by Jane Isaac
“Good Morning, Charles!” Helen said, as they walked through the doors.
“Morning!” he replied, without looking up.
Helen looked at the corpse and thought how different the victim looked unclothed. Older somehow. It was surprising how clothes masked a multitude of sins. The skin on his stomach was sagging into wrinkles, the cheeks of his face sunken deeply and his hair seemed thinner than the previous night. The lacerated wounds across his torso sat like leeches on the blue tinged skin.
Charles continued to photograph the victim from different angles. “I’ve already started, I’m afraid,” he spoke finally, his eyes focusing on his work. “Came in early and stole a march. I’ve only got until midday. Sarah has this Christmas Fayre thing organized and I’m supposed to be selling the mulled wine.” He turned sideways and smiled up at Helen sheepishly. “Simply forgot all about it, so I’m in the dog house!” He noticed Townsend and stood up to face him, holding the camera away at an angle, as if it smelt badly.
“Charles this is Inspector Simon Townsend, my Deputy on the investigation,” Helen said. Charles nodded at Townsend who lifted his head slightly in acknowledgement.
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t,” Charles looked down at his gloved hands which were already smeared with stodgy blood. As Townsend nodded, Helen allowed herself a gentle smile. Charles had always been the archetypal gentlemen. He reminded her of her father in so many ways.
“How is it going?” Helen asked as he placed the camera down on a table behind him.
“Fine, thank you.” He turned back to survey his work, leaving them standing there silently.
She glanced around at the pathology lab and felt a rippling shiver run down her spine. The labs always felt chilly, although it wasn’t particularly cold in there. No matter how many corpses she had seen during her service, there was something unnerving about the smell of dead people which chilled her to the bone. A strange, clinical, musty smell. Years ago, a friend, Clare, had married into a family of butchers. When her new husband came home at the end of the day Clare would insist that he shower immediately because he always smelled of mince. It was as if it were deeply embedded in the pores of his skin. She wondered what Charles smelled of when he finished a busy day and shuddered. Was it possible for the living to smell of the dead?
“It is as I thought,” Charles said eventually. “There are six wounds in all and I think it very unlikely they were made by a regular kitchen carving knife. Look here and here.” He moved his fingers gently over the lacerations. “You see on one side the wound is a smooth cut, but on the other the edge is torn. I would say you are looking for a knife with a smooth side and an opposing serrated side – possibly a hunting knife.”
“Any signs of a struggle?” Helen asked, watching Charles avidly.
“No. No defensive wounds to speak of and not much under the fingernails either. It seems that he knew his attacker.”
“Is it possible he was drugged and lured into the house?”
“No reason to suggest that from his external condition. It looks as though he was standing facing his attacker for the blows, but I will, of course, run toxicology tests.”
Helen became aware of Townsend’s silence and glanced sideways at him. He stood wide eyed, although his eyes were completely averted from the examination, focusing instead on the grey, speckled flooring. He was frozen to the spot, taking very definite breaths in, slowly exhaling. Surely this couldn’t be his first autopsy? She looked away and allowed herself a wry smile. She had thought she was doing him a favor by inviting him to attend, building some bridges, whereas really she was putting him through hell.
When she looked back at him she noticed that the color had now drained from his face. He looked decidedly green around the gills but, no doubt, his pride was not going to allow him to say anything. In many ways it was strange, but post mortems never affected her like that. The only time that she had experienced nausea was during her first pregnancy when the smell of cheese, any variety of cheese in fact, made her retch. She hadn’t been able to go near a delicatessen counter for three months.
“Inspector, would you pop outside and give the station a ring to see how they’re getting on with things?” she asked generously, fully aware that use of mobile phones inside the building was forbidden.
“Certainly, ma’am,” he nodded and left the room with haste.
Charles ignored his exit, immersed in his work. Several minutes passed before he finally spoke, “You will see that all six wounds are concentrated in the torso area. I would say that the blow to the heart was definitely the first – it was a good hard incision, the others were more like firm, quick jabs.” He pointed to the bottom right hand rib cage. “This one here appears to have splintered the rib, but I doubt completely broken it.”
She watched him in silence for a moment before asking, “What about time of death?”
“Again, as I thought. Death occurred before five o’clock, probably in the two hours preceding.” She nodded as Townsend opened the door and leant in. He obviously had no intention of returning, having completely removed his gowns.
“Ma’am. Can I have a word?”
“Certainly, Inspector,” she replied and turned to Charles. “Excuse me for a moment, would you?” Charles nodded without looking up and she went out of the lab to join Townsend in the room next door.
“Yes?”
“I’ve just spoken with DS Carter at the station. They’ve checked with Anna’s work colleagues who confirmed that she left at four thirty yesterday. They have also retrieved CCTV footage from Tescos which shows her entering the store at four fifty and, more importantly, leaving at five thirty five.”
“What about the old school friend?”
“Still working on that one.”
Helen sighed. “Dr. Burlington’s just confirmed that the murder weapon had a serrated edge, so it couldn’t possibly have been a kitchen carving knife. She looked at her watch. It was twelve o’clock. “I don’t think we have any choice but to release Miss Cottrell on bail. As it stands at the moment we don’t have any evidence to keep her.” She looked up at Townsend. “Would you make the arrangements for me while I finish up in here?” He nodded, visibly relieved.
As Helen walked back into the pathology lab moments later, Charles was concentrating on making a ‘y’ shaped incision with a scalpel from shoulder to shoulder and down to the pubic bone.
“Charles?” she asked, “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Are you off?” He looked up at her as she nodded. “I’m just about to do the internals, but I can send you all that information in my report. There is one more thing I would like you to see though.” He walked around to the other side of the body, pointing to the top of the right arm. “Look here,” he said. She moved her eyes across a large area where the skin seemed to have been removed. “This is most interesting,” added Charles, gazing at the bare tissue which glared back at him.
“Has the skin been cut away?” Helen asked, puzzled.
“Yes, it would appear a rough area of around four inches square has been purposely removed.” Charles re-examined the area in question, a sharp ‘v’ appearing in the middle of his forehead. “Most strange. Looking at the damage to the tissue below, I wonder if it may have housed a tattoo? I didn’t notice it last night as it was covered by clothing. Presumably our attacker removed it and then re-covered the area. If so, it seems they were at pains to keep it under wraps.”
Helen stepped back and looked at him, perplexed. “You’re saying the assailant removed his tattoo?”
“You’ll need to check of course, but that would be my guess.”
* * *
Worthington, once a village in its own right before extended housing had swallowed it up into Hampton, was situated on the very edge of the city boundaries and surrounded by open, rolling countryside. Anna looked out of the window of the patrol car as they drove towards her parent’s suburban home, transfixed by the world carrying on arou
nd her as if nothing had happened.
The WPC had given up making conversation and they sat in silence as she turned into
Broom Hill Lane, a winding, country lane that stretched through the heart of Worthington. They passed the group of horse chestnut trees that Anna and her friends had called ‘conker heaven’ as children, drove over the bridge above the river where she had waded through in her wellingtons, searching for treasure. It was an idyllic place for a child to grow up. Everybody had known everyone. Before they reached the heart of the old village, they turned off into Worley Close and the patrol car pulled up outside number 12, a white seventies built semi-detached. “Shall I come in with you?” asked the WPC, noticing the look of anguish on Anna’s face.
“No . . . Thank you. They are in. The car is there.” It wasn’t facing her parents that bothered Anna, it was all the twitching curtains, eyes’ peering through slatted blinds – or was she being paranoid? She jumped out of the car and headed around the back of the house, past her father’s Volvo on the drive and into the back garden. She stood underneath the old oak tree for a moment, looking at the long garden where she used to play. Water droplets bounced off her shoulders as the bare branches swayed in the light wind.
Anna spotted her father, half way down the garden in the greenhouse and walked towards him. He had his back to her. “Hi Dad,” she said, leaving the door open behind her. His body jolted, as if she had startled him, and he turned around to face her, instantly opening his arms and encasing her as if she had been a child of six or seven. They stood in silence, arm in arm before he stepped back and looked at her.
“Are you OK, my dear?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so,” she replied wearily. “Tired and hungry, that’s all.”
“Sounds like you’ve had quite an ordeal.” Edward Cottrell scratched the remaining wispy hairs on his balding head awkwardly, his lips pressed together.
“I’ll survive. Think I’ll just go in and try to catch some sleep.” He nodded. This is what she loved about her father – he asked few questions. Most girls confided in their mothers, woman to woman, but for Anna it had always been her father she had turned to. And he instinctively knew that she would tell him all about her living nightmare when she was ready, in her own time. It had always been this way and she loved him dearly for it. “Where’s Mum?” she asked apprehensively.
“She was in the kitchen when I came out, about two hours ago.” She could see a sympathetic smile playing on his lips. The garden was her father’s solace and he spent many an hour out here, nurturing, weeding, watering.
“Guess I’ll see you later then.” Edward nodded as his daughter shut the door of the greenhouse behind her and headed back up the garden, through the conservatory at the back of the house and into the kitchen. Anna breathed a sigh of relief when it was empty. As she indulged the exhalation, her stomach kicked out, reminding her that she needed food. She reached for the breakfast cupboard and pulled out a box of cereal, standing beside the counter absentmindedly as she tipped it and poured until her mouth was full.
She felt a warm feeling around her feet and looked down to see Cookie, wrapping himself around her ankles. He was a handsome cat, his fluffy fur an array of different shades of tabby grays, warm and comforting. “Hi Cooks,” she said as she bent down, stroked his head and rubbed underneath his chin. He looked up into her eyes and she offered him a piece of breakfast cereal between her thumb and forefinger which he licked clean.
Cats had always interested Anna. They were completely consumed in their own world, with their own needs. Not like a dog that, once trained, did as they were told and aimed to please. Instead a cat’s behavior was almost like that of a psychopath. They didn’t live by any morals, didn’t show empathy or remorse. Her mind wandered. A psychopath – like a murderer? She shivered.
“There are plenty of bowls in the cupboard.” The crisp disapproval in Kathleen Cottrell’s voice disturbed her thought process and she jumped, cereal tumbling out of the box as she turned to face her.
“Hi Mum.” She looked over at her mother’s expressionless face. “Um . . . Sorry. Couldn’t wait.”
“Do you want some coffee?” Without waiting for a reply, Kathleen Cottrell turned her back on her daughter and flicked the switch on the kettle.
“Tea, thank you.” They stood in silence for a moment as Kathleen busied herself with cups, spoons, tea, sugar. As the vapor rose from the kettle, she made the drinks, stirring them excessively and turned back to face her daughter.
“Are you OK?” she asked, sipping her hot drink gingerly.
“Just tired,” Anna answered, averting her glaze.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” she asked directly.
“Not right now. I just want to sleep.” She looked up in time to see her mother’s brow furrow.
“All this commotion and you don’t feel the need to explain yourself?” Her tone was getting louder.
“I’m sorry about the party.”
“So am I,” Kathleen said tightly.
Anna looked out of the window, through the conservatory, into the garden, willing her father to come in and lighten the atmosphere.
“Well. Aren’t you going to explain yourself?”
“What is there to say?” Anna clenched her teeth, feeling her face flush.
“Well it seems to me plenty, if the last 24 hours are anything to go by?”
“Look, I’m sure Will’s already filled you in,” she replied, feeling far too old for a lecture.
Her mother just stared at her, forcing her into defeat. “OK. I came home from work on Friday to find a man murdered in my flat, was arrested, questioned by police and spent last night in a cell. They released me this lunchtime, when they finally realized that I’m not a mad, knife wielding murderer. OK?” Anna felt the tone of her own voice rising, her head aching. At this moment her father walked in.
“No, it’s not OK. This isn’t the kind of thing that happens to normal people like us.” Her mother’s voice was splitting in panic, bits of words crackling haphazardly out of her mouth.
“Kath, dear, please. Leave her alone,” Edward Cottrell interjected gently.
She completely ignored his comments, failing even to acknowledge his presence in the room. “There must be an explanation. I mean . . . Do you even know who this dead person is?” Her pitch was getting higher now, her breathing excessively rapid, as she approached hyperventilation.
“No idea,” Anna replied, raising her hand and pressing it to her forehead to sooth the ache which felt like a volcano preparing to erupt. “The police said he was called Jim McCafferty.” Kathleen Cottrell’s face instantly froze, as if she had been plunged into icy cold water, her eyes almost popping out of her head. She was struggling for breath. Anna had witnessed many of her mother’s tantrums over the years, but this was the first time she had ever seen her look visibly petrified.
“Mum, what is it?” She looked over at her father whose face was as white as stone. “Dad? Do you know this man?”
Her father coughed, a gesture that appeared to help him regain composure. He shook himself tall. “Your mother’s having a bad day, darling. You go up and sleep and we’ll talk later.”
“You do know him, don’t you?” she asked suspiciously.
“I think he might be an acquaintance from many years ago. That’s all,” her father said.
“What do you mean ‘an acquaintance’?”
“Look, why don’t you go and get some sleep?”
“I want to know,” she insisted. “I think I have a right to know since he was killed in my flat.”
Her father inhaled slowly through his nose and sighed loudly. “Look, it’s been a difficult weekend. We’re all tired. Your mother has made up your old room for you. We can talk later.” He enunciated every syllable of the last line. Anna looked from her father to her mother who had put her head down now, lost in thought. It was clear that she was not going to get any further explanation right now. Her head ached a
nd her eyes felt heavy.
“OK,” she shrugged, weariness blocking the frustration that was seeping through her pores. Defeated and exhausted, she headed upstairs.
Her old bedroom was at the end of the corridor at the back of the house and her parents hadn’t changed the decor since she had lived at home. The lilac walls and white lacy curtains had been her mum’s choice but, despite holding years of embarrassment when she had taken friends up there to entertain as a teenager, it now looked very welcoming. She allowed her body to fall into the soft, comfortable bed and wrapped the duvet around her as sleep enveloped her weary limbs.
Chapter Five
The first thing that struck Anna when she awoke was the smell. Her nose had grown accustomed to the smell of thick bleach in the cell, so much so that she could almost taste it. Her old bedroom was full of the fake, floral aroma of an air freshener.
She pulled herself out of bed, still dressed in the clothes she had worn the previous night and stretched. They felt itchy and uncomfortable. The jogging top had turned sideways and, as she lifted it, she could see there was a mark on her side where the zip had rubbed. She reached over, grabbed the robe off the back of the door and peeled off the top and trousers, feeling wonderfully liberated as she threw the robe around her shoulders. Her hair had fallen out and was hanging in a messy heap around her face and she pushed it back, tying it loosely in a knot at the nape of her neck. The digits on the alarm beside her bed read ten o’clock. She had completely slept through from the previous afternoon.
Anna’s stomach growled, reminding her that it had been a couple of days since she had eaten a proper meal, and at the same time she was hit by an overwhelming thirst. Making her way out of the room and across the landing, she almost ran down the curved staircase towards the kitchen. It felt a bit like her old student days when a group of them would come home after a big night out with the ‘munchies’, picking spots of mould out of old bread and jostling for the toaster. The memory made her smile.