Unholy Murder

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘Can I help you?’ Pullen asked.

  At the door was a handsome black man in his mid-thirties with short afro hair and a smooth complexion. Dressed casually in dark grey Farah slacks, a blue-and-white striped shirt and woollen jacket, his clothes accentuated his slim body and muscular frame.

  ‘Believe it or not, I’m actually here to help you,’ he smiled. He spoke with a London accent.

  Jane thought the voice sounded familiar and, looking at the reflection in the window in front of her, instantly recognised her former colleague from her days on the Flying Squad. She felt a rush of affection on seeing him, yet at the same time a mixture of anxiety and guilt, wondering how he would react on meeting her again, nearly two and a half years since the day he had been shot and nearly killed by an armed robber.

  ‘Hi, Lloyd,’ Jane said.

  His smile widened with a look of delight. ‘Bloody hell, Treacle Tennison . . . long time no see.’ He gave her a hug and kiss on the cheek.

  Jane instantly felt more at ease. She’d got used to being called ‘Treacle’ and knew he only used it as a term of endearment.

  ‘Treacle Tennison?’ Pullen said, looking at Jane for an explanation.

  ‘We used to work together at the Sweeney. “Treacle” was my nickname on the squad. It comes from the cockney slang: treacle tart – sweetheart.’ She turned to the newcomer. ‘It’s good to see you, Lloyd. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine – and all the better for seeing your lovely face again.’

  ‘I’m Dr Sam Pullen.’ Pullen put her hand out and he shook it.

  ‘Sorry, rude of me not to do the intros first. Pleased to meet you, doc. I’m Detective Sergeant Lloyd Johnson. I’m here to assist you with the body in the coffin.’

  ‘Has the coroner sent you as a replacement for PC Rogers?’ Pullen asked.

  Lloyd laughed. ‘No, I’m your laboratory liaison sergeant. Anything you need forensic-wise, I’m your man.’

  ‘Oh, right, I didn’t realise . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, doc, it surprises everyone. Unfortunately, there were no white lab sergeants available, so you’re stuck with me.’

  Pullen looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t mean to sound offensive.’

  He grinned. ‘You didn’t . . . I was just joking. I’m actually very proud to be the first black lab sergeant, though I’m still on trial in the role under the excellent tutelage of Paul Lawrence.’

  ‘Is he here with you?’ Pullen asked hopefully.

  ‘Not today. He’s busy on another job and let me go solo on this one.’

  Jane could see Pullen was disappointed, even though she was smiling.

  ‘Well, I’m pleased to meet you. And so far we have two things in common. I’m the first female forensic pathologist and also on my first solo case.’

  ‘Well, we’d better look after each other and make sure we don’t mess up. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you from Paul Lawrence and believe me, he doesn’t hand out compliments easily.’

  Pullen blushed. ‘I was fortunate to have Prof Martin as my mentor, as were you with DS Lawrence.’

  Lloyd nodded. ‘That’s for sure.’

  ‘I’m just making a coffee – would you like one?’ Jane asked, holding up a cup.

  ‘I wouldn’t say no,’ he said.

  Pullen picked up two of the coffees. ‘I’ll take one through to the radiographer and see how he’s getting on.’

  ‘She seems a nice lady,’ Lloyd said when Pullen had left the room.

  ‘She is. Sam’s got a good sense of humour – unlike some pathologists I could name. You still take milk and two sugars?’

  ‘You’ve a good memory Jane. How have you been keeping?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. I’m working at Bromley now and studying for the inspectors’ exam.’

  ‘You’ll pass that with flying colours. I always said you’d go far in the job. Bit of a schlep from your flat in Marylebone to Bromley though, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m living over this way now. Oakdene Avenue in Chislehurst.’

  ‘The posh stockbroker belt, eh? So, found yourself a rich young man yet?’ he grinned.

  She laughed. ‘There’s nothing posh about my place. It’s a little semi that desperately needs a shedload of work done on it . . . which I can’t afford right now. And I’ve no time for romance with all the studying I’m trying to do.’

  ‘You need to get out a bit more. Let the bees come to the honey pot. Whoever nabs you as a missus will be a very lucky man.’

  ‘What about you? How you been since, you know . . .?’

  Lloyd could see she was having difficulty asking the obvious.

  ‘I got shot in the chest? I told you when you visited me in hospital that it wasn’t your fault, Jane.’

  ‘I should have visited you more. It’s just that every time I saw you, I felt responsible for what happened,’ she said, hardly able to look him in the face.

  Lloyd sighed. ‘I missed your visits, but I knew that was why you stopped coming.’

  Jane felt close to tears. ‘I nearly got you killed. If I’d just stayed in the OP that day, then it would never have happened.’

  ‘Rubbish. Every time a Flying Squad officer does a pavement ambush, they know they risk being shot. If it wasn’t that time, it could have been the next. DCI Murphy knew you suspected he was bent . . . all he needed was an excuse to get rid of you, and being there when I was shot gave him what he needed. He twisted what happened to suit his purpose, Jane. Thankfully, you and Operation Countryman got him in the end and now he’s behind bars where he belongs. His life is now in danger every day and I have no sympathy for him.’

  ‘Yeah, but I alienated a lot of people assisting Countryman’s investigation and setting up Murphy for a fall. To be honest, studying for the exam wasn’t the only reason I requested a move to a quieter station. My name was mud in a lot of places. A colleague nicks a seasoned villain or solves a complex crime and they instantly become a great detective. I help arrest and convict a colleague who organised armed robberies and I’m a grass for snitching on one of my own. Where’s the sense in that?’

  ‘You’ve got to move on for your own sanity, Jane. I know the Flying Squad officers were glad to see Murphy go down and they respected and admired you for having the balls to do it. Ignore what the halfwits say and do what you do best – being a bloody good detective. Anyone who disses you is only jealous of your abilities. I heard Stanley is the DI at Bromley now. Has he been giving you a hard time about Murphy?’

  ‘No, not at all. In fact, he’s never mentioned it,’ Jane said.

  ‘Good. That’s probably because he knows you did the right thing. You think you get it rough? Try being in my skin, woman!’ he said in a thick Jamaican accent, making her smile.

  Jane had never worked in uniform or in the CID alongside a black officer until she met Lloyd on the Flying Squad. There were no black officers at Bromley. She knew that despite efforts to encourage black and other ethnic minority applicants to join the police force, the response had been poor. Many in the Afro-Caribbean community believed, with good reason, that if they joined the police they would be subjected to racism within the force as well as opposition and hostility from their own community.

  Lloyd took a sip of his coffee and put his notebook and pen on the desk. ‘I take it you’re dealing with the body in the coffin?’ She nodded. ‘Right, give me a rundown on what’s happened so far.’

  Jane brought Lloyd up to speed with details of the case. As he closed his notebook, Boon walked into the room eating a sandwich and carrying a brown paper bag.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Jane asked him.

  ‘Sorry, sarge, I got delayed giving a nurse some advice regarding home security.’

  ‘More like chatting her up, knowing you, Boony,’ Lloyd said as he turned round.

  ‘Bloody hell, Teflon, how you doing, mate?’

  ‘Not bad my friend . . . and you?’

  ‘Good,
thanks. I’m working a really interesting case with DS Tennison. It looks like it could be a murder.’

  ‘I know, she just told me all about it.’

  ‘DS Johnson is assisting us as the lab sergeant,’ Jane told him. ‘So how do you two know each other?’

  Boon spoke with a mouthful of sandwich. ‘Teflon was helping coach the Met football team until he got himself shot. Then his wound got infected, and he ended up with sepsis, which damaged his liver and kidneys . . .’

  Seeing that Jane was shocked by this new information, Lloyd raised his hand. ‘I’m sure Sergeant Tennison doesn’t want to hear all the gory details, Boony.’

  ‘We all thought you was a goner at the time, mate,’ Boon continued, ignoring the hint. ‘I even heard they called a priest in to give you the last rites.’

  ‘That’s rubbish. I’m fine now and hope to be back coaching again soon.’

  The mortuary technician put his head round the door. ‘The radiographer just finished developing the X-rays and Dr Pullen is ready to start the post-mortem.’

  As they left the room, DS Johnson sidled up to Boon and tapped his arm. ‘I’d prefer to be called Lloyd now, Boony. Teflon was a Flying Squad nickname, which doesn’t really go with my new role as a lab sergeant.’

  ‘No problem.’ Boon nodded. ‘Personally, I always thought Teflon sounded a bit racist.’

  As they entered the mortuary room Pullen was examining an X-ray on an illuminated viewer.

  ‘Found anything interesting, doc?’ Boon asked as they gathered round the viewer.

  ‘This is a close-up X-ray of our victim’s upper throat region,’ Pullen explained. ‘If I get too technical, or you don’t understand anything, let me know.’ Using a mortuary scalpel, Pullen pointed to a small bone at the top of the throat on the X-ray. ‘This little horseshoe-shaped bone here is called the hyoid bone. It helps support our tongue movement and swallowing. The dark line just here is a small fracture of the hyoid, which indicates trauma to the neck. Although a fracture like this can occur in road traffic accidents or as the result of a contact sports injury, it is most commonly associated with strangulation.’

  ‘A manual strangulation?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Or a ligature may have been used.’

  ‘There may be some fibres deposited on her neck and headdress from a ligature. I’ll take some tapings. We might find something to help identify the type of ligature used,’ Lloyd said.

  Boon looked confused. ‘If she was strangled to death and put in the coffin, then how did the scratch marks get on the inside of the lid?’

  ‘Good question, DC Boon. However, you don’t have to be strangled to death for the hyoid bone to fracture,’ Pullen said.

  ‘So, she could have been strangled to a point of unconsciousness, put in the coffin, then regained consciousness,’ Jane suggested.

  ‘And in a state of sheer panic scratched the lid before suffocating to death,’ Boon added.

  ‘That’s what I thought at first . . . until I saw this.’ Pullen replaced the X-ray with another one and again used the scalpel blade as a pointer. ‘This is the top section of the spine, which is made up of small bones known as the vertebrae, which protect the spinal cord and nerve roots that run through them. We refer to the top vertebra, where it joins the skull, as C1, the next C2, then C3 and so on. Can you see the tiny shaded triangular shape in between the C3 and C4 vertebrae?’

  ‘Is her spine broken?’ Lloyd asked.

  ‘Severed possibly, but I can’t be certain until I dissect the neck and examine the spine,’ Pullen said. She then held the scalpel blade just below the triangular shape on the X- ray and the similarity to the tip of the blade was obvious.

  ‘She was stabbed with a scalpel!’ Boon exclaimed.

  ‘The X-ray images are smaller than the real thing, but yes, she may have been stabbed. The object in between the vertebrae could be the broken tip of a knife blade.’

  ‘If her spinal cord was severed would it have caused paralysis?’ Jane asked.

  Pullen nodded. ‘Yes. A cervical vertebrae injury in the C1 to C5 section is the most severe. In the worst cases all communication between the brain and bod, below the injury, would instantly be cut off, including the ability to breathe properly, which would lead to a terrifying death.’

  Jane looked shocked at the thought. ‘Her assailant must have strangled her, then put the body in the coffin thinking she was dead and secured the clasps . . . which would explain the scratch marks.’

  Pullen agreed. ‘If she was originally put in the coffin on her back then a rear entry wound that high up on the spine would suggest she sat up or was let out before being stabbed. It’s also possible the killer heard her cries for help and opened the coffin to stab her.’

  Boon let out a long sigh. ‘That poor woman. What kind of person could do that to a nun?’

  ‘Murderers come in all shapes and sizes, Boony,’ Lloyd said as he took some photographs of the body in the coffin.

  Boon looked at Jane. ‘Do you think another nun or a priest might have done it?’

  ‘Right now, who knows. Father Floridia said the Sisters of Mercy lived and worked at the convent from the mid-1800s until the 1960s. Let’s say 1850 to 1969, which gives us a possible time span of . . .’ Jane paused to work it out.

  ‘A hundred and nineteen years,’ Boon said instantly, looking pleased with himself.

  ‘Whoever killed her could be long dead by now,’ Lloyd remarked, as he placed some sticky-backed ruler paper on the coffin lid to photograph the scratch marks.

  ‘Finding out who she is and when she was born should help narrow the time frame down,’ Jane suggested.

  ‘That’s not going to be easy if she’s been dead for a hundred years,’ Lloyd said.

  Pullen picked up her mortuary gown and latex gloves. ‘Right, I think it’s about time we got the body out of the coffin and onto the examination table. I’m going to need everyone to help move her. We’ll have to be gentle as I don’t want any bits of her crumbling or coming away in our hands.’

  The mortuary technician picked up a roll of green disposable post-mortem aprons, tore some off and handed one to Boon, then pointed. ‘There’s some plastic arm sleeve covers in the box over there.’

  Jane noticed Boon grimace. ‘If you want to get involved in murder investigations, then you need to learn to cope with the unpleasant side of things.’

  ‘Yes, sarge,’ he replied glumly, putting on the plastic gown.

  When everyone was appropriately dressed and ready to go, they gathered around the coffin which was on an adjustable table. Pullen lowered it to a suitable height and the mortuary technician put the portable examination table in front of it.

  ‘The mortuary technician and I will take either side of the torso and arms,’ she said. ‘Jane and Lloyd take the legs and feet, and DC Boon hold the head. We will lift on my count of three, then once we’re all steady and ready to go, shuffle forward and slowly put her down on the table in front.’

  Everyone got into position. Boon was turning his head away as best he could to avoid the smell. They all lifted the body on Pullen’s count and when everyone said they were ready she gave the order to shuffle forward.

  ‘I distinctly told you not to start the post-mortem without me, Tennison!’ Stanley bellowed as he stormed in the room.

  ‘Keep moving, we’re nearly there . . .’ Pullen said, trying to ignore him and concentrate on what she was doing.

  Boon, startled by Stanley’s entrance, froze on the spot. As the others kept shuffling along there was a grating sound followed by a pop as the nun’s head, still in the veil and wimple, came away from her body. Jane, Pullen, and Lloyd glared at Boon.

  Boon started to retch as he put the head on the mortuary table.

  ‘Shit. Sorry, Sam, I forgot to tell you DI Stanley wanted to attend the PM,’ Jane whispered.

  After the nun’s body was placed on the table, Sam winked at Jane before turning to Stanley. ‘Ah, DI Stanl
ey, a pleasure to meet you.’ She took off one latex glove and shook his hand. ‘I’m Dr Pullen, the forensic pathologist on this case. DS Tennison informed me you would be attending. I thought I’d get the body laid out on the table so I’d be ready to start when you got here. Perfect timing, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Sorry, I thought you’d started,’ an embarrassed Stanley replied.

  ‘Well, we can, now you’re here,’ Pullen said, putting her glove back on.

  ‘Stanley, how are you?’ Lloyd asked.

  ‘Teflon, what you doing here?’

  ‘I’m your lab liaison DS.’

  ‘I heard your injuries had rendered you unfit for front line duties. Didn’t expect to see you in this role, though,’ Stanley said.

  Lloyd smiled. ‘I figured it would be less traumatic. After all, dead people can’t shoot you.’

  Stanley took Lloyd to one side saying, ‘I’m a DI now. I don’t mind you calling me Stanley when it’s just the two of us, but when there’s junior ranks present, I’d prefer guv or sir.’

  ‘No problem,’ Lloyd said. ‘I like to be called Lloyd now and not Teflon, if you don’t mind.’

  Stanley laughed. ‘Why? You’ve been known as Teflon for years.’

  ‘Unlike you, I like my Christian name. However, if you want to call me Teflon, I shall call you Evelyn.’

  Stanley frowned. ‘I told you that in the strictest confidence. It’s not my fault my parents liked Evelyn Waugh’s novels.’

  ‘You told me that when you were pissed, and I haven’t told anyone . . . yet,’ Lloyd grinned.

  ‘All right, point taken,’ Stanley replied.

  Lloyd took some photographs of the body then examined the interior of the coffin for any further forensic evidence but found nothing. Dr Pullen examined the head, whilst Jane showed Stanley the X-rays and pointed out the injuries.

  Stanley shook his head in disbelief. ‘After the attempted strangulation, the poor woman must have been terrified when she woke up in the coffin.’

  Jane sighed. ‘As awful as it sounds, I’d like to think the stabbing killed her instantly. To be totally paralysed, unable to do anything as you watch your killer slowly close the coffin lid, is unimaginable.’