INTERNAL EXAMINATION
CENTRAL NERVOUS SYSTEM: The brain weighs 1,307 grams, within the normal range. There is acute subdural hemorrhaging beneath the skull under the area of external bruising and contusions to areas associated with the overlying injuries, chiefly to the medial temporal lobe and hippocampal area.
GENITOURINARY TRACT: The kidneys (right, 117 grams; left, 120 grams) are unremarkable. Pelvic examination indicates that the victim was not pregnant at the time of death. There is no evidence of recent sexual activity…
I look up from the black print, my thoughts a whirl. So I was right about Sophia Ayling. Someone smashed her head in, causing an internal brain hemorrhage that ultimately resulted in her death. The person then draped an oversize trench coat filled with garden stones around her shoulders and dumped her into the Cam.
That someone could have been a panicky author. A writer who thought of Virginia Woolf in desperation and who hoped to mask the true manner of Sophia Ayling’s death. After all, except for the bruise Marge found under the dead woman’s hair, there were no marks of physical violence on her body.
But the murderer’s an idiot. A veritable fool. There were not enough stones to weigh Ayling’s body down. He—or she—clearly never heard of Archimedes’ principle. That a massive number of stones is needed to counteract the buoyant nature of a 116-pound corpse. Certainly many more stones than a few pathetic ornamental pebbles from one’s garden. I saw a few stones missing from the borders of Evans’s outdoor path when I visited his home this morning. Leaving behind dark, grassless indentations on the ground. What’s more, the stones are a precise match for the ones in the pockets of the dead woman’s overcoat.
I think I have enough on Sophia’s murderer to clap the person into a cell at the back of this police station tonight.
I prod the black queen forward before excavating a pair of handcuffs from the upper drawer of my desk. You never know with authors. Especially those who write about other people’s deaths for a living.
I scramble into the patrol car outside the station. But before my driver flips on the engine, I see Hamish running in our direction at full pelt.
“Hans,” he says, panting as he approaches us. “I couldn’t find you at your desk. You weren’t answering your mobile phone, either. Fiona said she saw you rushing out of the office.”
“I’m going to bring someone in,” I say. “For the second time today. I should have just kept him here this morning.”
“Anna May Winchester disappeared for nineteen days in the summer of 1995,” he says. “Guess what? She changed her name to Sophia Alyssa Ayling by deed poll before vanishing again a few months later—”
“I know all that already.” I wave him off.
Hamish’s mouth is agape.
“How?”
“I’ve got a way of finding things out,” I say. “I’m heading off to get Sophia’s murderer, by the way. But I’m going to drop by a house in Coton first.”
“You’re confusing me.”
“I should inform Miss Winchester’s next of kin about her death.”
“Shouldn’t you be nabbing her killer first?”
“Don’t worry. Her murderer won’t have enough guts to do a runner out of Cambridge this evening. Besides, the person doesn’t yet know that I’ve managed to work everything out.”
“I’ll come with you. Especially if you’re going to be arresting someone.”
Beware of Hamish. Keep him at arm’s length at all times today. I managed to shrug him off this morning and get away with a couple of unaccompanied visits. But protocol insists that two officers are needed to conduct an arrest. I grimace; an unorthodox solution, thankfully, surges to mind.
“It’s all right,” I say, pointing to the sergeant at the front. “He’ll back me up.”
We pull away from Hamish in a shriek of wheels, leaving him in a large cloud of exhaust fumes.
Alan Charles Winchester was a rich man during his lifetime. The driveway of 288 Brook Lane is impressive. We zoom past magnificent gateposts crowned by statues of golden lions and pull up under a lavish portico supported by gilded columns. I get out of the patrol car only to spot a green peacock strutting behind a manicured bed of marigolds. I walk to the front door and reach for the knocker. It’s in the shape of a devil’s face; a gold-plated circular knob functions as its tongue.
I rap the metal down, twice. Two sharp knocks sounding like bursts of gunfire, both loud enough to rouse the dead.
I wait, shuffling my feet on the porch and examining the gilt mosaic of a buxom nude woman beneath my shoes. But no one comes to the door. I stare at my watch for precisely sixty seconds before tapping the tongue down twice more.
My exertions are greeted with resolute silence.
I wait for another two minutes before stepping back from the porch and inspecting the facade of the house. Everything is latched shut, including the multiple bay windows on the upper floor. All the blinds are drawn; the house looks as if it’s gone into hibernation. Agnessa Winchester must be miles away from home. I pull out my mobile phone and punch in the number Toby gave me.
“Hel-lo,” a muffled female voice says.
“Good evening,” I say. “May I speak to Mrs. Agnessa Winchester, please?”
“Speak-king. Who’s zis?”
“DCI Hans Richardson from the Cambridgeshire Constabulary.”
“You are ze po-liss?”
“Yes. I’m standing outside your front door, but you aren’t at home.”
“I’m visiting a zpa on ze zouth coast at ze moment. Vy are you standing at my door?”
“I’m sorry to bring you bad news. But I’m afraid that Anna May’s body was found in the River Cam this morning.”
“Anna eez dead?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Gawd.”
The line falls silent for a few seconds.
“I’m sorry to be telling you this,” I say.
“Vy are you sorry, Inspector?”
“Er…that’s what I usually say when I speak to the deceased’s family.”
A snort issues over the line.
“Anna isn’t real famil-ee. She’s ze daughter of my second husband, Alan. He died a few years back. My diary says I’ve not seen Anna for a very lonk time. She’s became crazy mad, you see, and zey put her in ze hospital for cuckoos. Did she kill herself?”
“We think she was murdered. But our investigation has thrown up some major leads, and we’re close to pinning her killer down—”
“Kil-ler? You mean someone shoots her? Like—bang?”
“No, no, no. She wasn’t shot. But I cannot say more at the moment.”
“Poor leetle Anna. You must find ze person who mur-der-red her.”
“I will, Mrs. Winchester. I promise. Anyway, the medical services will be in touch soon so that you can make the funeral arrangements.”
“Zank you, Inspector.”
I turn off my mobile phone before striding in the direction of the patrol car and jumping into it. Agnessa Winchester sounds like a ditzy Belarusan who spends most of her time preening her feathers in spas. But she is still the victim’s closest “family member,” and I’ve done my duty by informing her.