Dr Wiggins performed the post-mortem the next day at the Morgue in Stevenage. He had an audience of DCI Pascoe and Chief Superintendent Montgomery. The presence of the Chief Super told Dr Wiggins that these children were important to a lot of people way above his pay grade.

Once he and his assistant, Dr David Moore, had cleaned the bodies, the gruesome job of finding their cause of death could begin.

He dictated every step into a microphone as he worked.
Both bodies had decayed from their period in the ground, but Dr Wiggins was able to extract enough material for a DNA test. These were couriered to the Home Office Forensic Lab in central London.

“I would expect the results back late tomorrow,” said Dr Wiggins.

That caused the Chief Super to excuse himself. When he returned, he said,
“I’ve put a rush on the tests. We should have them back later today.”

Dr Wiggins raised an eyebrow. This was a mega-important case. He had to get this right. The hoard of coins would have to wait for another day or even a week. No one would mind in the slightest. Treasure Trove cases were never that important unless the items were of royal significance.

He finished the PM’s almost three hours later. Thanks to the X-ray system in the mortuary, he was able to declare the cause of death for both children.

“Both of them died from hanging. Their necks show all the signs of suspension. Both of their hyoid bones are broken, and the slightly older child has a fracture of the C3 and C4 vertebrae. From the formation of these and other bones in the skull, I estimate that they are both less than 10 years old.”

He let that sink in.
“Their almost fully developed breasts are natural and not implants. That could only have been achieved through massive doses of female hormones. The full toxicity screen that I ordered should show what sort of drugs they have been fed. From my limited experience with this sort of forced growth, I estimate that breasts that size take 2-3 years to develop with the assistance of massive doses of female hormones. Both subjects have intact prostates and were, therefore, born male, and I estimate that they had their male testes removed 2-3 years before their deaths. I’d say that the mutilation and the starting of female hormones were done at the same time, about two and a half years before their deaths.”

“The fact that their testes were removed means that the female hormones would have an accelerated effect on their bodies. That is evident by the size of their breasts. It also means that their risk of cancer, especially breast cancer, is much higher than normal. I did find some evidence of a small growth in one of the deceased in the scans of their bodies. I will remove it later and send it for analysis. The people who did this had no regard for these poor children.”

He moved towards their genitals.
“As I said, these children were born male. The presence of a fully developed prostate in both of them, as well as the shape of the pelvis bone, proves that beyond all doubt. The work to remove their ‘maleness’ was done professionally as their urethra has been re-routed to where it would be for a genetic female. This re-routing is standard for those undergoing a sex-change procedure. Sadly, at the time of death, both were infected with a UTI and one or more STDs. The tearing around the anus indicated frequent penetration by objects unknown.”

“If I was a betting man and I am not, and this is off the record, I’d willingly place a bet on both of them, having been sodomised by more than a few men since their ordeal began. That is just my opinion. There may be other evidence that could support that conclusion, but I am not privy to that at this stage.”

He stopped and looked at the two police officers.
“Early indications are that they are both HIV positive. I included a sample for testing in the same package as the DNA, but I don’t think that I am wrong. The older child has the worst tearing around the anal area. That can only mean one thing. I’m sure that you don’t need me to explain what that means.”

“What about the tattoos?” asked the Chief Super.

“In my opinion, they were inexpertly applied around six months or so before their demise. They are fully healed and show no signs of fading. One is of a foxglove, and the other…? I think it is a harebell, but I’d have to check a botanical text to be sure.”

“Given the foxglove tattoo, I have also asked for tests on natural poisons to be carried out. Those results should start coming through in around five days,” said the doctor as a way of summing up the post-mortem.

The DNA results came in late that night. The two ‘Jane Does’ now had names. Alun Evans from Liverpool and William Mace from Sunderland. They’d both been ‘taken’ from the street at a time that roughly tied in with the period after Dido had escaped, and their deaths were before Chrissy was captured, but he didn’t know about any other victims. Because of the variable conditions in the ground, it was difficult to put a definitive date on their deaths or burial.

DCI Pascoe wondered if they might have been infected with HIV after they had arrived at the house, and that was why they had to be eliminated. He also knew that proving death by anything other than misadventure would be difficult. That opened up a huge hole in the timeline for the DCI.

He left the morgue wondering what had happened in the time between the deaths of the two children… he was unsure about calling them girls or boys and the present. All he could think of was that a lot of unmitigated evil had gone on in that house over a lot of years. He resolved to call them girls/women in future. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make any appearance of maleness go away.

The DCI spend the next day overseeing the cleanup of the crime scene. His second to last task as SIO was to go over the house and make sure no bagged or tagged evidence had been left behind. There was none.

As he was supervising the removal of the SOCO trucks, the HIV test results on both bodies came in. As the post-mortem report has suggested, both deceased were HIV positive. The older one had remnants of an HIV suppression drug in her system.

Once back at the station in Hertford, DCI, Pascoe began to write up his scenes of crime report. Thankfully, he’d made a lot of memos on his phone using the voice recorder. Each one was timestamped, which saved a lot of head-scratching but, the new evidence relating to HIV had to go into that report. It meant a lot more form-filling because of the protocols that were in place to stop the spread of HIV and AIDS.

He’d gotten about halfway through the report when his desk phone began to ring. In the days of everyone having a mobile phone, those phones were mostly used for internal calls.

“DCI Pascoe,” he said when he answered it.

“Yes, Ma’am. I’m doing it now,” he said, glancing at the clock.

“I should have it finished by early evening. I’ve not long returned from clearing the site of Police equipment. As per your email of yesterday, there will be a uniformed officer present at the site until you say otherwise.“

“Yes, Ma’am, I will deliver it to you personally as soon as I have finished it.”

He hung up the phone with those frown lines on his forehead, getting deeper by the second.

He sat back and wondered why the Chief Constable herself wanted to see his report before anyone else. The answer, along with many other questions he wanted to ask, was likely to be way above his pay grade. Nevertheless, he got back to the task at hand with renewed vigour and determined to make it as good as it could be.

A little later than he’d estimated during the phone call with the Chief, Clive Pascoe knocked on the door to her office. The HQ was almost deserted apart from the depths, where there was a modern custody suite in full operation.

“Come in,” said a voice from beyond the oak-panelled door.

The DCI had never been into this part of the HQ building before. His normal place of work was in a busy CID office. Here, the thickness of the carpet provided excellent sound-deadening properties.

He opened the door and went inside. He was surprised to find that the Chief was not alone. A pile of discarded fast-food wrappers and containers on a nearby table told him that their meeting had been a working one.

He’d never seen the officer who was with the Chief before. The insignia on her uniform jacket told him that he was in the presence of an assistant commissioner of the Met Police.

“Ah, DCI Pascoe. Please take a seat. This is ACC Prentice from our friends in the Met.”

“Ma’am,” said Clive as he sat down. He put the report on the desk in front of him.

“DCI Pascoe, I have heard a lot about you from the Chief here. It seems that you run a tight ship with your crime scene?”

“Ma’am, I could not have done it without a cast of many. Everyone played their part in getting all the evidence we could from the property, which, given the difficulties that we faced with the bomb and the two graves, my part was small. The real kudos must go to the SOCO teams.

“I was at NCA HQ earlier and saw the mound of evidence bags arriving from here. There is a whole team working through the night on cataloguing it all.”

“I was just doing my job to the best of my ability, Ma’am. I hope that I didn’t make any mistakes amongst all that craziness.”

The Chief smiled.
“So far, and please correct me if I am wrong, ACC Prentice, the NCA Team is very appreciative of your work. To double-bag and photograph everything as it came into the evidence control was a smart move. Early indications are that nothing has gone astray and that you and everyone involved will get a positive entry on your records.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

“That leads me to why I wanted to see you in person tonight.”

The Chief Constable smiled.

Normally, that would have sent a shiver of fear through the DCI, but after the glowing report, he was relaxed.

“The ACC would like to borrow you for the foreseeable future. What do you think?” said the Chief.

Her words surprised the DCI.
“Ma’am, as you know, I was in the Met before coming here. What would be my job?”

“DCI Pascoe, I’m here on behalf of the NCA. I’m sort of their liaison between the Met and the forces that surround the capital and the NCA. We’d like you to be part of the NCA investigation into Jonathon Fox and his son. Your experiences at this crime scene will come in very useful when we and the CPS build a case against Fox and his son. There may well be other significant figures involved with the prosecution, and we want someone from outside the Met to lead the team.”

He looked at both senior officers and just stopped his mouth from opening with surprise.

“Why me? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“DCI Pascoe,” said the ACC.
“You have a level head and a lot of common sense. The way you handled the finding of those graves and the bomb is just what we need. To be perfectly honest, a lot of the people who were recruited into the NCA in the early days are not what the Agency needs in the long term. Someone with a sensible head might just get through to them that the job is not like it is shown on TV. The role that the NCA is expected to carry out needs people who think and think again before they act. The job would be at the Detective Super rank. Are you interested?”

“Ma’am, I am interested, but I would need to know more about the role that you want me to fulfil.”

“Perfect answer,” said the Chief.
“Didn’t I tell you that the DCI would be perfect for the job? Even with that carrot, he didn’t jump at it.”

The ACC smiled.

“DCI Pascoe, I’d like you to take the day off tomorrow and then report to the NCA HQ the day after that.”

“Ma’am, the day after tomorrow is Saturday.” He stopped dead. The week had gone by in a flash.

“Perfect. I’ll meet you there… say at 10:00. Then we can talk in detail about the job I have in mind for you.”

The DCI knew that he had been backed into a corner.

“Very well. I’ll see you then, Ma’am. Chief?”

“Yes, Clive, get along home and remember to take the day off tomorrow. I’ll clear it with the Chief Super. He won’t be happy, but I’ll tell him that you may have a higher calling for the immediate future.”

DCI Pascoe went home with his mind still a mess. The meeting with the Chief Constable had muddied already murky waters.

The only bit of light, if he could call it that, was that doing a stint with the NCA in the dying days of his career could be interesting.

His last task that night was to call Suzanne.
“The Super’s job is yours,” he said.
“I’ve been seconded to the NCA for the foreseeable future, so get off your butt and apply for it before they go outside the force. I’m going to lead their investigation into Fox and his many crimes.”

There was a lot more that he wanted to say but didn’t. He’d always fancied Suzanne, but the ethics about dating an officer he was serving with had stopped him from even broaching the subject.

He drifted off to sleep that night, wondering if the secondment to the NCA might allow him to gently ask her out.

Sleep was intermittent. The memories of the crime scene would be right there in his mind for a long, long time. For once in his long career as a Police Officer, he would not be responsible for his actions should he ever get in a room alone with older Fox, it would be him facing life in prison, and he would go to his grave a happy man.