Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘Probably,’ Terry agreed gloomily. ‘Can’t be sure from the face, but the hair colour and jacket are the same. Poor kid. When was she found?’

‘About seven thirty, I think. But she’s been dead for hours before that. Arms and legs are pretty much rigid.’

‘When’s the doc coming?’

‘Any minute now.’ As they spoke a slim young man in a suit came up the track, carrying a doctor’s bag. Terry went to meet him.

‘Dr Jones?’

‘Yep. Where’s the patient?’

‘Over there. This officer will show you where to walk. We don’t want to spoil any footprints.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll keep out of the mud as much as I can. I only bought these shoes last week. Hand sewn.’

Terry had worked with Andrew Jones before and knew he was precise, thorough, and very acute. The down sides were his vanity, and the defensive callousness he affected towards human corpses, approaching them with as much emotional involvement as a master chef contemplating a prime side of beef.

His initial examination did not last long. Death was obvious, and the cause equally apparent. While the SOCO took photographs Terry asked: ‘When did it happen, roughly?’

‘Ten to twelve hours ago, I should say, judging by the stiffness of the limbs.’

‘Late last night then, an hour or so before midnight, you’d say?’

‘Yep. Can’t really be more precise than that.’

‘Anything else you can be precise about before you get her in the lab?’

‘Clearly she died from the throat wound — carotid artery severed, arterial blood everywhere. Presumably a knife, probably inflicted from behind. A right-handed assailant — probably held her head up by the hair, baring the throat, and then slashed from left to right. Hell of a big sharp knife too — machete maybe — he’s cut right through to the vertebrae. I’ll be able to tell you more after a closer examination.’

‘Any other obvious injuries? There’s a bruise on the face, isn’t there?’

‘Mm, yes — not sure when that was inflicted. She’s also been raped.’

‘What?’ Dear God, how much worse can it get, Terry thought. Dr Jones flashed him a mocking, clinical smile.

‘Didn’t you lift her skirt? No doubt about it, I’m afraid. No knickers, bloodstains on her thighs and vaginal bruising. That’s good news, at least.’

‘Good news? How do you make that out?’

‘We’ll almost certainly find semen. Then if your budget can stretch to it we’ll do a DNA profile and snap! You’ve got him. Open and shut, no argument.’

‘We’ve got to find him, first, doc. And her knickers, it seems. Are they lying about somewhere?’ He glanced at Jack Middleton, who shook his head.

Dr Jones shrugged. ‘Probably took them home, as a souvenir. His version of a teddy, to keep on the pillow at night.’ The disgust on Terry’s face stopped him from going further. ‘Sorry. It’s a filthy murder, I know. When that photographer’s finished we’ll get the body down to the lab. I’ll start the PM as soon as she’s identified. Have you any idea who she is?’

Terry sighed. It was the task he was dreading. ‘Oh yes. That’s one thing we can be sure of, I think.’

‘Is your husband at home?’

‘He went to school. It’s my turn by the phone today. Punishment for yesterday.’ Sarah attempted a wry smile, conscious she must look a mess to Terry. Only a couple of hours’ sleep for the second night running, on a diet of coffee and arguments — hardly the best beauty regime. As Terry frowned she thought, he’s furious with me about the Harker case. No doubt he was, but his face showed a far deeper worry, a more profound concern which she didn’t want to acknowledge. She shivered. ‘Can I offer you coffee?’

‘No, thank you. Mrs Newby …’

‘ Sarah , please. We are still colleagues, aren’t we? In a sense, anyway — or haven’t you forgiven me for …’ Keep chattering and he won’t say it.

‘We’ve found a body.’

‘What? Oh. ’ She sat down quite suddenly on a chair, as though the strings in her legs had been cut. ‘Oh my God.’ Her hand over her mouth.

Terry sat opposite her, waiting for the shock to sink in. It’s like wounding a person, he thought. I might as well walk in here with a gun and shoot her. If a gun could stun and not kill, that is. The reaction is the same. The shock, often numbness before the pain.

She drew a deep shuddering breath, and looked up at him. There was a mute appeal in her eyes but she didn’t ask.

‘I’m very sorry. We think it’s Emily but we can’t be sure. It’s a girl of her age and appearance wearing the jacket you described to us. Blue and red leather.’

‘Dead?’ A tiny hope, a plea.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh. Oh God!’ The tears came suddenly, in a rush, and she would have collapsed altogether on the floor if Terry hadn’t caught and held her. For a while they stayed like that, he kneeling awkwardly in front of her armchair, she sobbing with her arms around his neck. He held her, patted her back. ‘I’m so sorry, love. So very very sorry.’

After a few minutes, an age, she scrambled awkwardly to her feet. Terry found a pack of tissues in his pocket — he had come prepared. But they were the devil to unwrap.

‘Thanks.’ She wiped her eyes, mascara all smudged, blew her nose. ‘Terry, it is her, is it?’

‘We think so but we can’t be absolutely sure. We need you — or your husband — to identify her, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh God, no. Emily! Is she badly — injured?’

‘I’m afraid so, yes. But you’ll only have to see her face.’

‘Tell me.’ The hazel eyes stared straight into his, like a wildcat defending her kitten.

Terry didn’t want to go into this. ‘Her throat was cut. But you do need to identify the body, Sarah, I’m sorry. Or your husband can do it if you prefer.’

‘I’ll ring Bob.’ She fumbled her way to the phone. The school secretary answered. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Newby, he’s gone out. He didn’t say when he’d be back. Can I take a message?’

Tell him his daughter’s had her throat cut. ‘No. Ask him to ring home, will you? It’s important.’ She turned to Terry. ‘He’s not there.’

‘Would you like to wait until he comes home?’

Sarah drew a deep breath. ‘No.’ She sobbed, put her hand over her mouth, swayed, stood up straight. ‘No. I want to see her, Terry. I want to see her now .’

Visiting his school had brought Bob little relief. His secretary, a motherly talkative woman, had told everyone why he had been away yesterday, so he had to accept sympathy from each colleague he met. For a while he hid in his office, signing the school reports, but by mid-morning the restlessness, so strong that it was akin to panic, caught up with him.

‘I’m going out, Mrs Daggett. Anything you can’t deal with ask Mrs Yeo.’

‘Yes, of course. Don’t you worry about us. I’m so sorry …’

In the car his suspicions about Simon returned. The boy had sounded shifty the other night, he thought. Why hadn’t he been in touch yet to ask if they’d found her? After all, she was his half-sister, even if they didn’t get on so well. And it would be just like Simon to delight in turning Emily against him if he had the chance.

He drove straight to Simon’s house, parking in the street outside. But although he knocked several times, and peered through the window, there was no answer. He called through the letterbox. ‘Simon? Simon, are you there? … Emily? EMILEEEE! It’s me, Dad!’

‘Reckon he’s bogged off, mate. Good riddance, too, I say.’

‘What?’ Bob whirled round and stood up from his cramped, embarrassing position with his mouth to the letter box. A wizened old man in a flat cap, ancient cardigan and carpet slippers stood on the pavement behind him. ‘Who are you?’