by Carol Wyer
It irked Kate to be in charge of such a small team. She’d wanted to return to her former duties, leading the twelve-man unit she’d been in charge of before an incident on a train in March, where she’d mistaken a civilian for a gunman and almost attacked him, had forced her to take time off. On her return, she’d been confined to working with Emma and Morgan and although she’d proven her worth, DCI William Chase and Superintendent John Dickson had not allowed her to pick up where she’d left off. Jamie was a compromise: an extra individual brought in to help assist the team in their investigations, although neither his good humour nor skills were enough to appease Kate.
Once she’d contacted everyone in the unit, she headed to the bathroom where, seeing her clothes cast haphazardly on the stool, her mind jumped to Chris’s office. The key was in her back pocket. She couldn’t risk anyone stumbling upon the information she’d been assembling there. She’d locked the office before Tilly had arrived, and was glad she’d taken the precaution, especially as she now had to leave both her stepsister and Daniel alone in the house. Besides, it was Chris’s room and she didn’t want anyone other than her to enter it.
‘I’d take it with you, if I were you. You remember how nosey she used to be? Going through your belongings, borrowing your make-up or clothes without permission?’ said Chris.
‘How do you know? You never met Tilly.’
‘I know all your thoughts, memories, everything, Kate. I’m inside your head. I know everything you know. You and me – we are bound together for eternity. Whatever you think I think and vice versa. It’s what you wanted, remember? You need me.’
‘Not now, Chris. This isn’t helpful.’ She shouldn’t allow this indulgence, this pretence he was with her, even though it provided the crutch she required to get through the days. She fished out the key from her jeans and placed it on the shelf to take with her. On this occasion, she didn’t require make-believe advice. There was no way she wanted Tilly snooping about the office.
Showered and dressed, she knocked back two painkillers with a bottle of cold water. There was no time for breakfast or even a cup of coffee. She’d grab something to eat later. For now, the pills would have to work their magic.
‘Hi.’ A pink-eyed Tilly, wearing Kate’s dressing gown, stood in the kitchen doorway. ‘I thought I heard you up and about.’
‘Sorry. I tried not to disturb you. I was going to leave you a note. I’ve been called to work unexpectedly.’
‘Crap. I suppose that means the day trip is off.’ Tilly wandered in, dropped onto a bar stool and yawned, hand stretched wide over her mouth.
‘I’m afraid so. You can stay here, catch up on some sleep, and we’ll sort something out later. Maybe go to the cinema or a meal—’
‘You don’t need to entertain us, Kate. We’ll be fine. We’ve got somewhere to stay and loads of stuff to do, old friends to visit, sights to see. As soon as Daniel gets up, we’ll head back to Stafford. Give me a ring when you get off work and we’ll sort out something.’
‘You sure?’
‘Of course. Last night’s stay was unplanned. It’s probably best for both of us if we take this slowly. There’s still a lot of catching up to do. Call me. We’ll arrange a trip to the theme park another day. There’ll be other opportunities.’
‘Yeah, there will be. Okay. When you leave, pull the front door to until you hear a loud click. It’ll lock automatically. I’ll ring you as soon as I can. We could meet up in town if you prefer, maybe grab lunch together.’
‘Whatever you fancy.’ Tilly hung her head then drew a breath. ‘I meant what I said about Jordan. If I could turn back the clock . . .’
‘Let it go. You’ve apologised enough.’
‘Jordan and me . . . well . . . no . . . you’re right. Forget it. I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. I can see you’re over him. You and Chris seemed to be . . . perfect.’
‘Yeah. We were pretty solid.’ A car horn sounded. Emma had arrived to collect her, in the nick of time. ‘I have to dash. I’ll call you later.’
‘Sure.’
‘Give Daniel a hug for me. I promise him and you a trip to Drayton Manor before too long.’ She faltered for a moment. She’d have given anything to have had a child with Chris, a little boy resembling him; someone she could have loved and who would have reminded her daily of her husband. Daniel was adorable: a happy, carefree child who’d accepted her as if he’d known her all his life. She shrugged off the thoughts, picked up her holdall containing the gear she’d need for the day and made for the front door.
‘Got the office key?’ whispered Chris.
‘Yes. Now buzz off.’
Character cottages with dusty-rose, primrose-yellow and duck-blue doors and adorned with colourful floral wreaths lined the main road, hung with bunting in preparation for the imminent Abbots Bromley Horn Dance. The folk dance dated back to the Middle Ages and was due to be performed on Wakes Monday, in two days’ time. The original horns were actually reindeer antlers and carbon-dated to be about a thousand years old. They were collected early in the morning from St Nicholas’ Church by dancers called deermen, dressed in Tudor-style costumes, before being paraded around the village, surrounding farms and pubs, where the dancers would perform, several times throughout the day, before returning the horns that same evening. The event attracted visitors from around the globe and makeshift tents had been erected on a small green in front of the Goats Head pub, a sixteenth-century black-and-white timbered inn, reputedly where the highwayman Dick Turpin spent a night after stealing his horse, Black Bess, from a Rugeley horse fair.
‘And here we are again,’ said Emma. ‘I can’t believe a small place like this could be such a crime hotspot.’
‘To be fair, the last murder actually took place a couple of miles away, but I take your point.’
In May, Kate had led the murder investigation that had begun in Admaston, one side of Blithfield Reservoir, and ended the other side, in Abbots Bromley itself. Rounding the bend and unable to pass the emergency vehicles blocking the narrow road, they drew up behind a Forensics van, left their car and walked up the street, where they came to a halt on a footpath marked with a signpost to the village hall. It bordered a grass verge separating the path from a restaurant, Variations, and an expanse of tarmac, cordoned off with blue-and-white crime scene tape that fluttered in a gentle breeze, like the festive bunting strung above the road. White-suited forensic staff were already in situ, combing the area for clues.
Kate held up the pass hanging from her lanyard and gave their names to the officer in charge of the crime scene log. ‘DI Kate Young and DS Donaldson.’ She picked up a pair of shoe protectors from a box and slipped them on, and, looking across at the nearest van, spied Ervin Saunders, Head of Forensics, in the process of suiting up. He smiled.
‘Morning, both. I would say good morning, but it clearly isn’t, certainly not for the unfortunate victim.’ Slightly eccentric in dress and manner, he was wearing tweed plus fours with long khaki socks and brogues. On anyone else they would look ridiculous but on Ervin, with his aristocratic features and devil-may-care attitude, they seemed perfectly normal attire. He shrugged the paper suit over a cream shirt and waistcoat, then reached for some overshoes.
‘I guess you haven’t had a chance to look at the victim yet?’ she asked.
He balanced on one foot. ‘You guessed right. I was in a meeting and only arrived a few minutes ago.’
A fresh-faced officer with strawberry-blond hair approached Kate. ‘Ma’am. The head chef at Variations restaurant has given a statement, but I wondered if your officers wanted to speak to him. He discovered the body.’
‘Yes, ask him to stay put. We’ll talk to him once we’ve seen the victim.’
The officer walked back towards the white-rendered building with a multi-paned window overlooking the car park.
‘We need to find out who ate there last night,’ she said to Emma, who agreed.
‘Apparently the food’s very good,
’ said Ervin, lifting the hood to cover his thick hair. His eyes twinkled. ‘Although, I expect they might knock off a Michelin star for the dead body in the waste bins. Ready to take a look at her, then?’
Kate’s mouth curled slightly. Humour, even dark, was always welcome in this profession. She emulated Ervin’s movements and ducked under the cordon, aware of Emma doing the same, and made for the photographer standing at the far side of the car park, in front of woodland and two industrial-sized grey bins. The trees were so tightly packed together Kate couldn’t see beyond the first few trunks. Unless the killer had been pencil-thin, they were unlikely to have approached from that direction.
Emma spoke up. ‘Morgan’s arrived.’
He nodded a greeting. ‘What have we got so far?’
Kate shrugged. ‘Not sure yet other than it’s a female victim—’ She was cut off by the photographer.
‘I’m finished if you want to take a look.’
She edged forward with Ervin, her nose wrinkling at the sour stench. On top of the heaped rubbish lay the body of a half-naked woman, her pale legs bruised and blood-streaked. Of slight build, she didn’t take up a great deal of space. Her eyes were shut, her lips apart and one elegant hand covered half of her porcelain features, while her chestnut hair flowed over the black bags heaped below her, like a broken mermaid on sea-sprayed black boulders.
‘Can we get her out of there?’ Kate asked.
‘Yes, I can arrange that.’ Ervin organised his team, who lifted the frail body onto a tarpaulin already placed on the ground. While she was being laid out, he peered inside the bin. ‘There’s a foam exercise mat in here.’
‘It could well belong to the victim,’ said Emma.
Ervin pulled out a pair of black yoga pants with a stretch waistband and tie cuffs, a Nike Swoosh logo on the front. ‘And these. They look like they’d fit her.’
He reached back into the bin and extracted a pair of stretchy, form-fitting shoes with a green leaf pattern, pale pink edging, matching toe guard and a green elastic strap. ‘I’m no expert of women’s fashion, but I’d say these are special flex shoes for exercise such as Pilates or yoga.’
Emma cast an eye over the small FitKicks label attached to the heel and agreed. ‘Looks like she’d been attending a yoga or Pilates class before she was attacked.’
‘Do they hold exercise classes at the village hall?’ asked Kate.
‘I believe so,’ said Morgan.
‘Check it out, will you?’ Kate’s attention was drawn to the lean figure crossing the tarmac with long strides, a pathologist’s case in his hand. Harvey Fuller, in his late forties, could be mistaken for an older man with his old-fashioned wire-rimmed glasses, white hair and neatly trimmed silver beard. Only clear cobalt-blue eyes under heavy, black brows betrayed the fact he was younger than first impressions suggested, and his athletic build, concealed beneath baggy suits, indicated he was a man in excellent physical shape.
‘Morning, all. Not the best start to the day, is it?’ He planted his case on the ground and began donning gloves to examine the deceased. ‘I thought you were supposed to be off duty.’
‘Apparently, we’re invaluable,’ said Morgan. ‘They needed their best crime-busting unit on this one.’
The corners of Harvey’s eyes crinkled. ‘Right, let’s take a look at her.’ He crouched by the girl. His movements were practised and deft, first lifting the victim’s eyelids to examine bloodshot eyes. ‘She has petechiae in both eyes and the light bruising around the lips is possibly a result of her attacker holding a hand tightly over her mouth to silence her.’ He felt the girl’s throat and pointed out the purplish markings either side. ‘These abrasions suggest the attacker inflicted significant force on the neck structures and vessels, probably in an attempt to throttle her, but this abrasion on the left-hand side, under the jaw, appears to have been caused by a sharp strike or blow.’
He contemplated the circular mark approximately two centimetres in diameter. ‘I’ve seen marks similar to this before. The last time was on a young man involved in a street fight with another who was practised in martial arts. I think your victim suffered a direct strike to the vagus nerve.’
Emma’s eyebrows lifted. ‘A vagus strike? You think our killer might be trained in martial arts?’
Kate broke in with ‘Hang on a second. You’re losing me here. What’s a vagus strike?’
Emma explained. ‘It’s a self-defence technique that’s very hard to master. You don’t need to exert a great deal of force to stun somebody, but you do need to get the angle of attack spot on. Get it wrong and you can kill a person.’
‘That’s right. The vagus nerve is the longest of the cranial nerves that leads to major organs including the heart, lungs and intestines and regulates heartbeat and breathing,’ said Harvey. ‘Penetrative force to the exact spot where it runs down the side of the neck can result in loss of consciousness for a few seconds, or, if it’s powerful enough, death.’
‘You think she died because of a blow to her neck?’ asked Kate.
‘I’ll know more when I open her up.’ He continued checking the body, turning over the victim’s hands. ‘There’s more bruising on the wrists, no doubt where she was held forcefully in position . . . and there’s light grazing to her palms and . . .’ he checked her legs before speaking again, ‘to her knees and shins, where there are also traces of dirt or soil and some slight green staining.’
‘From grass?’ asked Kate.
‘That would be my guess. And look here.’ He pointed to marks on her inner thighs. ‘It’s automatic for a rape victim to try and keep their legs firmly pressed together.’ A memory burst before Kate’s eyes, of Tilly’s tear-stained face as she tugged a sweater over her thin frame, dragging it down as far as she could over black-and-blue contusions in almost identical places on her thighs. She blinked it away.
Harvey began the process of checking for lividity; next he would establish body core temperature and maybe deduce an approximate time of death. Morgan was already throwing out theories.
‘She was attacked and raped. She grappled with him and the attacker threw a punch or a blow to her neck, unintentionally killing her.’
‘That’s one theory, or maybe the reverse happened and the attacker deliberately disabled her with a vagus strike, so he could rape her and then killed her . . . or killed her and then raped her,’ said Emma.
Kate nodded her agreement. ‘Whatever the order of events, I think we need to be aware that the killer might be trained in martial arts. How would you inflict such a blow, Emma?’
‘You strike with the middle knuckle.’
‘Then can we assume the size of the abrasion on her neck is roughly the same size as the killer’s middle knuckle?’ said Kate.
‘The proximal knuckle,’ said Harvey. ‘And yes, it’s likely that bruising was caused by it.’
Kate nodded thoughtfully. ‘Thanks.’
‘And then, there’s this,’ said Harvey.
Morgan let out a low whistle.
‘What the—?’ Emma’s words faded into the background as Kate stared at the sight in front of her. Harvey had lifted the woman’s stained top to reveal deep, blood-filled scratches under her right shoulder that spelled out one word – MINE.
Harvey leant in closer, shook his head. ‘I can’t tell what was used to carve the letters but it was thin-bladed and, judging by the coagulation, he did it while she was alive.’
Morgan lifted his head to the sky with a mumbled ‘Fucking sick freak.’
‘Possession,’ said Kate. ‘He wanted her to know he owned her.’
Emma unclenched her fist slowly. ‘I’ll head up to the hall and see what classes were on and if anyone knows our victim.’
‘Good idea. Morgan, would you talk to the chef? See if he has anything to add to his statement.’ Kate turned her attention to Harvey, studying dark-purple discoloration between the victim’s shoulder blades and across her back and hips.
Harvey reached for the r
ectal thermometer in his case and caught Kate’s eye. ‘The level of rigor mortis suggests the attack happened last night and lividity marks are commensurate with the body having rested against bin bags in situ for several hours.’
Kate looked away as he checked the body’s core temperature. His voice reached her thoughts, which had strayed back momentarily to her stepsister.
This girl reminded her of a younger Tilly, petite, almost frail, with nut-brown eyes and silky, deep-brunette hair.
Harvey checked his thermometer with an ‘Uh-huh’.
After approximately thirty minutes to an hour, a body enters the second stage in death, an algor mortis or death chill phase, where every hour thereafter, the body temperature drops approximately 1.5 degrees Celsius until it reaches an ambient temperature. Harvey would subtract the rectal temperature from the normal body temperature and then divide the difference between the two by 1.5 to gain an approximate time of death.
Having made his calculations, Harvey spoke again. ‘She most likely died between eight and ten last night.’
Ervin reappeared, only his eyes and forehead visible, eyebrows drawing together deeply as he spotted the message on the victim’s back. ‘What the hell?’
‘I know. It’s not been scrawled angrily or in a hurry. Look how neatly it’s been carved,’ said Kate.
‘And all the letters appear to be the same size and height. The killer is very controlled.’
‘My thoughts exactly.’
‘We’ve found signs of a scuffle up the bank. There are drops of blood.’
‘And we believe the victim has grass stains on her legs,’ said Kate.