Darkest Night

by Jenny O'Brien

  Grabbing a gown and pair of blue paper-thin overshoes she hurried into the lab, offering a brief apology as she went.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect anything different, DC Darin,’ Rusty Mulholland said, barely lifting his head as he carried on rummaging around in the now open abdomen.

  Gaby felt colour flood her cheeks but not from embarrassment. After losing her weekend and most of last night, she was in the mood for an argument. The only thing stopping her from telling him exactly what he could do with the mass of intestines he was currently placing on the weighing scales, was the presence of the mortuary assistant and pathology porter. She ground her teeth, curling her nails into her palms as an added precaution. No. She’d bide her time until they were alone before letting rip. To speak to her like that in the presence of his colleagues was one step too far even for him. He must be the most pompous arrogant know-it-all it had ever been her misfortune to meet but to tell him would mean an all-out war and she had no intention of starting something she didn’t have the time to finish.

  Instead of replying, she heaved a couple of deep sighing breaths, forcing herself to look at something other than the tall, gowned figure hunched over the trolley in the centre of the room.

  As rooms went it was nothing like the glamorous autopsy suites normally seen on television. Here there was no fancy overhead lighting or theatre-like equipment. The walls were painted a drab grey as was the floor, with one length of wall given to industrial stainless-steel sinks with shelves above. There was even a toilet in one corner for the disposal of bodily fluids it was far too early in the morning for Gaby to even contemplate. She dropped her eyes to the drain, which split the floor in two, before shifting them upwards and to the trolley. Autopsies were messy businesses and, unlike operating theatres where everything had to be sterile, this was all about protecting the staff from the risks involved in cutting open a dead body. Instead of healing the sick, their remit was one of pure discovery. Each body had a tale to tell, and it was up to the chief pathologist to pull together the fragments until the story was complete.

  She turned her head away from the large Y-shaped excision that extended from the centre of each shoulder blade to just south of the navel, and back to the victim’s head, her hair contained in a paper hat. It was hard during procedures like this to remember that, only a couple of days ago, Nikki had been a living, breathing person and not the mass of blood, tissue and bone currently splayed out in front of her. Death had no dignity assigned to it, especially when it was part of an active investigation. Her colleagues simply did what they had to – solving the crime was key.

  As in any other profession there were good and bad staff that made up a team and, no matter how much she disliked him, she couldn’t argue that Rusty wasn’t good at his job. She watched as he spread the skin back over the abdominal cavity to line up the blade entry site against the perforation of what looked like the heart. There was no need for him to be quite so gentle or quite so diligent in preserving Nikki’s dignity with a green sheet carefully positioned over the lower part of her body. But that was him all over. Kindness personified to the dead, less so with the living.

  After another half an hour or so of excavating the inside of the abdomen, Rusty stepped away from the table and removed his gloves. His heavy-duty apron, gown and goggles came next, swiftly followed by his rubber overshoes. Heading to the first sink, he covered his hands with copious amounts of pink Hibiscrub.

  ‘Thank you, Dean and Ollie, for your assistance. I’ll leave you to close,’ he said, pulling off his microphone and switching off the wall-mounted voice recorder.

  She stood watching, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes boring a hole into his back. It felt as if she was invisible, which wasn’t a feeling she was comfortable with. She didn’t know what it was about him but as soon as she walked into a room, all she got was his stony face and the sharp edge of his tongue. It wouldn’t be so bad if he saved up his snappy comments for when they were alone, but people had started to comment and after all, what could she say? It wasn’t as if they’d fallen out or anything. She’d never spent enough time in his company to know the first thing about him and, given the way he treated her, she had no intention of changing that.

  ‘I suppose you’d like to hear what my findings are, DC Darin, especially as you missed the preliminaries?’ he said, beckoning for her to follow him into his office, situated at the other end of the corridor. It was a small room dominated by a large desk and wall to wall shelves packed full of books and files. ‘Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ She stood motionless, unable to process what must be the first conciliatory gesture he’d ever made towards her. She’d been all set on telling him exactly what she thought of him – now she didn’t know what to think.

  ‘You look as if you’ve had a tough weekend of it,’ he said, focusing on the frilly blouse before finally meeting her gaze, his head tilted in the direction of the kettle. ‘Surely you have time for a drink while I fill you in on the details? Tea? Milk and sugar?’

  She watched him as he added a tea bag into a second mug, her temper downgrading from boiling to simmering in an instant. She had no idea why he was putting on a nice act, but she was pretty certain she was about to find out.

  ‘Here.’ He thrust the mug into her hand with barely a look. ‘And do take a seat.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, the words catching in the back of her throat. ‘You were going to tell me what you’ve learnt?’

  ‘Of course I was,’ he said, folding his frame into his swivel chair. ‘The blade entered through the sixth intercostal space, about here.’ He placed his hand against his chest. ‘It punctured the left ventricle of the heart to a depth of twenty millimetres, which accounts for the large amount of blood loss, thankfully contained mainly by the duvet.’

  ‘Yes, thankfully so,’ she repeated, cringing at the memory of the sopping bedding. ‘‘Is there anything you can tell me about the implement used?’

  ‘A kitchen knife wouldn’t do it. The knife, and yes, I do think it was a knife, had a double edge. This interests me, not least because I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it,’ he said, staring into the distance. ‘A pointed tip and edge, which sliced through the chest cavity like a knife through butter. My normal guess would have been a kitchen knife, something long and thin like one used to fillet fish. But that in no way explains the state of her rib,’ he added, frowning again. ‘If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that there were two knives but that doesn’t tally with the evidence of only a single thrust. In effect we’re looking for a double-edged knife, one side razor-thin and the other saw-like.’

  ‘What about her rib specifically?’ Gaby asked, lifting her mug and taking a long sip.

  ‘Just that it was almost shredded where the knife hit.’ Removing his glasses, he rubbed the red marks staining either side of his nose. ‘I’ll get my books out and see if I can add anything.’ Picking up his mug, he drained it in one and said, ‘Fancy another? That didn’t even hit the sides.’

  ‘Thank you. That would be lovely. As you say, it’s been a difficult weekend, made more difficult by me running out of teabags.’

  ‘I can’t think of anything worse,’ he said, a smile appearing – probably the first smile he’d ever directed at her. ‘I can’t even think of leaving home before I’ve had at least two mugs.’

  After a couple of minutes, he placed her refilled mug on the side of the desk before settling back in his chair.

  ‘I take it the main suspect is this Christine person?’

  ‘What? You don’t think she would have been capable?’

  ‘On the contrary, she’d have been capable all right. It wouldn’t have taken that much force to kill the victim. But what it did need was either a huge amount of luck or an in-depth knowledge of the chest cavity to position the knife so exactly. And, after twenty years in medicine, luck doesn’t do it for me – I couldn’t have done better myself.’ He ran his hand across his jaw be
fore continuing. ‘As we both know, knife crimes are particularly messy and usually the perpetrator has to make at least a couple or more attempts to get the desired result. The knife was slipped through the intercostal space like a dart hitting a bullseye. Here, let me explain it a little better,’ he said, peeling off the top Post-it-note and starting to draw. ‘The heart is basically a pump, situated very slightly left of the sternum, or breast-bone.’ The tip of his pen was pointed at the drawing. ‘Of the four chambers, the left ventricle here is under the greatest pressure as its job is to drive blood around the body and, if you consider that the body contains five litres of blood and the heart pumps exactly that amount around the body each minute, that accounts for the amount of blood in the bed.’

  ‘So, basically most of her blood drained away,’ she said, her voice little more than a hoarse whisper. ‘Would she have known …?’

  ‘After the initial thrust, probably not. Death would have been pretty much instantaneous.’

  ‘That’s something at least.’ She stared at the drawing, a shudder running down her back.

  ‘Take another sip. You look as if you need it.’ He pushed her mug towards her.

  ‘Thanks. I’m not normally such a wimp but I’ve never been that good around blood.’

  ‘I would have thought you’re in the wrong job, then?’ he said, another smile on his face.

  ‘There’s blood and then there’s gallons …’ she replied with an answering twinkle.

  ‘Actually, to be exact, five litres are only a little over a gallon but no one’s counting, except me.’

  She rolled her eyes, reluctant for once to make the snappy comment resting on the tip of her tongue. She couldn’t believe they were having what passed for a civilised conversation, even if they were talking about the goriest of topics. In all probability it was only a blip and, the next time they met, he’d be as beastly as ever. But it was good while it lasted.

  ‘What you’re saying is that the positioning of the knife wasn’t a lucky accident? That the killer must have had some degree of knowledge of anatomy to insert it quite so exactly?

  ‘In a nutshell. Yes.’

  ‘So, what else can you tell me about the victim?’

  ‘There are a few more things that might be of use but the knife is, I’m afraid, indisputable. I’m still waiting for the full toxicology report, but she had been drinking. Her blood alcohol level, at 160 micrograms of alcohol per 100 millilitres, was double the limit. And a preliminary examination of the contents of her stomach confirms that she’d eaten within the last hour prior to her death – I’d hazard a guess at pepperoni pizza. There was also no evidence that she’d been sexually assaulted or that intercourse had even taken place recently,’ he continued, his left eyebrow arched. ‘Which disproves the gutter press’s theory about three-in-a-bed. The one other thing of note, which may give you some insight into the type of person she was, is that she had a history of self-harming. I’ll try to have my full report for you tomorrow but, by the state of her arms and the varying degree of healed scar tissue, I’d say the self-harming started as far back as her teens.’

  Gaby opened her mouth to speak only to close it again. Self-harming was a condition she hadn’t come across in her working life before, which would necessitate more research than she had time for. Unless Rusty had some contacts? After all, he kept reminding her that he was a qualified doctor. She narrowed her gaze, staring at the framed photo of a boy decked out in some posh school uniform that took pride of place next to Rusty’s phone. Another thing she hadn’t known about him and something to file for future reference.

  She sighed, forcing herself away from the photo and back to the drawing of the heart beside it. She’d come here for information but all the visit had given her were problems and a bucket-load of additional work, all of which had to be carried out within the next few hours or she’d have to release their main suspect. Not main suspect – the only suspect unless Christine’s supposed lover materialised.

  ‘So, any pointers where I should start investigating about self-harming?’

  ‘Surely a good place to start would be with the family?’

  Gaby shook her head. ‘I met with the mother yesterday and she never mentioned it.’

  ‘No, well, I’m not overly surprised. There’s a stigma surrounding this sort of thing and some youngsters are adept at hiding such issues from parents,’ Rusty picked up the empty mugs and walked to the counter, all trace of his earlier affability rapidly disappearing. ‘I’ll put you in touch with a friend of mine at the hospital, a psychiatrist. She’ll be able to answer more of your questions. Well, if that’s all. I do have a report to write.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She pushed to her feet. ‘Thank you for everything, including the tea.’

  ‘Oh, the kettle’s always on for coppers like you. I’ll be in touch … with the report.’

  Gaby cast him a look before reaching for her bag and heading to the door. Something had shifted between them. She had no idea what, but unarmed neutrality was a great improvement and one she was going to welcome, if not with open arms then at least with a willingness on her side to meet him halfway.

  Chapter 11

  Christine

  Monday 11 May, 10.55 a.m. St Asaph Police Station

  The office was the same shape and size as her small sterile cell but, instead of a room full of cops, this time all Christine had to face was her solicitor. But after a second night in captivity, she craved company nearly as much as she craved caffeine. There was a lot she’d give right now for a mug of decent coffee and a decent pillow that didn’t leave a crease in her cheek the size of a crater.

  Andy Parrish looked the same, his starched white shirt a perfect foil for his paisley tie and conservative grey suit. She, on the other hand, looked worse than something the cat had dragged in. She’d been allowed a shower, a shower where her head and her feet were visible to the female officer standing outside the saloon-style door. They’d even lent her shower gel and one of those cheap black combs that could be found on the shelves of every supermarket up and down the country. It had taken her over an hour to fix her hair into something not resembling a mop, and now it hung past her shoulders in a tangled mass of curls. But, without her hair straighteners, there was nothing she could do about that and, with no access to a mirror, she could only guess at how she looked in the same clothes she’d been wearing since she was first taken into custody.

  ‘We’ll have to stop meeting like this, Mr Parrish,’ she said, watching him open his laptop and mess around with the keyboard for a few seconds.

  ‘You might as well call me Andy. You’ll be seeing a lot of me over the next few days, Christine.’

  She tilted her head. ‘So what else do you want to know about me apart from my full name?’

  He smiled. ‘Christine Elizabeth de Bertrand née Greene, age thirty. No previous convictions, not even a speeding fine or parking ticket.’

  ‘That’s hardly likely as I gave up my car when I moved back to Llandudno,’ she said, before adding, ‘And anyway they were never in the right place at the right time to catch me. I’m an arch-criminal in disguise.’

  ‘Well, now they have and it’s up to me to try and secure your release.’ His smile faded, his eyes narrowing as he searched her face. ‘They’re treating you well? Able to sleep all right? I’ve been told the beds are less than comfortable.’

  ‘What, can’t you tell I’ve had ten hours followed by a full English with extra toast and marmalade on the side?’ She raised a hand to her hair. ‘I don’t mind so much about the bed or the mushy cornflakes but what I wouldn’t give for a wide-toothed comb and a bottle of hair conditioner.’

  ‘Which brand?’ He withdrew a small notebook from his inside pocket and laid it down on the desk in front of him, removing the attached pen with a flourish.

  ‘Any, I’m not fussy. I didn’t think it would be allowed?’ she asked, her words hesitant for the first time since entering the room. ‘They wouldn’t even allow
me a belt for my jeans and as for shoe-laces …’

  ‘I may be wrong, but I’ve never heard of anyone managing to commit suicide with a bottle of conditioner and a wide-toothed comb.’ He returned the pen to the side before shutting the notebook and lifting his sleeve to squint at his watch.

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to start and anyway,’ she said, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘If I tried, they’d think it confirmation of my guilt and that would mean somebody else getting away with murder.’ She shook her head briefly. ‘The thing I don’t understand is why someone would want to do this to Nikki? I might end up having to spend the rest of my life behind bars for a murder everyone seems determined to think I’ve committed. Where’s the justice in that?’

  ‘It’s all very well moaning but that’s not going to get us anywhere. If you’re as innocent as you say you are then we need to encourage the police to look in the right direction so that they can find out what really happened.’

  She unfolded her arms and rested back against the chair. ‘If you don’t think I’m innocent then why the hell are you going to all this trouble? I’d have thought my innocence would be a prerequisite to taking the case?’

  ‘Ha, what made you think that, Christine? I’ve lost count of the slime-balls and scumbags I’ve had to represent over the years.’ Andy paused, rifling his hand through his hair before continuing. ‘Although, it must be said that, this is the most unusual of cases. You’re an enigma. All the clues point to you being the only suspect, however, call me naïve, but I do think that there might be an alternative explanation.’ He set his notebook aside, returning her stare with one of his own. ‘Let’s assume for the sake of argument that you are the murderer.’

  ‘Let’s not!’ she said, pitching a nervous look at the closed door behind him.

  ‘Don’t worry about them. The microphone is switched off and anything you say to me is like speaking to a priest. I’d be struck off if I shared a client’s confidence. So, tell me about your relationship with the deceased. How long did you know her? How did you come to be sharing a flat, that sort of thing?’