file in one hand and a cheese and coleslaw sandwich in the other. Calvin could smell formaldehyde and mayonnaise and there was a piece of cabbage in Dr Shortland’s beard.
‘And yet she was naked,’ mused King. Then she bent over Frannie Hatton’s face and pointed at a tiny dark mark on the side of her nose. ‘What’s that?’
‘Aaah,’ said the pathologist. ‘Watch this!’ He handed King the file, picked up a needle and casually slid it straight through the tiny hole.
Calvin swallowed sudden sick.
‘Stud?’ said King. She handed back the file and bent to have a good look at the hole.
‘I assume so,’ said Shortland. ‘It’s not new.’
Calvin regained his equilibrium. ‘She was wearing a nose ring on Facebook.’
They both turned to look at him.
‘We haven’t found a ring,’ said King. ‘We’ll do another sweep of the scene.’ She turned away and studied the woman’s face again, then asked, ‘She was suffocated?’
‘Indeed.’ Dr Shortland took a messy bite of his sandwich. ‘Although she was found face-up, there’s bruising consistent with finger marks on the back of the head and neck, upper arms, shoulders, contusion of the nose and lips, and mud in her teeth, eyes and nostrils.’ He didn’t open the slim folder, because his other hand was full of sandwich, but he waggled it as he spoke – apparently to indicate that what he was telling them was all in there, if they didn’t believe him.
‘So someone held her face-down in mud until she died,’ said King.
‘That’s my conclusion.’
‘After quite a struggle, from the look of the other bruises.’
‘She certainly put up a fight.’
King bent again to examine Frannie’s face. Under the stark bulbs of the path lab, her skin looked almost translucent. She had a ring in one eyebrow, another in her belly button, and a tattoo cuff around one bicep.
Calvin pondered whether Frannie Hatton’s death had been an accident, or whether the killer had always known that this was how his obsession was going to end.
King looked around and then took what appeared to be a long-handled spoon from a row of instruments on a nearby counter, and prised open Frannie Hatton’s lips. The dead girl’s teeth had dark bits between them, like brown spinach.
‘Is this mud from the crime scene?’
Good question
, thought Calvin.
‘Good question,’ said Shortland. ‘And the answer is, I don’t know.’
‘So she could have been killed somewhere else and then dumped.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Shit,’ sighed King, and straightened up.
‘Indeed,’ said Shortland.
Half a minute later, Calvin caught up. Two crime scenes – one unknown. The body wasn’t helping them narrow their options.
‘Any idea where the mud in her teeth came from?’
‘No.’
All three of them stood in silent contemplation of the body.
DCI King sighed. Then she held up the spoon thing. Its bowl was pierced, making it look like a little metal squash racquet. ‘What is this?’
‘A gall-stone scoop.’
‘Can I keep it?’ she asked.
Dr Shortland looked a little surprised. ‘If you think it will be useful.’
‘Thank you.’ DCI King tucked it into one of the several pockets of the belted Barbour jacket she wore over everything – skirts, dresses, slacks, jeans. She looked good in all of them, Calvin thought, with a very nice bottom for jeans.
‘What do you think, Calvin?’
He blinked. ‘About what, Ma’am?’
‘Life, the universe and everything,’ said King so flatly that, for the smallest of seconds, Calvin Bridge almost told her that he didn’t believe in God but that he
did
hope for an afterlife, and some system of spiritual checks and balances, dependent upon his actions as a corporeal being.
Then he realized she’d just caught him looking at her arse.
A phone rang somewhere and Dr Shortland excused himself and the rest of his sandwich.
‘Here, help me turn her over,’ said DCI King.
Calvin looked cautiously at the door through which the
‘And yet she was naked,’ mused King. Then she bent over Frannie Hatton’s face and pointed at a tiny dark mark on the side of her nose. ‘What’s that?’
‘Aaah,’ said the pathologist. ‘Watch this!’ He handed King the file, picked up a needle and casually slid it straight through the tiny hole.
Calvin swallowed sudden sick.
‘Stud?’ said King. She handed back the file and bent to have a good look at the hole.
‘I assume so,’ said Shortland. ‘It’s not new.’
Calvin regained his equilibrium. ‘She was wearing a nose ring on Facebook.’
They both turned to look at him.
‘We haven’t found a ring,’ said King. ‘We’ll do another sweep of the scene.’ She turned away and studied the woman’s face again, then asked, ‘She was suffocated?’
‘Indeed.’ Dr Shortland took a messy bite of his sandwich. ‘Although she was found face-up, there’s bruising consistent with finger marks on the back of the head and neck, upper arms, shoulders, contusion of the nose and lips, and mud in her teeth, eyes and nostrils.’ He didn’t open the slim folder, because his other hand was full of sandwich, but he waggled it as he spoke – apparently to indicate that what he was telling them was all in there, if they didn’t believe him.
‘So someone held her face-down in mud until she died,’ said King.
‘That’s my conclusion.’
‘After quite a struggle, from the look of the other bruises.’
‘She certainly put up a fight.’
King bent again to examine Frannie’s face. Under the stark bulbs of the path lab, her skin looked almost translucent. She had a ring in one eyebrow, another in her belly button, and a tattoo cuff around one bicep.
Calvin pondered whether Frannie Hatton’s death had been an accident, or whether the killer had always known that this was how his obsession was going to end.
King looked around and then took what appeared to be a long-handled spoon from a row of instruments on a nearby counter, and prised open Frannie Hatton’s lips. The dead girl’s teeth had dark bits between them, like brown spinach.
‘Is this mud from the crime scene?’
Good question
, thought Calvin.
‘Good question,’ said Shortland. ‘And the answer is, I don’t know.’
‘So she could have been killed somewhere else and then dumped.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Shit,’ sighed King, and straightened up.
‘Indeed,’ said Shortland.
Half a minute later, Calvin caught up. Two crime scenes – one unknown. The body wasn’t helping them narrow their options.
‘Any idea where the mud in her teeth came from?’
‘No.’
All three of them stood in silent contemplation of the body.
DCI King sighed. Then she held up the spoon thing. Its bowl was pierced, making it look like a little metal squash racquet. ‘What is this?’
‘A gall-stone scoop.’
‘Can I keep it?’ she asked.
Dr Shortland looked a little surprised. ‘If you think it will be useful.’
‘Thank you.’ DCI King tucked it into one of the several pockets of the belted Barbour jacket she wore over everything – skirts, dresses, slacks, jeans. She looked good in all of them, Calvin thought, with a very nice bottom for jeans.
‘What do you think, Calvin?’
He blinked. ‘About what, Ma’am?’
‘Life, the universe and everything,’ said King so flatly that, for the smallest of seconds, Calvin Bridge almost told her that he didn’t believe in God but that he
did
hope for an afterlife, and some system of spiritual checks and balances, dependent upon his actions as a corporeal being.
Then he realized she’d just caught him looking at her arse.
A phone rang somewhere and Dr Shortland excused himself and the rest of his sandwich.
‘Here, help me turn her over,’ said DCI King.
Calvin looked cautiously at the door through which the
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