Searching For Hope Read online

  First, he had to see a man about a body.

  ***

  Sam pressed the buzzer, stepped back and gazed up at the close circuit camera. He hadn't rung ahead to check if Hugo was working at the mortuary today. There was no need. Hugo was rarely to be found anywhere else.

  A burst of static from the speaker was followed by a joyful exclamation.

  'Sam! Good to see you. Come on in.'

  The door swung open and Sam stepped inside, brushing snow off his jacket. He started down a long corridor, its floor gleaming white, the air heavy with strong detergent.

  'Hi, Sam.'

  Hugo appeared out of a side room and greeted Sam with a wide smile. He was a small, scrawny man, somewhere in his mid-forties, with a shock of fuzzy brown hair, a drawn face and eyes that darted around behind thin-rimmed spectacles.

  'How are you, Hugo?'

  Hugo's eyes shone brightly.

  'Excellent, Sam,' he beamed, pulling latex gloves off his hands. 'I've just finished closing up Mr Garnett's face...although getting his eyeball to stay in place after such a nasty-'

  'No, Hugo!' grimaced Sam. 'Too much information.'

  Hugo grinned sheepishly.

  'Sorry, Sam. Come in and have a seat. It's only me in here today.'

  Sam followed him into the mortuary and settled on the nearest stool. Along one wall were numerous body fridges resembling rows of huge lockers. Thankfully, the aforementioned Mr Garnett was nowhere to be seen. The metal table in the centre of the room were empty.

  'So, what do I owe the pleasure?' asked Hugo, washing his hands at the sink, a trace of excitement in his voice. 'Are you here about a case?'

  Sam smiled. Hugo asked that every time, as though Sam would be here for any other reason. Sam liked Hugo, but the idea of spending time with him socially held little attraction. Hugo was the epitome of enthusiasm when it came to his profession. An evening in his company would involve tales of dissections, body parts and the effects of rigor mortis. Hugo's only other interest in life seemed to be murder mysteries, a topic he discussed with equal relish.

  'The unidentified man who passed away a week ago...'

  Hugo dried his hands and sat down opposite Sam.

  'Oh, yes. His body has been transferred to the funeral home. Are you investigating his death?'

  'I was the one who found him,' nodded Sam, knowing he could trust Hugo to keep it to himself. Hugo was in awe of Sam, a reputable private detective living in the same town, and always happy to provide him with snippets of evidence. Sam used Hugo sparingly, keen not to abuse the man's good will.

  'Is that right?' said Hugo, his mouth wide open. 'What do you want to know?'

  'Anything you've got, to be honest.'

  Hugo stretched his arms out and flexed his fingers. The mortuary worker was in his element. A body, and a mysterious death.

  'Stabbed a number of times in the chest with a sharp instrument, most likely a knife, two inches across if I remember right.'

  Sam was taken back to that night, staring at the deep wound.

  'He was stabbed more than once?'

  Hugo nodded, puzzled by Sam's question. Then realisation dawned on his face.

  'You only saw one wound, didn't you? Well, I would say the knife went in three times from close range, each time striking in exactly the same spot. Short, incisive blows straight through the heart. The man never stood a chance after that. Too much blood had been lost.'

  Hugo's words confirmed there was nothing Sam could have done for the injured man. The fact provided little consolation.

  'Okay, but there's one thing I don't understand. If he was stabbed repeatedly in the chest, then why wasn't blood splattered everywhere. I don't remember seeing any on the floor.'

  Hugo jumped down off his stool.

  'I think I can answer that. Here, stand up for me and I'll explain.'

  Sam shrugged and got to his feet. Hugo picked up a blunt instrument and scurried behind him.

  'Right, this is what I believed happened...'

  Suddenly, Sam felt Hugo's arm draped gently around his neck.

  'The attacker grabbed our victim from behind, placing his arm around the neck like I'm doing now.'

  Sam stifled a smile. Being several inches shorter, Hugo was having to stand on tip-toe to reach up to his neck. The strain was evident in his voice.

  'Then he yanked him backwards with force, held him tight around the neck with the forearm and stabbed him with his free hand.'

  Hugo didn't dare grab Sam or pull him back, but he did mimic plunging a weapon into his chest.

  'With each stab,' continued Hugo, removing his arm, 'the attacker would have tilted the victim back further into him, gradually lowering him to the ground as the knees buckled through loss of blood. The injured man became almost horizontal, causing the blood to stay on his chest, soaking into his clothes. That's how you found him to be flat on his back.'

  Hugo returned to his stool, satisfied with his demonstration. Sam was impressed by the man's conviction.

  'Are you saying this was a surprise assault...that the attacker sneaked up behind his victim?'

  'I'm certain of it,' nodded Hugo.

  'How can you be so sure?'

  Hugo edged forward in his seat and spread his hands out.

  'There was severe bruising at the front of the neck. However, there were no fingermarks there, so we know the victim wasn't grabbed by the throat. Now, for that much pressure to be applied from the front, without the use of hands, the victim would have had to have been pressed forcefully up against something.'

  'Like a wall?'

  'Exactly!' nodded Hugo. 'Yet there were no contusions on the back of the head, the shoulders or the back, meaning he wasn't pushed back against anything. Also, there were no untoward marks anywhere else on his body. That tells us two things. If he had fallen unaided following the stabbing, there would have been signs on the body indicating where he hit the ground.'

  'And the other thing?'

  'There was nothing to indicate he struggled...no cuts or scratches to imply the man had tried to defend himself.'

  Sam replayed the scene he had come across that night. The stricken man apart, there had been nothing in the alleyway to suggest a fight had taken place. No upturned bins or pools of blood. No weapons. No signs at all of a confrontation.

  Just one dying man.

  Hugo took off his glasses, breathed on the lenses and rubbed them with a cloth, then slid them back onto his nose and waited patiently.

  Sam was deep in thought. Over the last few days, he had built up an image of two men squaring up to each other in the alleyway, arguing until one lost his head and produced a weapon, attacking the other in blind rage. Now Hugo had presented a totally different scenario, one where someone had crept up on the victim, grabbed him around the neck and ruthlessly snuffed out his life.

  'What else can you tell me about the victim?'

  Hugo frowned, trying to recall further details.

  'If I remember right, I concluded he was in his late twenties.'

  Hugo noticed Sam raise his eyebrows.

  'Yeah, he looked older, didn't he? The long hair and beard aged him. The coarse skin and wasted appearance didn't help. Judging by the state of his clothes, I presumed he'd been living rough. The empty stomach contents seemed to back that up.'

  'No drink or drugs in his system?'

  Hugo shook his head.

  'The man was totally clean.'

  Talk of the man's possible lifestyle reminded Sam it was time he made a move. It was early evening, dark enough outside now for his next port of call. He thanked Hugo, explaining he had to be somewhere in a rush.

  Hugo saw him out. Standing in the doorway, watching Sam's Capri disappear out of sight, he suddenly felt a surge of disappointment.

  Sam had told him nothing of his investigation.

  Chapter 4

  Sam stood at the dockside and studied the scene in the distance. Flames flickered from a large metal bin, lighting
up the bleak, icy wasteland. A number of figures were hunched around the makeshift fire, trying to garner as much heat as possible on another freezing evening in Newgate. The snow had stopped falling, but the temperature had plummeted again with night-time approaching.

  Sam crossed the road and headed towards the group. This part of town, a former industrial site now known as the Concrete Jungle, was only half a mile from where he had found the dying man. The barren stretch of ground he was walking across, and the derelict factories surrounding it, had a reputation for attracting the homeless community. It had become a no-go area for the majority of people in Newgate, particularly once darkness had fallen. Rumours abounded of squalid living conditions, drunken fights and animosity towards strangers.

  Fifty yards short of his target, Sam was struck by a rare moment of self-doubt. He could turn around right now, forget about this man's death and go home. No harm had been done. No feathers had been ruffled. He hesitated, debating the wisdom of following in a dead man's tracks, oblivious to where it could take him. If he was going to leave it, now was the time to do it. Instead, Sam picked up the pace. Turning around wasn't an option. His conscience wouldn't allow it.

  Sam counted seven men huddled around the fire, each wrapped up against the bitter cold in thick clothing. Some had hoods up, creating a sinister image as the glow from the fire danced over their shadowy figures. A few drank from dubious-looking plastic bottles, while others rubbed their hands together in a bid to warm themselves. They were all silent, focusing on the flames licking greedily around the edge of the bin. The ground around them was littered with empty bottles, cigarette butts and discarded food wrappers.

  Alerted by his footsteps crunching on the snow, heads turned Sam's way. They watched him approach with distrustful eyes, scrutinising the stranger in their presence. Sam studied each man in turn. They were a motley crew, middle-aged and unshaven, sporting worn clothes, tired faces and slumped shoulders. To Sam, they looked like men beaten down by life. He wasn't going to judge. He had been in a bad place himself not so long ago.

  He stopped a few feet short of them.

  'I'm looking for someone,' he announced. 'A man who might have stayed here recently.'

  They stared back at him in silence.

  Their apathy didn't surprise Sam. Unperturbed, he described the man he had found in the alleyway, keeping to the features he remembered, resisting the temptation to convey a personality he couldn't possibly have known.

  'Don't known him.'

  The solitary reply came from the man furthest away, a hardy looking character, short and stocky, with a bulbous nose and blotchy skin. He glared at Sam through bleary eyes, drunken defiance etched on his face.

  'Are you sure?' Sam asked him. 'I mean, have you really thought about it?'

  A flash of anger shone in the man's eyes.

  'I've already told you,' he snapped, slurring his words. 'We don't know him.'

  Sam nodded and scanned the faces of the other men. They continued to look at him blankly. Sam sensed they knew something. He just had to spark a reaction. With a sigh, he turned back to the man who had spoken.

  'I don't think you're being entirely honest with me...'

  He let the statement hang in the air. An uneasy stand-off ensued, nobody saying a word. Sam watched the men glance warily at each other. He readied himself.

  Then it happened.

  The drunken man flung the bottle he was holding to the ground, sending liquid spraying in all directions. With a guttural roar, he charged towards Sam, swaying as he ran, clenched fists swinging by his sides.

  Sam had got his response.

  As the man lunged at him, Sam stepped smartly to one side, grabbed the man's arm and twisted it up behind his back. The man screamed in pain, bringing a collective gasp from his comrades. They stared, open-mouthed, as Sam marched their friend towards the fire.

  'Let go of me!' yelled the man, struggling in vain to free himself.

  Sam had no intention of letting go. Not yet, at least.

  'Hey!'

  Sam looked around. A huge bear of a man had appeared from the nearest derelict building. He was several inches over six feet tall, slightly younger and in better shape than the rest of the men, with a black, bushy beard and broad shoulders. He strolled over to Sam with an air of quiet confidence, hands tucked leisurely into his trouser pockets, an easy smile visible through the mass of facial hair. Sam watched him approach, keeping a firm grip on the squirming drunk's arm. The newcomer stopped several yards away and studied the scene before him with mild amusement.

  'What are you doing with Jake?' he asked.

  The question contained no aggression, the tone placid but firm.

  'I asked these people a question,' replied Sam. 'This man decided to attack me.'

  To emphasise the point, Sam yanked Jake's arm further up his back, causing him to cry out again in consternation.

  'Get off me!' he yelled, turning to the bearded man. 'Clarence...I swear...if this bloke doesn't let me go, I'm going to-'

  'You're not going to do anything, Jake,' stated Clarence calmly, his eyes never leaving Sam. 'This man clearly knows how to handle himself. I reckon he'd snap you in two if you tried.'

  Sam suddenly felt all the fight drain out of Jake. He stopped wriggling, finally relenting to Sam's hold. The giant man's words had sobered him up quicker than a bucket of cold water over the head. The rest of the group watched on benignly, content to let Clarence handle the situation. Sam was intrigued. The man clearly held sway over this merry little band.

  'So, what was your question?'

  Clarence had an eyebrow cocked, awaiting a response. The huge man wore lighter clothing than the others, a thin jacket, no hat or gloves, yet seemed untroubled by the freezing conditions. There was also his accent, unusual, hard to pin down.

  'I'm looking for someone,' Sam told him.

  'Who might that be?'

  Sam repeated his description of the dead man. Clarence said nothing, gazing up at the night sky. Sam wasn't fooled. He had seen a flicker of recognition. That meant his instinct had been right. The deceased had been here.

  'And if we do know him...?'

  Sam smiled. It was always going to come down to this. Bargain time. He let go of Jake and gave him a hearty shove. Sam watched the vanquished man slope off miserably into the gloom without a backwards glance. The other men turned their attention back to the fire, leaving Sam and Clarence to it.

  Satisfied, Sam reached inside his jacket, extracted a bottle and offered it to Clarence. The huge man's eyes lit up.

  'A decent bottle of whisky,' he grinned. 'It's been a long time.'

  'Well?' said Sam.

  Clarence accepted the drink off him.

  'Let's talk.'

  ***

  'The police were here a few days ago asking about him.'

  Sam nodded and gave rare thanks to DI Robins. The detective had let slip over the phone the dead man had been homeless. Sam had presumed as much. Hugo had also deduced it. However, Robins had been certain, and the police never conceded such information, unintentionally or not, without good reason.

  'What did they want to know?'

  Clarence drank greedily from the whisky bottle then handed it to Sam.

  'Same as you,' he replied, wiping his mouth with the back of a shovel-like hand. 'His name...where he came from...anything at all.'

  Sam nodded and sipped from the bottle, savouring the harsh warmth of the whisky. The two men were sat on upturned crates in a disused factory overlooking the fire. The empty building was dark and desolate, its rooms as cold and damp as the open ground outside. All the windows and doors had gone, allowing a breeze to sweep through the exposed structure. The concrete floors were strewn with rusty machinery parts and masonry rubble. Huge chunks of plaster had been gauged out of the walls, and sections of the roof were missing. Graffiti adorned the thick metal girders supporting the ceiling. Sam looked around him solemnly. No light. No heat. Bleak and depressing. An old b
uilding, abandoned long ago, slowly crumbling to the ground. Yet such a place was home to these people.

  'What was his name?'

  'Danny. I don't think he ever told us his last name.'

  'How long was he here?'

  Clarence kicked a half-brick out the way and stretched out his long legs.

  'He turned up about six months ago...didn't say where he had come from...didn't say much at all, if the truth be told.'

  'Kept himself to himself, did he?'

  Clarence shook his head.

  'It wasn't that. He just wasn't around much.'

  Sam handed the bottle back to Clarence and watched the big man take another hearty swig. The wind was whistling through the building now, causing Sam to shiver. Clarence, leaning back against the wall, still seemed impervious to the cold.

  'Any idea what he was doing?'

  Clarence shrugged.

  'Like I said to the police, he only used this place to get his head down. He'd be gone early in the morning and return late at night. Never told anyone what he was up to...and nobody bothered to ask.'

  'Where did he sleep?'

  'Anywhere. All the buildings around here are empty. Nobody's got a claim to any one of them.'

  Sam mulled it over. The dead man, Danny, couldn't have been working during the day. Why sleep rough if he had a wage coming in?

  'The police said Danny was murdered,' said Clarence. 'They seemed to think one of us had something to do with it.'

  Sam grimaced. That was Robins all over. Like a bull in a china shop.

  'Well, your friend Jake has certainly got a temper.'

  Clarence laughed.

  'Jake's just bitter at life. An angry man who throws his weight around when he's had a drink. Anyway, I don't think he and Danny ever spoke to each other.'

  Sam recalled Jake's readiness to temper earlier. It was possible the two men could had fallen out unbeknown to anyone else. Jake certainly wouldn't have held back with a drink inside him.