Dying in the Dark

by Sally Spencer

  Woodend grinned. ‘Why shouldn’t I expect them, when you always deliver them?’ he asked innocently. ‘As I never stop tellin’ people, you’re the best police surgeon we’ve ever had.’

  Dr Shastri smiled back. Her teeth were small, brilliantly white and even. ‘You seem to think that flattery will get you everywhere,’ she said.

  ‘And won’t it?’

  ‘I am ashamed to admit that it will,’ the doctor said, shaking her head as if amazed at her own gullibility.

  She reached for a cardboard file which was lying on her desk, opened it and scanned the contents.

  ‘I would say that your victim was twenty-eight or twenty-nine,’ she said. ‘Cause of death was strangulation.’

  ‘Her knickers were around her ankles when she was found. Had she been raped?’

  Dr Shastri frowned. ‘Technically – and probably legally, as far as I know – I suppose she had been. I, myself, would prefer to think of it as violation.’

  ‘Meaning what, exactly?’

  ‘There had certainly been penetration – quite violent penetration, as a matter of fact – but the instrument used was not a penis.’

  ‘Then what the bloody hell was it?’

  ‘A fairly broad object without any sharp edges.’

  ‘Like the handle of the axe he chopped up her face with?’

  Dr Shastri shook her head. ‘No. Anything wooden – even if it had been very smooth – would almost certainly have left splinters. Since there were none in evidence, I would have to conclude that it was either a bottle or some metal object.’

  ‘Can’t you be more specific?’

  ‘Given time – and luck – I might be able to be more definite, but I would not hold your breath whilst you’re waiting.’

  ‘Was she already dead when he did this to her?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Then why didn’t she call out? Why didn’t she scream?’

  ‘She probably couldn’t. There were traces of gum mixed in with the mush which was all that was left of her face. I would guess her killer had put some kind of adhesive tape over her mouth.’ Dr Shastri paused in order to light up a long, thin, purple-coloured cigarette. ‘I imagine your next question is, why she didn’t struggle?’ the doctor continued.

  ‘It is,’ Woodend agreed.

  ‘She couldn’t. Her hands were tied behind her back.’

  ‘She could have lashed out with her legs.’

  ‘Her ankles were bound together, too, though not so tightly as to make the penetration impossible.’

  ‘Her wrists and ankles weren’t tied when the body was discovered,’ Woodend said.

  ‘In which case the killer must have removed her bonds once he had finished his work.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re the detective,’ Dr Shastri said. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Can you give me any idea of what she was tied up with? Was it some kind of rope or cord?’

  ‘Almost certainly not. Like the instrument used for penetration, rope or cord would have left traces behind. And there were none.’

  ‘So what the hell was it?’

  ‘They are making ingenious use of plastics these days,’ Dr Shastri said. ‘My guess is that it would have been some kind of man-made bond. No doubt it will be found close to the scene of the crime.’

  ‘We haven’t turned up anythin’ so far, which means that we probably never will.’

  ‘In that case, I will give the matter more thought.’ Dr Shastri flashed Woodend a meaningful look. ‘When I have the time.’

  ‘Point taken, Doc,’ Woodend said. ‘Another question. I appreciate there was probably considerable vaginal damage, but were you still able to ascertain whether or not she was a virgin before she was attacked?’

  Dr Shastri laughed. ‘You can be so quaint and old-fashioned at times,’ she said. ‘This is the 1960s, my dear Chief Inspector. Twenty-nine-year-old virgins are as rare – and some would say as beautiful – as the Taj Mahal.’

  ‘So she wasn’t a virgin.’

  ‘No, she wasn’t.’

  ‘What about the facial disfigurement? Was that done once she was already dead?’

  ‘Yes, the poor woman was at least spared any knowledge of that.’

  ‘What can you tell me about her while she was alive?’

  Dr Shastri consulted her folder again, though, knowing her as he did, Woodend was sure that all the details were in her head.

  ‘She was generally in good health,’ the doctor said. ‘She had never had a serious operation, nor had she ever been pregnant. Her fingernails are very well cared for and—’

  ‘Any skin traces under them?’ Woodend interrupted.

  ‘I’m afraid not. As I said, her nails were in a very good condition, from which I would conclude both that she spent money on them and that she was not engaged in the kind of work likely to damage them. Her teeth are excellent. She has had recent dental work which, from its quality, I would say was done privately.’

  ‘And locally?’ Woodend asked hopefully.

  ‘You really do expect miracles, don’t you?’ Dr Shastri said. ‘There are certainly dental surgeons in Whitebridge capable of doing work to that standard of excellence, but she could just as easily have had it done in London. Or Edinburgh, for that matter.’

  ‘Any scars of any kind?’

  Dr Shastri laughed again. ‘I thought you’d seen her face.’

  ‘I meant, any scars prior to last night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any other identifyin’ marks?’

  ‘You are hoping, I take it, that I will tell you of an unusual tattoo at the base of her spine – a tattoo which, furthermore, I happen to know could only be the work of one tattooist in the entire world. As an extra bonus, you would like me to tell you that he lives within a short driving distance of Whitebridge.’

  ‘Within a short walkin’ distance of this morbid bloody place would be even better,’ Woodend said dryly. ‘But you’re not about to offer me such an easy solution to my problems, are you?’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ Dr Shastri agreed. ‘Your victim treated her skin – as she seemed to treat everything else about her – with a great deal of respect.’

  ‘You’ve been a great help,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Of course,’ Dr Shastri agreed, smiling again. ‘I always am.’ She paused, and her expression grew more serious. ‘It’s difficult to say for certain without doing at least some basic reconstructive surgery,’ she continued, ‘but I think she must have been a rather pretty girl.’

  The phone rang just as Woodend was returning to his desk in the ‘nerve centre’, and Monika Paniatowski picked it up.

  ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Yes … Hardly misses a day … And if she does, she always let’s you know … Have you tried … Oh, you have, and she’s not answering … How old would she be? … Twenty-eight … And how would you describe her hair? … Thank you. We’ll be in touch.’

  She replaced the phone on its cradle.

  ‘Well?’ Woodend said.

  ‘We may have a lead. A woman called Pamela Rainsford’s failed to turn up for work this morning. She’s normally very conscientious and—’

  ‘Yes, yes, we could infer all that from your end of the conversation,’ Woodend interrupted impatiently. ‘Where does this woman work?’

  ‘At New Horizons Enterprises, out on the industrial estate. It’s a furniture company.’

  ‘I know,’ Woodend said. ‘An’ what’s this Miss Rainsford’s job out at New Horizons? She’s not a French polisher or anythin’ like that, is she?’

  ‘Somebody who works with her hands,’ Rutter explained, as if such clarification were necessary.

  ‘No, she doesn’t work with her hands,’ Paniatowski said. ‘At least, she doesn’t do heavy work with her hands. She’s a secretary.’

  Secretaries in Whitebridge – a town more famed for its manual labour than its brain work – usually considered they had a position to keep up, Woodend thought. So
dressing smartly – though not expensively – would just about fit the ticket.

  He was virtually sure they’d found their victim, and he felt a certain sadness come over him – as it always did when the dead slab of meat he’d been examining took on a name and became a person in his eyes.

  ‘Monika an’ me’ll drive out to New Horizons,’ he told Rutter. ‘You stay here an’ hold the fort.’

  Three

  The commercial estate on which New Horizons Enterprises was located had been described in the local press as representing ‘the industrial renaissance of manufacturing in Whitebridge’. Woodend, reading the words, had assumed that this was just a poncy way of saying that as old industries declined, new ones sprang up to take their place. Still, there was no doubt that the estate had breathed new life into the town, or that New Horizons had been one of the pioneers in the process.

  The estate lay to the west of Whitebridge, about three miles from the town centre. Given traffic speeds at that time of day, it gave Woodend ample opportunity, during the journey, to talk to Monika Paniatowski about what exactly was bothering her. But he wasn’t sure that he wanted to – or rather, he wasn’t sure that she would want him to – so instead he decided to stick to the case.

  ‘Got any New Horizons furniture in that flat of yours, Monika?’ he asked, as he pulled out of the police headquarters’ car park.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ Paniatowski replied.

  ‘Oh, you’d be well aware of it, if you did have any of their stuff. An’ I’d be worried.’

  ‘Worried? Why?’

  ‘Because I’d be forced to ask myself how somebody on your salary could afford it.’

  ‘It’s expensive, then?’

  ‘Horrendously. But I have to say, it’s probably worth it. They use machinery for the basic jobs, but most of the finishin’ is done by hand.’

  Paniatowski lit a cigarette. ‘I wouldn’t have thought there’d be much call for that kind of thing in Whitebridge.’

  ‘Nor is there,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Most of the stuff’s shipped off to London, or else sent abroad.’

  ‘It’s not like you to know about things like expensive furniture, sir’ Paniatowski said. ‘Have we had dealings, in an official capacity, with the company before?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ Woodend said. ‘But I happen to know the boss of the place slightly.’

  Paniatowski pulled a face. ‘Oh, you are moving up in the world. You’ll be joining the Freemasons next.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ Woodend told her. ‘I know Derek Higson because I went to school with him.’

  ‘So he’s quite old, then,’ Paniatowski said, teasingly.

  ‘Watch it!’ Woodend said, with mock severity. ‘It’s not a sergeant’s place to pass comment on the advanced age of her boss, even if he has got one foot in the grave.’

  ‘One foot?’ Paniatowski repeated. ‘It’s as little as that, is it?’

  Anyone hearing the conversation would imagine it was the normal banter which had developed between two people who worked so closely together, Woodend thought. But he knew better. The words might be the right ones, but the tone wasn’t. Monika was forcing it.

  ‘Are you havin’ any problems in your personal life?’ he asked, abandoning his earlier resolve.

  The air inside the car was suddenly chillier by several degrees.

  ‘Problems?’ Paniatowski said. ‘Why should I have problems? My whole life’s like a dream come true.’

  So that had told him, hadn’t it? Woodend thought.

  New Horizons Enterprises was an impressive building by any standards. It was much larger than any of the other units on the estate. And it was much more adventurous in its concept. While the rest of the buildings had opted for a modified-cotton-mill frontage, New Horizons’ architect had clearly been given licence to go wild with futuristic glass and steel.

  A slim young man in a smart suit, and sporting a smart haircut, was waiting for them in the car park.

  ‘Tom Blaine,’ he said, shaking Woodend’s hand, and then – almost as an afterthought – shaking Paniatowski’s. ‘I’m the Personnel Manager here at New Horizons. Do you really think this horrible thing could have happened to one of our employees?’

  One of our employees! Woodend thought.

  Was that any way to refer to a young woman who had been viciously butchered?

  ‘Death can strike anywhere, at anybody, an’ at any time,’ he said. ‘Unless, of course, workin’ for New Horizons gives your staff a special immunity I know nothin’ about.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m following you,’ Blaine said.

  Then you shouldn’t be workin’ with people, Woodend thought. But aloud, he contented himself with saying, ‘Is there a big room available inside? A canteen or somethin’ of that nature?’

  ‘Yes, we do have a canteen,’ Blaine said uncertainly.

  ‘Good, then I’d like you to usher all your clerical staff in there, so I can talk to them.’

  Blaine glanced down at his wristwatch. ‘Conveniently enough, they are due to have their break in about half an hour,’ he said.

  ‘Well, that is convenient,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Except that I’d like to talk to them five minutes from now.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Don’t argue, lad,’ Woodend snarled. ‘Just bloody do it! An’ there’s one more thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m used to dealin’ with the organ-grinder, not his monkey, so I’d be grateful if you’d make sure your boss is there when I talk to his people.’

  Blaine looked ready to express his outrage at the insult, then, noting how much Woodend towered over him, decided that a sullen demeanour might be a wiser option.

  ‘Mr Higson isn’t here at the moment,’ he said. ‘He’s away on a business trip in Europe.’

  ‘Nice work if you can get it,’ Woodend said. ‘It’ll have to be his Number Two then. An’ don’t try tellin’ me you’re his Number Two, because I know Derek Higson well enough to be sure he’d never leave a bloody fool like you in charge of the place.’

  Blaine sniffed. ‘I’ll see if Mrs Higson is in the building,’ he said.

  ‘Aye,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Why don’t you do just that?’

  The canteen was all chrome and glass, and while Woodend could see the advantages of using such materials from a hygienic point of view, he couldn’t see how it would do anyone’s digestion any good to eat their dinner in a spaceship.

  The twenty clerical staff, most of them women, had been assembled as per instructions, and were sitting at the tables, looking at him with expressions which displayed a mixture of dread, excitement, and morbid curiosity.

  ‘You’ll all have heard the news this mornin’, an’ I expect a bright lot like you will have worked out what this is all about,’ Woodend said. ‘Our bein’ here is proof of nothin’ – there’s any number of reasons why Miss Rainsford might not have turned up – but police work is a process of elimination. And that’s what we’re doin’ – eliminatin’.’ He paused, to let his words sink in. ‘In a minute, my sergeant’s goin’ to be handin’ out photographs of the murder victim. I wouldn’t look at the face, if I was you – you’d not be able to recognize your own mother if this had been done to her – so just have a look at the clothes.’

  Paniatowski walked along the table, handing out the photographs. She’d not distributed more than half of them when one the women started crying.

  ‘It’s her!’ the woman sobbed. ‘I know it’s her!’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘This … this skirt and blouse. I was with her when she bought them. She … she was w … wearing them at work, yesterday.’

  Soon, several other voices were shouting – or even screaming – that yes, this was definitely the outfit Pamela had been wearing the previous day.

  ‘Calm down!’ Woodend ordered. ‘I know this is a distressin’ experience, but if you want to help us find your friend’s killer, y
ou’re just goin’ to have to calm down.’

  Gradually the noise subsided, until it was reduced to a few muffled sobs.

  ‘That’s better,’ Woodend said. ‘Now we’re goin’ to have to talk to all of you, but it’d help us if, when my sergeant takes your name, you’d try to let us know how well you knew Pamela, so we’ll be able to decide who to see first.’

  It was as Paniatowski produced her notebook that Woodend noticed the woman standing at the back of the room. She was around thirty, he estimated, and she had an athlete’s build and stunning blonde hair which cascaded down over her shoulders.

  Even from a distance, it was possible to guess that the suit she was wearing had probably cost her more than any of the clerical staff earned in a month. But it wasn’t just money which made her look the way she did. Dress any of the secretaries or typists in those clothes, and they just wouldn’t be able to carry it off. On the other hand, dress this woman in a sack, and she’d still look good.

  Woodend made his way to the back of the room. The woman made no move to meet him half-way, but instead watched his advance with interest. As he got closer, he could see that she’d been crying, but even that only seemed to enhance her beauty.

  ‘Poor bloody Pamela,’ she said, when he was close enough to hear.

  ‘I’m Chief Inspector Woodend,’ he said.

  ‘I know you are.’

  ‘And you are …?’

  ‘Lucy Higson. The Personnel Manager said you wanted me to be here.’

  Lucy Higson! Derek’s wife! But he must be a good twenty years older than her.

  A slight smile came to the woman’s face. ‘It’s not the age of a man that counts,’ she said. ‘It’s the man himself.’

  ‘Bloody hell, was I that obvious?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘Probably not to most people. But I know what signs to look for. God knows, I’ve had enough practice looking at them since I married Derek. Half the men we meet wonder how he ever got to be such a lucky bastard, and the other half just assume I married him for his money.’

  ‘An’ did you?’ Woodend asked, before he could stop himself.

  Lucy Higson did not take offence. ‘I’d have married him if he’d been living in the gutter,’ she said. ‘How can I help you with your investigation?’