by Alison Bruce
‘And?’
‘Says he knows nothing.’
‘And you’ve got that in a statement?’
‘No, I was sidetracked with this business. Do you really think it’s still necessary?’
‘Absolutely. Is that a problem for you?’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Goodhew fibbed again.
Within five minutes, they crossed from the edge of leafy pre-war suburbia to the sprawling sixties development of Addenbrooke’s Hospital. Goodhew took the perimeter road around the campus. Two parking bays were reserved for pathology and both stood empty.
‘Pull in here. We’ll wait until Sykes shows up, there’s no point in us hanging around inside.’ Marks unclipped his seatbelt and shifted round in his seat so his head rested against the window.
Sometimes Goodhew wished he could spend just five minutes inside his boss’s head. But then, on second thoughts, it might be – like Ratty had said – healthier to stay on your own side of the line. And therefore leave Marks on his.
TWELVE
The laboratory reminded Goodhew of a showpiece commercial kitchen. Stainless steel appliances hummed, keeping the meat chilled and the cutlery sterilized. The sinks gleamed and the work surfaces were perforated with holes that allowed water and juices to drain from the carcasses. Implements, including knives, scalpels and a small tenon saw, were sorted by type then size, waiting for use.
The room was almost square, with a single door over to one corner. It had a window, too, but only in the partition wall between it and a small viewing gallery. Lighting, bright and white, blazed down from flush panels in the ceiling; confirming that plenty of people got more attention when they were dead than they ever did in life, although Goodhew was sure that didn’t apply to this particular corpse. Even in the aftermath of her squalid death, she held on to neatness. Strands of her hair still held the shape of their last cut, and not one of her short nails was chipped or broken.
Goodhew felt like a school kid on the first day of a new term; the surroundings were familiar, but his senses were heightened. He knew his way around, but he’d forgotten the detail; the dry air, the disinfectant that never quite covered up the rusty smell of blood, and the toe-tag on the body that was always filled in with black ink from a fountain pen.
The girl hadn’t been beautiful, but she wasn’t ugly in any way either. She had a roundish face and features that were in proportion but unremarkable. Her hair was slightly longer than a bob, and layered, as if anything more feminine might not have suited her. She was boyish rather than womanly and that applied to her body, too: her breasts were small and her hips narrow, and the overall effect was more like parallel lines than an hourglass, but attractive nevertheless.
She’d taken care of herself too. Her complexion was flawless, and all over her body her skin appeared blemish-free – even on her feet it was smooth and unchafed. Her legs and underarms were hairless with no sign of regrowth, and her bikini line had been waxed to leave just a half-inch strip of pubic hair.
Sykes’s first job had been to remove the victim’s clothes and personal effects. And, of course, the ripped black plastic bag that had ended up looking like a grotesque balaclava.
She now lay on the examination table, naked with blue-marbled skin stretched over the stiff tissue underneath. The only hint of colour was in her lower legs, where the flesh had turned a deep purplish-red. Later, Sykes would open her up and the trapped blood would leak, like a side of beef oozing on a butcher’s block.
Goodhew pushed this food analogy from his mind. Luckily, nothing about Anthony Sykes reminded him of a chef. The pathologist was no more than five six, aged around forty, slim – probably lighter than most teenage girls of that height. He didn’t look capable of manoeuvring a large carcass of any kind but, in reality, he was remarkably skilful at lifting and turning the lifeless corpse.
Two anglepoise-style brackets projected downwards from the ceiling. On one, a camcorder was mounted, and on the other, a rectangular lamp which would act as a floodlight for illuminating Sykes’s close-up work.
When he spoke, it was slowly and clearly for the benefit of the recording, but in a tone which didn’t alter when he turned to address Marks or Goodhew.
‘Body 8926. Unidentified female.’ He wheeled a side trolley into shot, on which was a collection of clear plastic bags, each one sealed and labelled. He took them one by one and held them up to the camera. ‘Already removed and bagged are: item 8926-01 black leather left shoe, size four, item 8926-02 black leather right shoe, size four, item 8926-03 black skirt, item 8926-04 black bra, item 8926-05 black T-shirt, item 8926-06 black roll-neck woollen sweater, item 8926-07 hallmarked gold ring, item 8926-08 gold earring set with small white stone removed from left ear and item 8926-09 matching earring removed from the right ear. Each of these items was found on the body. These were the only items discovered at the scene—’
‘No knickers?’ interrupted Marks.
‘These were the only items discovered at the scene, but in isolation this does not indicate sexual assault.’
Sykes pushed the trolley to one side and turned to the body.
‘Body 8926. Unidentified female, early to mid-twenties, Caucasian. Height 156 centimetres, weight 112 pounds. External examination of the body. . .’ Sykes paused to position himself at her ankles.
Goodhew guessed it was just procedure, but he wondered why Sykes always started at the feet, especially when, in this case at least, the more interesting information was obviously concentrated at the other end.
Sykes inspected the soles, then spread the toes, checking the skin between. He pointed to the dark colouring of the feet and ankles. ‘That’s not bruising.’
‘It’s post-mortem lividity,’ Goodhew replied.
‘Sorry, I forget who knows what.’ Sykes took samples from under each of the toenails. ‘The feet are both of normal development and they show no visible signs of injury.’
And so he continued, inch by inch, up towards her armpits, then down her arm to her fingers, where he again took samples from under her nails.
He pointed to a small bruise in the middle of her upper left arm. ‘The contusion here appears to be recent and, while it is only small, there is a similar mark on the other arm, possibly consistent with an assailant gripping her and leaving thumbprints.’ He lifted each arm and examined it. ‘On both arms there are a number of smaller contusions to the rear of the limb. These are, in my opinion, bruises made by fingertip pressure. The distance between the thumb and finger marks, and the clarity of them, suggest a person with largish hands and a strong grip. There are no other signs of soft-tissue damage to the arms or hands.’
‘No defence wounds, you mean?’ Goodhew queried.
‘Exactly,’ Sykes replied.
Marks was also keen to get down to the key detail. ‘What about her head and neck?’
‘Yes, well, I’m coming to that next.’ Sykes pulled the inspection light in closer and scrutinized the puckered skin around the victim’s throat. ‘Already bagged are items 8926-10 and 8926-11, a black carrier bag and a length of black bias binding.’ He felt up and down her windpipe, pressing gently with his finger and thumb. ‘The marks around the neck could imply strangulation, but with the majority of manual strangulations the use of excessive force causes damage in the larynx area. At first examination, neither the thyroid cartilage nor the hyoid bone feels damaged, and a more likely use of the bias binding seems to have been to secure the bag, and therefore cause asphyxiation.’
Marks interrupted. ‘Is the ribbon itself significant?’
‘You mean, rather than use rope or tights, for example? It’s bias binding, used in needlework I believe, so not what most people would normally carry about their person. Of course, we don’t know that this tape wasn’t the victim’s own. As you know, many sexual murders involve strangulation, but this stuff isn’t intrinsically strong . . . well, who knows? Let’s just say that, on face value, it doesn’t tell us much. What is more interesting, of cours
e, is the fact that, whether strangled or suffocated, the victim did not appear to struggle, so . . .’
Marks finished the sentence for him: ‘. . . she may well have known her attacker.’
‘Or been drugged,’ Goodhew added.
‘Or already been unconscious,’ Sykes finished. He paused for a few seconds, making sure their attention reverted to the corpse. He then took a series of swabs from her mouth and nose, ears and eyes. ‘Suffocation,’ he muttered, almost to himself. After that, he plucked a few hairs from her head, identifying each by its precise location on her scalp.
Without asking for assistance, he rolled the corpse over on to its belly. It was a practised move that left her symmetrically arranged. Her mouth was partially open and Goodhew had to remind himself that nothing would come dribbling out past her swollen lips; even her tongue would now be powder dry.
‘Time to find out about her private life,’ Sykes announced in a matter-of-fact voice. He flicked a switch on the inspection light and a second bulb lit up.
‘What’s that for?’ Goodhew asked.
‘It’s a Wood’s lamp, fluorescent, used to identify the presence of semen,’ Sykes explained, before producing a fresh clutch of cotton buds and swabbing the entrance to her anus. Then he reached to his array of sterilized equipment, selected a speculum and obtained internal swabs. ‘You haven’t seen one before then?’
Goodhew shook his head.
Sykes rolled her on to her back again. ‘We’re more likely to pick up something around the vagina.’ He parted her legs and swung the light lower, inspecting her labia and clitoris. ‘Bingo, likely presence of semen.’ He switched back to the normal light and reverted to studying her skin, working his way up the inside of her legs. ‘A few minor contusions on each inner thigh, some recent, some less so,’ he reported.
He took more swabs and examined the vagina and perineal skin for injuries. With a small metal comb from his instrument tray, he combed through her pubic hair and collected the loose ones, then plucked several further hairs for comparison.
Goodhew’s gaze wandered back to the instrument tray. The scalpels, saws and drill were lined up ready on the cold stainless steel. Their turn had almost come.
He knew what was coming next, and knew it didn’t bother him. Or, at least, it never had in the past. He saw it merely as an evidence collection process, a key tool for helping the victim and the victim’s relatives.
So far, Goodhew had attended few post-mortems, only during training and, like now, simply for the experience. He had never seen a body dissected that was so close to his own age. Perhaps she had been one of the girls he had seen lounging on Parker’s Piece just a few days earlier. He glanced at the corpse and looked away again, then stared at the clock, concentrating on the second hand slowly stepping around the dial and waiting for his sense of detachment to return.
Then he heard Marks speaking to him. ‘Gary?’
‘Sir?’
‘I said, any questions before we go for the internal?’
‘Sorry. No.’
‘Everything all right?’
‘Fine.’
Marks nodded to Sykes. ‘Let’s get on with it, then.’
Sykes picked up a scalpel. Goodhew always found the first cut the hardest to watch, and so pinned his attention on the soft skin near the girl’s right shoulder. He needed to know whether he could handle this. His stomach tightened with apprehension.
With firm pressure Sykes made the blade break the skin and drew it across the top of the chest, dipping in the middle to make the cut form a low wide V, like the neckline of a ball gown. The skin parted like silently ripping silk.
He made a second incision, slitting her from the base of the V straight down to her pubic bone.
He then reached back to his instrument tray; his next job was to cut through ribs and cartilage and remove the heart and lungs.
Blood began making a metallic plink-plink-plink as drops hit the stainless steel drip trays.
The first waves of smell reached Goodhew’s nostrils and the food analogy wafted back, with an uninvited suggestion of uncooked pork casserole. Soon Sykes would be cutting deeper and unleashing the thick invasive odour of flesh, faeces and stomach contents, so it really wasn’t the time for planning dinner.
After a few seconds of deliberately thinking about nothing, Goodhew relaxed again; the scene wasn’t repulsing him. He felt the same as he always had: they needed to know who she was and the cause and time of death, and he was in just the right place to gather that kind of information.
THIRTEEN
From the corner of his eye, Goodhew caught sight of their reflections in the viewing-gallery window. He was in the centre, flanked by DI Marks and Anthony Sykes. Twice Goodhew glanced up, half-expecting to see three other people instead of the same three reflections staring in at the body. However, after an hour, he sensed someone really was watching, and looked up to find Kincaide peering in from the other side of the glass.
Kincaide mouthed something and pointed at Marks.
Goodhew touched his superior’s arm. ‘Sir, Kincaide’s arrived.’
‘Better see what he wants.’
Sykes looked up, too. ‘There’s an intercom button next to the window. Turn it on and we’ll be able to hear him.’
Goodhew clicked the plastic on-off switch and slid the volume control up to halfway. He guessed this had been considered modern technology, somewhere back in the eighties.
Kincaide cleared his throat and his short cough came out as a tinny crackle from the single speaker mounted above the booth. ‘Your phone’s off so I decided to come in and find you. We think her name may be Lorna Spence.’
It was funny how just having a name made a difference. All four of them turned their attention to the corpse’s face: it was an automatic reaction to hearing her name. Lorna Spence. Oval face. Wide mouth. Freckled skin. Hazel eyes. Feathered hair.
It was a bit like a dot-to-dot game, where the name joined them up. It was the missing feature, the thing they’d needed to complete the picture.
‘How do you know?’ Marks asked.
‘Lucky teeth.’ Kincaide half-smiled and Goodhew guessed he was enjoying his moment of keeping everyone hanging in an expectant pause.
‘Lucky what?’ Marks asked. ‘Teeth?’
Kincaide tapped his own. ‘A space between your two front teeth is supposed to be lucky, sir. I expect kids are told that to stop them picking on the gappy ones.’ He knew just how many seconds Marks would tolerate the suspense and waited until the inspector drew an irritated breath. ‘The station received a call from a consultant at the Excelsior Clinic on Magdalene Street. One of their staff, Lorna Spence, is missing from work. She’s twenty-three, five two with short highlighted hair and a gap between her teeth. The station couldn’t get hold of you, so they contacted me because I’d seen the body. I thought it sounded likely, so I came straight over.’
‘Have you found an address for her?’
‘21 Rolfe Street. It’s in the centre, about five minutes’ walk from the Excelsior.’
‘Yes, yes, I know where it is.’ Marks turned back to Sykes. ‘We’re almost done?’
‘Another half-hour at most.’
Then he turned to Goodhew. ‘Take that gown off and go along with Kincaide to the Excelsior.’ He gave a quick nod in the direction of the body. ‘If it still looks likely that she’s this Lorna Spence, call me and I’ll get someone over to the girl’s house as soon as possible. See if you can find out anyone who knows her, and if anyone lives with her. Don’t forget to keep it in the present tense as it still may be the wrong woman.’
Goodhew discarded his gown in the first laundry bin he found. He came across Kincaide waiting for him in the corridor leading to the main hospital exit. ‘Do you know this Excelsior Clinic?’ he asked.
‘Only by reputation,’ Kincaide muttered. ‘It does cosmetic work, I gather. It was set up originally by several specialists, and does eye surgery and dental work along with the
usual stuff.’
‘The usual stuff?’
‘You know, boob jobs, nose jobs, tattoo removal, skin treatments that stretch away wrinkles and shot-blast faces to keep fifty-somethings looking like forty-somethings because forty-somethings are busy trying to look like thirty-year-old Barbies.’
‘You don’t approve, then?’
Kincaide flashed him a lopsided smile, accompanied by a short snort. ‘I’m sure it’s the sort of shit that my wife Janice would rather spend money on than use to pay the household bills. But there you go, just not my scene.’
It took them about twenty minutes to reach Magdalene Street. They used the small car park belonging to the Excelsior Clinic, which had eight staff spaces and eight more for visitors. Four of the staff slots had been assigned eight-by-three plaques with two lines of dark-blue letters on a light-grey background. The top line said ‘Reserved For’ and the second line gave the occupant’s name. Goodhew took a quick look at each: R. Moran, A. Moran, D. Shan and P. Norgren. Two Mercedes, one green, one silver, a new ‘S’ type Jag and a Saab convertible. ‘These must be the consultants, I guess. Which one rang it in?’
‘Guy called Richard Moran.’
Dark-green Mercedes saloon. This year’s model, he noted. ‘In person?’
‘Seems so. That’s what I heard, anyway. I don’t know how long she’s been missing.’
A paved footpath led from the car park and continued through a narrow walkway between two buildings. They stepped out from the alley intervening into Magdalene Street.
Goodhew knew the thoroughfare well: it ran from Magdalene College, where leaning Tudor cottages hung over the congested street, down a shallow slope towards the pedestrianized city centre, finishing at Magdalene Bridge amid a knot of pavement cafés.
They now paused at the heart of the coffee shops and restaurants. A stiff breeze threatened rain. It rustled napkins and lifted menus but, even so, the tables were all filled with couples composing postcards, lunchtime meetings of diaries and Danish pastries, and coffee drinkers seated alone with thick books and slow thirsts.
