23
Tim Stanton looked at his watch, saddened by the thought that he’d not managed to finish in time to get home for his son’s fifth birthday tea in the garden. He exhaled loudly. He’d promised his wife he’d be there no matter what. But with two of his colleagues on leave, the urgent demands of his job required his presence here.
The pathologist and his associates were busier than they had ever been. Eleven sudden deaths in the space of twelve hours was unprecedented: a young woman hit by a bus while crossing the road; six fatalities from an accident on the A1; two from the scene of a suspicious fire; a motorcyclist who’d failed to take a sharp bend. And now, an old man who’d keeled over in the street on his way home from a family visit – probably a heart attack, aneurism, or some other catastrophic condition.
Promising himself he would get home in time to kiss his son goodnight at least, Stanton looked down at the examination table where Ivy Kerr’s body was laid out.
‘Turn her over please, Sally.’
Bright, and with a Scottish accent, his assistant was in the final stages of a postgraduate course in forensic medicine at the University of Edinburgh. Stanton had taken his own qualifications there and was now an Honorary Lecturer. Sally had been working with him for the past three months and had proven she was capable and committed to her job. He registered her reaction almost before it had formed fully on her face, alerting his curiosity, bringing with it a sinking feeling as reality dawned.
There was little chance his kids, Edward and Maddie, would see their Daddy tonight.
His eyes followed Sally’s, homing in on her concern immediately. Something was very wrong here. At that moment, his duty of care to the dead woman became his one and only priority.
‘Tell me what you see,’ he said.
Sally pulled a magnifying lamp towards the body, angling it slightly. She leaned in, peering at the mess of matted blood and hair at the back of Ivy’s head, taking her time before answering. ‘Acute haematoma caused by penetrating trauma to the back of the head, cerebral contusions and brain matter—’
‘Which are?’ Stanton said, interrupting.
‘Inconsistent with injuries in any road traffic accident victim I’ve ever seen.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Stanton was playing Devil’s Advocate now. He wanted her to justify her statement. ‘We have no way of knowing what heavy items she might’ve been carrying unsecured in the back seat of her vehicle. Maybe something shot forward at the point of impact, striking this lady, entering the brain and causing her death.’
‘No . . .’ Sally shook her head confidently, her eyes showing no doubt. ‘These injuries suggest repeated bludgeoning with a heavy object, something with a rounded edge. Looks to me like a ball-peen hammer or suchlike. This unfortunate soul didn’t die of injuries sustained in the crash. She was murdered.’
24
Back at the MIR, the seven o’clock briefing was already underway. Detectives ate at their desks, conscious that home-time was a long way off. The first twenty-four hours of any murder enquiry often produced the best results. If you found a perpetrator within ten minutes, likely as not they would still be wearing the same clothes. Ten hours, they might not have got round to washing the clothes. Ten days, trace evidence may well have been lost for ever.
The squad had been tossing around a number of scenarios in an effort to find what in police terms was called motive to victim. Why was this particular house set on fire? And who was the intended victim? Discounting the child as the target, they were left with only three possibilities: Mark Reid, Maggie Reid, or the person who lived in the house before them.
‘There is a fourth,’ Daniels chipped in.
‘You think they got the wrong house?’ Maxwell asked. He was sitting on a desk directly in front of her, a can of Coke in one hand, a half-eaten bacon stottie in the other.
‘It’s not the first thing that springs to mind,’ Daniels said. ‘But it is a consideration. Without forensics, we start with the victim and go from there.’
Questions came thick and fast from the floor. What was Maggie not telling them? Gormley was convinced she was hiding something. Who knew Mark Reid was in the house? Whose clothes were hanging in his wardrobe? Who was Judy, the woman on the phone? Mark Reid’s professional success had unwittingly upset people: the Albrights, their staff, maybe his ex. According to Carmichael, several Albright employees had lost their jobs. They needed tracing and eliminating as a matter of urgency.
Daniels instructed Maxwell to check out the Albrights’ alibi. ‘I want confirmation that they stayed over at Slaley Hall. I want times, names of other guests they might’ve seen, including when they turned in and what they had for breakfast. Don’t save the horses – and time your journey, starting at the crime scene. If they slipped out to start a bonfire, whatever route they took, there are too many cameras to get there and back without detection. It’s what? Twenty-five miles, tops?’
Maxwell nodded. ‘About that.’
‘The Albrights seem to think they’re home and dry with the Chief there,’ Carmichael said. She got up and handed A4 sheets to everyone. ‘These are the people that lost their jobs when Albright’s company went bust.’
Having speed-read the list, Daniels looked up. ‘Names ring any bells with anyone?’
Heads shook and no one spoke.
‘OK, run them through the database, Lisa. See what gives. Do it now, please.’
Carmichael was already on her feet and heading for her computer, DCs Neil Maxwell and Andy Brown watching her leap into action. Daniels smiled. Either Carmichael was totally unaware of the effect she had on these two or she chose to ignore it. She had only one thing on her mind, and it wasn’t getting her rocks off with fellow officers, on or off duty. She’d been burned once and there was no way it was happening again.
‘What else have we got?’ Daniels asked. ‘Any news from the search team?’
‘Sure is,’ Brown said. ‘A petrol can dumped in a wheelie bin three streets from the crime scene, along with a singed rubber glove. The householder has been interviewed, gave a statement claiming she didn’t put it there. She seems pretty genuine, according to the reporting officer.’
‘Make sure the items go off for urgent forensic examination, marked for my attention.’
‘Already taken care of, boss.’
The team were buoyed by this potential new lead. Daniels was too. However, her enthusiasm was replaced by annoyance as her mobile phone rang out. If it had been anyone else but Stanton calling, she’d have ignored it. It must be important for him to interrupt her during a briefing. And important from a forensic pathologist usually wasn’t good.
What he had to say depressed her.
‘Are you sure?’ Daniels’ mind raced back to the A1 crash: the rain, the mayhem, the dead and the dying, Bridget.
‘We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I wasn’t, would we?’ He sounded hacked off.
It wasn’t like him to snap. It made Daniels realize that her team weren’t the only ones in the criminal justice system working flat out. The incident room suddenly came into sharp focus, like a scene fading up on a movie screen. Faces were turned in her direction, inquisitive expressions on all of them, Stanton’s voice bringing her attention back to the phone.
‘. . . despite the massive injuries, even at her age, I’m certain this lady would have lived, given the necessary medical intervention. I’m afraid you’ve got yourself another murder case, Kate. One of the worst I’ve come across in all the years I’ve been practising.’
‘What about her husband? The other crash victims?’
More worried stares from around the room.
‘So far, so good.’ He didn’t sound entirely convinced.
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’m about to examine the last one. They were all unlucky, but this lady in particular, murdered when she was at her most vulnerable.’