Moorland Forensics - A Gathering of Angels

By Julie D. Jones

December 1971 – The dark days of the short but brutal Indian-Pakistan War.

In an East Bengali village near the front lines, a young Pakistani girl hurrying home from a shopping errand witnesses her family home destroyed, her parents killed in an indiscriminate rocket attack by Pakistan fighter bombers.

In 1997, the body of a teenage schoolboy is dragged from the River Dart in South Devon. Several years later both dramatic events will have dire consequences for celebrated author Miles Betteridge and respected pathologist Margo Betteridge.

Whilst the Devon CID buckle under the onslaught of a series of vicious and cleverly planned rapes and murders paralysing the Southwest, the team at Moorland Forensic Consultants struggle to cope with a new team member. Working in conjunction with DCI Will Parker, things reach a thrilling climax and finally the truth behind events long ago on the subcontinent come to light.

Doctor James Sinclair and sibling forensic psychologist Katie battle to hold the business together amidst devastating professional and personal upheaval.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781035813285

Julie D. Jones

Julie D. Jones was born in Bovey Tracey on the edge of Dartmoor in Devon and grew up near Kingsbridge in the South Hams. A Gathering of Angels is her fifth novel in the Moorland Forensics series. Julie is a classically trained flautist and enjoys sailing and horse riding.

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About the Author

Julie D. Jones was born in Bovey Tracey on the edge of Dartmoor in Devon and grew up near Kingsbridge in the South Hams. A Gathering of Angels is her fifth novel in the Moorland Forensics series. Julie is a classically trained flautist and enjoys sailing and horse riding.

Dedication

For Nicola (Niki)—a loving friend (16th August 1966-10th January 2022). Forever in my heart.

To all the pilots of the Armed Forces wherever they maybe, who daily risk their lives in low level strike missions.

Copyright Information ©

Julie D. Jones 2023

The right of Julie D. Jones to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035813278 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035813285 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Acknowledgement

For the many people who follow the Moorland Forensic series—thank you.

To the team at Austin Macauley.

Chapter One

Preface

10th December 1971, Morning of the Sixth Day of the India-Pakistan War

An East Bengali Christian Enclave, East Pakistan

Rumours had circulated all night. Advance elements of the Indian Army were only twelve hours away.

Young Ghada ran down the steps of the old, whitewashed mud brick housing complex and into the street, clutching her mother’s hand-woven hemp shopping bag in her left hand. In her right, the small ebony and pewter crucifix made especially for her ninth birthday by Pundi; a local craftsman. Around her neck, hidden under her t-shirt, hung a small, highly prized silver medal of the Virgin Mary.

The sun had already been up for three hours on the sub-continent as Ghada threaded her way through the refugee laden vehicles and bikes crowding into the town from the main road, which led East from the fighting.

She hurried on, bypassing the turmoil, repeating the shopping list over and over in her head and down a side street to the small store owned by kind, old Mrs Hossain.

Two troop laden Mi-8 helicopters flashed overhead, the crescendo bouncing off the narrow alleyways; the multi-coloured roundels of the Indian Air Force clearly defined on their flanks as they vanished just as quickly over the rooftops, heading to the Meghna River in support of the Mukti Bahini secessionist rebels. Ghada’s father always said India would come to help them. He prided himself in showing Ghada the difference with photos from magazines, between the aircraft of India and her Pakistan homeland. She was fascinated by their sleek, powerful forms and seductive colours.

She was excited when he let her help him build and paint the plastic kit of an Indian Air Force Hawker Hunter jet fighter, which he purchased last Christmas on a rare trip to the hobby shop in Dacca.

These joyful memories filled her head as she made her way back to the house, taking the often-used shortcut through the alleyways, to avoid the chaos.

Then she heard them. Rounding the last corner, she broke into a run; father would be happy, Indian jets surely.

They screamed overhead at zero feet, unleashing rockets and cannon fire, Ghada watching in horror the mud brick compound she called home disappear in a dirty black, orange fireball. Hurled on her back by the blast and fading into unconsciousness a final lasting image burnt into her brain…Shenyang F-6 fighters. Green and white rondels on the sides, a white crescent on the tail.

***

St Luke’s Boys’ Grammar School, Oakhampton, Devon. May—Twenty-Five Years Ago

St Luke’s private boys’ school, set in acres of old growth forest and ubiquitous pine plantations, was easily accessed by an uncomplicated drive close to the town of Oakhampton in West Devon. The main building, a rambling three storey Aesthetic Period Country House with reputed origins to Augustus Pugin, delivered magnificent views overlooking the surrounding countryside and out to the Escarpment in the distance.

With the end of the Millennium inexorably approaching, a current of warm air was streaming up from the Azores, rising over the Irish Sea and colliding with a pool of icy air, sitting high up in the stratosphere. The result, a torrential downpour smashing shot-like against the stained-glass Arts and Crafts windows.

Looking out at the sheets of rain from a top-level classroom, Myles Betteridge struggled to make out the clump of oak trees hiding the tennis courts; the dormitory block immediately below was a mere blur. Dismissing the inclement weather from his mind, Myles switched his focus on the boy’s rambling, finally making sense of what the lad was saying. He remained silent, before turning around, deigning to speak.

‘I hear what you’re saying Elliott, but I don’t think it would be wise to tell anyone about this, I really don’t.’ His voice held more of a warning, than a plea. Myles had to stop the truth coming out. Many important facts depended on no one finding out about the sordid relationship.

‘It’s sick sir, that’s what it is; a fourteen-year-old boy having sex with another male and him of all people,’ Elliott’s voice had gone up a notch. He paced up and down the classroom, long-limbed strides echoing across the old floorboards, face flushed, beads of sweat forming on a broad forehead.

Myles shoved both hands deep in trouser pockets, making every effort to remain calm. As a teacher, it was crucial he command authority, let Elliott grasp what needed to be done, without letting his guard down.

When Myles was confident his voice wouldn’t falter, he gave his response. ‘Proving this will be difficult and the implications enormous. You need to put this thing to the back of your mind, move on.’

The boy was angry, eyes accusing. ‘You suggest we brush it under the carpet do you sir? Some teacher you’ve turned out to be. Weak as piss. I might have known I couldn’t rely on you to back me up.’

A long-drawn-out sigh escaped the teacher’s lips.

‘Weak and pathetic, that’s what you are,’ Elliott fumed, kicking the leg of a wooden chair aggressively with his foot.

‘Did they realise you were watching them?’ Myles quizzed, lowering his voice, afraid of being overheard by the caretaker doing his after-school rounds.

Elliott hesitated for a brief instant, unsure how to answer. ‘Er, I don’t think they did. Actually no, I’m certain of it.’

‘Okay, let’s forget we ever had this conversation Elliott, for everyone’s sake.’

‘I’m not sure I can do that,’ Elliott reacted, turning to look his teacher in the eye. ‘I know what I saw, and it shouldn’t be allowed to happen.’

Myles let out another sigh. ‘Yes, I agree Elliott, but what good will come of announcing it to the whole world. As the lad’s underage it will become a police matter and think what will happen; plenty of interrogation, with you caught in the middle. Is that what you want? Everyone will be talking about you. You’ll be identified as the local grass, you’ll lose a lot of friends, perhaps be publicly humiliated.’

Elliott slumped down in a chair. ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Shit, I hate this place.’

‘I know I’m right on this one,’ Myles came to stand next to the lad, his tall stature towering over his student.

‘Remember Elliott, if you blab about this to anyone, you’ll be putting yourself in danger.’

***

Totnes, Devon. June—Twenty-Five Years Ago

Angela Prentice stood on the walkway that ran along the edge of the river, waiting anxiously to deliver her brief, fully aware of the impact it would have on the local community. She squinted into the setting sun at the clock tower on the Steamer Quay, now in shadow. Once more she ran through the cryptic notes.

A small crowd was gathering on the nearby embankment, news of the body already making its way up through the medieval streets and beyond, whisperings on who it might be starting to circulate.

Listening for her cue Angela glanced left, then right. Could the perpetrator be here now, anticipating her divulging their handywork? It was common for killers to hang around, watching, listening, waiting.

A shiver stole through her lithe body, causing Angela to momentarily shake. She forced the vivid picture she conjured up back into the dark recess of her mind. It was important she focus on the job, and not show any emotion.

With static crackling through her earpiece the cameraman raised his bulky camera to shoulder height as the sound technician nodded for Angela to begin her well-rehearsed spiel.

‘Police have just confirmed the body discovered on the banks of the River Dart, late this afternoon, is that of fifteen-year-old Elliott McCarthy who went missing a few weeks ago whilst out with friends. His parents are yet to make a statement. This is Angela Prentice reporting from the South Hams, for television Southwest.’

***

‘Get the bloody press photographers off my turf. I don’t care how the hell you do it Reeves, I do not want a camera lens in my friggin’ face, got that?’ DI Brett Cohen exuded anger, the very tip of his nose turning a mottled red, his mood darkening with the swarm of hacks, too close for comfort. He loathed reporters of any kind. On more than one occasion, he’d had a run in with the local media, often not fairing too well from these altercations. He was a good detective, but liked things his way, without interference.

‘Yes sir, I’ll see what I can do,’ Reeves knew he had his work cut out, but if he didn’t succeed, he’d feel the full blast of his boss’s wrath.

Having not slept properly for days, Cohen’s chin supported a grey stubble, dark brooding eyes matching his mood.

‘It’s late,’ the surly DI grumbled, shifting both hands to the deep pockets of his imitation leather jacket, fumbling for the new mobile phone his wife purchased the day prior, enabling them to keep in touch. ‘What’s taking the forensic party so long? Didn’t the Peugeot patrol car put in a request at least two hours ago? Morons, the lot of ’em. Lazy good for nothings. Who’s the Duty Patho?’

Once more the junior police officer tried the appeasement approach. ‘They’ll be here any minute sir. Been tied up with a hit and run in Crediton I believe.’

Another ten minutes passed in silence, the chilly air circulating off the coast, Cohen pacing up and down, his frown deepening with each step.

Finally, a team of SOCOs, brushing through the undergrowth, made their way to where the detective, plus a uniform Sergeant stood, guarding the body.

‘Martin, thank Christ you’re here,’ Cohen edged forward to greet the ageing pathologist, who was steadily walking towards him. ‘At least I’m reassured you’ll do a fast and efficient job Martin, even if you did take your time getting here.’

Ignoring this flippant remark from the detective, Martin Granger glanced around. ‘Where’s the body?’

‘Down past the embankment, near the water,’ Reeves volunteered, indicating towards his left-hand side. ‘You’ll need to watch your footing sir, it’s slippery underfoot from recent heavy rain.’

‘Why didn’t Forensics allocate this job to Barney Rubble, sure as hell he needs the work more than me,’ Martin Granger announced loudly, not caring who was in earshot.

After several minutes surveying the scene, Granger made his way to the side of the river, where a body lay face down in mud. He arranged his black forensic bag safely on a patch of mossy grass, within close proximity of the corpse. ‘Umm, low tide. Anyone moved the body?’ He questioned, scrutinising the young police officer.

Cohen close on Granger’s heels, shook his head. ‘Should be straight forward Martin. You ought to have this wrapped up in time for your usual pints in the local.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that, thank you Brett,’ Martin bent down to study the body in more detail, before standing again, to ease a cramp. ‘The river’s been flowing north to south for the last three weeks with the rains, heading down to the sea. There’s no way our body managed to float back up stream on the tide, going against the surge. Therefore, our body has probably been dumped here from further up-stream, eh? Something your boys can look at.’

‘Now why the heck would anyone want to do that?’ Cohen scowled, throwing his hands up in despair. ‘Why go to all that trouble, doesn’t make sense. It creates more work for the likes of you and me Martin. How cumbersome.’

‘Head off home Brett, we can finish up here,’ Martin suggested, pondering his next move. ‘You look done in. I’ll ring in the morning with a full report.’

‘Ah, finally someone who understands me,’ Cohen chuckled, patting Martin on the back. ‘We’ll speak tomorrow.’

Granger stole another glance towards the body, shaking his head. ‘Poor kid. Come on lads. Let’s make a start. We need to find the exact location where the blighter died; it sure as heck wasn’t here. He was killed, possibly carried, or dragged to this location.’

‘We’re not looking at accidental death?’ The probationary SOCO questioned, following Martin Granger down-stream where he began examining fibres clinging to a low hanging tree branch.

‘Nope,’ Martin obliged. ‘I’d say this was homicide but proving it might be tough. At this stage I’m guessing our victim willingly entered the river, there’s no signs of a struggle and no evidence of him being physically thrown in…at least not here. There was nothing weighting down the body. Most probably this lad knew his fate, somehow being forced to walk into the icy water that was to soon become his grave.’

The young technician visibly shuddered. ‘You’re suggesting he knew his killer, Dr Granger?’

’Probably. Only thinking out loud, son. It’s what I’m seeing thus far, but not for me to make that final judgement. We’re here to provide forensic evidence lad, nothing more, nothing less. The police need to establish what relationship, if any, this chap had with the perpetrator or perpetrators. What I do know; it takes a monster to murder a fifteen-year-old boy in cold blood.

‘Now, once I’ve completed a thorough examination with measurements and photographs, we’ll have the body moved to the morgue and gifted over to Patrick Clarke. Paddy can conduct a full internal and external examination on the deceased. Patrick doesn’t miss a beat, one of the best pathologists around. Come on Kaczyck, let’s get some pictures happening. I hope you’re skilful with a camera. There’s no way my arthritic fingers will allow me to take decent pictures, especially in this weather.’

Granger waded out of the water onto the grassy slope, discarding mud caked gumboots.

The young technician, following strict instructions, fiddled nervously with the 35mm SLR, proceeding to photograph the body from various angles, stopping once to ask a brief question. ‘How long do you think the lad’s been floating in the river?’

Granger lit up a cigarette, aggravating a chronic smoker’s cough. ‘Hard to tell, but at least a day. The marks on his wrists indicate he’s most likely been held captive prior to being murdered. I don’t think he’s been dead any longer than five days max. But, like I said, we won’t identify more until a full autopsy has taken place. Come on, more photos please. I want things wrapped up and Master McCarthy off this grass before dark. The tide’s beginning to turn.’

***

DI Brett Cohen hated this part of the job, almost as much as he detested media types. Informing families the body had been found, and their loved one was dead, was never easy; always the same, yet somehow different, he never knew what to say.

Upon arrival at the McCarthy’s elaborate house outside Kingskerswell, Brett hesitated on the doorstep, poised to knock, not quite ready for this moment.

Mallory Wakefield, female offsider and recruit uniform constable touched him gently on the arm, a form of encouragement. ‘Best we get it over with sir.’

Cohen felt out of place once he’d broken the news, wanting to leave, but not finding the courage to walk out and let them fend for themselves.

Lorraine and Kit McCarthy were no different. The look on their faces, the pain and suffering, the gulps, sobs, and that high-pitched scream from Lorraine, reaching into the heart of every soul.

***

Autopsy of Elliott McCarthy

‘What have we got?’ Patrick Clarke already knew the age and gender of his patient but still sought clarification. He stared down at the deceased stretched out on the stainless-steel trolley, itching to get the autopsy underway. Habitually pressed for time, Patrick worked by the clock. He had no time for malingerers or anyone who couldn’t be bothered to turn up on time. This was the situation with Margo Betteridge, probationary pathologist, who was expected twenty minutes ago.

‘Elliott McCarthy was found floating near the embankment of the river Dart in Totnes early Wednesday afternoon,’ Gareth Fraser, the newly qualified junior technician reported. ‘Been in the water approximately fifteen hours, according to Martin Granger’s initial findings. Martin believes the lad was murdered.’

‘Who’s heading up this investigation?’ Patrick always liked to establish who was working each case.

Gareth consulted his notes. ‘DI Brett Cohen has been assigned the investigation and Martin Granger was the first medico to arrive at the crime scene; to be honest Granger’s handwriting is appalling, I’d say his arthritis is playing up again. Probably best we draw our own conclusions on this one. What I do know is Elliott went missing back in early June, what is it now, the 28th. Okay, that makes it some three weeks before his body was discovered.’

‘Consent for slice and dice been signed I presume?’ Patrick barked through his surgical mask, flexing his fingers, itching to get started on dissecting the deceased.

‘Ah yes, the lad’s father happens to be the honourable Kit McCarthy, local Tory MP. Pressure is already mounting to keep the press at bay. They want answers.’

‘I bet they do, been a slow news month,’ Clarke muttered facetiously.

‘Doesn’t Kit’s old man Rupert own half the Torquay retail strip?’

Clarke peered closely at the consent papers Gareth was shoving in his face. ‘Okay, let’s make a start. The sooner we find out how this chap died the better. Well, come on Gareth, don’t just stand there like a stunned mullet, pass me that scalpel, my lovely wife will have dinner on the table by seven, a nice steak and kidney pie. I don’t want to spend my evening cooped up in here, reeking of disinfectant and raw liver.’

The sound of hurrying footsteps echoed along the corridor.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Margo Betteridge apologised, entering the room, rushing to wash her hands. ‘Better dead than late or so they tell me,’ Patrick mumbled inaudibly, beginning the first incision. ‘Flick the switch on the CD player would you Margo, you know how I enjoy a little Vivaldi whilst I dissect. The Four Seasons happens to be a favourite of mine. Livens things up a bit, don’t you think? Great sawing and hacking music.’

Margo refrained from comment. If Patrick weren’t so good at his job, she’d swear he had originated from the dark side. She’d learned so much from Patrick in the last six months, he was by a country mile one of the best pathologists around; no doubt in years to come she would have a lot to thank him for.

With the soft overtones of Vivaldi wafting through the speaker system, Patrick Clarke began his full examination of the deceased. Humming away merrily he was swift and precise, efficient, and attentive, a master of his chosen profession—famous throughout West Country medical circles as the Sidmouth Slasher.

Patrick never spoke much whilst performing an autopsy, only to instruct his staff and record any findings into a portable recording devise hanging around his neck.

On conclusion of the autopsy, he sat down on a nearby stool to officially share his findings.

‘Evidence indicates enough narcotic analgesic in this lad’s system to sink the Bismark. Already confirmed by a preliminary toxicology screen as Fentanyl; 100 times the potency of Morphine, they say. I think that’s correct. It’s safe to say our victim died from an overdose. Furthermore, it is clear the morphine analogue entered the blood stream through lethal injection.’

‘Self-inflicted?’ Margo asked.

‘Good God, no,’ Patrick was firm in his response. ‘Unless this lad’s a contortionist with Cirque Du Soleil, there’s no way he injected himself with the Fentanyl. If you look here Margo, you’ll see what I’m referring to.’

Margo edged closer to the body as Patrick adjusted the lamps, indicating a syringe mark on the upper back.

‘I believe young Elliott was dabbling in occasional drug taking, but cause of death wasn’t from an accidental overdose. Preliminary pathology results indicate he was regularly taking Crystal Meth and Ecstasy, but only in low doses. The amount of narcotic we see here in his system would have shut down vital organs almost immediately. As I mentioned previously, the site of the puncture wound clearly indicates young McCarthy could not have injected himself. This was most certainly homicide, not suicide, or accidental overdose.’

Patrick eased off the stool, stretching aching muscles and covering the body with a sheet.

‘I must ring and congratulate Martin Granger on his initial findings,’ Patrick stated. ‘Old Martin can spot foul play a mile away. He’s like a sniffer dog.’

Margo grinned. ‘I’m not sure he’d take kindly to your choice of words.’

Patrick began to remove his protective clothing. ‘All compliments ought to be accepted with gratitude Margo, never forget that. It’s when you stop getting compliments you need to worry. Now, I’ll confirm my findings, and sign off on the course of death; lethal injection of Fentanyl solution caused by a third party. However, it must be noted that this lad was a drug user. Let’s pop McCarthy back in the freezer. Come on Gareth, what’s the delay. Show some respect for our corpse. Let’s get this lab cleaned up before I consider docking your wages. New Diploma or not.’

Gareth scuttled away with the trolley, moving it through the swing doors before Patrick commented further.

‘You do realise who the lad’s father is, don’t you?’ Margo briefed Patrick, immersing both hands under running water. ‘He won’t want to hear his son was messing around with drugs. We need to think carefully before we finalise the report, life could get very messy for a shit load of people if the truth gets out.’

‘That’s to be expected,’ Patrick dismissed Margo’s concern, drying his hands on a paper towel. ‘No amount of displeasure gives us permission to fudge a Coroner’s report. First rule of thumb Margo and one you don’t want to forget in a hurry; never mess with the truth. It is what it is.’

‘Fine, leave it with me. I’ll type up the findings tonight and flick them on to the powers that be,’ Margo concluded. ‘You head home Pat; you’ve got a family to go to. Don’t forget the Johnson autopsy in the morning. I can lock up.’

‘Cheers, you’re right, really should pick up the wife’s car from the garage,’ Patrick lifted his overcoat from the back of a chair, saluting Margo and marching out the door.

After her boss exited the building, Margo Betteridge sat down at her desktop to formalise the report on the death of Elliott McCarthy. By seven-fifteen, Clarke’s findings and conclusions were formatted, entered into the Morgue Directory, and signed off on behalf of Clarke.

Reaching for her car keys Margo was surprised to find the young lab technician still hovering in the office. ‘No home to go to Gareth?’

He shrugged. ‘I’ll be off soon. Waiting for my mum to pick me up. I can lock up if you like, save you the trouble.’

Margo hesitated, momentarily. ‘Fine. I hate fumbling with keys and alarms.’

‘Right you are Margo, good night.’

‘Night Gareth.’

***

‘How was your day?’ Margo wrapped her arms around Myles, giving him a firm squeeze.

‘I caught up with my new agent for lunch, went to that little café in Tavistock by the river,’ Myles planted a kiss on her lips.

‘That’s Trixie isn’t it, how is she? Nice of her to come down from London,’ Margo kept her tone neutral, plucking a bottle of vintage red from the wooden wine rack under the stairs, retrieving two glasses.

‘Yeah, she’s fine,’ Myles accepted the glass of red, heading along the hallway to the snug.

‘Good, and have you heard when your second novel will be released?’

‘I’ve been summoned to a meeting in London early next week. There’s been a major reshuffle at Climax after the recent merger, and a new Managing Director has been appointed by the Board. I hope he sorts out the current mob of buffoons in marketing, those morons couldn’t organise a root in a brothel. I’m still convinced they diddled us out of last year’s royalties.’

Margo raised her half empty glass. ‘To the future.’

‘Cheers. By the way, how was your day?’

‘Same as usual, except our victim was far too young. I wasn’t going to mention it, but we carried out the autopsy of Elliott McCarthy today, one of your pupils from St Luke’s.’

Myles raised his glass to the light, inspecting the colour, solemnly shaking his head. ‘I think it’s about time I moved on from St Luke’s. Four years is enough in any one job. It doesn’t give me the best vibes. If my meeting goes well in London, I’m planning to write full-time. Any objections?’

‘None whatsoever. My income alone earns us plenty of dosh. I know you find teaching rather