room and Arnett covered him.

A couple of seconds passed. ‘It’s clear. There’s no sign of them in here.’

Paul re-emerged and Arnett glanced in. The room was as poorly lit as the corridor. Small amounts of light seeped in through boarded-up windows. There was a wooden table in one corner, wooden floorboards and dark, mildewed walls.

‘Come on,’ said Paul. ‘You take the next room.’

They repeated the process but this time it was reversed. Mike Arnett felt excited. The feeling of panic was almost there too.

‘I’ve got you covered,’ Paul said. ‘Go for it.’

Arnett saw the door, took in the position of the handle, and kicked. It flung backwards, revealing another dark room. Something was inside.

Arnett shone his torch across the room and swung the torch back, as he picked out what he had first seen.

‘I’ve found the hostage,’ Arnett said. There was crackling in his earpiece—excitement.

There was more movement in the room. Something else was there. Arnett spun round, bringing his torch with him. He caught sight of something—something close—much closer than he had expected.

Then he saw a raised gun. He wanted to shoot back, he wanted to do something, but already he knew it was too late.

The last thing he heard was the sound of the gun going off.

• • •

Arnett opened his eyes. There was something wet on his face. He blinked, trying to clear his eyes, and then squinted.

‘You OK?’ said a voice.

Arnett was lying down. He could make out something above him—a face—a person. Diane Cresson was looking down at him. ‘You OK?’

‘I dunno.’ He attempted to get up. Something stopped him. Something was blurring his vision.

‘You got shot in the head,’ said Cresson. ‘Smack-bang in the middle. Nicely done, too.’

Arnett reached up and touched his forehead. He could feel something wet, thick. He brought his hand away. It had orange paint on it. Some of it had got past the visor and he blinked, trying to clear his eyes.

‘I failed, didn’t I?’

‘Well, you found the hostage,’ Cresson replied. ‘Thing is, one of the kidnappers found you too. He was to the right of the door, in an alcove.’

Arnett remained on the ground while Cresson lit up a cigarette. She saw the look on his face. ‘You think this is a waste of time, don’t you?’

‘I’m hardly armed response.’

‘Think of it as an experience,’ said Cresson. ‘You’re my sergeant, so you get to try out these things. See? I really can pull strings.’

‘It’s a waste of time,’ Arnett said, sitting up.

‘Don’t say that too loudly.’

Moving around them in the room were members of the armed response unit. All the lights had come back on, revealing their surroundings clearly. In a corner, two men were chatting. One of them turned towards Cresson and Arnett. He directed his attention to Arnett.

‘You’re back with us.’

‘Yeah. You shot me—right?’

The man nodded. ‘For what it’s worth, you were doing well up until then.’

‘Cheers.’ Mike Arnett looked at Cresson. ‘How come you don’t have to do this?’

‘Because I’m your boss. I just pull strings.’ She continued smoking and started wandering around the room, looking through the boarded-up windows.

Arnett got to his feet and started brushing himself down.

Cresson studied her cigarette. ‘We’re needed. There’s something they want us to look at.’ She looked across to him. ‘Better wash that paint off. And you’ll need a change of clothes. I’ll meet you by the car.’

3

DCI Diane Cresson headed up a homicide unit in the Met’s Specialist Crime Directorate. Mike Arnett had been working with her for two years, ever since being assigned to Homicide East. In that time he’d learnt a lot, and he’d come to value the fact that she was his governor.

Her personality was a strange mix. At times she could be very funny and very serious; analytical and then slapdash; very quiet and then very forthright.

Her clear-up rate in Homicide East was ninety-eight per cent—a figure unmatched by anyone else in the Specialist Crime Directorate. She knew many people up and down the chain of command, and went out of her way to meet people and talk to them: she knew the value of contacts. That was how Arnett had been assigned to the training range that particular afternoon, going through the first steps of a hostage rescue, as dealt with by armed response.

It was a one-off, so that he could see what it was like, and although he seemed ungrateful, he secretly appreciated Cresson’s efforts in getting him on to the range. It had made him realize that he wasn’t cut out for armed response. But at the same time he’d learnt something of what those in the unit had to go through—and of what it was like to be in a truly dangerous situation.

The weather had been bad since the previous week. It had been bad throughout January, and come Monday afternoon, they hadn’t been expecting any callouts. It was traditionally the quietest day of the week. Arnett was slightly surprised when Cresson told him they were needed. His surprise was only the beginning. The case they were about to take on was quite unusual.

• • •

Thomas Tranmore was dead. At least Arnett assumed it was him. Missing persons’ reports listed only one person on the estate as missing: Tranmore, and it was his lockup the body was found in. Arnett used the term ‘body’ but that only applied loosely, for what he saw was really a shell of a person.

Arnett had seen a few things in his five years as a detective, but he hadn’t seen a body quite like this. The head had been removed, and wasn’t to be found anywhere, and the rest of the body had been wrapped in layers of decomposing clothes, creating a cocoon. Tranmore had been dead some time, but his body hadn’t started off there. Wherever it had been kept, it had been worked on for some time.

• • •

DCI Cresson was standing outside the lockup, looking at the snow. A short distance away, locals who lived on the Maynard Estate had congregated into groups. A police cordon was holding them back, and closer in was a command unit van, several police cars and an ambulance.

‘I dunno what we need the ambulance for,’ Arnett said. ‘He’s long past that.’

Cresson smiled. ‘Keep it down. The press is only over there.’