I’m definitely getting there. Because our suspect has finally decided to speak. I should continue:
Fact: Virginia Woolf’s body was found three weeks after she waded into the Ouse. By then it was in a badly decomposed condition. You had hoped that by the time anyone found Miss Ayling’s body, it would have degenerated to a similar state. One that would mask any traces of her encounter with you and your wife. But when you got back to your study, you realized that Sophia’s black scarf was lying on the floor. In your haste, you’d forgotten all about it. You wondered, briefly, if you should throw the bloody thing into the river after her. But there was no way you would make that journey to hell and back again. You’d already traveled there twice in the same evening. So you decided to place the scarf in your safe. You then grabbed a cloth and wiped down all the surfaces in your study, fearing that Miss Ayling had left her fingerprints behind.
I pull out the hermetically sealed plastic bag containing Sophia’s scarf from my briefcase and fling it onto the desk between us.
“But DNA evidence may damn you, Mr. Evans,” I say. “We’re going to test this scarf. Traces of Miss Ayling’s DNA and yours might well be found on it.”
Though a shard of alarm is stabbing the man’s face, he pulls his shoulders back. Mr. Evans is a tough cookie. But I have yet to play my trump card.
“Your wife’s DNA may appear on the scarf too,” I say. “But that doesn’t matter. That doesn’t matter at all. Cross-contamination happens all the time. False positives are common. As I said earlier, Claire Evans remains off the hook. Especially as far as the prosecution of this murder is concerned.”
I detect a flicker of relief in our suspect’s eyes. The man is clearly bent on protecting his wife. I suppose that old habits die hard. His dogged attachment to Claire, I must say, is impressive.
But it’s time for a change of scene; I get up from my chair and walk over to the light switches.
“It’s a little bright in here, isn’t it?” I say.
I flip one of the switches, turning off two fluorescent lights at the far end of the room.
“What matters is what you did to Miss Ayling, Mr. Evans.”
Although our suspect’s face is plunged into comparative dimness, I detect a distinct shadow of fear on it. A bead of sweat is forming on his forehead. A thin blue vein is throbbing above his brow.
“I can’t see the notes I’m making,” the solicitor says, squinting at his notebook and pushing his spectacles up his nose. “Could you turn up the lighting again, please?”
“Of course,” I say, flipping the two lights back on. But I turn them off as soon as the solicitor’s pen stops moving on his notepad. He frowns at me; I ignore him.
“The postmortem report came through a couple of hours ago,” I say. “It’s peppered with predictable findings. First, our coroner, Dr. Sheldon, identified a small bruise on the right side of Miss Ayling’s head beneath her hairline. The injury was almost imperceptible on the surface. But the autopsy revealed acute hemorrhaging beneath her skull. Blunt-force trauma, as Dr. Sheldon phrased it.”
I flick yet another switch, turning off two more fluorescent lights, those in the opposite corner of the room. Our suspect’s pupils dilate in response. He is now floodlit by a sole light above his head, as if I have placed him on a stage in a theater and asked him to sing.
“Someone caused Miss Ayling to injure her head. That person could be Claire Evans. You told your wife that her actions caused Miss Ayling to strike her head on your desk. But that person could also be you. After all, no one really knows what happened in your study two evenings ago. Apart from you, Mr. Evans.”
I emit a deliberate chuckle.
“But facts can be manipulated with ease. To suit one’s own selfish ends. To save one’s exposed ass. To cover up murder. What you prefer to remember becomes a fact, doesn’t it, Mr. Evans?”
He blinks.
“Yet there’s much more to Dr. Sheldon’s findings,” I continue, walking back to my chair. “I’ll read the last part of her report to you. I do relish the prospect of reading to a published author. A skilled wordsmith who’s able to grasp the significance of certain key phrases.”
I sense that my words are causing some consternation in our man’s heart. I take a pair of reading glasses out of my breast pocket and fix them on my nose for theatrical effect before fishing out Dr. Sheldon’s report. I begin reading its final section with an authoritative tone, lingering over certain words:
RESPIRATORY TRACT: There is a small amount of fine froth in the victim’s nostrils and upper air passages. The lungs (right, 353 grams; left, 310 grams) are overlapping and hyperinflated. The oral cavity shows no lesions. The teeth, lips, and gums are free of injuries. There are no mucosal injuries or obstructions to the airways.
GASTROINTESTINAL TRACT: A large amount of water fills the victim’s stomach, though not the intestines. All mucosal surfaces are intact, with no lesions or injuries.
MUSCULOSKELETAL SYSTEM: No significant injuries. There is a small diffuse bruise, measuring 10 x 5 mm, on the victim’s lower back near the spine.
Drug Screen Results
Cocaine: POSITIVE
Ethanol: 295 mg/100 mL (Blood—Heart)
Ethanol: 64 mg/100 mL (Vitreous)
Opinion as to Cause of Death: Consistent with Drowning
Time of Death: Body temperature, rigor and livor mortis, and stomach contents approximate the time of death between 22:30 on Thursday 4 June 2015, and 00:30 on Friday 5 June 2015.
Injuries: The presence of small cuts and abrasions on the edges of the victim’s fingers, the presence of riverbed dirt beneath the victim’s fingernails, and the victim’s torn and scuffed nail varnish suggest that the victim had struggled for a brief period underwater before succumbing to eventual death by drowning.
Remarks: Decedent was presented to this office as a possible suicide victim. Evidence of a brief period of underwater struggle leading to drowning, exacerbated by acute subdural brain hemorrhaging caused by blunt-force trauma, makes suicide improbable.
I look up at Mark Evans. His eyes are bulging. His face is ashen. His mouth is a “tormented twist,” just like that of his protagonist Gunnar in On Death’s Door.
“Drowning,” I say, my voice ringing out loud and clear. “Miss Ayling was alive when you put her in the river two evenings ago. You thought she was dead. But she was still very much alive.”
His hands are trembling. He looks as though he’s on the verge of drowning himself. Like Sophia two evenings ago, he must surely understand that he is unable to save himself. This time round.
“You killed her, Mr. Evans. You’re the person who caused her to die. By burying her in the watery grave of the Cam.”