by Alison Bruce
He produced a close-up of the eye and nasal area. ‘As you can see, the facial cavities have become enlarged in the heat of the fire. The eyeballs are soft, and obviously have a lower boiling point than other parts of the body, so they disappeared quite quickly.’ He seemed to be holding on to that particular photo for a very prolonged period, and made a slightly theatrical show of pointing out the most likely entry point of the bullet.
‘Chemical tests showed traces of lead, antimony and several arsenic compounds, but I ran a comparison test using tissue samples from elsewhere on the body and found similar levels.’
‘Meaning what?’ Goodhew asked.
‘In a house that old, the traditional building and decorating materials would have contained plenty of toxins. Even in restored houses old varnishes are painted over and stripped wood still contains these old chemicals embedded deep within its fibre.’
Marks was massaging his right ear lobe and starting to fidget. ‘So was it a gunshot or not?’
‘Exactly my own thought,’ beamed Sykes. The next photo was the stripped-down skull, with an assortment of bones and teeth all laid out against the background of a black cloth. ‘By the time I’d finished the post-mortem the brain was extracted, in any case, so it was no problem to have a go at reassembling the pieces. Here’s where it gets interesting.’
Sykes smiled, and Goodhew found the effect slightly sinister.
‘Now, we’ve all seen the way the vertex of the skull is formed, haven’t we? There is the soft spot, the third eye if you like, that allows for the skull to expand during growth, and the seams or sutures where the plates of bone have knitted together by adulthood. Now imagine a pressure cooker. High temperatures cause expansion, and expansion creates pressure, so it is along these seams that I would expect to see the inevitable explosion. But not so in the case of another object, say a bullet, passing through the head and causing a hole, because the effect would be like opening a vent.’
His smile broadened. ‘Which brings me to my final photograph.’ He slapped it on to the desk in front of them, and didn’t actually say Ta-da!, but it was close.
This one showed the back of the skull, post reassembly. The cracks ran outwards in a star-like pattern. Like the corner of a brick hitting a windscreen.
‘As you can clearly see, the occipital bone has been fractured. This has been caused by blows to this area leaving a fracture pattern. In the fire, the heat would have created pressure which, in turn, would have produced the outwards explosion of soft brain tissue, and the resulting cavity. Easily mistaken for a gunshot injury until it’s pieced together.’
Marks picked up the photograph and gazed at it for several seconds before he spoke. ‘What’s your opinion regarding the murder weapon?’
‘Remember the missing teeth? I am still sure that those were dislodged as the result of a punch. Once lying on the floor, she suffered the remaining head injuries. If these were inflicted close to ground level, then, in my opinion, the murder weapon was a boot or shoe.’
‘She was kicked to death?’
‘Precisely so. I’ve ordered some enhanced prints of the injury site, and it’s an outside chance we may be able to pick up some detail regarding the footwear involved. Not house slippers, that’s for sure. And you may like to factor this into your considerations, since her neck and face or even the temples would have been easier targets . . .’
‘Unless she was lying face-down?’
‘No. No, that would have involved a downwards stamping action, and there would have been corresponding facial injuries. If he had been so concerned about avoiding facial damage, he would not have chosen to hit her in the jaw with the first blow, or mutilate her with fire.’
‘That doesn’t sound like the behaviour of someone committing an assault simply on impulse.’
‘I’d call it a technique. Also I doubt he’s a first timer.’
Marks passed Goodhew the photograph. It was one thing to plan it like this, but something else to follow it through, so there had to be either experience involved or intense motivation.
‘She was definitely dead before the fire started?’ Goodhew asked the question just to keep the conversation flowing, since he could tell that Marks thought they’d already heard enough.
‘Absolutely. No damage to the back of the throat, trachea or lungs.’
‘Would you expect injuries like that to be fatal?’
Goodhew sensed that Marks was now frowning.
Sykes frowned too. ‘This attack definitely involved repeated blows or kicks. Had he stopped sooner, maybe she could have survived. Who knows?’
‘Gary, are you now trying to argue that the killer didn’t mean it?’
‘No, I want to know what impact an attack like this would have entailed if the victim survived.’
‘That would depend on a combination of timely and expert medical care. And luck, too, and plenty of it, if there was a chance the victim could make a full recovery. But some level of brain damage is also likely.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Goodhew saw a change in Marks’ posture, so that now, instead of willing Goodhew to pipe down, he was also looking to Sykes for his next answer.
‘What sort of brain damage?’
Sykes suddenly lost his authoritative tone and reverted to his standard cautious one. ‘I’m probably not the best person –’
Goodhew cut in, ‘What about Ventral Pontine Syndrome?’
‘The medulla oblongata and pons Varolli are both situated in the brainstem, and therefore would be vulnerable to this kind of attack. And, yes, in most cases the condition is caused by a trauma to that area, specifically the pons Varolli.’
Marks waved his hand for them to stop. ‘What the hell is Ventral Pontine Syndrome?’
‘Cerebromedullospinal disconnection results from damage to the brainstem,’ Sykes began.
Goodhew interrupted. ‘It’s called locked-in syndrome.’ He pointed to his flip-chart. ‘That means it’s the link between Rachel Golinski’s murder and the assault on Jay Andrews.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Mel often wondered why her life wasn’t more simple. After all, it had the potential for simplicity: regular hours in a regular job, a long-term boyfriend, plus just one uncomplicated hobby. No debts, addictions or lavish tastes to complicate it.
She’d tried to figure it out on numerous occasions, and find an answer that didn’t involve accepting the one glaring problem: her boyfriend Toby was a bastard.
Mel liked the idea of a straightforward life, one where accomplishments counted and success could be built upon. Mel also prided herself on her staying power, her ability to tackle the mundane and overcome the difficult. Maybe those were the reasons she stayed, and put up with Toby’s petty jealousies and volatility. She knew men like that didn’t change – every woman’s magazine rammed it home – but she would have thought a toning-down might be possible.
Those mornings when she voluntarily arrived at work long before her 9 a.m. start were the ones that invariably followed a late-night row, disrupted sleep and a miserable walk in to the office. They were the days when she had plenty of time to wish for a life more ordinary.
DI Marks was already in the building, she knew, because his car was parked outside. She’d arrived at the same time as Dr Sykes, the pathologist, so she’d taken him up to find Marks. He’d been sitting in the Major Incident Room with DC Goodhew.
Gary Goodhew, who might have been able to offer her that life-more-ordinary if only she’d met him before her ill-fated fling with DC Kincaide.
She’d smiled at Gary; there was no need for any awkwardness now that he seemed to think it was way too late for anything to ever happen between them.
She returned to her desk and swivelled her chair in a slow clockwise twirl. How ironic it all was. It had been a row with Toby that had first led to her involvement with Kincaide, now another one that led to her exchanging today’s smile with Goodhew. Toby was always there.
Who was she kidding? Tob
y was there because she kept him there. She didn’t have the guts to leave because she doubted she had the strength to deal with his wrath and desperation and her own ensuing guilt.
She spotted Kincaide walking across the car park, and stopped swivelling her chair.
She still found him good-looking, and thought the old-fashioned terms like suave and manly suited him well. But what she’d once thought was confidence and charm, she’d since come to identify as arrogance and selfishness. And, despite his being almost ten years older than herself, she’d eventually decided that he possessed little more maturity than Toby.
He strolled through the nearest door and walked towards her.
‘Morning, Mel.’ It seemed like the first time he’d voluntarily chatted to her since their split.
‘Hi.’ She made sure her smile appeared steady and clear. She really didn’t want any bad feeling to linger between them, especially when they would continue to see each other virtually every day here at work.
‘You’re in early. Everything OK?’
She shrugged and resisted the urge to start offloading her troubles. ‘You know, same shit.’
‘Saxophone going OK?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I still do that jam night every Thursday. You could drop in sometime, if you fancied it.’ Her words tailed off, as she hadn’t even meant to say that. It had just popped into her head in a kind of check-out-the-gig type of way, but instead it had come out sounding like a proposition.
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
She couldn’t work out which version of the offer he’d responded to; he was either being polite or had delivered a pretty-bloody-insulting If I need a shag, I’ll put you on the shortlist. And she couldn’t work it out from his expression either, so she made sure her own gaze was bright and helpful but equally unreadable.
‘Was that Anthony Sykes I saw driving out?’
‘Yes, it was.’ And she decided to volunteer nothing else.
‘If he dropped something off, I could take it up.’
‘No, that’s fine, thanks.’
‘So Marks already has it?’
‘Yep, ages ago.’
‘Any idea what he left?’
‘No, Sykes met with them in person.’
‘Who?’
‘Marks and Gary. They were in well before me – obviously engrossed in some discussion when I took Sykes up.’
Kincaide left straight after that, no doubt hot-footing it up the stairs, desperate to find out what he’d missed. Although the exchange had given her a childish satisfaction, none of it seemed to penetrate Kincaide’s thick skin. She guessed he would think she was being naturally obtuse rather than deliberately obstructive. He didn’t expect women to be bright, but obviously thought they’d all become co-operative after a few flattering words.
It was still before nine and officially she wasn’t even at work yet. So she took a slow walk to the coffee machine, and a slow walk back again, allowing herself time to ease into the new working day and to zip her problems into the pocket marked ‘private’.
Back at her desk she found PC Sue Gully sitting jotting a note on a scrap of paper. They’d barely spoken since Gully had arrived at Parkside but, from what Mel had seen, the new PC had only two expressions: blush or scowl.
Gully looked up, scowled, and stopped writing. ‘Marks wants everyone in the Major Incident Room straight away.’
‘Me, too?’
‘No.’ Gully frowned. ‘Sorry, that’s not what I meant. He was just hoping you’d spot any stragglers coming into the building and hurry them up. I tried to ring –’
‘I went for coffee.’
‘OK.’ Gully screwed up the paper and tossed it into the bin.
‘DCs Young and Charles, right? Anyone else?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘They’ve been viewing some CCTV footage half the night . . .’
‘They’re not there now.’
‘No, they went to the canteen for breakfast. I’ll go get them.’
‘It’s OK, I can go,’ Gully said, but didn’t move.
It made Mel hesitate, not sure whether she was supposed to say something else. It occurred to her then that there probably wasn’t more than a couple of years in age between them. Maybe not much in terms of looks or capabilities, either. The difference was that Gully’s job required her to compete with the other detectives rather than provide admin support. Mel could imagine that would be enough to bring out anyone’s surly side.
‘I’ll walk down there with you,’ she said.
TWENTY-FIVE
Sue Gully had been the first to answer the ‘room to let’ ad. The house itself was a three-bed semi on Perne Avenue, and she’d liked it straight away. She’d been able to choose between the two available upstairs bedrooms and, with a quick calculation, had worked out that the front bedroom faced east. So she’d picked that one, liking the idea of warmth in the morning and shade in the evenings.
That had been three weeks ago and, as she now realized, everything had its flip side.
The window didn’t face exactly due east, which meant she was spared the very first rays, but it wasn’t long before the morning sunshine managed to stretch its way round the front of the house. So it was her choice of bedroom, on a sunny June morning at a northerly latitude, which meant she was destined to wake at 5.30 a.m., at least an hour before she needed to get up.
Like on every other sunny morning that week, she cursed her overly cheerful new curtains; their cascades of red and orange leaves had seemed like a good idea, but they were unlined and the room flooded with light too easily. The fabric had a sulphur-yellow background which washed over everything, from the plain white walls to her own half-awake features. On a bad morning it felt like someone had pissed on her.
She looked straight up at the toilet-bowl tinted ceiling, and promised herself that she’d swap them back to the older set of curtains on her next day off.
And that thought brought her working day into focus.
With it came that bad, empty, pit-of-the-stomach feeling. She knew it well, because it felt like guilt, but it came with the humiliation of mistakes made and the realization that she was the greatest threat to her own chances of success. She wanted to get this job right. More than anyone knew. More than she had words to express.
She tried not to think about Marks finding her in his office; only time would tell whether she’d done any long-term damage to their relationship. Instead, she wished she’d stayed with Kimberly; she could have spent the hours wasted both here and at Parkside by learning more about her.
Woulda-coulda-shoulda.
She kicked herself out of bed and ignored the ongoing urge to let her thoughts fester on any part of the previous day. As it turned out, she found it difficult to concentrate on any part of this new day except Kimberly’s forthcoming press conference. Everything felt like a countdown until that moment when Kimberly would look into the camera and beg for the return of her little boy.
Gully’s instincts told her that it would all kick off from there; that everything prior to it was just part of a holding pattern of resources, witnesses and anxious hours. And that everything that followed would be . . . She paused, the fingers of her left hand holding her hair in place, the fingers of her right hand poised with hairclip ready.
She wasn’t sure what those next hours would hold, apart from the revelation of truths. A few truths, one truth, all the truths; she didn’t know. She just had the feeling that today could be a big day.
She promised herself that today would be one for observing more and talking less and, with that resolution firmly in mind, she had been at work for about ten minutes before uttering her first words of the morning.
TWENTY-SIX
From first light, Anita McVey began to make regular checks from her upstairs windows. She checked her garden and each possible approach to her house, finding that her usual secure feeling of this being her sanctuary had deserted her. By 9 a.m. she was watching two robins b
obbing back and forth between the lowest branches and her vegetable patch. As she drank her third coffee of the day, she tried to take comfort in remembering how Harvest Path had a history of being a forgotten spot.
It had been in 1955 when the ‘Path’ had been bisected by an access road for the post-war sprawl that developed on Cambridge’s east side. The major part of the lane had been left as a cul-de-sac, so the final six houses were marooned on the other side of the new road, accessed via an unadopted track that alternated between hard-core bumps and muddy ruts, or alternatively by foot across the allotments.
Since 1955, four of the six had lain vacant after plans for the new road had earmarked them for demolition. Eventually they had crumbled and in a rare reversal of the progress of urbanization, the plots they stood on had disappeared under extra allotments.
The other two, both halves of a semi-detached pair, had at the time been occupied by the Boyle family. Cedric Boyle had managed to purchase both in the late forties and for the next thirty odd years his children and grandchildren had exercised a free hand in redesigning the house and its garden with a succession of ‘projects’ and ‘finds’.
Trainee social worker Anita McVey had first visited in ’82. The windows were open wide and ‘A Town Called Malice’ was rattling out from a large black and red portable stereo standing on the bathroom window ledge.
A mould-covered Vauxhall Viva stood in the far corner of the overgrown lawn. Two kids were perched on its roof. They both had wedge cuts, closely clipped from the back of the neck upwards and, even though their fringes were fairly long they both looked male. She knew from her notes that at least one of them was a girl; the Boyle children didn’t have other kids round to play. They both wore bleached denim jeans, one wore a check shirt, the other a faded black T-shirt and a leather belt with chrome studs.
Check shirt turned out to be Darren, and chrome studs was Mandy. Anita was able to work this out herself, since Mandy’s voice definitely sounded female as she yelled out. ‘Who the fuck are you?’