February Prompt #12  Salt The intersection of the A406 onto the M1 at Staples Corner is normally one

February Prompt #12  Salt The intersection of the A406 onto the M1 at Staples Corner is normally one of the busiest junctions in north London. A complicated series of slip roads channel east and west traffic onto the northbound motorway, while a similar cloverleaf drains the flow coming south into London. Tonight, however, on one of the coldest nights of the year, it bears more resemblance to a car park than to a motorway. With traffic blocked up on the North Circular for more than two miles in both directions, Sherlock’s taxi driver is challenged to get him anywhere near the crime scene. Side roads into a housing estate eventually put him in a position to hop a fence, scramble down a wooded embankment, dodge the two lanes of heavy but still crawling southbound traffic, and get onto the now empty northbound carriageway.In the darkness, the police cars’ blue lights are competing for his attention with the flashing yellow lights of his target: a Highways England road gritter.“Glad you could make it, Sherlock.”The Consulting Detective sweeps straight past Lestrade, using his pocket torch to catch the glitter of freshly scattered rock salt on the road surface. Bending down for a closer look, he can see that the usual pinkish-brown grit has another colour mixed in, darker clumps.“Yeah, it’s blood. Forensics tested a bit.” The DI’s words vapourise in the freezing air. “Driver noticed in his rear-view mirror when he passed under the street lamp. He kept going a bit until he got on the motorway proper and then the spreader mechanism jammed.”They walk to where one of the police car’s headlights has lit up the back end of the gritter machine. A lump of something the size of half a baguette that looks rather dried out is on a tarp being photographed by a Forensic Officer. Sherlock leans over and after a moment or two says, “forearm, human, in case you’re wondering.” The woman looks up startled. “Oh. Thank you. I hadn’t gotten that far yet.”Sherlock looks up at the truck. “Anybody had a look inside?”Lestrade calls out, “Jacobson, got anything yet?”A head pops over the edge of the truck. “No sir, whatever else may be in here is buried pretty deep.”Sherlock is on his knees, fingering the grit. “Is there a brine tank on this machine or is it being spread dry?” he asks, scooping up a handful of grit.The DI gives him an incredulous look. “You…know how road gritters work?”“Of course. Where’s the driver? He’ll be able to answer, even if you can’t.”Lestrade takes him over to the driver’s side of the big yellow vehicle, where the door is wide open. Inside, the driver has his head bowed over the steering wheel, his shoulders shaking. The DI calls out, “Come on down now. We’ve got a few more questions.”He’s a big man, mid-forties or so dressed in a high vis jacket and trousers, well-insulated against the cold, and a wool beanie to keep his head warm. Right now, however, he looks distraught. “I’ve been drivin ‘er for three years. Best machine ever, never blocked up on me before, so when it 'appened, I pulled over and took a look.”“That’s your vomit I smelled?”“Yeah; I …stepped on that thing, and then realised what it must be.”“Where’s your depot?”“Watford Gap. No problems on the down run; it only jammed when I started back up northbound.”“Mixed with brine?”The driver nods.“Top fill?”“Yeah. It’s one of the quickest. Not like the salt domes up north.” The driver seems to be relaxing a little, as Sherlock’s questioning had the feel of professional to professional, rather than the sort of accusatory style of the police.“Why don’t you go sit in the back of one of those police cars and get warm. You can phone the depot manager and tell him to send another truck so commuters tonight don’t hit black ice. You’ll be stuck here for a little while longer and then be asked to drive the gritter to a police compound for further examination.”Once the driver is in the back of one of the cars, Sherlock opens his gloved left hand and lifts it to his nose. Lestrade watches with increased horror as the consulting detective licks a bit of the grit.“God, Sherlock; that’s gross!”“Useful, Lestrade. By what my tongue is telling me, this is something called thawrox+, a rock salt mined in the UK, most likely in the Winsford salt mine in Cheshire. It’s got an additive which is a by-product of the sugar-refining process, which makes it less corrosive to steel and aluminium, and more free-flowing. It also isn’t as hard on the asphalt road surface. My tongue can taste the salt and the sugar, which is key to its origins. Think of it as saving on lab fees and time.”“So, any ideas on what’s happened here?”“More lines of enquiry than definite answers, at least until the contents of the gritter are excavated and any other body parts are found.”“What should my people be looking for?”“Not a job for the police. Forensics might have a stab at it, but that piece of the forearm will confuse the hell out of their standard analyses. Salt complicates things.”Lestrade rubs his gloved hands together, trying to stay warm. “So, what are you thinking might have happened?”“I don’t like speculating without data.”“Come on, Sherlock; it’s effing cold out here and I need something to warm my brain up.”A sigh that creates a wreath of fog, then Sherlock is off. “There are several possibilities. A dismembered body could have been dumped into the mixture as the sugar solution was being added to the raw rock salt, or it could have been dumped into the truck that carried the thawrox to the depot at Watford. The top-fill means the driver wouldn’t have known, and the grill over the top of the vehicle is closed after filling, so it couldn’t have been added to the gritter once it left the depot. So, the driver is not a suspect."More likely, however, is that you’re not going to find any other body parts in there.”“What?! Just half a naked arm? No clothes or fibres? Why would a murderer do that?”“Who’s to say that this is a murder? You forget that rock salt has been mined on and off at Winsford since the 19th century. Back in the early days, miners used candles and set explosives to free the material. Sometimes gases built up, explosions happened and killed miners. Or just maimed them. A miner who lost an arm could easily survive as an amputee. This could simply be a body part that has been preserved in salt for centuries.”Lestrade’s shock is evident. “How? I mean, surely it would decompose?”Even in the dark, Sherlock’s eye roll is obvious. “Salt —it’s been used for millennia to preserve and mummify human bodies. The Egyptians made it into an art form. The grit used on roads is just rock salt, the remnants of the dried-out seabed. Even a quick glance showed me that the arm has signs of serious desiccation. If it’s old, then it won’t be possible to identify it by DNA; the salt breaks the helix chains. Tell them to look for trace elements of explosives. If they find it, then it’s likely to be 19th century and not a murder.”Lestrade looks back at the gritter. “What if they find the rest of the body?”“A strange place to hide one given it would obviously be found, but the post-mortem would reveal more about the cause of death. It didn’t look like a proper dismemberment; the arm looks more like it was torn off.”Sherlock shivers and rubs his gloved hands. “Nothing more for me to do here tonight, Lestrade so I’m off home before the roads get worse. If tomorrow proves me wrong and there is more to this case, then give me a call.” He strides off into the darkness, back the way he had come. -- source link

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