Michael Fowler - Cold Death

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It took Hunter slightly over an hour to drive to the Forensic Lab at Wetherby. As he slowed for the gate he couldn’t help but think how long it had been since he had last visited this place; where as in the past it had been he, as the young detective, who had the task of safely delivering evidence, now the job employed civilian drivers to take care of the delivery of forensic exhibits,

He flashed his warrant card to the uniformed gate guard and answered a few security questions before being pointed towards the visitor’s car park. Strolling towards the Forensics laboratory he could see that with the exception of the increased protection since his last visit very little of the physical structure had changed. The building was of a 1960s design, flat-fronted construction of concrete and glass, though he could see that new colourful signage did its best to break up the grey drabness.

The reception area was remarkably light and airy and he checked in with the receptionist telling her that he was expected in ten minutes time; at ten-thirty. Arriving early for a meeting was something, which had been drilled into him ever since he was a young cop, and it was advice which he had followed through his service.

Hunter had only just taken a seat when Frankie Oliver, Forensic Medical Artist — he checked her name badge — breezed into reception. She thrust out a hand and greeted him with a beaming smile, showing off a perfect set of white, even teeth. So white in fact that Hunter wondered if they had been cosmetically bleached. Frankie was the same build as her Aunt, Professor Lizzie McCormack, slim and petite. Hunter guessed that she was in her late twenties and he could see that she had been blessed with a faultless skin complexion and pretty features. A hint of mascara framed soft hazel eyes. What made her stand out though was her hair style, short and chopped funky, and dyed jet black with hints of burnt copper.

As she led him towards her lab room Hunter let her know the dual purpose of his visit — fascination with the process together with an artistic eye.

“A detective with a soft side eh?” she commented as she swiped her security card through an electric lock reader. “That’s unusual, and refreshing. At least for once I’ll know my work will be appreciated.” She pushed open the door and held it open for him to pass through. He caught a whiff of her perfume; a hint of flowers; subtle; expensive.

She directed him to her workstation. He could see there were half a dozen other white-coated technicians beavering away in the lab as she pointed him towards a white plinth, approximately five feet in height. Fastened to it was a grey half executed bust. It had all the appearance of a head but without fully formed features. Plastic teeth and prosthetic glassy eyes were set but not covered giving it a surreal effect.

“Do you want me to take you through it?” she asked slapping a hand over the lumpy cranium.

Hunter’s gaze was already studying the craftsmanship that had gone into the project. “Give me the full works. I’ll let you know if you’re boring me.”

She laughed displaying those perfect white teeth again. “Don’t beat about the bush will you! Okay pin back your lugholes and if there’s anything you don’t understand stop me. I must warn you that once I’m in full-flow I take some holding back.” She moved closer to her sculpture. “Firstly I did a cast of the girl’s skull. My aunt helped me with that because the original skull has to be devoid of flesh. In the past I have had to work with a clean skull — you know a skeleton has been dug up — but in this case I have been very fortunate. With your body the majority of its flesh is in place. Anyway I digress.” She pinched some of the clay away from the head and worked it into a lump. “We use an oil based clay.” She thumbed it back onto the bust. “Sticks easily to the cast and can be manipulated for longer. First, plastic pegs are inserted at specific anatomical sites around the skull to indicate the level of tissue required. Those enable me to begin the muscular build up with the clay — like I have done here.” She stroked an index finger around contour lines of the face. “Big muscles which form the sides of the face onto the jaw, round the eyes,” she continued stroking the clay form to make her point. “Once the muscle structure is in place I can think about the thin fatty layer which lies on the surface — the connective tissue as it is called. A lot of formation was already there on your body even though it was bloated and disfigured. For instance, creases and folds from the underlying muscle structure especially the mouth and shape of the nose were in place. The nose is generally one of the most difficult facial features to reconstruct, because the underlying bone is limited. However because the girl’s face is almost intact this model should be exact.” All the time she was talking Hunter through her handiwork she was smoothing her dainty slim fingers around the clay head.

She picked up a cloth from a tabletop next to her and wiped some oily residue from her hands. “Another couple of days and I’ll have the face finished. Then it’ll undergo a paint job. I can match the skin tone exactly from the body colour. Finally I’ll add a similar style and colour hairpiece and you should have a vision of your victim. It won’t be an exact portrait but the main features will all be there to enable you to have as near a match as possible for identification purposes.”

Hunter thanked her. This is what he had been waiting for. He knew from experience that having a name for the victim always gave an enquiry an extra dimension; family; friends; associates and a background which provided a wealth of additional information to point them in the direction of the suspect, or in this case suspects, thought Hunter. He couldn’t wait to see Frankie’s completed work.

DAY TWELVE: 4th September.

Stirling, Scotland:

“What is wrong with this weather?” muttered DCI Dawn Leggate to herself as she watched the rain roll down the double-glazing of her conservatory blurring the vision she had of her bijou garden. “One minute sunshine, next minute flaming rain.”

She caught her spectral reflection staring back at her from the glass.

Jesus I look as rough as I feel. Must stop over-indulging with the wine.

She continued with her breakfast. She sawed at her over-done toast and forked in a mouthful with some scrambled egg. This was her first breakfast at home in quite some time; well since Jack moved out just over two weeks ago.

The sound of her mobile rattling on the tiled mosaic surface of the round table-for-two snapped her back from her unhappy thoughts. She followed its vibrating movement for a few seconds before grabbing at it — cursing. She knew from the number on the screen that it was work.

I’m on my day off damn it.

Her mouth and tongue juggled with half chewed food which she finally slotted to one side as she did her best to answer the call.

“This had better be good,” she said curtly, nipping her mobile between one ear and her shoulder. She listened to the voice on the other end without interrupting whilst continuing to carve up her breakfast into small portions.

“Okay I’ll be in in thirty minutes,” she finally responded as the caller hung up. This was one of those times when she needed a cigarette. This had been her longest break from them yet; and she was proud of herself. She had managed to stay off them for eight months, two weeks and five days. She’d stop counting the hours.

But Christ what wouldn’t I give for one right now.

Pushing her plate into the middle of the table, she dropped her knife and fork down with a clatter and moaned to herself again as she scraped back her chair.