Cold Kill by David Lawrence Page B

ground.
    He pulled her into the scrub and knelt beside her. He hit her with the hammer twice more, bringing the blows down from as high as his arm could reach, then propped her against one of the ornamental trees and looped a length of woven cord round her neck but didn’t pull it tight. He stripped her from the waist down; he pulled off her leather jacket and pushed her sweater up under her chin. He was wearing a reversible coat, red one side, black the other. He switched the red for the black, then took a pack of babywipesout of his pocket and cleaned his face and hands very thoroughly. As he left, he dropped the clothes he’d taken from her into a skip.
    She could have been anyone. In fact, he had picked out several other women, but something had happened to keep them safe: one had answered a mobile, another had taken a path that led away from the scrub-cover, on a couple of other occasions someone else had come into sight.
    Sophie had been on her own in the park, just for a minute or so. She had taken the path near the scrub. A minute or two was what he needed. The first hammer blow had taken no time at all and he’d been in the scrub with her twenty seconds later. People can die that easily; they can die that fast.
    But Sophie wasn’t dead.
    It was dusk when Stella walked into Rose Park. There was a light drizzle on the wind, rain turning to ice. Back on the road there was a light-show of roof-bars and blue domes, their beams sweeping the bare branches of the ornamental trees. Sorley had put out a panic call and found a scene of crime officer to deputize for Andy Greegan. The guy had gone straight to the scene; now he was organizing halogens and nominating an entry/exit path to the site.
    Stella could see he was doing a good job. She said, ‘You are?’
    â€˜DC Silano, Boss.’ He had thinning hair, a long widow’s peak greying at the sides, but a boxer’s build. The straight nose and strong chin were masked a little by fleshiness; at a stone lighter, he would have been good-looking.
    â€˜First name?’
    â€˜Frank.’
    â€˜Where did they find you, Frank?’
    â€˜Paddington Green.’
    â€˜Where is she?’
    â€˜Charing Cross trauma unit. We’ve got some stills.’
    â€˜At the scene?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜How did that happen?
    â€˜Some kids found her. They robbed her and took off. Then one of them decided to call triple nine to report a body. A response team got here before the ambulance; one of the uniforms had a camera. They couldn’t risk moving her, so he fired off half a reel while the others were doing vital signs.’
    â€˜Where’s the response team now?’
    Silano nodded towards the road and the mish-mash of lights. ‘In the car. One of them went with the ambulance.’
    Stella moved closer to the place where Sophie had lain. Forensics officers in white coveralls were going over the ground, moving slowly, sampling and bagging among the spikes and the dog turds. She could see where the grass was matted and sticky. When she stepped back to the path, Harriman was walking towards her, a little silver point-and-push camera in his hand.
    Stella said, ‘Get someone down to the hospital.’
    â€˜DC Hewitt’s on the way.’
    â€˜Is that the camera?’
    â€˜This is it. Be good, I should think: you can’t go wrong with these things, self-focusing, automatic flash.’
    â€˜Did you get a verbal report?’
    â€˜The uniforms say she was propped against a tree. There was a ligature round her neck, she was naked from the waist down, the rest of her clothing had been pushed up under her chin. No sign of the missing clothing as yet. The police doctor went with her in the ambulance. According to theuniforms, the doctor gave it as multiple blows to the head with a blunt instrument.’
    â€˜It’s the Valerie Blake MO.’
    â€˜Identical,’ Harriman said.
    There were streetlights and