We’ve all seen the crime scene photos, the worst of which burn onto your brain like asphalt, but post-mortem pics allow for a bit more professional distance. Flowers flicks through the pages like a man choosing a main course – and that’s not a criticism, I can’t wait to get there myself.
‘Now – and pay attention because this is important – her skull wasn’t fractured by the blow. There’s no real damage to the brain so Vickery’s a bit on the fence about this. She says it could be classed as inconsistent with what you’d expect to see in your average beating and so it could mean that rather than being hit on the head with something in a deliberate attack, she might have just hit her head accidentally.’
‘Or a fall?’
Steele points at me, animated. I can feel myself glowing. ‘Yeah, good, Kinsella, a fall’s definitely a possibility. It fits with the mild bruising on her legs – pictures eight and nine.’ She doesn’t even have to look at the report to know the layout. ‘But as we’re dealing in “coulds” for a second, let’s imagine that the wound could have been caused by a deliberate blow. What does that tell us?’
She doesn’t give us time to answer.
‘Well, it tells us it wasn’t particularly frenzied or there’d be more damage to the brain. And then if you add that to the fact that the cuts to the throat were also very tentative, very shallow, what we seem to have is a rather reluctant, albeit, fairly determined killer.’
‘Reluctant but determined?’ says Seth, wistfully, doing that Sherlock thing that either amuses or irritates me depending on my mood. ‘Bit of an oxymoron, don’t you think?’
Parnell jumps in. ‘I think what the Boss means is he meant to kill her .?.?.’
‘Or she,’ says Flowers, thinking he’s hilarious. ‘Can’t discriminate this days, remember.’
Craig punches the air. ‘Right on, sister!’
Parnell explodes. ‘Shut it, everyone, this isn’t a joke.’ This jolts me, scares me a bit, even. It’s the first time I’ve heard Parnell properly lose his rag and I don’t like it. ‘Anyone finding this the slightest bit funny, I suggest they go down to the morgue and take a look at what’s lying in the fridge, OK? A young woman with her whole life ahead of her, snuffed out, and we have absolutely no idea why.’
I get what he’s doing. You have to shapeshift a little when you’re acting-up in a role, otherwise everyone thinks you’re still their mate. You’re still Papa Parnell who loves a laugh and a joke and an arse-about as much as the rest of us.
Parnell continues, calmer now. ‘What the Boss means is whoever they are, they meant to kill her, all right – the hyoid bone was fractured so we’re talking considerable force – they just seem to have taken a few gos to choose their weapon, as it were.’
‘So they’re inexperienced then rather than reluctant,’ I say.
Steele snaps. ‘Jesus! Can we just forget I said “reluctant”. Wrong choice of word, my bad. Inexperienced, yes, Kinsella. Indecisive. Shitting bricks. How am I doing? Any other oxy-wotsits I need to be aware of?’
Steele, with her first-class degree from Durham and her Masters from LSE isn’t immune to dumbing down if it buoys up the troops.
I do have one more oxymoron though, or a contradiction at least.
‘Sarge,’ I say, turning to Parnell. ‘Or is it Boss, now? Anyway, don’t you think it’s odd that the manner of death’s so jumpy but the manner of disposal’s so, well, brazen? Remember the CCTV? Our guy, or girl’ – a quick nod to Flowers – ‘stretching out their back like they’re doing flipping sun salutations, not dumping a body.’
‘Yoga,’ says Renée before Flowers asks.
‘OK,’ nods Parnell, happy to run with it. ‘So what do you think that could mean?’
‘That it’s less stressful dumping a body than actually killing someone?’
Seth gets in on the action. ‘Maybe the person on the CCTV isn’t our killer? Just someone tasked with dumping the body?’
‘Easy,’ warns Steele. ‘I don’t even want to think about that without evidence.’
Parnell raises a hand. ‘Speaking of which, we don’t have much. Forensics have a few footprints .?.?.’ This gets a communal groan. Footprints don’t hold a candle to fibres, or blood, or skin, or semen, unless they’re stamped across the victim’s chest and we get to play Cinderella with an actual foot. ‘Yeah, yeah. Don’t shoot the messenger.’
Renée chips in. ‘Sounds like they could be forensically aware then?’
Parnell shrugs. ‘Not necessarily. The primary crime scene could be awash with lots of lovely stuff but until we find it, we’re stuck with footprints, I’m afraid.’
I’ve got other things on my mind. ‘No semen at all then? So definitely no unprotected sex in the past seventy-two hours. Might make the “secret boyfriend” theory a bit less likely? I mean, sure, they could have been using condoms but .?.?.’
Parnell’s on it. ‘We’ve asked for a vaginal swab, see if they can get traces of condom lubricant. It won’t tell us anything definitive, but it’ll tell us something, at least.’
‘We can’t rule out a boyfriend based just on that,’ says Flowers. ‘Maybe they just hadn’t mattress-danced in a few days. I know, I know, folks, it’s hard to believe that I go without for any length of time, but it happens, kids.’
Parnell nods along. ‘I hear you, Pete, but there’s no other obvious signs of sexual activity, and if there was a boyfriend, I reckon it’d have to have been a red-hot affair to lure Alice Lapaine into London, not the kind that abstains for three days. Anyway, we’ll see. Lab couldn’t give us any timescales, obviously.’
Steele mumbles into the PM report. ‘Not so reluctant to give us costs though.’
‘Talking of money,’ says Parnell. ‘What’ve we got on her transactions so far.’
‘Bank records have her in London from Thursday 19th November,’ Renée confirms.
‘Which backs up Thomas Lapaine’s story,’ I say, not in any way championing him, just stating a fact.
Renée lifts a warning finger. ‘Yeah, but hold your horses, I’m coming back to him in a minute. So she used their joint account to pay for two nights in a hotel – if you can call it a hotel – it’s a grotty little outfit off Gray’s Inn Road. Still managed to relieve her of ￡250 for two nights’ bed and board though. For a single room that someone on Trip Advisor called, what was it, Ben?’
Ben cranes his neck. ‘“Cold, tired and eminently depressing.”’
I can’t resist it. ‘Sounds like your last girlfriend, Seth.’
‘Cruel, Kinsella,’ he replies with a grin.
Seriously, the shifts I spent counselling Seth over his ice-queen ex – a Finnish vegan with an allergy to everything, a reluctance to give head, and in my opinion, an ill-conceived fringe.
Renée continues, half-smiling – she’d played agony-aunt too. ‘So we’ve talked to reception at the hotel and someone remembered her vaguely. Nothing out of the ordinary though. Never saw her with anyone.’
Parnell rubs his eyes. ‘And then what?’
‘Nothing. From November 19th, there’s no more credit or debit card transactions we can trace. All we’ve got are cash withdrawals from the joint account – all over central London, maxing the limit every time – ￡250 every four or five days but – and this is the interesting – that stops last week. Last withdrawal was 13th December. She .?.?.’
I interrupt, not my finest habit, but this is a brainstorm, not a formal brief, and there’s no prizes for diffidence. ‘Two hundred and fifty pounds every four to five days? That’s not enough to live on in London, including accommodation. She must have been staying with someone.’
‘So why’d she stop fleecing the husband?’ says Flowers, his voice thorny with experience.
I shoot him a dirty look. ‘Er, do you want to look up the meaning of the word “joint”?’
Renée rolls her eyes but she’s past arguing with him. ‘She had no choice. I’ve just had it confirmed that Thomas Lapaine cleared out their joint account at the beginning of last week. Left her high and dry, the rotten sod.’
‘Can he really do that?’ I ask, shocked. ‘Empty the account without her knowledge?’
It’s genuinely news to me. And to think Steele’s got me pegged me as Financially Intelligent.