Dead End Page 3

  A smart two-tone brown leather shoe lay on its side just outside the tent. It would have been more at home in the window of an expensive store. Brilliantly lit, the scene inside the forensic tent resembled a film set. Even the body on the ground looked like a prop. She lay beside a tree trunk, her legs outstretched, her chin a mess of congealed blood under the dazzling lights. Framed by short light-brown curls streaked with grey, her head was flung back. Hazel eyes stared blankly up at them, inches from a swirl of animal excrement. She was wearing a brown skirt dotted with tiny orange flecks, and a matching jacket heavily splattered with blood. Even damp, crumpled and soiled, the outfit looked expensive.

  Gazing down, Geraldine felt a rush of adrenaline. There would be photographs, reports, statements, but only this one chance to view the victim at the scene of her death. She crouched down, bringing her face close to the dead woman's bloody head.

  ‘She was probably killed somewhere else and dumped here,’ a scene of crime officer said. ‘It's a miserable place to end up, isn't it?’

  ‘Was she carrying a bag?’ Geraldine asked. The scene of crime officer shook his head. Geraldine straightened up. ‘What did you find in her pockets?’

  ‘A set of keys, a receipt for coffee bought at ten-twenty in a café in the shopping centre, a photo of two children, and fifteen pence in change.’ He handed her an evidence bag.

  ‘So that gives us an exact location and time for her in the morning,’ Geraldine said, picking out a picture of a boy and girl, presumably the victim's children. The boy looked about twelve, the girl possibly a few years older. She had her mother's hazel eyes and light brown hair, while the boy was dark-haired, with blue eyes.

  Geraldine replaced the photograph carefully in the bag and looked around.

  The SOCO saw the direction of Geraldine's gaze. ‘There's no indication of any struggle elsewhere.’

  ‘You don't think she died here?’ Geraldine nodded at the body.

  ‘There's no disturbance on the ground. My guess is she was already dead when she was brought here.’

  ‘So we don't know where she was killed,’ Peterson said.

  ‘It's difficult to be sure,’ the SOCO concurred. ‘There's no sign of a struggle, but the evidence has been contaminated. It looks as if she was dragged along the ground either unconscious or dead, masking any footprints from the killer.’ He indicated scuff marks and shallow tracks in the mud. ‘We haven't found much blood on the ground, so she was probably killed before she was brought here, but it rained overnight, so the blood might have been washed away. We're checking every inch of the path but the man who reported the body made a mess of the place, trampling around. It looks as though he walked around while he was on the phone. It's a pity he arrived on the scene before we had a chance to examine it, although I suppose we should be thankful he found her when he did. She'd already been here overnight –’ He shrugged. ‘The ground here's full of droppings.’

  ‘Are there any defence injuries?’

  The white coated figure shook his head. ‘There's nothing obvious but the medical examiner should be here soon to have a look. Looks like him now.’

  A man entered the tent and straightened up, tall and slender. He approached the body with an air of authority and knelt down, shielding it from view.

  Geraldine watched his swift movements. ‘I don't think we've met.’

  The kneeling figure swivelled his head round and looked up at her. Striking blue eyes stared at her from a lean face. ‘Dr Paul Hilliard.’ He had a bold, frank expression and spoke in a low, cultured voice. ‘Are you the senior officer here?’

  ‘Yes. I'm Detective Inspector Geraldine Steel. And this is Detective Sergeant Ian Peterson.’

  Paul Hilliard nodded. ‘Pleased to meet you. Shame about the circumstances.’ He turned back to the body.

  Geraldine stepped forward. ‘What can you tell us?’

  ‘Give me a minute.’ Geraldine studied his back. There was a stillness about him as he worked. His hair was dark, almost black, but under the bright lights narrow streaks of grey were visible. After a few moments he looked round. ‘I can of course confirm she's dead. It rained during the night but the ground beneath her is fairly dry which suggests the body's been lying here overnight. The uncertain weather conditions make it impossible to pinpoint an exact time of death but it must have been sometime yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘How did she die?’

  The pathologist looked at Geraldine again. ‘I'll be able to tell you more after I've done the autopsy, but the apparent cause of death,’ he paused, ‘is blood loss.’

  ‘Blood loss from a head injury?’

  The kneeling figure held her gaze. ‘Yes…’ He shrugged. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘So that accounts for the blood on her clothes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Presumably it's not possible to be certain at this stage, but do you think we could be looking at murder? Until we have a full PM report I take it we won't know for certain this wasn't an accident?’

  ‘She could have tripped over and hit her head,’ Peterson suggested.

  Paul Hilliard shook his head. ‘There's no question of this being an accident. For a start, the body's been moved. She wasn't killed here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Peterson asked.

  ‘Yes. There would be a lot more blood on the undergrowth because before she died her tongue was cut out, leaving only a stump. It would have bled profusely.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The victim has no tongue, Inspector.’

  6

  Surfing

  Lucy slammed her door. She wished she could lock it. It made her sick the way her parents thought they had the right to walk into her bedroom, unannounced, whenever they felt like it.

  ‘Don't be ridiculous. You're up there by yourself,’ her father replied when Lucy pointed out she might be having a private chat.

  ‘Why don't you ask one of the girls from your new school over?’ her mother had suggested. She was trying to be helpful, but she only made things worse. Lucy didn't answer. Her parents totally missed the point. They didn't understand anything. She couldn't just randomly invite some girl to her house and even if she did, no one would want to come. The other girls had all been friends for years and it was clear right from the very first day Lucy walked into the classroom in Harchester School that she wasn't going to be welcome in any of their groups. They spent all their time gossiping about the boys, and bitching about the other girls. Lucy didn't know any of them, and didn't want to either. She was pleased they treated her like an outcast. She hated her new school and didn't want to fit in with those stupid bitches. The boys were worse. While the girls ignored Lucy, the boys were openly rude. They called her ‘four eyes’ and ‘skinny’, and far worse names that hurt, and mocked her Northern accent. Lucy didn't like any of them, and wouldn't want to be friends with any of them even if they begged her.

  Lucy had never exactly been popular, but she'd had her own group of friends in York. They weren't cool, or clever, but they were her friends. She'd even had a best friend, Nina, who sometimes came to her house after school. Lucy's parents had accepted they should knock before they entered her bedroom when Nina was there.

  ‘Everyone else's parents knock,’ she had told them and, for once, they had listened to her.

  Lucy was horrified when she learned they would be moving away from the area. Ben, who had lots of friends, didn't seem to mind so much. All he had to do was join some stupid football team and boys would be calling him up every day to go out and kick a ball around. It was harder for Lucy who was going to have to start all over again, making an effort to talk to strangers, pretending to be interested in their pathetic self-obsessed teenage lives. At first she had flatly refused to go to Kent with her family, but it was useless. Her mother had accepted the position as headmistress, her father was job hunting, their house was on the market and the date for the move was set. Lucy's parents were ruining her life and they didn't care.
<
br />   ‘We've discussed this,’ her mother said.

  ‘I never agreed to go!’ Lucy yelled. ‘But I don't get a say in this, do I? It's only my life being ruined, that's all. You decide whatever you want to do, and we all have to go along with it, like so much baggage.’

  ‘Don't be ridiculous,’ her father interrupted. It was all he ever seemed to say to Lucy. ‘Your mother has her career to think of.’ He spoke sourly.

  Lucy's mother turned on him. ‘Matthew, don't you start. We've been over it so many times.’ Lucy left them to it.

  It was some comfort to Lucy when Nina burst into tears. ‘You can't leave me,’ she wailed. They promised to keep in touch, it was easy on Facebook. But everything changed when Lucy moved and, after a few weeks, Nina stopped answering her messages.

  ‘You have to make an effort to find new friends,’ her mother told her. ‘These things take time, and they don't just happen by themselves. You'll soon get the hang of it. The first one's the hardest.’

  ‘I've got friends,’ Lucy answered. ‘Leave me alone with your bloody clichés!’

  Lucy couldn't sleep. Her mum would have been on at her by now to stop chatting online and ‘do something useful,’ but her mum wasn't home and her dad knew better than to interfere. He left her alone and that suited Lucy fine. She liked it best when he went out. She was fourteen, old enough to be left at home with her twelve-year-old brother. She didn't need her parents interfering in her life. They were always telling her what to do. Like they had a clue what was good for her. At least her mother listened to what Lucy said. Her father might as well have been a stranger. Lucy would have preferred it if he was.

  She logged onto a Twilight chat room and stared at her screen for a few moments before typing furiously. ‘My parents drive me nuts.’

  Bunny answered straight away. ‘Parents suck.’ Several others joined in, complaining about their parents, insulting them and cracking pathetic jokes.

  ‘LOL. Can't be as bad as mine,’ Lucy typed. It passed the time.

  The chat moved on to school. ‘Everyone hates school. Why do we have to go?’ Bunny asked.

  ‘Waste of time,’ Lucy agreed.

  ‘Torture!’

  ‘Crap!’ someone else commented.

  ‘Shit!’

  They carried on chatting for a while.

  ‘Are you Team Edward or Team Jacob?’ Bunny asked.

  ‘Team Edward!’ Lucy wrote. She added a red heart.

  Shortly after moving South, Lucy had met Zoe in the chat room. They soon discovered they had a lot in common and it wasn't long before they were exchanging private messages online.

  ‘What about you, Zoe?’ Bunny asked.

  Zoe left without answering.

  Next time she logged on, Lucy saw that Zoe had left her a private message. ‘I love Edward Cullen!!’ and three red hearts.

  ‘Zoe, you there?’

  ‘’

  ‘You got a boyf?’

  ‘No. Wish I had!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Can't say.’

  ‘I won't tell.’

  ‘Someone in my class.’

  ‘Does he know you fancy him?’

  ‘NO WAY!!!’

  ‘!!!’

  ‘You?’

  ‘?’

  ‘You got a boyf?’

  ‘No. Not right now.’ Lucy didn't add that she had never had a boyfriend. They chatted some more about boys and their past boyfriends. ‘I loved him but he dumped me L,’ Lucy lied. No one would ever know it wasn't true and she wanted to sound interesting. Zoe was the only real friend she had now.

  ‘How old are you?’ she asked Zoe.

  ‘You say first.’

  ‘I asked first.’

  ‘You want to know.’

  ‘Fourteen. You?’

  ‘I'm nearly fourteen!!’

  ‘What's going on, Zoe?’

  ‘I hate school!!’

  ‘Me too!!’

  Lucy suggested they chat on instant messenger. ‘More private. You can tell me about the boyf.’

  ‘He's not my boyf!’

  ‘Hate school, LOVE Edward Cullen!!’ Lucy wrote.

  Zoe sent her a red heart on instant messenger. ‘Friends!’

  ‘Friends!’ Lucy agreed.

  ‘Best friends!!’

  ‘Forever friends!’

  7

  Morgue

  Abigail Kirby lay on the table like a waxwork model, her face cleaned-up to reveal her square chin. Geraldine approached and forced herself to look at the victim's open mouth: between even teeth the stump of her tongue looked surprisingly neat. Abigail Kirby stared back as though in silent protest at this scrutiny.

  The pathologist looked up and Geraldine recognised the tall dark-haired medical examiner who had examined the body in the wood. ‘Hello again Inspector. You'll forgive me if I don't shake hands.’

  Geraldine glanced at his bloody gloves. ‘Good morning, Dr Hilliard.’

  ‘Please, call me Paul.’ Geraldine smiled. The pathologist was about to speak to her again when Peterson entered.

  ‘Shall we begin?’ Geraldine said.

  Paul Hilliard nodded. ‘Abigail Kirby looked after herself. She was fit for her age, well nourished, with excellent muscle tone. She probably worked out, or at least took regular exercise. She'd recently had a manicure, and a pedicure as well I suspect, and her hair's well cut. She looks as though she lived in the public eye, or else she was a narcissist.’

  Geraldine couldn't help laughing. ‘You know she was a headmistress.’

  Paul Hilliard smiled at her. ‘That fits with a controlling profile. At any rate, she certainly took care of herself.’ Geraldine squinted at her own nails, short and functional, and wondered if Abigail Kirby had been right to be so aware of the dignity of her position. Either way, it didn't matter now. ‘The victim has several injuries. She was struck on the back of her head with a blunt instrument. The killer used considerable force, so her attacker was probably an adult male. The blow fractured the skull resulting in cerebral bleeding.’

  ‘And the tongue?’

  ‘That was removed subsequent to the blow on the back of the head.’ He indicated bruising on the victim's upper arms. ‘Whoever hit her on the back of the head grabbed her and lowered her onto her back, after which she was secured by her arms and legs.’ He pointed to marks on her wrists and ankles.

  ‘So he could get to her face easily,’ Peterson said.

  ‘The tongue was removed after the head trauma was sustained. The blood loss was considerable so she was still alive at the time it was removed. The stump bled quite profusely. She must have been unconscious, the gag reflex inoperative, and she was lying on her back. Blood flowed into the back of her mouth causing her to choke.’ Paul Hilliard placed a hand gently on the victim's head. ‘Abigail Kirby drowned in her own blood.’

  There was silence for a few seconds.

  The pathologist glanced at Geraldine before he continued. ‘Head wounds are always serious. There's a very real danger of brain damage. In this case severe head trauma would probably have killed her, without immediate medical attention, possibly even with it. She would most likely have died from the knock on the head if she hadn't choked first.’

  ‘He must have used a very sharp blade to cut her tongue out,’ Geraldine said. ‘It can't have been easy, can it?’ Now that the victim's face had been cleaned, the stump of the victim's tongue was clearly visible. ‘That cut really must have been tricky,’ she repeated. ‘I wouldn't have thought many people could have done that, not without taking their time. And I don't suppose the killer wanted to hang about.’

  ‘This was carefully planned,’ Paul agreed.

  ‘By someone intelligent,’ Peterson added.

  ‘I hope not for your sake,’ Paul replied.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if this was a highly intelligent killer, he – or she – is unlikely to make any mistakes and is going to be more difficult to find.’ There was a pause. ‘What abou
t the witness who found the body? Did he see anything?’

  ‘We haven't interviewed him yet. The constable at the scene took a brief statement but the witness was in shock and he had his young son with him. We're going to speak to him later on and get a full statement. Have you got anything else for us? Any defence injuries?’

  The pathologist shook his head. ‘She was wearing gloves which have been sent off for examination, but I can't find any evidence of a struggle.’

  ‘Where was she going?’ Geraldine was talking to herself. ‘Was she meeting someone she knew? Was she being followed? Or was her attacker a complete stranger?’

  ‘In which case we could be looking at someone who kills for the sake of killing,’ the sergeant added.

  ‘A psychopath?’ Paul Hilliard asked. ‘Someone who's mentally disturbed?’

  ‘Well whoever it was, they were certainly disturbed, even as the average murderer goes,’ the sergeant replied. ‘Not that any murderer is exactly sane, but most of them don't remove their victims’ tongues while they're killing them.’

  The pathologist gave a faint smile.

  ‘We need to keep an open mind,’ Geraldine said, returning Paul Hilliard's smile.

  ‘Yes, we need to keep an open mind,’ the pathologist agreed.

  ‘So, anything else you can tell us?’

  ‘She was about forty years old.’

  ‘Forty-eight,’ Peterson corrected him.

  ‘Can you be precise about exactly how long was she dead before she was found?’ Geraldine asked, turning back to the body.

  ‘She was found at ten-thirty yesterday morning. I attended the scene at eleven-thirty and reported death had occurred some time on Saturday afternoon. It's difficult to be absolutely accurate as she was lying out in the rain overnight. When I carried out a preliminary examination I estimated she'd been dead for around nineteen to twenty-two hours, and you have to remember that's only an estimate.’