‘Aim for the escalators and you’ll see the doors right in front of you.’
Edmunds wove through to the escalator, only to find himself confronted with the equally daunting fragrance department. He nodded to a man that he had passed on three separate occasions back in make-up and then began his own futile attempt to escape the store.
This unexpectedly lengthy detour on his way home had been due to a development in the case earlier that morning. Once the field team had completed their work at the crime scene, the Ragdoll had been transported back to Forensic Services in the early hours of Sunday morning. This had been a painstaking process due to the importance of preserving the exact posture and weight distribution on each of the various body parts during transport. Ceaseless testing, examination and sample-collecting had taken place throughout the night, but finally, at 11 a.m. Monday morning, Baxter and Edmunds had been permitted access to the body.
Without the surreal haze of the nocturnal crime scene, the incoherent cadaver had been even more repugnant when lit by the unflattering fluorescent light of the crime lab: carelessly cut slabs of flesh rotting slowly in the chilly examination room. The thick stitches connecting them, which had seemed so otherworldly in the heightened atmosphere of the dimly lit apartment, were exposed as no more than violent mutilations.
‘How’s the case coming?’ Joe had asked. He was the forensic medical examiner, who Edmunds thought resembled a Buddhist monk with his all-in-one scrubs and shaved head.
‘Fantastic, just finishing up,’ replied Baxter sarcastically.
‘That well, huh?’ grinned the man, who was obviously accustomed to, and appeared to rather enjoy, Baxter’s waspish manner. ‘Perhaps this’ll help.’
He handed her a chunky ring in a clear evidence bag.
‘My answer’s a resounding no,’ she said, making Joe laugh.
‘It’s from the male left hand. Partial print, not the victim’s own.’
‘Whose then?’ asked Baxter.
‘No idea. Might be something, might not.’
Baxter’s excitement faded.
‘Anything you can tell us to get us started?’
‘He,’ Baxter’s eyebrows arched, ‘or she,’ then fell, ‘definitely had fingers.’
Edmunds let out an involuntary snort which he tried to pass off as a cough when Baxter glared at him.
‘Don’t worry, there’s more,’ said Joe.
He pointed to the black male leg, which was decorated with a large operation scar. He held an X-ray up to the light. Two long bright-white bars glowed incongruously against the faded skeleton beneath.
‘Plates and screws supporting the tibia, fibula and femur,’ Joe explained. ‘This was a big operation. “Do we operate? Do we amputate?” kind of big. Someone’ll remember doing this.’
‘Don’t these things have serial numbers or something?’ asked Baxter.
‘I’ll certainly look; although, whether they’ll be traceable or not will depend on how long ago the op was done, and this looks like old scarring to me.’
While Baxter studied the X-rays with Joe, Edmunds knelt down to examine the female right arm, which he had noted was pointing creepily towards their reflection in the glass window, more closely. Each of the five perfectly painted nails glittered in a dark purple varnish.
‘The index finger’s different!’ he blurted suddenly.
‘Ah, you noticed,’ said Joe happily. ‘I was just coming to that. It was impossible to tell in the dark apartment, but in here you can clearly see that a different nail polish has been used on that one finger.’
‘And that’s helpful how?’ asked Baxter.
Joe collected an ultraviolet lamp from the trolley, switched it on, and ran it along the length of the graceful arm. Dark bruises appeared and then vanished again as the purple light passed over them, the greatest accumulation occurring on or around the wrist.
‘There was a struggle,’ he said. ‘Now look at these nails: not a single chip. These were painted on afterwards.’
‘After the struggle or after death?’ asked Baxter.
‘I’d say both. I couldn’t find any sign of an inflammatory response, which means she died shortly after the bruising was sustained.
‘… I think the killer is speaking to us.’
Engineering works had closed a small but important section of the Northern line. Finding the prospect of an overcrowded bus less than tantalising, Wolf took the Piccadilly line to Caledonian Road and embarked on the twenty-five minute walk back to Kentish Town. It was not a particularly picturesque route once he had passed through the park and lost sight of the handsome clock tower, its detailing ripened in a charming green rust; however, the temperature had dropped to a tolerable level and the late-evening sunshine had brought a calming air over this part of the city.
The unproductive day had been spent fruitlessly searching for Vijay Rana. Wolf and Finlay had travelled to Woolwich and found the family home in a predictably uninhabited state. The pitiful front garden looked considerably more impressive than it should have, as the long grass and opportunistic weeds encroached across the pathway that led up to the front door. A mountain of unopened post and takeaway leaflets was just visible through a small, lead-lined window.
The information that Fraud had cobbled together had barely been worth the read, and Rana’s harassed partner at the accountancy firm had openly admitted that if he had known where his missing partner was hiding, he would have killed him himself. The only promising discovery had been the distinct absence of information on Rana before 1991. For some reason he had changed his name. They hoped if either the Royal Courts of Justice or The National Archives could provide them with a previous name, a multitude of past sins would direct them towards Rana’s current whereabouts.
As Wolf approached his block of flats, he spotted a dark blue Bentley with a personalised number plate parked illegally outside the main entrance. Crossing the road in front of the car he registered the silver-haired man sitting in the driver’s seat. He reached the front door and was searching for his keys when his mobile went off. Andrea’s name flashed up. He promptly put it back in his pocket and then heard the thud of an expensively heavy car door slamming behind him.
‘You’re ignoring my calls,’ said Andrea.
Wolf sighed and turned to face her. She looked immaculate again, having probably spent the majority of the day in front of a television camera. He noticed that she was wearing the necklace that he had given her for their first wedding anniversary but decided against mentioning it.
‘I spent most of Saturday night locked up,’ she continued.
‘That’s what happens when you break the law.’
‘Give it a rest, Will. You know as well as I do that if I hadn’t reported it, someone else would.’