It was a cloudy night on the moors, the temperature a little above freezing. A fine rain washed the ground, rinsing the snow off the red dress, washing her face, her legs, her hair. When the first light broke, the body would be visible from the road.
The stocking salesman smiled to himself as he remembered the shoe he had so carefully placed in the box in the boot of his car.
Chapter Three
It was a farmer, driving his tractor to reach sheep sheltering from the weather, who was the first to spot her. He peered through the morning gloom and saw a patch of red in the melting snow. Shouting to his dog, he pulled off the road, switched off the spluttering engine and crossed the field.
Joanna sat up in bed, peered out of her bedroom window and knew there was no excuse not to use her bike this morning.
It felt good to be slipping on her shorts and tracksuit, to feel the wind in her face again. And although the wind felt raw as she wheeled her bike out of the garage, she knew she would soon be warm.
She turned out on to the main road, then faced the hill climb towards the town. The hill was a challenge and she pedalled steadily in a low gear. Halfway up, she slowed and grimaced. A couple of days’ laziness had their price. Her legs were aching. And so was her back.
‘Come on ... Keep going.’
She had a companion. Tall and slim with beautiful white teeth and quick, strong legs. He slowed down to keep abreast of her. ‘I’ve missed you the last couple of days,’ he said cheerily. ‘The snow put you off?’
‘Just a bit,’ she admitted.
‘Tough getting back in the saddle.’ He grinned.
Panting, she agreed.
‘Name’s Stuart,’ he said.
‘Joanna.’
They reached the top of the hill together just as a lorry thundered past.
‘Work in Leek?’ he shouted.
‘Yes.’
‘What do you do?’
A natural reluctance to divulge her profession always made her say she worked in an office. ‘And you?’
‘Nuts and bolts man myself.’
He glanced at her bike. ‘And that’s a nice bike, Joanna.’
‘Thanks.’
He gave her another flash of white teeth. ‘Do you live in the village cottages?’
Something stopped her then. She lived alone and usually felt quite safe. But weren’t the police always warning women to be careful, to keep their addresses and telephone numbers from all but close and trusted friends? She looked at him.
‘In Cheddleton.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘In the village,’ she said vaguely.
He took the hint. ‘I see,’ he said, then grinned again. ‘I’ve noticed you lots of mornings, cycling in to work.’
‘Oh.’
‘I always notice a good bike,’ he said, ‘and a good pair of legs.’
She was silent until they reached the outskirts of the town and Joanna gestured. ‘I have to turn off here.’
‘I know. I’ve seen the way you go.’
Again Joanna felt the vague apprehension and remembered a plaque from her childhood. It had begun ‘Christ is the head of this house’. But it had been the rest that she had found disturbing.
‘The silent listener to every conversation.
The unseen guest at every meal.’
It had been the concept of an unseen watcher that had unsettled her during meal times. She felt the same apprehension now.
She had never noticed him before. And she too noticed a good bike – and a good pair of legs.
‘Bye,’ she said as she approached the corner.
He shouted after her. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Joanna.’
Mike was manoeuvring his car into the parking space. He watched her spin into the yard. ‘I didn’t think you’d bike it in today,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you cold?’
‘Not while I’m moving.’ She laughed. ‘But I am when I’m standing around here in the car park talking to you.’
‘Rather you than me. Give me a nice warm car to get to work and a comfortable gym to get my exercise.’
‘Softy,’ she chuckled and chained her bike to the railings. ‘I had company today.’
Mike raised his eyebrows.
‘A rather persistent cyclist named Stuart.’
‘Lucky you. I hope he was wearing padded shorts.’
She punched his arm lightly. ‘Of course. And he was very good looking.’
The banter with Mike was one of the things she liked most about him. It made him easy and comfortable to work with – most of the time. But Mike had his sensitive spots.
The call came through at eight forty-five exactly. Instinctively both she and Mike glanced at the station clock when they heard the slow voice of the farmer.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ she instructed. ‘We’ll be with you as soon as we can.’
She looked at Mike. ‘Get Moorland Patrol. I want them up there as fast as they can. I want the whole area sealed off for the SOCOs and the photographer.’
Mike picked up the other phone while Joanna took directions and asked the farmer to stay where he was.
Then she and Mike climbed into a squad car and turned up towards the moors.
His face was tense. ‘Do you think her car broke down,’ he asked, ‘and she got out to walk, and then got lost in the snow?’
‘Let’s just wait,’ she said, but in the silence they both met their own private dreads. Bodies were not pretty things and Joanna recalled a lecture she had recently attended. Most murder investigations are bungled from the outset. Ninety per cent of forensic evidence is missed from the scene of the crime.
She determined not to lose the thread.
The site was marked by both the tractor and the flashing blue light of the squad car. Joanna glanced around at the fast-melting snow and thanked God for the rise in temperature. She shivered as she contemplated the idea of a someone lying out on the moors undiscovered. Perhaps a killer walking free, with no one even aware of his crime.
PC Timmis looked grim as he walked towards the car. ‘It’s a young woman,’ he said. He swallowed. ‘I think she’s been dead a couple of days.’
McBrine was taping off an area to one side of the road, and two constables were erecting a plastic tent. Joanna approached slowly.
A young woman lay, arms outstretched, under the awning. She wore a sodden red dress and her hair was an unnatural shade of chestnut and thickly teased in an elaborate style. Her long legs were clad in dark tights, and she wore one pretty black high-heeled shoe with a diamanté buckle.
And on that cold, raw day, rain dripping and melting snow trickling on the heath, she lay surrounded by stillness and the cluster of grim-faced officials.
Joanna peered at the girl. Bruises shadowed her eyes like a grotesque parody of make-up. She had been dead for a while.
‘We need a major incident team,’ she said quietly to Mike, ‘and the forensic pathologist. I’ll ring Matthew.’ The farmer was standing by to be interviewed.
‘Good mornin’,’ he shouted as Joanna approached.
‘I’m glad you found her,’ she said. ‘The sooner the better. I don’t suppose you recognize her?’
The farmer shook his head. ‘Never saw her before.’ He looked at Joanna curiously. ‘When do you suppose she was put there?’
‘Before the snow.’
‘She been there two nights, then. It started nigh on midnight, Tuesday.’
Joanna nodded. ‘On Tuesday,’ she said. While Tom and I were dancing someone was killing this girl and dumping her body. It was an ugly thought. She turned her attention back to the farmer. ‘There won’t have been much traffic that night.’
‘Near enough none at all. And yesterday there weren’t a lot, though the snowplough shifted the snow off the road. Town folk. They steers clear.’ He gave a toothy chuckle. ‘The moors frightens them so they sticks to them ’omes.’
‘At what time did you find her?’
‘Eight thirty. It w
ere dark before then.’ He glanced around at the empty moor. ‘Gloomy sort of place, ain’t it?’
She agreed. And yet it had a wild charm. Raw and cold. The moor felt challenging.
‘Were you here at all on Tuesday evening?’
The farmer thought. ‘Not after six,’ he said. ‘We stayed in.’ He looked around. ‘The weather were rough. The snow were threatenin’. I knew the sheep would find shelter.’
‘I suppose they have to?’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Or they die.’
He had the matter-of-fact acceptance of life and death that she had met before here on the edge of civilization.
‘Could she have been there earlier on on Tuesday evening?’
‘I don’t think so.’ He scratched his woollen bobble hat. ‘No, I’m certain she weren’t. I would have noticed it for sure. Anything different.’ He glanced around. ‘You see, I know these moors well.’
Joanna nodded. It was true. These people did know every inch of this wild, wind-blasted place.
So the body had almost certainly been dumped after six p.m. on Tuesday night but before the snow fell heavily. Joanna thought for a moment. The snow always reached the high ground first. It had been nearly two a.m. when she and Tom had driven home. So that made it after six p.m. and before two a.m., when the snow was too thick for traffic to pass. As far as she had been able to see, there had been no snow underneath the girl.
She looked back along the road. The bright headlights of the maroon BMW announced Matthew’s arrival. He had wasted no time.
She walked to his car and opened the door. ‘Hello,’ she said.
His eyes warmed as he looked at her and he smiled. ‘I told you you wouldn’t be able to avoid me completely. I just didn’t think it would be so soon. What have you got for me?’
‘A young woman,’ she said. ‘All done up for a night out. Matthew ... I think she’s been strangled.’
He nodded, took his case out of the boot.
Mike was walking towards them. ‘Photographer’s here,’ he said, giving Matthew the briefest of nods, which was scarcely returned.
The three of them picked their way along the narrow, taped corridor which led to the body. Timmis and McBrine had cleared the path.
Matthew pulled on surgeon’s gloves and knelt down by the girl. ‘The rectal temp’ll be a waste of time,’ he said. ‘It’s been so cold up here. But that’ll have delayed putrefaction anyway.’
She felt her usual queasiness confronted with Matthew’s cheerful facts.
‘Still stiff,’ he said, lifting one arm. ‘Probably been dead less than forty-eight hours. Very difficult to tell in these conditions.’
‘From what I can work out the body was placed here before the snow fell.’
He looked up at her. ‘Tuesday night?’
‘I think some time after six ... The farmer uses this road fairly regularly. He doesn’t think she was here late on Tuesday afternoon.’
Matthew nodded thoughtfully. ‘Tricky circumstances,’ he said, ‘with the snow, but I think Tuesday night’s about right.’
He looked closer at the girl’s neck. ‘Looks like strangulation,’ he said, and leaned forward to finger the dark marks. He stopped abruptly. ‘God.’ He turned to the photographer. ‘Get a picture of this.’
‘Strangled?’Joanna asked.
‘Garrotted.’
‘What?’ Mike was frowning.
‘I think it’s a wire ligature,’ he said, ‘but so deeply embedded in the neck I can’t tell until I get her to the mortuary. Look.’ He moved the girl’s hair away from the back of her neck to expose a piece of wood knotted into thin wire. ‘Looks like a piece of broom handle.’
Mike touched Joanna’s arm. ‘You all right?’ he asked gruffly.
She gave a weak smile.
Matthew was absorbed in his work, directing the photographer to the face, the hands, the neck, the position of the body.
‘She’s been neatly placed,’ he said. ‘Laid to rest.’
He worked steadily for half an hour before he stood up and issued instructions. ‘I’ve finished,’ he said. ‘For now. Get her moved to the mortuary.’
Mike glanced at Joanna and she knew exactly what he was thinking. His dark eyes watched her with concern. Matthew’s insensitivity. She closed her mind to it.
‘Anything else, Mat?’ she asked.
He faced her and smiled. ‘You were right, Jo. She was put here just before the snow started. I think she was garrotted somewhere else – possibly in a car – probably from behind not long before she was driven here and dumped late on Tuesday night.’ He started peeling his gloves off. ‘I’ll be able to tell you much more after the PM but it looks as though she was raped first.’ He stopped and grinned, remembering her weakness. ‘You are coming to the PM?’
Mike was clearing his throat and Matthew shot him an amused glance. ‘Unless you fancy coming, Korpanski.’ He paused. ‘Or do they make you feel ill too?’
Mike flushed.
‘Do we know who she is?’ Matthew said as he headed back to the car.
Timmis was walking towards them holding a sodden black handbag.
‘I think we’re about to find out,’ she said. ‘Thanks, Timmis.’
She opened the bag. A typical woman’s jumble ... keys, make-up, Tampax, red plastic purse. And a name. Joanna glanced back at the plastic tent erected over the body and at her colleagues already searching the area.
‘Sharon,’ she said. ‘Sharon Priest.’
She spoke to Mike then. ‘Forty-five Jubilee Road.’ She paused. ‘Can you take over here while I attend the PM?’
She grimaced. ‘You know what Matthew’s like. He wants to do it straight away. We’ll meet back at the station at lunchtime and go round to Jubilee Road this afternoon. See what we can glean.’ Then she looked around at the bleak scene. ‘Let’s bag the rest of the stuff up.’
Mike gazed around the moor. ‘I wonder where her other shoe is?’ he said.
Joanna settled into the passenger seat of Matthew’s car. For the first part of the journey Matthew chatted easily about the circumstances of the woman’s death. Joanna half listened, her mind racing with the pleasure of being with him and with thoughts of all she had to do ... arrange a press conference ... inform relatives ... unearth suspects.
It would probably turn out to be one of those ‘domestic’ crimes. The woman killed by someone she already knew – a husband, a lover, a boyfriend. A jealous man. A complete stranger. A sex crime.
She became aware that Matthew had stopped talking and had turned to look at her.
‘Jo ...’ His voice was gentle. He was watching her with a half-smile, his green eyes warm and shining.
‘What?’
He rested his hand briefly on her arm. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I just want the chance to talk to you.’
She looked not at him but out of the window, to the honest, damp green on the moor. ‘Matthew,’ she said in a calm, even voice. ‘There isn’t anything to talk about. We had an affair. You’re married. You have a daughter.’
His eyes could turn different shades of green. She had noticed this before. Emotion changed their colour, whether it was anger or love. And sometimes it was simple lust.
‘You never gave me a chance to explain anything,’ he said.
She looked at him with the faintest tinge of irritation. ‘What the hell is there to explain? It’s the oldest story in the book. Married man meets single woman. They make sparks in bed. He goes home, which is where he belongs.’ She stopped. ‘Look, Matthew, I don’t know whether you loved me or not. In a way it’s irrelevant. You’re married to Jane. Still. Please, don’t insult my intelligence or integrity. I don’t mind but I do like to know where I stand.’
Matthew had a habit when he was ruffled of running his fingers through his short blond hair, making it stick up. He did it now and gave a short, rueful laugh.
‘You’re a very determined person, Jo,’ he said quietly. ‘But I think you’ve misunders
tood me completely. And that’s what I want to talk about.’
They had arrived at the mortuary. She opened the car door. ‘Will you ring the Coroner or shall I?’
‘You can,’ he said. Then he surprised her by leaning across and giving her a soft kiss on the cheek.
‘What was that for?’
‘For being brave.’ He laughed. ‘I know you hate PMs. Now come on, let’s see what mysteries the morgue throws up.’
An hour later Matthew was washing his hands. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘A nasty way of killing someone, especially after a pretty violent rape.’ He stopped. ‘Her underwear was removed. She was obviously dressed up. For a date, maybe. If so it was a cheap date. Despite the glamorous dress’ – he indicated the sodden pile of red material the mortician had cut off the body – ‘the stomach contents show a small amount of cider. Nothing more. No food. I think initially she might even have agreed to intercourse.’
‘Not technically a rape, then?’
‘Perhaps technically he had her consent. But he didn’t have her consent to the rest. The lovemaking became increasingly violent. There was a lot of bruising. And it culminated in this.’
He fingered the wire ligature, cut carefully to preserve the length of broom handle twisted into it. ‘It’ll have to be sent off with all the other samples. I’ll keep the knot, but I suppose you want some of the cable.’
She nodded. ‘It’ll be important for the investigation.’
‘Of course the real prize is the semen.’ He dried his hands on the hospital towel. ‘Find me a suspect, Jo, and I’ll prove it was him.’ He stopped. ‘It’ll be a cut-and-dried case thanks to DNA profiling.’
‘That and the rest of the evidence,’ she said. ‘But if only it was so easy. Unfortunately I’m already picking out the defence. “We made love, Your Honour ... I wasn’t the one wot killed her. She was beggin’ for it.’”
‘You’re wasted in the force, Jo. You should have been an actress.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘I can just see him now.’
‘Then perhaps, Dr Levin,’ she said, ‘you’d do me the courtesy of telling me who it was.’ She glanced back at the slab. ‘Anything more?’
A Wreath for my Sister Page 4