Chapter Text
Tuesday 8th August
Don’t make me regret this, Potter. If you fuck it up, it’ll be both our careers up the Swanny.
Detective Inspector Harry Potter, acting Senior Investigating Officer of Murder Investigation Team 22, guided his newly-issued Audi pool car down the narrow, pot-holed lane that led to the somewhat optimistically named Feltham International Trading Estate, with Detective Chief Inspector Robards’s words ringing in his ears.
With the ink on his promotion to DI practically still wet, Harry was absolutely not the obvious choice to step up as the SIO of MIT22, even temporarily, but faced with a diagnosis of coronary heart disease and an extended medical leave of absence, Robards had been adamant; he wouldn’t trust his team to anyone else.
Harry wasn’t an idiot—far from it. Temporary or not, he was well aware of exactly what a big deal this promotion was. Being the SIO of a Met Police murder team was pretty much his dream job, and there were plenty more experienced officers who would have bitten his (and, frankly, their own) arm off for the opportunity.
Now, as he approached his first crime scene in charge, to say he was nervous was a radical understatement. Robards had gone out on a limb for him, and that really meant something in Harry’s book; letting his mentor down was simply not an option. What he could really do with was a straightforward case; something open-and-shut to help ease him into the role.
Or, in other words, the exact opposite of the case that was waiting for him inside the warehouse at the end of the lane.
Things had not got off to an auspicious start. The shout had come in just before lunchtime, when Harry had been stuck in a budget and resources meeting with the other SIOs. He’d been forced to notify the Coroner’s office and send his Detective Sergeant on ahead to get things moving. As a result, he already felt like he was playing catch-up, which was doing nothing to settle his nerves.
A uniformed officer at the gate checked his warrant card before waving him through, and he eased the Audi into the yard ahead of him, at the centre of a group of dilapidated warehouses. The doors of one of the hulking structures were thrown wide open to reveal a hive of activity inside; at least finding the body would be straightforward, he thought wryly. Mildly reassured, he parked amongst a small cluster of other marked and unmarked vehicles that included both the coroner’s van and an Incident Command Vehicle with the rear doors open and ready. Taking a deep breath, Harry pushed his glasses up his nose, and opened the car door.
Show time.
He turned a slow 360 degrees on the cobbled yard, taking in his surroundings. A palpable feeling of abandonment pervaded the entire estate, clinging to the bank of a murky brown-green canal. The narrow, potholed lane down which Harry had arrived appeared to be the only access, though he made a note to have that checked. There weren’t any streetlights, just a few security lamps mounted on the buildings, and Harry could already see many of them had broken bulbs. Everywhere he looked, there was vegetation - clumps of weeds grew between the cobbles, sprouted in the guttering and lined the rusting chain link fencing that separated the premises from the woodland beyond. Given the numerous gaps in the fence, it seemed an arbitrary demarcation. Harry gave a small shrug as he looked at it - life finding a way in the midst of decay. Nature always wins, in the end.
“Afternoon, Sir,” boomed Ade Folorunsho, Harry’s Detective Sergeant, appearing at his elbow.
In Harry’s opinion, Folurunsho was impossible not to like. He radiated calm competence and good humour that made him well respected around the station. Around a decade older than Harry himself, he was experienced, thorough and absolutely reliable, exactly the person you’d want as your DS. What Folorunsho was not was particularly stealthy, but Harry was so lost in thought that he started in alarm, much to the DS’s amusement.
“Alright, Ade. What can you tell me?” asked Harry, with a wry smile.
“The body was found by a couple of local kids just before lunchtime,” he began. “Probably looking for somewhere for a little teenage romance, if you know what I mean.”
Folorunsho wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and Harry snorted with laughter. “Here? Bloody hell! And I’ve been told my idea of romantic is a bit lacking.”
Folorunsho grinned. “Beggars can’t be choosers, Sir, as my dear old Mum likes to say.”
“Where are the kids now?” asked Harry.
“I took a basic statement, then got a uniform to take them home,” explained Folorunsho. “They were too shaken for a full interview.”
“Good. I’ll get someone out to them in the morning. What else?”
“We’ve set up a perimeter out to the fencing. Toll’s the lead SOCO, and he’s already inside. I’ve got uniforms canvassing the area, but it’s pretty isolated; not many neighbours to doorstep.”
“Okay,” nodded Harry. He waved towards two figures in blue forensic suits that were pacing the length of the fence. “Make sure they include the lane in their search. And push back the perimeter to five metres past the fencing. Our perp probably arrived via the road, but that fence is leakier than a broken colander, so let’s be sure.”
“Got it, Sir.” Folorunsho headed off to make the arrangements
“Oh, and Ade?” Harry called after him, and Folorunsho looked back over his shoulder. “Who’s the pathologist?”
“Exactly who you’re hoping it would be, Sir,” he replied with a broad grin.
Harry smiled softly as he strode towards the open warehouse; at least something was going his way.
Unfortunately, it was only a momentary reprieve.
“DI Potter! Bootees, please!” The sharp rebuke came the second Harry stepped over the threshold, from a man in a forensic suit. His tall, slender frame identified him immediately as David Toll, the lead Scene of Crime Officer.
“Oh! Sorry, Dave. Of course.” Harry skittered backwards to the Incident Command Vehicle, kicking himself for starting with such a rookie mistake as he located a pair of plastic bootees from the stash in the back of the van. So much for not fucking it up.
When Harry returned to the warehouse, feet suitably covered, he stood for a moment to observe the scene in front of him. The warehouse was damp and dusty, and almost entirely empty; it had clearly been disused for some time, and with nothing to break it up, the space felt cavernous and forbidding. It was illuminated only by an array of mobile crime scene lamps that lit some areas brightly but cast others into dark shadow, only contributing towards the eerie atmosphere.
There were four other people inside the warehouse; or at least, four other people who were still breathing. Toll had moved to the far side of the warehouse, where he was talking to a second blue-suited figure, while a third, a short young man with curly blond hair poking out from under his hood, was photographing an area of floor just to Harry’s right.
However, Harry’s attention was drawn to the fourth and final occupant of the warehouse: the forensic pathologist. She was kneeling at the centre of the warehouse with a camera in her hand. The body of the victim lay on the ground beside her, spotlighted under the harsh light of one of the mobile lamps.
Making sure he followed the authorised path across the building, Harry made his way to her side, and she looked up as he approached.
“Harry! Hello!” she greeted him, warmly.
“Hi, Hermione,” replied Harry. “We must stop meeting like this.”
Her brown eyes sparkled. “Us? Never.”
Dr Hermione Granger cut a slight figure, in a forensic suit that was several sizes too large for her. The hooded suit hid a cloud of bushy brown hair, probably pulled back into a severe ponytail, and, if Harry knew his best friend as well as he thought he did, an outfit consisting entirely of practical, head-to-toe black; Hermione was nothing if not predictable, especially to someone who had known her as long as Harry.
The two of them had been friends since their university days at Kings. They’d been assigned to neighbouring flats in their hall of residence in their first year, and Harry had got to know her when he’d been (very briefly) involved with one of her fellow medical students. That ill-advised dalliance had swiftly faded into oblivion, but Harry’s friendship with Hermione had endured through thick and thin. Two socially awkward misfits with the same dark sense of humour, they’d bonded over a shared appreciation for cheap cider and strong black coffee, and a common understanding of what it meant to be the only child of overachieving parents. Now, more than a decade after he’d graduated, there was no one he trusted more, and he considered it to be a matter of great good fortune whenever their cases coincided.
“What have we got?” he asked, looking over her shoulder at the body on the ground behind her.
The victim was neatly laid out, legs together and arms by her side, with her long, curly hair splayed around her head. A red scarf with thin yellow stripes was wrapped around her neck, but otherwise, she was naked. Her fingers and toenails were painted pink.
“White female, probably early thirties,” Hermione told him. “She’s in full rigor, so she died less than 24 hours ago.” Harry opened his mouth to ask a question, but Hermione cut him off before he could utter a single word. “I won’t speculate beyond that until I’ve had her on the table, so don’t bother asking. The way her limbs have been placed so carefully suggests that the body has been staged, but livor is set and consistent with her position, so she was either killed very close by and put here almost immediately, or killed elsewhere and deliberately kept in this position for a period of time. David and I ought to be able to tell you which it is between us, but my suspicion is that this is a body dump.”
“Based on?”
“Based on the condition of the body. She’s immaculately clean, like she’s been washed. I can’t see that happening here, can you?“ she asked, waving her gloved hand around to indicate their surroundings.
“No,” sighed Harry. “Which doesn’t bode well for forensics.”
Hermione pulled a face. “Unfortunately not. I’ve come up completely blank for obvious trace evidence so far, though of course that’s something I won’t be able to fully confirm for a while yet. I’ve also taken blood samples, but I won’t fully swab her until she’s at the morgue.”
“Any indication of cause of death?”
“As I said, I won’t—”
“—Speculate,” he interrupted. “No, I know. But I can’t see any visible injuries. Am I missing something?”
Hermione sighed, clearly torn. She shot him a quick glance, then (as he had known that she would), she capitulated. “Okay, but only because it’s you.” She used her gloved finger to gently lift the woman’s scarf. Harry dropped into a crouch and peered at the exposed skin beneath, to see an angry purple-red welt circling her neck. “As you can see, there appears to be a ligature mark underneath the scarf. If I was a betting woman, I’d be putting money on this being a strangulation. But I can already tell you that the mark doesn’t match the scarf, so I don't think that’s what was used to kill her.”
Harry straightened, and absentmindedly shoved his hand through his hair. “Thanks, Hermione. Any defensive injuries?”
“No,” she said, drawing the word out and frowning a little. “Not that I can see so far, which is curious. But I’ll confirm that after I’ve been able to examine her properly.”
“I’m guessing there isn’t anything to ID her?”
Hermione shook her head. “I haven’t found anything conclusive. She does have a tattoo, here.” Hermione gently twisted the victim’s arm to expose the inside of her right wrist, allowing Harry to see a small, black and white line drawing of a wolf that was inked there. “It won’t give us a name, of course, but we can use it to confirm a potential ID when we have one. I’ll check fingerprints and dental records, and I’ll submit a profile to the National DNA Database to see if we get a hit. Do check in with David though—forensics might have turned something up.”
“Okay. Anything else?” he asked. Hermione didn’t answer. Instead, she settled back on her haunches, looking thoughtful, which immediately made Harry extremely suspicious. “Right. I know that look. What are you thinking?”
Hermione frowned again. “I’m honestly not sure, Harry. I just can’t shake the feeling that this reminds me of something.”
“Another crime scene?”
“Yes. But not one that I’ve seen, I don’t think. Maybe I’ve read about it?”
Harry raised his eyebrows. “That doesn't narrow it down much, does it?”
“No, probably not.” Hermione sighed again. “I’m nearly done here. Give me another ten minutes to finish photographing her, and bag her hands and feet. Then we can think about moving her. The Coroner’s Office has already authorised removal, I just need your signature.” She offered him a clipboard and pen from the case beside her.
“Okay,” nodded Harry, as he scribbled his name, barely legible as ever, in the appropriate box. “Let me know if you find anything else.”
Leaving Hermione to continue her examination, Harry made his way across the warehouse to talk to David Toll. He’d worked with the SOCO on a number of occasions, and liked him well enough. He had a dry sense of humour that Harry appreciated, and he was certainly very good at his job, which Harry supposed was the main thing. As he approached, he thought the older man looked rather tired, though frankly no one looked their best under fluorescent crime scene lighting.
“DI Potter,” nodded Toll. “Sorry if I was a bit short with you before. It’s just protocol, I’m afraid.”
Harry waved away the apology. “No, you were right. I ought to have known better. Anything to tell me, Dave?”
Toll shook his head. “Very little, I’m afraid. The entire building appears to have been abandoned for some time. The main door was padlocked, and the lock looked like it was cut. We’ve bagged it to check for tool marks. Nothing seems to have been disturbed elsewhere in the main part of the building; we haven’t turned up anything that I think is significant so far. There are some storage rooms to the rear, and a couple of offices on the mezzanine, and we’ll check them too of course, but I don’t expect to find anything. I had a cursory glance when I arrived, and they’re all thick with dust. It would be immediately obvious if someone had been in any of them.”
“What about outside?”
“Let’s head out there and ask,” suggested Toll.
As Harry and Toll headed back to the main warehouse doors, they passed the pathology technician, wheeling a trolley topped with an open body bag towards Hermione on their way out. The wheels left wet tracks across the floor.
Toll’s lip curled with irritation as two men reached the doorway. “Rain. Just what we need. Still, no need for us to get wet. Cartwright! Grant!” he shouted.
The two techs, who were both by now rather damp, made their way over to where Harry and Toll were waiting. It didn’t take long to confirm they had no more to report than Toll. A number of different tyre impressions had been cast, but no conclusions could be drawn as yet. The cobbled surface of the yard hadn’t yielded any footprints, and any marks they’d found were too indistinct to be of any use.
Once it became clear that neither Grant nor Cartwright had anything of note to report, Toll dismissed them. As he did so, movement from inside the warehouse caught Harry’s eye. Hermione was securing plastic bags over the victim’s hands and feet, while the pathology technician attempted to lower the trolley to the floor, apparently struggling with the stiff mechanism.
“Dr Granger suspects this is a body dump. Would you agree?” he asked Toll.
Toll looked thoughtful, considering carefully before he answered the question. “Given what we’ve seen so far, yes, I would,” he said eventually. “There’s no sign of a struggle, or any disturbance at all. My impression is that someone knew exactly what they were doing - they came in, dumped the body and left, as quickly and cleanly as possible. Probably scoped the place out in advance. Whoever did this, they’re good. Very good.”
In the background Harry saw Hermione assist the pathology technician with the recalcitrant trolley. He had to suppress a smile when she gave it a sharp kick, and it obediently sank to the ground.
“Next steps?”
“Well, I want to collect a full set of environmental samples for comparison, and we’ll have a thorough check of the other rooms. I heard you want to push the perimeter back beyond the fence, and I think that’s a good decision, but we won’t get to that until tomorrow. It’s a big site, so a full forensic examination is going to take a while.” He offered Harry a regretful smile. “Speaking of which, I should get back to it.”
“Fair enough.”
As Toll returned to his task, Harry lingered by the door, pondering his next steps. In front of him, Hermione and the pathology technician positioned themselves to transfer the victim onto the trolley. Hermione took her shoulders, while the technician took her ankles, and together, they gently lifted her onto the open body bag.
While the technician carefully ensured all the victim’s hair and limbs were enclosed and closed the zip, Hermione glanced back at the ground, and as Harry watched, she froze, her eyes widening in surprise.
“Harry!” she shouted, her voice shrill with alarm. “You need to see this!”
Harry hurried back to the centre of the warehouse, where Hermione was standing, staring at the floor, unmoving. Even accounting for the harsh spotlights, she seemed to have gone extremely pale.
“What is it?” he asked urgently.
Hermione simply pointed at the floor. “Look.”
Following her gaze, Harry saw a small piece of paper in the ground that must have been concealed under the body. Crouching down, he read the words printed on it, neat and precise in dark green ink, his pulse racing when he realised the implication of what he was seeing.
Only a fool would fail to see the danger that Harpies pose
to righteous and innocent men.
Here lies one such witch!
Their hateful kind preys upon us, and I shall not rest until I have cleansed the earth of their dirty, unrepentant blood!
Tom Marvolo Riddle
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he murmured. “He’s back. After eleven years. Tom Riddle’s back.”