Lynda La Plante: Prime Suspect

“Was she raped, Felix?” Shefford asked, although he knew Norman wouldn’t answer.

Norman just gave Shefford a foul look; he no longer bothered answering questions that presumed he was telepathic or had X-ray vision. He looked around the room and called to an assistant, “Right, body-bag!”

Two men lifted the body into the black plastic bag. Shefford winced and averted his head, shocked at the disfiguration of her face. He had seen only her profile, which was hardly recognizable as human; her nose and cheek were a mass of clotted blood and the eye was completely gone.

“Not a pretty sight,” said Norman, without emotion.

Shefford nodded, but his voice was muffled as he replied, “She was, though-pretty. Her name’s Della Mornay. Booked her myself when I was on Vice.”

Norman sniffed. “Yeah, well, let’s get her out of here an’ down to the mortuary. Quicker I get at her, faster you’ll get results.”

Even though he had asked once, Shefford could not stop himself repeating the question, “Was she raped?”

Norman pulled a face. “Fuck off, I’ll tell you everything you wanna know after the post-mortem.” He stared around the efficiency while the bag was closed and the body lifted onto a stretcher. “They’ll need a bloody pantechnicon to take this lot down to Forensic. You had breakfast? You’d better grab some before you schlepp over to me. Gimme a couple of hours.”

With a wave, Shefford shouldered his way to the landing. He paused and turned his back to the uniformed PC as he swiftly transferred a small object into Otley’s hand. No one had seen him slip it from under the mattress. Otley quickly pocketed the little book.

It was not yet dawn, but the street was just as lively when Shefford left the house. The spectators watched avidly as the stretcher was carried to the waiting mortuary van and the police brought bag after bag of evidence from the house. Mrs. Salbanna and Shefford himself had both identified the corpse.

The Scenes of Crime officers, or SOCOs, had started fingerprinting every possible surface, covering most of the room in a film of gray, shining dust. They were none too happy; many of the best spots had been carefully wiped.

After snatching a quick breakfast in the canteen and detailing Otley to make sure the Incident Room was being organized, Shefford was at the mortuary by nine o’clock. DI Frank Burkin and DC Dave Jones joined him there to discuss the day’s itinerary. They sat in the anteroom of the main laboratory, all but Jones blatantly disregarding the large NO SMOKING notices.

While they waited, John Shefford used the payphone to call his home. It was his son’s birthday the next day and Otley, the boy’s godfather, wanted to know what to buy him. His wife, however, had more on her mind.

“Have you booked the clown for Tommy’s party, John?” Sheila asked. “I gave you the number last week, remember?”

Shefford was about to confess that he had forgotten all about it when he was saved by the bell; Felix Norman’s assistant came to fetch him.

“I’ve got to go, love, they’re ready for me. See you later!”

Gowned up, masked and wearing the regulation wellington boots, Shefford joined Norman.

Two bare, pale feet protruded from the end of the green sheet, a label bearing Della Mornay’s name and a number tied to one ankle. Norman started talking before Shefford had even reached the trolley.

“Death, old mate, was around twelve-fifteen-it’s a classic, her watch got broken and stopped. The gold winder, by the way, is missing, so they’ll have to comb the carpet. The watch face is intact, but the rope that was used to tie her wrists must have twisted the winding pin off the watch. Now, you asked if she was raped; could be. Recent deposits of semen in the vagina and rectum, and in the mouth, extensive bruising to the genital area. I sent the swabs over to Willy at the lab…” he checked his watch, “five hours ago. Might get a blood type this afternoon. OK, the wounds…”

Norman threw the green sheet over the head to expose the torso, and pointed to the puncture marks. The body had been cleaned, and they showed up clearly.

“Upper right shoulder, right breast, lung punctured here, and here. Another laceration to the throat, sixth deep wound just above the navel. The wounds are neat, made with a small, rounded object, the point narrow, flat and sharp, like a sharpened screwdriver, perhaps. Not all the same depth-one three inches, one six inches, the one in the right breast is even deeper.”

Shefford examined the wounds and listened intently, nodding his head. Felix Norman was one of the best in his field, and Shefford had learned from experience to let him have his say before asking any questions.

Norman continued, “OK, she also has a deep puncture to her left eye, probably what finished her off. A real mess, wanna see?”

“No, just carry on,” replied Shefford with distaste, running his hands through his hair.

Norman referred to his notes. “Oh, yeah, this is interesting. Look at her hands. They seem to have been scrubbed, with a wire brush, by the look of them. But there’s a nasty little nick here, and there’s a smell of chlorine, some kind of household bleach. No doubt I’ll find out the exact brand when I’ve been given the time a man of my calibre likes to have in order to do his job thoroughly! Anyway, it looks as if the scrubbing job on her hands has eliminated any possibility of blood or tissue fragments under the nails. She probably didn’t put up much of a struggle, but then, her hands were tied…”

Shefford avoided looking at the naked torso as much as possible. “Anything else?”

Norman sniffed. “Yeah, something strange…” Laying his clipboard aside, he picked up one of the corpse’s arms. “See, same on both sides? Deep welts and bruising to the upper arms. At this stage I can’t say what caused it, but she might have been strung up. I’ll have to do some more tests, but it looks like she was put in some kind of clamp. Interesting, huh?”

Shefford nodded. Somewhere at the back of his mind a bell rang, but he couldn’t capture the memory… Norman covered the body again and continued, peering over his glasses. “Right-handed killer, height difficult to estimate at this stage, especially if she was strung up, but four of the wounds entered the body on an upward slant and two are straight, so I reckon he’s around five-ten. But don’t quote me until I’ve…”

Shefford pulled a face. Norman, for all his bravado, went strictly by the rules and hated being pressed for results before he was one hundred per cent sure.

“Thanks mate. Get back to me as soon as you’ve got anything. When the report’s ready, Bill can collect it personally. And, Felix-I really appreciate it!”

Norman snorted. He had worked fast, but then he and John Shefford were old friends. He watched as Shefford removed his surgical mask and began to untie his gown.

“You got anything, John?”

Shefford shook his head. “Looks like one of her johns was into bondage and things got out of hand. See you…”

At the station, Della Mornay’s effects were being sorted and examined. Her handbag had been found, but it contained no keys. They were able to dismiss robbery as a motive as her purse, containing fifteen pounds, was in the bag and a jewel box on her dressing table, containing a few silver chains and a gold bangle or two, was undisturbed.

In King’s Cross, Della Mornay’s territory, fifteen of Shefford’s men were interviewing every known prostitute and call girl. They were getting little assistance, but the feedback was that Della had not been seen for weeks. There was a suggestion that she might have gone to Leeds to visit a friend dying of AIDS, but no name was mentioned.