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Stick, Chapter 1 |
| Written by Philip Neale | |
| Thursday, 17 July 2008 | |
 The body impaled upon the railings opposite the Bevis Marks synagogue on Heneage Lane in London's East End was discovered at first light on Sunday morning when the army of street cleaners were approaching the end of their route. It was that of an old man, no it was that of a very old man; a very old man who had been beaten and possibly tortured before death finally took him. The ‘hygiene operative' who found him had been so traumatised that paramedics called to the scene took him directly to hospital and summoned a further vehicle to deal with the corpse. The ancient piece of humanity had been forced so firmly down on to the spikes, that the fire brigade were compelled to cut through three rusting iron uprights before he could be removed and taken to the mortuary for forensic examination. Police pathologists scoured the sealed off area for clues but came up empty handed. That is to say, they didn't just find little of significance, there was nothing at all. It was as if the entire street had been surgically cleaned. Not one piece of evidence had been left to provide them with any guidance, and when they made a preliminary examination of the body now removed from its location, there wasn't a drop of blood to be found. It was almost as if he had been systematically drained either during or after being killed.
The body had passed out of rigor and now lay limp and emaciated on the mortuary slab as George Groves, chief pathologist, tried to make sense out of what was before him. All the internal organs had revealed a life of some hardship exacerbated by excesses of drink and tobacco and, in confirmation of earlier suspicions, without a drop of blood throughout its entire length. It was the oddest thing he had ever encountered and as he stood back from the examination table the double doors at the end of the room swung open and a tall man in his thirties came to stand at his side.
"Any ideas, George?" Dennis Marks was the duty detective sergeant when the call came in, and the initial report stirred his interest acutely.
"Morning Dennis. Can't quite make this one out. The body's in a bad way and there are multiple fractures. Almost every bone in the body had been broken."
"No bruising. Why's that? I thought he'd been beaten."
"No blood to cause the bruising, Dennis. You see when someone sustains a trauma of any kind, the small blood vessels just beneath the skin rupture and leak into the surrounding tissue. That's what causes bruising."
"So where is the the blood?"
"There isn't any. There was none at the scene, and every organ where you would expect to find it is completely dry. I can get enough tissue for a DNA sample, and finger prints might reveal who he was but I think you might have to check your missing persons records if you need any more."
"OK, where's the rest of the forensics?"
"That's the strange part - there isn't any."
"What do you mean - ‘There isn't any'?"
"We combed that street from end to end and the search is still going on. There wasn't so much as a strand of hair. It was sanitised; you know the state of public toilets if you're the first in there in a morning? Well that was how we found the street where the body was impaled."
"That's impossible."
"I would have thought so until today, but now I've seen everything. Scientifically speaking, we ought to have picked something up which could have been used to at least trace where the man had been, but.................."
Groves shrugged his shoulders in resignation and continued with the autopsy. He was fairly sure that the cause of death was impalement, which meant that the poor man would still have been alive when he was forced down on to the railings opposite the synagogue. The whys and wherefores of the killing were immaterial to him - that was Dennis Marks' job and he was more than happy to keep well out of it. With a shake of his head, the DS turned and left the morgue to return to the crime scene; one more set of bloody loose ends and he hated the damned things.
On Heneage Lane, Solomon Goldblum stood where he had been since the early morning discovery of the body of Michael Grainger. He was one of a growing number of ‘ghouls' who had come to the scene, passed their time in morbid curiosity and left after an appropriate interval. He however, as yet unique in his status of knowing the identity of the dead man, had remained. Watching eagle-eyed as the police and forensic teams went about their unproductive labours, he shifted his position from time to time in order both to retain some semblance of anonymity and also to take the strain from his gammy leg. A serious injury at the Tilbury Docks in 1967 had seen him forced out of his stevedore's position with all of its lucrative spin-offs, and the break in his right leg had never properly healed. He was compelled to rely upon a walking stick to get around, and had acquired a noteworthy collection over the years. The locals all nicknamed him ‘Stick' and the name had stuck, so to speak.
It was clear to him that the forces of law and order were having more than a few problems gathering evidence in and around the immediate area of the railings where Grainger had been impaled. The faintest glimmer of a smile flitted its way across his worn and craggy features as he watched the uniformed police and the white-coated scientific team at work. They crawled ponderously up and then down the street and pavements in a fruitless search for anything which might link them to the body now on a mortuary slab. Finding himself now alone, he took out his pipe and tobacco and hobbled away from the striped tape which had cordoned off the area. He sat down on the first available bench, lit the old Meerschaum, blew out a stream of pale blue smoke and sighed in satisfaction. The arrival of Dennis Marks hardly caused him a flicker of interest, but it galvanised the uniformed squad now approaching the end of the street for the second time. Marks' reputation had earned him the respect of the divisional constables since his initial posting three years previously and he was seen as a fair but firm. Several young recruits had come unceremoniously to grief at his hands during the course of past investigations for their sloppiness in both dress and manner. He was not a man to take duties lightly and those members of the constabulary now on site gathered round as he approached.
"Ok, so no forensics. We need to step up the house to house enquires; somebody must have seen or heard something during the early hours of yesterday morning between chucking out time and when the street cleaners arrived."
There was a low murmuring in the background, and Marks was quick to dispel any feelings of dissatisfaction.
"Look, we've got a ninety year old who was rammed so hard down on to those spikes over there that it took three fireman to cut him loose, so I'm sorry if one or two of you feel a bit hard done to. I dare say the guy would swap places in an instant given the choice, so just get on with it."
The group dispersed amongst the neighbouring residential and commercial properties leaving Marks alone on the street corner. He looked around the immediate area and his glance came to rest on the figure of Solomon Goldblum, still puffing away contentedly on his pipe beyond the police tape. The man seemed to be alone, and cut an odd figure amongst the early morning carnage and police activity. Marks strolled over to the bench where he was sitting and took out his warrant card. Goldblum peered at it and smiled.
"Good day detective sergeant, anything I can do for you? Very pleasant morning don't you think?"
"For some, Mr..............?"
"Goldblum, Solomon Goldblum but folks around here call me Stick". He waved the ornate implement for Marks to see. "Yes I suppose the unfortunate on the railings would have had a very different perspective. Nasty business from what I can gather."
"Indeed. Been here long?" Marks looked around for signs of anyone else in the area "You seem to be on your own."
"All morning since your people turned up. I have very little to occupy my time nowadays and the activity helps to pass the time of day."
For Dennis Marks, the man smiled way too much, and his manner was flippant in the extreme bearing in mind what had happened a few hours earlier.
"I don't suppose you could help us with our enquiries at all?"
"Well if you mean do I know who the poor man was, yes I do; but as to how he came to be attached to the railings, then your guess is as good as mine I'm afraid."
Marks took out his pocket book and noted down all the information given to him by Goldblum over the course of the next twenty minutes. He now had an identity and an address from this odd looking man who seemed all too eager to assist in the investigation. That in itself was a little surprising for London's East End, where people tended to keep themselves very much to themselves. Closing the cover he thanked Goldblum, taking care to note also an address where he could be found if needed any further.
To be continued.........................in Chapters 2 through 5.
Read More 'Dennis Marks' Stories at www.lulu.com/content/2712200 Copyright 2008 Philip Neale |
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| Last Updated ( Tuesday, 29 July 2008 ) |
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