Peter Robinson - All the Colors of Darkness

Stefan Nowak was running the show for the moment. He stood beside Annie with a clipboard in his hand, checking off actions, his SOCO team kitted up and ready to go as and when required. A couple of them were working the landing, where there were bloodstains on the carpet and smears on the wall, as if the killer had brushed against it as he ran off.

The room wasn’t very large, and the fewer people who were in it at one time, the better, Nowak had said, so he was restricting admission and working according to a strict hierarchy of access. Everyone going in, of course, had to wear full protective clothing, and their names were entered in the log. Even Annie and Doug Wilson were properly kitted out. Dr. Burns, the police surgeon, the on-scene forensic medical examiner, had already pronounced death and now he went back to work to glean what information he could from the body.

The whole house and gardens had been cordoned off as a crime scene, but this room was the center of it all, and it was even more scrupulously protected. Nobody but those given the okay by Nowak would get past the door, and they’d do it in the order he decided. Luckily, Annie and Wilson had discovered the body, and neither had entered the room, so for once Nowak was pleased to find that he had as close to a pristine crime scene as he could hope for.

Annie went over to Wilson, who was still sitting on the stairs in his white oversuit recovering, and put her arm over his shoulder. “All right, Douggie?”

Wilson nodded, glasses dangling from his hand. “Sorry, guv, you must think I’m a right girl’s blouse.”

“Not at all,” said Annie. “Can I get you some water or something?”

Wilson pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. “I’ll get it myself, if that’s okay,” he said. “Back in the saddle and all that.” And he wobbled off downstairs. There were SOCOs working down there, too, Annie knew, and they would make sure Wilson didn’t touch anything he shouldn’t.

When Annie went back to the drawing room door, Dr. Burns was just finishing his external examination. As soon as Burns came out, Nowak sent in the trace experts to take blood, hair and whatever other samples they could find, along with a blood-spatter analyst. To the untrained eye, the place was a shambles, but an expert like Ralph Tonks could read it like a map of who had been where, done what to whom, and with what.

Annie went in with them. She needed a closer look at the body. She didn’t blame Wilson for being sick. She had seen quite a few crime scenes in her time, but this one had shaken her, too: the sheer frenzied violence of it, the blood and brains splattered everywhere, the sense of pointless overkill. Lacquered antique tables had been knocked over and broken, vases smashed, mirrors and crystalware shattered, along with a bottle of single-malt whiskey and a decanter of port; the floor was strewn with bright flowers, dark stains and shards of glass. Amid it all, now that she was closer, Annie could make out a framed photograph on the floor, its glass spiderwebbed with cracks, showing Mark Hardcastle with his arm around the shoulders of the dead man. Both were smiling into the camera.

She could also see that one of Silbert’s eyeballs was hanging from its socket and his front teeth ran in a jagged line, the lips torn and shrunken back. He was recognizable, but barely, and Annie wouldn’t want to be the one responsible for asking a family member to identify him. DNA would be the best route to go for that.

When she peered more closely again at the framed picture on the wall that she had taken for a Jackson Pollock, she saw that it was a woodland scene sprayed with blood. In fact, it wasn’t a painting at all, but a blown-up photograph, digital, probably, and if Annie wasn’t mistaken, it was taken in Hindswell Woods, and it showed, on the far left, the very oak tree on which Mark Hardcastle had hanged himself. She felt a shiver run up her spine.

She ducked under the tape and went back out to join Dr. Burns on the landing. He was busy making notes in a black-bound book, and she waited in silence until he had finished.

“Jesus Christ,” Burns whispered, putting the notebook away and looking at her. “I’ve rarely seen such a vicious attack.”

“Anything you can tell me?” Annie asked.

Burns was almost as pale as Wilson. “According to body temperature and the progress of rigor,” he said, “I’d estimate that he’s been dead about twenty to twenty-four hours.”

Annie made a quick back-calculation. “Between nine a.m. and one p.m. yesterday, then?”

“Approximately.”

“Cause of death?”

Dr. Burns glanced back to the body. “You can see that for yourself. Blows to the head with a blunt object. I can’t say yet which blow actually killed him. It could have been the one across his throat. It certainly broke his larynx and crushed his windpipe. Dr. Glendenning should be able to tell you more at the postmortem. It may even be the one to the back of his head, in which case he could have been walking away from his killer, taken by surprise. He could then have turned over when he fell, trying to struggle to his feet, so the other blows landed on the front of his skull and throat.”

“When he was already down?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus. Go on.”

“There are defensive wounds on the backs of his hands, and some of the knuckles have been shattered, as if he held them over his face to protect himself.”

“Is the arrangement of the body natural?”

“Seems that way to me,” said Burns. “You’re thinking of the cross shape, did someone arrange it that way?”

“Yes.”

“I doubt it. I think when he gave up the ghost he just let his arms fall naturally the way they did. A posed body would appear far more symmetrical. This doesn’t. See how crooked the right arm is? It’s broken, by the way.”

“Weapon?”

Burns jerked his head back toward the room. “The SOCOs have it. A cricket bat.” He gave a harsh laugh. “And from what I could tell, a cricket bat signed by the entire England team that won back the Ashes in 2005. Read what you will into that.”

Annie didn’t want to read anything into it yet. Perhaps the cricket bat had just been lying around, the handiest weapon available? Or perhaps the killer had brought it with him? An angry Australian fan? Premeditated. That would be determined later. “What about the other wounds... you know...” Annie said. “Between his legs?”

“On a cursory examination I’d say they were also done with the cricket bat, and that the blood you see there was transferred from the head wounds.”

“So that happened after he was dead?”

“Well, he may have still been clinging on to some vestiges of life, but it was done after the head wounds, I’d say, yes. Probably a lot of internal damage. Again, the postmortem will tell you much more.”

“Sex crime?”

“That’s for you to decide. I’d certainly say that the evidence points that way. Otherwise, why attack the genitals after the head?”

“A hate crime, perhaps? Antigay?”

“Again, it’s possible,” said Burns. “Or it could simply be a jealous lover. Such things aren’t unknown, and the element of overkill points in that direction, too. Whatever it is, you’re certainly dealing with some high-octane emotions here. I’ve never seen such rage.”

You can say that again, thought Annie. “Was there any sexual interference?”

“As far as I can tell, there was no anal or oral penetration, and there are no obvious signs of semen on or around the body. As you can see, though, it’s rather a mess in there, very hard to be certain of such things, so again I’d suggest you wait for the full SOCO report and Dr. Glendenning’s postmortem before forming any conclusions.”