Mark Pearson - Death Row

Jack looked back at the altar. ‘The fact that her head is shaved …’

‘Yes?’ said Kate, gesturing for him to continue.

‘You think she might be a nun?’

Kate considered it. ‘It’s possible. The priest didn’t seem to know a great deal about the woman except he thinks she must be the volunteer cleaner. Apparently she only worked at night, when no one else was around.’

‘Maybe she’s an ex-nun,’ said Delaney. ‘Maybe if this is some kind of ritual killing, a Satanist sacrifice or the like, it gives more power or energy to the spell if the sacrificed person is religious.’

‘Might make a sick kind of sense, I suppose,’ agreed Kate. ‘Wouldn’t they have painted a pentagram or something, though?’

‘Satanists in Harrow on the Hill, decapitating bald nuns and desecrating churches!’ Diane sighed heavily. ‘Sweet Jesus, as if we haven’t got enough on our plates already!’

‘So the thing about this Horus fellow having a human body but a bird’s head — is it significant, do you think?’ Delaney asked Kate.

‘It could be. If that’s what the letters mean. But we have no way of knowing that yet.’

Diane yanked a packet of cigarettes out of her jacket pocket and snapped one into her mouth. ‘Great,’ she said. ‘So the rest of her body is somewhere having a hawk’s head grafted onto it by some devil-worshipping Egyptologist.’

‘Don’t even think of lighting that, Diane,’ said Delaney.

‘Jeez, Jack. Of course I’m not going to light it: this is a crime scene. Anyway, I thought your Catholicism was in the lapsed category?’

Delaney looked over at the row of saints marching along both walls, preserved in fractured and coloured glass, their eyes glowing now that dawn had finally broken from outside and shards of light were piercing through the dark clouds that still hung low over the church.

‘I’m a betting man, boss, you know that. Let’s just say I like to cover the odds.’

Robert Duncton and a woman whom Delaney had never seen before came into the church. The woman was in her mid-thirties, about six foot one or two tall, with short cropped blonde hair. She didn’t seem to be wearing make-up and it didn’t stop her being strikingly attractive — she had cheekbones you could have sliced cheese on.

‘Step away from the evidence, please, Doctor Walker,’ said Duncton.

Kate stood up and fixed him with a cool look. ‘She’s still a person, detective inspector.’

The tall woman held out her hand to Delaney. ‘You’ll be Jack Delaney?’

‘That I will,’ he said, almost smiling as he felt Diane’s frowning gaze upon them. Her displeasure might not be merely a matter of breach of professional etiquette, he guessed. Diane Campbell admired a pretty woman just as much as the next man.

‘Sergeant Halliday,’ the tall woman said, introducing herself. She smiled, revealing a row of teeth as neatly arranged as a march by the Grenadier Guards and as white as a Lyons sugar cube. ‘Emma. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

‘Ahem,’ said Diane Campbell with a stage cough.

‘I’m sorry, chief inspector,’ said the sergeant. She smiled again, holding her hand out once more. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you as well, this time all good.’

Diane nodded wryly and shook Emma Halliday’s hand.

‘Well, isn’t this lovely?’ snorted Duncton sarcastically. ‘Shame we can’t all have a cup of tea and an iced bun!’ He glared across at Kate, who had produced a camera and was firing off shots, her flash lighting up the church like bolts of lightning. ‘But now that we’ve all met, can we stop contaminating my crime scene and keep the area clear for SOCO and the forensic pathologist?’

‘He won’t be here for another hour at least.’

‘The evidence isn’t going anywhere.’

‘I beg to differ,’ said Kate.

‘I beg your pardon, Doctor Walker?’ said Duncton, incredulous.

‘The head — it’s already melting.’

‘Melting? What on earth are you talking about?’

‘The head was frozen. In fact, I would say that the whole body was frozen or at least chilled significantly before the head was removed.’

‘Why do you say that, doctor?’ asked Sergeant Halliday.

Duncton glared at his assistant but let the question stand.

‘The cut marks. The flesh is already softening. Kate took another few shots. ‘In an hour’s time you won’t be able to get this detail.’ She stood up again and pointed at the altar cloth under the severe head. ‘Very little blood seepage.’

‘Because the head was frozen?’ asked Delaney.

‘Partly. Probably also partly due to the severance taking place post-mortem and the subsequent exsanguinations taking place in a different location.’

‘Are you saying her head being chopped off wasn’t the cause of death?’ asked the female sergeant.

Kate shrugged. ‘Impossible to tell at this stage.’

‘But it wasn’t done here?’

‘No.’

‘Which is why we need to wait for the pathologist,’ said Duncton.

‘No …’ said Kate again.

‘It’s why we need to find the missing body,’ said Emma Halliday.

‘Quite so,’ agreed Kate and smiled at her as a teacher might smile at a bright student.

‘Let’s just remember that we are the lead on this investigation here,’ Duncton barked at his sergeant, trying to recover some ground.

Delaney’s mouth quirked in the faintest of smiles. He was pretty sure Duncton didn’t like the fact that his sergeant was taller than him and he had to look up at her when trying to assert his authority. ‘Nobody gives a shit whose collar it is, Robert,’ Delaney said. ‘All we care about is finding the sick fucker who has done this and finding the missing boy.’

‘If the two are related,’ replied Duncton.

Diane snorted. ‘Yeah, they’re not related — and if my granny grew a cock she’d be my grandad.’

Delaney nodded. ‘Garnier is at the heart of all this, depend on it.’

‘What I depend on are the facts, inspector. It’s called good police work.’

‘Do we know who she is?’ asked Emma Halliday

Diane Campbell shook her head and pointed at the bucket and the basket of polishes and dusters that was to the side of the altar. ‘We think it was the cleaning woman, but the good Father didn’t look too closely. We’re waiting for him to come in and make a formal identification.’

Duncton walked over and looked into the bucket, grimaced and moved away. ‘Let’s get him back in, then.’

*

If any colour had returned to Father Carson Brown’s face in the time since he had last let his gaze fall upon the severed head that still sat in the centre of his altar like a blasphemous obscenity, it had drained away again now. He still had a blanket draped around his shoulders. The comforting hand of Sergeant Emma Halliday rested on his left one as she guided him reluctantly back up the aisle to the altar.

‘Just take your time, Father.’

‘Okay.’ The priest knelt down and made another sign of the cross on his chest. He stood up, his gaze raised and fixed on the benevolent eyes of the crucified god above the altar. A few steps further and he stopped in front of the small raised dais, took a deep breath and looked down.

He held his unblinking gaze for a moment or two as he stared at the unfortunate woman’s head, taking in the absolute horror of it. Her skin had more colour now — some red veins were standing out against the mottled blue skin. Tears formed in his eyes and he did nothing to blink them away. ‘Yes, it’s her,’ he said simply.

‘What’s her name?’ asked Duncton.

‘It’s Maureen Gallagher,’ said Father Carson Brown.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ said Diane Campbell.