They all returned to the room and put on their masks. Jonah cut open the body bag, then drew it apart.
Jade felt a swell of pity as she saw Allie on the table. The mess of her, the bruises and bloodstains even darker than on photographs from the scene. She still lay in a similar position on her left side, her dress stained, damp and creased.
Jonah took some photographs from a few feet away, presumably to get the whole body into the frame, before moving in for close-ups.
Jonah and Dobbin removed the bag from underneath the body, and he took it to one of the wide benches that ringed the room and searched for any trace of material before wiping it with swabs, then sealing the swabs and the bag in separate containers.
When he’d finished, he helped Dobbin turn Allie over to photograph her back. ‘Rigor has passed so he’s easy enough to manipulate,’ Dobbin said.
She.
They cut away the dress, removed the shoe and the underwear. Each item was tagged and bagged but Jonah left the dress on the side.
‘Why hasn’t he put it in a bag?’ Jade said quietly, to the boss.
‘It needs to dry out, so it doesn’t deteriorate.’
They weighed and measured Allie’s body and the pathologist summed up her appearance. ‘Well nourished, skin white, eyes blue, hair light brown.’
Jade thought it was more of a dark blonde but she didn’t interrupt.
Methodically they photographed all the cuts, bruises and other marks, each time placing a small ruler in the shot to show the scale. Dobbin continued her running commentary. There were lots of anatomical and medical terms, some of which Jade recognized; the rest she had to guess at.
Next Jonah began to wash the body, the wipes he used turning rusty with the blood. Jade could see the injuries more clearly now. There were bruises on the soft flesh of the abdomen, and on Allie’s thighs more purple marks bloomed. Jade saw the penis, soft and small, no pubic hair visible. Allie’s arms and legs were smooth too. Waxed, perhaps.
It took some time for every mark on the body to be recorded. Then Jonah and Dobbin each used a magnifying glass to search for smaller marks, such as injection sites. At one point Dobbin coughed, turning away from the table.
The boss barely moved.
Jonah combed Allie’s hair, collecting any debris dislodged. He pulled several hairs from her head and put them into a bag.
Internal swabs were taken of the victim’s mouth, ears and nose. Jonah sealed and labelled every item individually. The doctors worked quickly, but the number of stages, the attention to every little detail, the painstaking documentation, meant the post-mortem took time. With no role apart from observer, Jade didn’t get bored exactly, more impatient.
‘See here?’
Jade woke up at the change in the pathologist’s tone. The pathologist traced her fingers a couple of inches above Allie’s stomach. The boss followed her direction, leaning in, Jade at her elbow. ‘The contusion. I think that’s a footprint.’
‘He stood on her?’ the boss said.
‘Stamped?’ Jade said.
Dobbin didn’t speculate. ‘Another here.’ She pointed to the outside of the right thigh. ‘And . . . Jonah, on the left side.’ They rolled the body over and Dobbin said, ‘These arc shapes, I think they’re from the toe of a shoe.’
‘Kicking?’ the boss said.
‘Yes. No sign of any other instrument being used, bat or brick.’
‘Could all these injuries be down to fists and boots?’ the boss said.
‘Yes. Tests will tell us more.’
He kicked her to death. Jade cleared her throat. They. Remembering the 999 call. They beat her. Fucking bastards.
The pathologist returned to cataloguing her findings. ‘Examining the teeth, one filling to the upper left six, upper right one, maxillary central incisor knocked out, present in the mouth.’ Using tweezers she removed the tooth. ‘Lacerations to the tongue.’ Jade could see the gap in Allie’s front teeth, and the split lip. She closed her eyes, imagining the blow that had caused those injuries.
In a practised routine, Jonah took scrapings from under the nails. He clipped them and kept the clippings, then did fingerprints.
‘Lacerations and grazes here on his palms, possibly from breaking the fall.’ Dobbin addressed the boss.
When he knocked her down, Jade thought.
‘And this series of wounds on the forearms, and these along the shins, are consistent with a defensive posture. Curling up, arms over his face . . .’
Her face.
‘. . . knees drawn up to protect the abdomen.’
Swabs of the genitalia and the anus came next and the pathologist said, ‘External examination complete.’ She turned to the boss and Jade. ‘You might want to step back a bit now. We’ll start the internal exam.’ She lifted a blade.
I will not faint, Jade told herself. I will not. There was little blood as Dobbin made the Y-incision. ‘There are the broken ribs,’ she said.
Jonah approached the table with a saw. The buzz of the machine filled the room as they cut through the ribcage.
It was the colours that were most surprising to Jade. The browns and reds and pinks of the organs. With each one the pathologist began by recording any physical injury before surgically removing an organ, weighing it and taking samples for further analysis.
Jade let the words flow around her. ‘Blood in the pericardial sac . . . rupture of the spleen . . . partially digested food in the stomach.’
The buffet at the prom.
Dobbin turned her attention to the brain. ‘We need a close look at that scalp before we go in,’ she said.
They wanted to shave her head. The boss looked at her, made a face, sad, resigned. Gave a small shrug. Jade took a breath. The smell of bleach caught at the back of her throat. She rubbed her neck.
Shorn, Allie looked smaller, even more vulnerable.
Jade thought of her neighbour, Mina, crying, ‘Your hair.’ Nothing can hurt her now, she told herself.
The pathologist described the wounds on Allie’s scalp, then made a cut right around the head, and pulled down the face.
Saliva thick in her mouth, Jade looked up at the ceiling but that made it hard to swallow.
Nothing can hurt her. She’s gone. It’s just a body.
‘Deep contusions. Fracture to the cranium. Proceeding to remove the calvaria.’ The pathologist used the saw to cut off the dome of the skull. ‘Trauma to the dura.’ Then she was lifting out the brain.
Jade turned and strode to the door, her stomach convulsing, spasms rippling up into her throat making her gag. Desperate to reach the toilet in time.
Afterwards she splashed her face and neck with water and stared at herself in the mirror. You fucking wimp. Fuck. Fucking. Fuck.
Then she went back to face the music.
Sonia
The house was quiet when Sonia got in from work. Oliver was still in bed, she guessed. She’d leave him be. He hadn’t been that late last night. It had been not long after twelve when she’d heard him come upstairs. But he could still sleep all day, given the chance, like most teenagers. Getting him up for seven thirty in the week, so he’d be on time to his apprenticeship at the other side of town, was a struggle. When would that change? How much longer would she have to be his knocker-upper as well as chief cook and bottle washer?
Her phone rang: her friend Rose. ‘You fancy a drink tonight?’ Rose said.
‘I would if I’d any money. We could stay in, bring a bottle, download a movie.’
‘I need to get out,’ Rose said. ‘Four walls, you know? My treat.’ Rose lived with her dad, who was disabled with a lung condition that had him on oxygen. She had been married for all of five minutes as a seventeen-year-old and moved back home after. When her mum left, Rose became her dad’s carer. She worked a few hours a week as a classroom assistant at a primary school and was desperate to have a family of her own but hadn’t met anyone worth considering in years of trying. She kept upbeat mostly, but now
and then the mask cracked and she confided in Sonia how lonely, how unhappy she was.
‘Rose, I can’t let you pay—’
‘Course you can, don’t be daft. You’d do the same for me.’
‘Yeah. Don’t hold your breath, though.’
Rose laughed.
‘Are you sure?’ Sonia said.
‘Positive. There’s karaoke on at the Swan.’
‘We like a bit of karaoke,’ Sonia said.
‘That we do. Eight o’clock?’
‘See you then.’
Sonia made herself a sandwich and a cup of coffee, had a fag. She should try vaping again, she thought, shivering slightly as she stood outside the back door. Bloody cold for June. Cold wind. In fact, she would try vaping again. Soon. It wasn’t the same, whatever people said. She reckoned you had to accept that and get used to the difference. Different smell and taste, a different physical kick.
When she went upstairs to use the loo and get the laundry, she saw there was daylight showing under Oliver’s door. She knocked and, getting no answer, went in. Bed empty, curtains drawn back. Out somewhere.
Curious, she texted him: Where u? Back 4 tea?
Park. Yes. He replied straight away.
Back in the kitchen, she loaded the washing-machine and saw the new pack of detergent had been opened, the old one gone. He must have done some washing. Wonders would never cease. Did he actually know how to operate the thing? She checked in the back room where she had the clothes horse and, sure enough, there was a load of his stuff hung to dry. Maybe it was a thank-you for the fifty/sixty quid. He was a good lad, really, beneath the teenage strop and sulks. He was. She saw newspaper on the floor by the window and peered over the rack. His good shoes were sitting on the free advertiser, the paper sodden. She reached down and felt them: dripping wet. Had he actually put these in the machine too? Daft bugger. Still a way to go yet, then. She fetched more paper and stuffed them with it.
Well, at least he’d made an effort. Smiling to herself, she went back to her own washing, her mind turning to the evening ahead and what she might wear.
Donna
Donna had told Jade to wait outside, get some fresh air, before going back to the incident room. She found her by the exit to the car park, biting her nails.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jade said.
‘No problem,’ Donna said. ‘Most of us have been there, or come close.’
Jade turned to go, stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets, then hesitated.
‘What is it?’ Donna said.
‘The pathologist, the identity stuff. You never even—’
‘Whoa! Are you telling me how to do my job?’ Donna said.
‘No, but—’
Yes, you are. Tight with irritation, Donna kept her voice level while she laid out her thinking. ‘Look, I could tell she wasn’t going to negotiate. I could tell she’d dug her heels in. And I could accept that what goes down on that form, what’s on the post-mortem and on her death certificate and in the register of births, marriages and deaths, is accurate according to the letter of the law. I hadn’t got a leg to stand on. But it’s not what’s most important. What is most important is that we acknowledge her identity, in keeping with her wishes and those of her family, so this inquiry talks about Allie, not Aled, she not he, her not him. Like I said this morning. When I make a statement to the press and media later this afternoon, that’s what I’ll be doing.’
Jade studied her boots. Was she taking any of it in?
Donna went on, ‘Same as her family will describe her as Allie in any notices in the paper, in their memorial or funeral arrangements, on her headstone or remembrance plaque. She died as a transgender woman. She possibly died because she was a transgender woman and, yes, it’s frustrating the post-mortem report won’t reflect that, but that’s where we are. Accept it and move on.’
Jade glanced at her, eyes narrowed against the light, head tilted, silent. Sulking? Possibly. But Donna had had more than enough practice with sulkers, thanks to her kids. Not a good look for a junior officer, though. Donna hoped it wouldn’t be a regular occurrence. ‘Now, you’ve got work to do?’
‘Yes, boss. The witness statements,’ she said flatly.
‘Good,’ Donna said. ‘Soon as you can.’
‘Yes, boss,’ Jade said, and stalked off, hands jammed into her pockets and shoulders up, the message clear. Don’t mess with me.
Donna met Steve Kennaway, his mother and the family liaison officer, Yun Li, in the relatives’ lounge at the mortuary prior to the formal identification. It was a carefully bland space with neutral colours, dark grey carpet, beige walls and brown upholstered chairs. There were tissues on the coffee-tables and a drinks machine in the corner.
Donna checked if Steve would be accompanied in the viewing room.
His mother, Mrs Kennaway, spoke up. ‘Yes, I’ll be with him.’
‘I need to prepare you for what you will see,’ Donna told them. ‘Allie will be covered from the neck down, her hands visible by her sides. Her head will be covered and her face visible.’ Donna sketched the shape around her own hairline. They would not need to see the shorn skull or the worst of the injuries. ‘You will see her face is bruised and swollen. She has some cuts and grazes. I will ask you if this is your daughter and I will give her name and date of birth. You tell me if it is Allie.’
Steve looked away, closed his eyes. Donna waited a moment. ‘Is there anything you want to ask me?’
He took his mother’s hand. ‘No,’ he said.
‘You are welcome to stay in the viewing room if you wish. That is completely up to you,’ Donna went on. ‘Yun Li and the mortuary technician will also be present for the identification. But we can give you time alone after that, should you wish, and you don’t have to tell me yet. Are you ready now?’
Steve nodded and got to his feet.
The mortuary technician led them into the viewing room, Donna after him, then Steve and his mother, and finally Yun Li.
Donna heard a soft gasp from Mrs Kennaway and saw Steve hold his hand over his mouth.
Through the glass, Allie’s body looked small on the trolley. The left side of her face, the side they could see, was less badly injured but still daubed with bruises and grazes, her lip torn and misshapen.
Donna spoke: ‘Is this your daughter Allie Kennaway, date of birth the twenty-fourth of April 1998?’
‘Yes, this is Allie,’ Steve said.
‘Thank you. Would you like some time here?’ Donna said.
‘No,’ Steve said, his voice hoarse. He turned, stumbling slightly. He linked arms with his mother as they went back to the other room.
The two of them sat side by side, Steve covering his face and breathing unsteadily. Mrs Kennaway, eyes full of tears, was trembling.
‘Thank you,’ Donna said, after a few moments. ‘I can only imagine how hard that must have been. Yun here will take you home when you’re ready to go but please take as long as you need. We’ll be making an official statement to the press and the public this afternoon. There is likely to be intense interest and it may be advisable to stay with family or friends until things calm down. We can arrange to book a hotel for you, if you’d prefer.’
‘I want to stay at home,’ Steve said.
He’d no idea what was coming, Donna realized. ‘What’s likely to happen, Steve, is that the media will be camped outside your house, filming anyone entering or leaving, asking for comments and statements. It can be highly intrusive and unwelcome at a time like this.’
‘I want to stay at home,’ he repeated.
His mother looked worried, a frown across her forehead. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.
‘See how you go on,’ Donna said. ‘We’d ask you not to speak to anyone at this stage, no comments at all, because it could compromise the investigation.’
‘Fine,’ he said, but he seemed distracted, rubbing at his knuckles, rocking slightly.
‘There’s something else I need to tel
l you about. We’ve had the preliminary results from the post-mortem,’ Donna said.
Steve turned to face her, his eyes clouded.
‘They confirm what we suspected. That Allie died as a result of blunt-force trauma, a catastrophic brain injury.’ Donna paused to see if Steve or his mother would want to know any more but neither of them spoke. ‘Any questions you have, anything at all, if you need any help or advice, please ask Yun Li. I’ll keep him updated.’
Mrs Kennaway nodded.
Steve’s eyes were still unfocused. He was barely present. She thanked them both. Yun Li nodded to her: he’d keep an eye on things.
She was glad to get out of the building, away from the emotional overload, the atmosphere that made her feel claustrophobic, bitter grief and heartbreak choking the air.
Donna put on some make-up before the press conference, foundation, mascara, a touch of blush. Her hair needed a wash but a brush was all it would get. She had thick hair, which she was glad of. It didn’t need much attention – a trim every few weeks, the fringe tidying up, and highlights to mask the grey.
She checked her teeth looked clean, no shreds of spinach stuck between them from the wrap she had eaten between the postmortem and the formal ID. Like all officers at her level, she’d had some media training and had done enough public speaking not to feel nervous in front of the cameras.
Harold Jenkins, the chief constable, was in attendance. He sat between the press officer and Donna in front of the banner with the police-service logo. Screens either side carried a projected photograph of Allie Kennaway in her prom dress, taken by her father hours before her death. Eyes bright, wide-open smile.
The hall was crammed with journalists and photographers, film crews ranged at the back, their cameras raised on tripods to get a clear line to the stage.
Most of those present would have picked up on the rumours haemorrhaging across social media, but most would have held off reporting the murder until this official announcement. There was a volley of flashes and a battery of sounds as they took their seats.
The Girl in the Green Dress Page 7
