Peter Turnbull - Deep Cover

‘Yes, sir.’ Ainsclough, clad from head to toe in the requisite green paper coveralls, stepped from the side of the theatre to the dissecting table and stood beside, and slightly behind, Shaftoe.

‘Little black dots in the whites of the eyes. . see? Blood spots, sometimes, if not black, they have a reddish hue, always a good indication of strangulation or asphyxiation, but we have to be careful not to jump to conclusions because such can also occur naturally, in the event of a brain haemorrhage, for instance, so this, in itself, is not conclusive proof of murder.’

‘I see, sir.’

‘But taken together, with the bruising to the neck, I think I am on safe ground to state, unless I find anything to the contrary, that this young girl was murdered by manual strangulation, as opposed to being strangled by use of a ligature.’

‘So murder, in that case, sir?’

‘Yes. Murder most foul.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Ainsclough retreated to the wall of the laboratory where he once again stood in deferential silence.

‘So the deceased, who regrettably had a short life, was also short in life in terms of her stature. Can you pass the tape measure, please, Billy?’

Billy Button picked up a yellow retractable metal tape-measure from the bench close to the dissecting table and handed it to Shaftoe, who extended the tape from the head to the balls of the feet of the corpse. ‘Four feet ten inches tall or one hundred and forty-seven centimetres in her cotton socks, poor thing. God rest her.’ Shaftoe took a metal file and scraped under the fingernails of the deceased, and deposited the detritus thereunder into a self-sealing cellophane sachet. ‘She might have clawed at her attacker’s face and captured his. . or her. . DNA. Might. . might, but the ligature marks on her wrists indicate that she was restrained peri-mortem, so we’ll have to wait and see what forensics can tell us. How old do you think she is, Billy?’

Button shrugged. ‘Not old, sir.’ Button looked at the thin, wasted frame, the ribs, the thin waist, the painfully thin legs which protruded under the starched white towel that had been placed over her middle, the tiny feet. ‘I see what you mean about being fortunate, sir.’

‘Yes, it’s all a matter of context, Billy, all a matter of context.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So we crack on, we continue. I will avoid damaging the face; she still has to be identified. Any ideas yet, Mr Ainsclough?’

‘None as yet, sir. We’re trawling through the missing persons reports, but she may be from outside London, as many young people are. If that is the situation here, she will only be registered as a mis per locally, that is local to her home.’

‘I see. Well, her hands are undamaged. I’ll cut them off and send them to the forensic laboratory together with her nail scrapings. They can lift her fingerprints. She might have a record. She might be known to you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘So, now we’ll see what she had for her last meal. . but, flat tummy, wasted, drawn looks, indicate little intestinal gas, which further indicates a recent time of death. I anticipate an empty stomach, she is close to anorexic.’

Shaftoe took a scalpel and drew it across the stomach. Little gas escaped. He opened up the incision and peered into the stomach cavity. ‘Yes, as I suspected. No food at all.’ Shaftoe took a length of stainless steel and worked it into the mouth and prised the mouth open causing the jaw to give with a soft, cracking sound. ‘Rigor is established,’ he announced, ‘thus placing the time of death between twenty-four and forty-eight hours ago but that is a very inexact science, as you know.’

‘Understood, sir.’

‘Ah. . she is British, distinctly UK dentistry, and work was done quite recently, so dental records will be able to confirm any ID if her fingerprints are not on file, or if a relative can’t identify her.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Ainsclough replied, raising his voice to enable it to carry across the laboratory.

‘She didn’t leave you a message, no notes under the tongue or between her teeth and gums. I’ll check the other body cavities and send a blood sample for analysis, but it’s looking clearly like a case of strangulation after a period of being restrained. So I assume my report will be for the attention of Mr Vicary?’

‘Yes, please, sir.’

Frank Brunnie sat at his desk and read the ‘no trace’ result from his enquiry.

‘That,’ he murmured, ‘that I do not believe.’

‘You sound disappointed.’ Penny Yewdall glanced up from her desk which faced Brunnie’s. ‘Something amiss?’

‘What isn’t amiss? The whole wretched planet is amiss in one way or another.’ Brunnie leaned back and put his feet on his desktop.

‘If Harry Vicary catches you sitting like that you’re in the soup. You know what recent promotees are like. . new brooms sweeping clean; out to make a name for himself.’

‘Yes, he had a narrow escape. He’s consolidating now.’

‘So I heard. Drink, wasn’t it?’

‘Drink it was. He was given six months to get his act together, which he not only did, but he also did very well in the Jim Coventry murder.’

‘That’s the one in which Archie Dew was shot?’

‘Yes. Harry did well in that case. So, he sobered up, impressed their Lordships, got promoted, and he’s back on track, but he’s out right now. . so. .’ Brunnie let his feet remain on the desktop. ‘But this guy — ’ Brunnie tapped the computer printout — ‘“no trace”, “not known”. . no way, he’s a nasty. He smelled nasty, he looked nasty and I tell you, did he look alarmed when we told him that the guy Irish Mickey Dalkeith had gone to sleep in the snow right over the shallow grave of a woman. . or did he look alarmed? Guess which.’

‘I should guess. . er. . alarmed.’ Yewdall put her pen down and leaned back in her chair. ‘What does the Land Registry say?’

‘Same. The house in Virginia Water is registered in the name of one William Pilcher.’

‘You need a DNA sample or some item with his fingerprints on it.’

Brunnie grinned. ‘For that I will take my feet off the desk for Mr Vicary.’

‘You see, pretty girls do have their uses,’ Yewdall said with a smile.

‘So I am discovering. Fancy a trip out to sunny Kilburn?’

‘Not particularly,’ Yewdall replied. ‘It will take much to drag me to sunny Kilburn, not my favourite part of the Great Wen. . but. . but. .’

‘But?’

‘But anything to get away from this wretched paperwork. I know the value of it, but if I wanted to work in an office I’d have been a secretary or a bank clerk. So, let’s go.’ She stood and reached for her coat. Brunnie did likewise.

Thirty minutes later, Brunnie and Yewdall entered the premises of WLM Rents on Fernhead Road, W9, and were greeted by J.J. Dunwoodie snapping to attention with his eager to please attitude. Brunnie suddenly felt afraid for the safety of Dunwoodie, having just met his employer. He seemed to Brunnie to be akin to a lamb protecting a tiger.

‘Your boss?’ Brunnie said, shortly, abruptly.

‘Mr William?’

‘Yes, we need something he has touched.’

‘Oh.’ Dunwoodie paled. ‘I don’t know if I could. . if I should.’

‘Why?’ Yewdall smiled. ‘He couldn’t have anything to hide; he’s a very respectable, hard-working, clean-living businessman, a veritable pillar of the community.’

‘Yes. .’ Dunwoodie stammered, ‘he is. . but.’

‘But what? When did he last come here, to this office?’ Brunnie pressed.

‘Today’s. . about two, three days ago. Three days ago in the afternoon, late afternoon.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘He left to visit a property and then he was returning home.’