by Andy Maslen
He repeated the process on the other six lines. He’d specialised in coding at university, developing a piece of software with a couple of friends that had netted each of them enough money to buy flats, start businesses or, in one of their cases, bid for and win a rare 1970s Ferrari, which the proud new owner had wrecked two weeks after taking delivery.
GeomAlyser could perform a number of useful functions that would be possible to do manually, except it did them in a fraction of a second and didn’t require pencils, tracing paper, protractors, a pair of compasses and a calculator.
The relatively shallow depth of the cuts as revealed in the PM report indicated that the murderer had used a hand-held tool, and not some industrial bolt- or cable-cutter. A few keystrokes later, and the programme told him what he wanted to know: the radius of the blades was 38 centimetres plus-or-minus 3 millimetres.
That’s secateurs out, for a start, he thought, smiling with satisfaction as a piece of the puzzle fell into place.
What did it leave? He ran through the options as they came to mind, rather than in any order of likelihood. Ceremonial ribbon-cutting scissors. Professional garden shears. Maybe some sort of agricultural implement.
He launched the toolmarks database, marvelling once again at the Met’s ability to torture the English language into coughing up ‘appropriate’ acronyms. STABS stood for Signatures of Tools And Bladed weaponS. Lucian felt the terminal S was a cheat, but the database was a goldmine, so he forgave its creators.
In billions of ones and zeroes it encoded the wound signatures of tens of thousands of bladed, pointed and blunt weapons that had been used in crimes across the Metropolitan Police Service’s jurisdiction over the previous three and a half decades.
A notch on the side of a machete, an imperfection on the blade of a pair of hairdressing scissors, a maker’s stamp on a hammer head. All had been enough to convict those who’d wielded them in the heat of passion or the cold of a premeditated murder, and all now gave up their secrets willingly to the person who knew which keywords to enter into the search box.
Lucian’s first search was for the type of weapon used on Niamh Connolly to such devastating effect.
In a few seconds the database returned three hits based on a cut radius of 38 centimetres. The first, as he’d already surmised, was a pair of oversized scissors as used by dignitaries or, these days, celebrities, to cut the ribbon on a new shopping centre, playpark or hospital ward.
He wrinkled his nose. Although the blade length was right, the handles added almost as much again in length, which would make them very unwieldy and hard to conceal. The fact they’d been used by one factory worker on another at the place they were made reinforced Lucian’s gut feel that this wasn’t the weapon.
The next hit was a vintage pair of garden shears. But these had the same problem as the scissors in terms of overall length, although the rusting blades ticked a second box.
He clicked on the third line of text:
Sheep-shears, manual, 141/2’ length.
Mfr: Burgon & Ball.
The forensic photographer had shot the shears against a standard white background with a chequered, black-and-white, L-shaped ruler for scale. Lucian did a rapid mental calculation: 141/2 inches equated to around 37 centimetres. He tapped the numbers into a desk calculator: 36.83. Bingo!
The shears in the photo were rusted and bloodstained, the colours of the two contaminants almost matching. They resembled the blades and long, thin tangs of a pair of handleless butcher’s knives, facing each other and riveted at their ends into a heart-shaped spring of flat sprung steel. The blades would slide over each other to clip the sheep’s fleece free, springing apart after each cut.
He printed out a colour copy, making a note in the printer use file and shaking his head at just how far budgeting had crept in the justice system. He was sure criminals didn’t have to keep receipts for every packet of staples or duct tape.
‘Now for the big one,’ he breathed. ‘Are you in our database?’
For this operation, Lucian needed a schematic diagram of the cut marks: the groups of seven and three parallel lines. Twenty minutes later, he had a cleaned-up black-and-white image reorientated so the lines were vertical. He imported the schematic into STABS and asked for a comparison, using the database identifier SS/m for ‘sheep shears manual’.
The little hourglass spun jerkily for ten seconds. Lucian sat calmly, waiting for it to finish, thinking now about the rope sitting before him inside the paper evidence bag.
The chances of a weapon’s already being in the database weren’t high, but they weren’t zero, either. It was more usually employed when a suspect’s property had been searched and a weapon matching that used on a victim of crime had been found there. A characteristic pattern found on a murder weapon and suspect’s tool would be enough for an arrest and often a conviction.
The hourglass came to rest.
No hits.
Lucian frowned. Then he shrugged. If only a lone, brilliant CSI could sit at his desk and solve major crimes by tapping a computer keyboard! Pulling on a pair of gloves, he slit the tape closing the evidence bag and removed the rope, holding it between thumb and forefinger.
He stretched it out on a green rubber cutting mat marked with a yellow grid of centimetres and millimetres, each tenth centimetre demarcated with a thicker line.
He noted the length: 95 cm. And the diameter: 12 mm.
The colour to the naked eye was off-white. At one end, and again roughly in the centre, the rope was stained with what appeared to be blood. Small patches of red, rather than a soaking.
He dabbed a forensic swab on one of the red stains and sealed it in a plastic tube. It would be the work of moments to ascertain if it were indeed blood. Now for the rope itself. First, a simple magnifying glass. Some of the younger CSIs and technicians always wanted to rush for the ‘big toys’ as they were known, the scanning and backscatter electron microscopes.
Lucian preferred to start as low-tech as possible and work up. He reckoned you caught more that way and, in any case, you could usually tell more about a broken-off acrylic fingernail or shell casing by inspecting it visually than blowing it up to the size of a continent.
Under the magnifying glass, an antique with a brass frame and mahogany handle he’d bought on eBay, Lucian examined the surface of the rope. Sticking out at random intervals were short crinkly fibres in black and gold.
‘Hmm,’ he muttered. ‘What are you, then? Wool? Silk? Cotton?’
Time to delve a little deeper. Using needle-pointed tweezers, he eased one each of the gold-and- black fibres away from the rope fibres, and trapped them between two glass microscope slides.
Five minutes later, he had an answer he was ninety-nine per cent sure of: the black and gold fibres were wool. The scaly pattern, like the bark on a monkey-puzzle tree, confirmed it. He ran them through the gas chromatograph to be sure, and the result, when it arrived, gave him the missing one per cent.
He repeated the process with the white fibres themselves: the distinctive appearance, like bamboo sticks, gave him his answer: flax.
Two hours later, after running the rest of his tests and writing up his findings, he called Stella.
‘What’ve you got for me, Lucian? Please say it’s good news.’
‘It is good news. Here’s what I can give you right now. The rope they turned up in the search is flax: the same stuff they use to make linen. And it’s got black and gold wool fibres in it.’
‘Do the wool fibres match the fibre Verity pulled from the ligature mark in Niamh’s neck?’
‘They do, but only as far as saying they’re wool, and they’re the same colour. Evidentially, it’s not bad, but a decent defence brief could pull it apart in seconds.’
‘OK, but it’s still a really strong link,’ Stella said, her relief evident. ‘And the tool mark analysis is fantastic. There can’t be many of those sitting around. Any DNA?’
‘I found blood and skin cells. We can
test them in-house but that’ll take about a week. Or I can send them to an external lab, put a rush-notice on them. That’ll give you results in either twenty-four or forty-eight hours depending on how much you want to pay. Until we get a match to Niamh’s DNA, all we really have is a bit of rope someone used while bleeding.’
‘Shit! Why does everything come down to money? Fine. Leave it with me. I’ll talk to Callie about the budget. My parents would be so proud. They always wanted me to be an accountant.’
Lucian laughed.
‘I’m sure that’s not true.’
‘OK, it’s not. But I may as well be the amount of bloody time I spend looking at spreadsheets. So, what about the weapon he used to mutilate her?’
‘I can tell you that for nothing. Sheep shears. Vintage. They use a scissoring action. The blade radius, cut marks, they’re all consistent. They found what appeared to be rust in the wounds at the PM. I ran it through the mass-spectrometer, which confirmed it.’
‘You can’t see me, but I am kneeling before you. Thanks, Lucian, you’re a star. Gotta go. I need to ask Callie to increase my pocket money.’
24
THURSDAY 16TH AUGUST 11.15 A.M.
Eleni Booth interlaced her bony fingers on the desk in front of her and, finally, smiled. The expression changed her face completely, animating it with a liveliness that was completely disarming.
‘So, detective inspector. You said you had something you wanted to show me? As you can see, I decided I could manage alone. We’re a small charity and our funds don’t really stretch to lawyers.’
Roisin extracted the photo from her messenger bag and placed it front and centre, facing Booth. She tapped the young man’s face.
‘Do you know that man?’
Booth pulled open a drawer and brought out a slim silver spectacles case, from which she extracted a pair of rimless reading glasses.
She peered at the image.
‘It’s not very clear, is it?’
‘Not very, no. Do you know him?’
Booth shrugged.
‘His face looks familiar, but we get a lot of people turning up when we’re protesting. He doesn’t work for WAGSARR, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘It’s not what I’m asking, as I think you heard. What I am asking, Eleni, is whether you know him?’
Booth sighed.
‘Let me get Nancy in here. She was at The Sackville Centre last Friday. Actually, as you’re closer to the door, would you mind?’
Ha! Not at all.
Roisin stood and opened the office door.
‘Nancy?’ she barked. ‘You’re wanted.’
A young woman dressed in a black leather biker jacket, tie-dyed T-shirt and black jeans ripped across both knees stood and made her way over to the office door, which Roisin held wide for her. A wisp of perfume trailed along in her wake, something light and floral. She wore her hair in bunches, which gave her the look of a schoolgirl bunking off for the day.
She sat in the only other chair in the cramped space, a folding wooden seat she had to retrieve from its position leaning against a fling cabinet. She looked at Roisin guiltily, her lower lip trembling, and the DI took pity.
‘Look, it’s nothing to worry about, OK? I just want you to look at the bloke with the placard in that photo and tell me if you recognise him.’
Know him would be better, but I’ll settle for anything at this point.
Nancy took the photo from Booth’s fingers and spun it round to face her.
Without hesitation, she turned to Roisin.
‘That’s Isaac Holt?’
Feeling the first flutter of excitement she’d had on this case, Roisin pressed a little harder.
‘And that’s just your way of telling me, yes? You’re sure you recognise him?’
‘Yeah. Hundred per cent? He’s like, a regular?’
‘So do you know Isaac?’
‘Oh, we all know him? Kim gives him a lift to all our demos? They live a few streets away from each other?’
Roisin felt like punching the air. She forced herself to speak in a conversational tone of voice.
‘So, what’s he like then, Isaac? That’s a fairly ferocious placard he’s holding up.’
Nancy laughed, revealing a black stud in her tongue.
‘I know, right? He does take things to extremes? You should hear the things he says down the pub afterwards?’
Then her hand flew to her mouth and her eyes, as blue as cornflowers, widened above her clamping fingers.
‘Oh, my God,’ she said, bringing her hand down. ‘You don’t, like, think he did it, do you? Murdered Niamh Connolly, I mean? Cos, he’s like, so gentle? I mean, he’s into animal rights? He’s, like, a vegan?’
In Roisin’s experience, animal rights fanatics were capable of the most extraordinary acts of violence. She didn’t bother opening that particular can of worms.
‘I’m not thinking anything at this point, apart from that I’d like to talk to Isaac. This colleague of yours, Kim. Is she here today?’
Nancy nodded.
‘Over there, by the window?’
‘Could you go and get her for me, please?’
While Nancy was fetching her colleague, Roisin looked at Eleni, who’d watched the exchange with Nancy without moving.
‘You don’t approve of us, do you?’ Eleni said.
‘I don’t approve or disapprove, it’s not my place. I’m here to investigate Niamh Connolly’s murder. We’re looking at LoveLife as well, if that’s any consolation.’
Booth snorted, derisively.
‘Huh. They call us murderers. But do you know how many women, especially young women, die after having botched backstreet abortions? It still happens, you know? Right here in the UK, supposedly a civilised country. We have to fight for the woman’s right to choose. We have to fight for—’
‘Look, spare me the soapbox, OK? Abortion’s legal in this country. And so is protesting against it. We don’t take sides in any of these debates. We just do our jobs. Keep the peace. Protect the innocent. Arrest the guilty.’
Booth wrinkled her nose.
‘Innocent? Ugh. Always the innocent. But what about the girl raped by her father? What about the single mother whose new boyfriend refuses to use a condom? Aren’t they innocent? Where’s the compassion for them? You sound just like Niamh Connolly and her kind.’
Against her will, Roisin found herself being dragged into the one argument she never wanted to take part in. She tried to wrest control of the conversation away from Booth.
‘Niamh Connolly doesn’t sound like anything anymore. Because she’s dead.’
That silenced the older woman, and any further discussion was forestalled by the arrival of Nancy and Kim at the office door.
‘Do you, like, need me anymore?’ she asked Roisin. ‘Only, I’ve got a blog post to finish?’
‘No, thanks, Nancy. We’re good.’
Roisin turned to Kim. Early thirties. Curvaceous where Nancy had been skinny, dressed in black and with bright-pink hair cut into punky tufts.
‘Take a seat, please. Kim, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, what’s going on?’ she countered.
Her accent was from somewhere in the Northwest. Manchester, Roisin thought. Maybe Salford. Or Blackburn. Who was she kidding? Once she went further north than Tottenham, she really had no idea who was from Yorkshire, who was from Lancashire and who was from the arse-end of who-knew-where?
Once more, Roisin offered the photo, apparently of a pacifist, animal-loving vegan called Isaac Holt.
‘Nancy says that’s Isaac Holt.’
‘Yeah, that’s Isaac. Funny bloke.’
Making a mental note to come back on that comment, Roisin pressed ahead.
‘Nancy said you live quite close by to Isaac. That you give him a lift sometimes.’
‘We both live in Newham. Couple of streets away from each other. Car-sharing’s more environmentally friendly.’
‘Does he com
e to you or do you pick him up somewhere?’
Please say you go to his place.
‘I normally pick him up outside the King’s Head on Barking Road.’
Shit!
‘Have you ever collected him from his place?’
Kim shook her head, making the silver hoops in her ears, three to a side, jingle against each other.
‘Nope. He’s sort of quite private?’
Double-shit! OK, one last try.
‘But do you know his address?’
‘Yeah. Why didn’t you ask me to begin with instead of all this detective stuff? He pointed his house out once when we had to take a diversion. He’s at 1 Blackbarn Lane.’
Willing herself to stay calm, Roisin made a note of Holt’s address.
‘Does he work?’
‘Not sure. I think he’s got some sort of zero-hours contract. Might be an Uber driver.’
Roisin made another note.
‘OK, thanks, Kim.’
‘Is he in trouble, then, Isaac?’
Roisin smiled.
‘Nothing like that. We just want to have a chat with him. He might have seen something helpful, that’s all.’
‘Good. Cos it’s like Nancy told you. He’s the nicest guy in the world. Just cos he’s, you know, a bit quiet, that doesn’t make him a murderer.’
Now, Roisin said to herself.
25
THURSDAY 16TH AUGUST 11.25 A.M.
Roisin fixed Kim with a hard stare.
‘A minute ago you said he was a funny bloke. What did you mean by that?’
Kim looked down. Roisin followed her gaze to see that the woman’s hands were clamped together, the knuckles white.
She shrugged.
‘You know, like I said, he’s just a bit quiet.’
‘Yes, you did say that. I don’t know about you, Kim,’ she turned, ‘or you, Eleni,’ back to face Kim, ‘but if I meet a guy, you know, a nice guy, and he’s just a bit quiet, shy maybe, I would probably say he doesn’t have much to say for himself. Or he’s a good listener for a change. But “funny”? That’s a word I use when I get a sense something’s a bit off about a bloke. Maybe I’d cross the road if I was on my own at night and he was coming towards me. So again, what did you mean when you called him a funny bloke? I’ll remind you I’m conducting a murder investigation. I would really value the truth from you right now.’
