by L M Krier
When Mike confirmed his assumption , the pathologist went on, ‘I probably wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said that the function and powers of pathologists are possibly even more ridiculously portrayed than those of you and your colleagues.
‘We may be asked to view a body in situ. Usually for an early opinion on whether a crime is involved or not. We certainly don’t go chasing round the country carrying out any investigations ourselves. Nor does the Coroner. We leave that to the police, who are the experts in it.
‘As I’m sure you already know, it’s my job to tell the Coroner, and the police, based on forensic evidence, how this poor lady died. The Coroner will then decide whether or not an inquest is required to determine whether the death was natural, accidental, suicide or murder. Or a variation of any of those. Unless, of course, your investigations enable you to charge someone in connection with the death early on in your inquiries.’
Mike was biting his tongue. He knew all of that already. And Sinclair must realise that any DS would know. He could have asked the Professor the same question and received a much more helpful and detailed response. One which didn’t sound like teaching a grandmother to suck eggs.
Sinclair seemed to sense his frustration as he continued, ‘I know you need to know as much detail as possible, to determine whether this is a murder case or not. So I’m happy to share my preliminary findings with you, although my written report will, of course, be more detailed. With the caveat that things might change on more in depth analysis which will follow today’s procedure.
‘So, from preliminary superficial examination, the victim shows a number of old injuries which could be compatible with a history of abuse. Possibly. Note my emphasis on the word “could”. Also, initial visual examination would seem to suggest that death was due to a broken neck.
‘Now, in the most unscientific of ways possible, we could play about with this being a piece of crime fiction and do some speculating, if you would find that at all useful. But please don’t hold me to any of this. You could say I’m simply humouring you.’
‘Thank you, doctor, I really appreciate any pointers at all.’
‘The first thing which would spring to my mind, if I were to write this as a crime fiction piece, is based on my own experience of other such deaths. And that is that although people have been known to kill one another by throwing the victim down the stairs, it’s quite hard to prove pre-meditation for such a case. So it is usually extremely difficult to prove any form of intention to kill.’
‘How far did our unfortunate lady fall?’
‘Down two flights. But not carpeted. Those concrete steps in communal blocks of flats.’
‘So presumably not a big, impressive, wide stairwell, as you might see in, for instance, an old-fashioned smart hotel, such as might feature in an Agatha Christie?’
Mike had to smile at that. He was starting to warm to Dr Sinclair after all.
‘Nothing remotely like that.’
‘So therein, you see, lies your problem. Unless your perpetrator obligingly confesses, or left a note somewhere saying he fully intended to kill this person – his wife, perhaps?’
‘Live-in partner. They weren’t married.’
‘What used to be called a common law wife, then. My point being that the very architecture of the scene is going to make it almost impossible to show pre-meditation to kill. Your suspect might, under questioning, admit to having pushed her against the bannisters in the heat of some domestic dispute. He might even, under the right conditions, concede that he lifted her up and helped her on her way. But could he have foreseen that his actions would lead to her death rather than mere injury, albeit potentially serious? With a narrow stairwell, could he have predicted that she would fall further than the two flights? And would he have the necessary knowledge as to how far she would need to fall to suffer fatal injuries? Those would be the burning questions for the Coroner’s Court, and for any trial in Crown Court.
‘I will, of course, be testing for any type of drug in the system, which might suggest she was unconscious when she went over the bannisters. Possibly to make her easier to manhandle. That might indicate pre-meditation, although not necessarily.’
‘The trouble with that is that a lot of neighbours heard shouting, from both of them, before they went out to find out what was going on, and found her apparently dead on the stairs. Which suggests that she was awake when she fell. Or was pushed. Unfortunately nobody came out until it all went quiet.’
‘By which time the poor woman would almost certainly have been already dead, based on my initial observations. It’s too early to say for sure but I would expect death to have been more or less instantaneous, judging by my first superficial examination of the cervical vertebrae.
‘Again, letting my surprisingly vivid imagination run away with me, I could foresee a scene in which some enterprising defence lawyer has a dummy made to the exact height and weight of the victim. They might then experiment with repeatedly throwing it over the bannister, to see what was the maximum distance it could reasonably be expected to travel. I could see that looking rather dramatic on the small screen. Although it’s totally fanciful, of course.’
‘And for the moment, our suspect is sticking to his story that she was trying to jump and he was simply attempting to stop her from doing so, hence my earlier questions.’
‘Are these flats all on one floor inside? Not split level?’
Mike frowned.
‘As far as I know they all are. I’ve not heard of flats being on more than one level. Is it significant?’
‘I lived in one in London for a time. They’re quite widespread, in the north, too. They’re sometimes called maisonettes, I believe.’
‘Oh, maisonettes, yes, I’ve heard that term. I think there are some of those in Stockport. I somehow didn’t associate it with what I would call flats. But no, not in this case. I’ve been to the crime scene and there weren’t any stairs inside that one. It’s all on one level.’
‘I see. And yes, in my little game of playing a TV pathologist who would do half of the police’s work for them, if not more, I would venture to suggest to you that it could be significant. You see, if it was one of those apartments with stairs inside, the defence would pounce on that in respect of motive. They might well pose the question as to why, if the man had decided to throw the unfortunate woman down the stairs with malice aforethought, did he not simply do it in their own home, then claim it was an accident? Why go out into a communal area and risk being seen by someone? But the layout in this case rules all of that out.
‘I take it you have no eye witnesses?’
Mike shook his head.
‘Lots of neighbours giving statements to say blazing rows were a regular feature in the flat. But no one yet prepared to claim to have seen the fatal incident itself. We still have some more door-to-door still to carry out. We haven’t managed to speak to everyone, so there’s the outside chance of a witness somewhere.’
‘And I see from the cadaver that this lady has had a C-section at some point. So is there a child involved in this unfortunate incident? And did they witness the fatality?’
‘There’s a little boy of nine. Very traumatised, as you might imagine. Two of my colleagues are going to talk to Children’s Services today about the possibility of speaking to him. Even if and when it might be possible, it’s going to need to be a long and slow process, with all the safeguards in place.’
‘It’s never easy for any child involved in something like this. There’s an unfortunate and totally irrational stigma to being a child in a family where one parent has killed the other, even if it’s a step-parent. I will do my very best to give you all the answers I can. I know Professor Nelson’s shoes are big ones to fill, but I’ll certainly try my best for you.
‘And I have to say I’ve rather enjoyed the unusual experience of giving my imagination free rein, rather than relying on scientific facts. Perhaps a new career as a writer of crime fiction awaits me
in my twilight years, when I finally hang up my scalpel.’
Ted was talking to Sarah Jenkins at Trafford via video link. Hector was right. There simply weren’t enough hours in the day for him to go out and about on his new enlarged patch, as well as keeping an eye on things with his own team, as he liked to do.
‘So far we’ve talked to the nan and to the daughter, now she’s back on leave. She and the boy are staying with their nan for now, but we’ve not talked to him yet. We’re liaising with Social Services about the best way to handle it.’
‘Whose parent is the grandmother?’ Ted asked her.
‘She’s the mother of the victim. And to say she had little time for the son-in-law is putting it mildly. Both she and the granddaughter had been continuously trying to persuade the woman to leave him and take the boy with her. The trouble is, as is so very often the case with domestic violence, she’d been conditioned to believe that some of it must be her fault. She wasn’t quiet enough when he was working nights and sleeping in the daytime. She didn’t make his meals the way he liked them. We’ve all heard the sort of thing before.’
‘What about his story of her associating with drug dealers?’
‘Her mother says that was an absolute load of rubbish. Her daughter had no friends. She shut herself away from everyone because the other half got insanely jealous if she showed interest in anyone. She would certainly never have dared to have someone round to the house, and definitely not a man.
‘The PM’s tomorrow, so that should hopefully show us if there was any evidence of her taking drugs at all. The daughter also says that’s pure nonsense. Her mother didn’t take anything. She barely drank, either. Just one glass of wine on the rare occasions he took her out anywhere, to show her off to his friends.’
‘Will the daughter testify against the father? It’s largely circumstantial anyway, but it might help to build a case to show intent to kill.’
‘Ah, now, there we do have the one glimmer of hope on the horizon. She’s not his daughter. The boy’s his, but she’s from an earlier marriage. Very sad story. Her father died very young from a rare disease, shortly after she was born. The mother brought her up on her own for a few years, but then she met this charmer and fell for him, for heaven knows what reason. Her own mother warned her off him. I imagine she was probably very lonely and clutching at straws, perhaps.’
‘Keep me posted on what happens at the PM, please. These cases are some of the hardest to get a murder conviction on, so all we can do is build the best case we can. We’ll have to let CPS decide what charge we can go with.
‘We have something similar on our own patch at the moment. No grandparents around for the little lad in this case, as far as we know, so we’re not sure at the moment what will happen to him, whether or not we get a conviction for anything against the father.
‘Oh, by the way, I don’t want to add to your workload but I wondered if I could send you a DC for a few days. Put him on legwork, statement taking, that sort of thing.’
‘It sounds, in theory, as if that should be lightening our load. Reading between the lines, I imagine he’s not yet all that much of an asset to a team, is he?’
Ted smiled at her.
‘He might be all right with proper firm direction. Where he is at the moment, the DS is too much of a mate and he tends to take advantage. It’s only fair to warn you that he probably has a very old-fashioned attitude towards women, and not in a good way. Could you at least try him out for a day or two? If he’s too much of a pain, let me know and I’ll swap him for someone easier. We’re making good progress on our scam case, so we’re getting a bit less stretched, at least for now.’
‘I’d be delighted to try him out. I do love a challenge. What’s his name?’
‘DC Burgess. Alan. Twenty-five years served and behaves as if he joined in the early seventies.’
She was still laughing as they ended the call.
* * *
She woke to a rising feeling of panic.
Air.
She needed air.
Her lungs were craving it, her brain sending her urgent signals to breathe. Take a deep breath.
She opened her eyes, though at first she saw nothing but flashing lights. She tried to take in some of the air she so desperately needed. Her legs were starting to pedal frantically as adrenaline flooded her body, provoking the flight reflex.
There was a heavy weight across her chest. A choking feeling in her throat. Pressure at the side of her neck starving her brain of vital oxygen.
When she finally managed to focus, she saw his face, inches away from hers. A sadistic smile twisting his lips as he watched her struggles.
She managed to move her lips in an almost silent plea.
‘Please. Please.’
He relaxed the pressure slightly. Immediately she gulped air, making her start to cough and gag. Blood vessels in her neck and throat seemed to be pulsing much more strongly than usual. She was convinced she could feel the much-needed oxygenated blood once more bringing urgent relief to her brain.
‘I love it when you beg for it.’
His tone was conversational. Nothing more. It could have been a simple greeting.
Her focus was coming back. She could see that he was naked. It scared her as much as anything to think that he could have been in the room for some time without her even being aware of his presence.
It must have been the pills. She usually slept so badly, living in ever-present fear. The constant fatigue was stopping her from functioning at any useful level. She’d been to the chemist’s. Bought herself the strongest over-the-counter remedy they could sell her. She’d gone somewhere she wasn’t known. Spun them a tale about noisy neighbours with a fondness for parties and music at high volume. She could tell that the person serving her didn’t believe a word of it. Could see, too, that they weren’t all that interested. Clearly she wasn’t going to do herself any serious harm even if she swallowed the whole packet at once. She would have been tempted to try that. But there was her son to think of. She could never do anything which would hurt him. Never.
She’d remembered not to take her mobile phone with her when she went out to buy the pills. She didn’t want to have one. She had nobody to call, except him, and she would never have voluntarily phoned him. She suspected there was some way he knew of which would tell him where the phone was, wherever she took it. So he would know where she was at all times. She didn’t understand enough about such things to tell if that was even possible. But he did. If there was such a way to do it, he would know. He loved to tell the boy about anything technical like that which he knew about. Showing off his superior knowledge. The boy always listened in rapt fascination. Eager to know all about it, his thirst for knowledge overcoming the ever-present fear brought on by the man’s company.
To be on the safe side, on the rare occasions she dared to go anywhere she didn’t want him to know about, she always left the phone behind in the house. If he ever found that out, she could always say she’d simply forgotten to pick it up and take it with her. He was always saying how stupid she was. He would easily believe that she had forgotten.
The instructions on the packet of pills had said to take one to two tablets, half an hour before going to bed. She had been so desperate for sleep that she’d taken three. Clearly a serious mistake. At the very least, she could have been sitting up in bed when she’d heard him come in. Anything to stop the desperate feeling of being helpless on her back with his strength and weight pinning her there. At his mercy.
Her eyes went automatically to the door. Her ears straining for any sound that the boy was awake and risked coming in to find her.
The man saw her action and sneered.
‘I’ve locked the door. Of course. A man wants some privacy when he comes home to his loving wife. After a totally shit shift. With everyone acting like fucking muppets and not enough work getting done. Especially when he finds her gagging for it. Begging him for it. That’s the cherry on the cake.
So go on, then. Beg me again. You may get lucky.’
The latent menace behind his words scared her so much her mouth went instantly dry. She couldn’t form any words.
‘I can’t hear you, bitch. Beg me again.’
Her lips were desperately trying to make the shape of the words, even if no sound came out. One of his powerful hands shot out and gripped her throat once more. She tried not to choke. Willed her mouth to form the words he wanted her to say. Even if they weren’t audible.
‘Please. Please.’
Chapter Eleven
Mike outlined what he’d learned at the post-mortem when the full team got together at the end of the day. Ted had already told Jo he intended to get away at a decent time, as soon as he was up to date. He hadn’t told him the reason.
‘Lots of caution and caveats, but basically Dr Sinclair was able to tell me that our victim died from a broken neck, and that death would have been pretty much instantaneous.
‘He noted a lot of old injuries on the body, too. Bruising, cuts of various ages, some burns which, again with lots of reserve, he said could all indicate possible domestic abuse. Or, as he was at pains to point out, she could simply have been clumsy or unlucky.
‘No track-marks or any other outward signs of any substance use or abuse, but we’ll need to wait for the results of the various blood and other tests for a more detailed picture. So in short, as it stands, we’re not really much further forward, other than it appearing obvious that it was the fall down the stairs which caused her death rather than anything which may have happened to her before that.’
‘Where are we up to with witness statements?’
‘I’m collating those, boss,’ Jo told him. ‘So far we’ve found no one with a good word to say about our prime suspect. If he has any friends, we’ve not yet encountered them.’
‘The management all speak well of him at work, though,’ Maurice put in. ‘Good at his job, runs a very tight ship and has exacting standards. Just what they need.’
‘Which is why I couldn’t find anyone who worked with or under him with anything positive to say about him,’ DC Nick Cross reported. He’d been with Maurice to the engineering plant where their suspect worked. ‘I’m not sure I could repeat some of the more colourful language in what I was told, although you could all have a pretty good guess. The general picture was a hard man who was there to do his job rather than win friends.’