Michael Fowler - Cold Death

“What about identification of the girl?” enquired Grace.

“Other than what I have already said, height weight, of Asian appearance etc, that’s all I am able to give. The bloating and decomposition has put paid to physical identification. She has also lost a number of teeth from the blows she received but dental records might be still of use, and of course I have taken a blood sample for DNA purposes, but that of course is if she or her family are on the database.”

“I will sort out the dental impressions and fingerprints,” interjected Duncan Wroe. “I’ve had a look at the ridges and they are in a bit of a mess. There is a lot of skin slippage because of the length of time the body has been submerged. What I can do however is cut around the top section of each finger and peel off the flesh and then put them over my gloved fingers and roll an impression. I have done that once before and it worked.”

Grace felt her skin suddenly go all goosey.

“I can show you how to do it and then let you have a go if you want.”

“Duncan that is gross.”

“Needs must Grace, needs must!”

* * * * *

Feeling mentally and physically drained it was well after seven pm before Grace eventually got home.

She had spent the last two hours updating DC Isobel Stevens so that she could input the HOLMES system ready for the following day’s briefing. She had also begun the timeline sequence on the incident boards, finishing the task by blue-tacking photo images of the crime scene, which included a sequence of mortuary shots; rug wrapped body, unwrapped body and the unusual looking weapon which had been used to slay the Asian woman. She’d then had to sit down with DI Scaife so that he could fill in the gaps in his journal ready for the next morning’s eight am briefing. It was only when she had finished all that did it hit home to her what the responsibility of acting Detective Sergeant meant. Never before had she ever given it any thought how much additional work Hunter put in after they had all called it a day and headed off home or down to the pub. She made herself a mental note that from now on she would always ask him at the end of a busy day if he needed any help.

Unlocking the front door she called out. There was no reply. She made her way through to the kitchen. On the table she found a note. She picked it up and headed back into the hallway. Climbing the stairs slowly Grace read. The message contained a mixture of scribbles made by David, her husband, and Robyn and Jade her daughters. It told her they had gone to a fast-food restaurant and then onto the cinema; to see a ‘chick-flick — she recognised that word as Robyn’s handwriting. The note ended with three ‘love u lots’ and smiley faces. She mouthed the end text without making a sound and smiled to herself.

Grace stripped off her things as soon as she entered the bathroom, dumping her clothes in a pile by the door on the landing. She could smell the stench of rotting flesh clinging to them and she made the decision to wash them straightaway and not put them in the dirty clothes basket for fear of contaminating the rest of the washing.

Turning the thermostat hotter than usual she jumped in the shower and scrubbed herself with perfumed soap foam, lingering longer than she normally did under the powerful jet of hot water.

Ten minutes later, feeling totally cleansed, she towelled herself off in front of the bathroom mirror. As she dabbed the moisture away from her tawny coloured skin she found herself lingering over her reflected image. She turned sideways and clenched her stomach muscles and continued to admire her shape. Although she maintained her fitness through regular swimming sessions Grace knew she owed her lithe well-toned figure and height to her Yorkshire born mum, whilst her hair, skin colour and burnt umber eyes were the product of her Jamaican father’s genes.

You’ve still got it girl.

She patted the final droplets from her shoulders and then slung the towel through onto the landing, adding to the pile of washing. Finally she picked out her tub of aromatic body butter from the mix of bathroom products on the shelf and began to moisturise her skin.

Half an hour later dressed in a T-shirt and jogging bottoms and clutching a glass of chilled Chardonnay Grace flopped onto the sofa. Tucking her legs beneath her she began to run the day’s events through inside her head. Graphic images began to kaleidoscope around and she couldn’t avoid reflecting on the post mortem. Especially thinking how indifferently Professor Lizzie McCormack had treated the corpse. First how she had been so brutal slicing open the young Asian woman, almost defiling her and then mirroring that with just how gentle she had been when it had come to washing and combing the hair and washing out the nasal passages for evidence. Watching Professor McCormack during the latter sequence she had remembered what the forensic pathologist had said to her, “the body gives up so much of where it has been before it has had its life ended. Pollen or fibre samples can be matched to the place where it met its death.” She would store those words for the future.

She jumped out of her reverie, remembering the early phone call which she had cut-off. She had completely forgotten to return Hunter’s call.

Reaching across the coffee table she scooped up her mobile. She couldn’t wait to tell him how she had coped whilst being in charge of her first murder.

* * * * *

North Yorkshire:

Jock Kerr stirred. He let out a low moan as he shuffled uneasily in the bed. The groaning snapped Hunter out of his doze and he drew himself up in the high backed bedside chair in time to catch sight of his father’s face twisting in pain; he’d been in and out of a restless sleep since his admittance to the hospital side ward that afternoon, despite being heavily dosed with a strong painkiller and sedative.

“Okay dad?” Hunter enquired. “Do you need me to call a nurse?”

His father eased opened his eyes. “I’d rather have a dram son.” He started to laugh, chest shaking, then winced. “Jeez son, I feel like I’ve gone ten rounds with Mohammed Ali.” He licked his dry lips. “What’s the doc’s verdict? What’s the damage?”

Hunter noticed that his father’s Scottish accent was brittle and more laboured than normal.

He leaned forward and rested an elbow on the edge of the bed, cupped his chin in his hand and stroked growing bristles; he was in need of a shave.

“Four broken ribs, more than a few cuts and bruises, and a couple of stitches above your right eye. You’ll live.”

“How’s your Ma?”

“She’s on Ward Two.” He saw his father’s face change. It was a look of anguish as well as concern. “Don’t worry she’s only there for observation. She’s had a nasty bang to her head. And she actually looks like she’s done ten rounds with Mohammed Ali.” He cracked a wry smile. “Beth and the boys are with her, keeping her company.”

“I’m glad she’s okay son. I wouldn’t know what I’d do if anything happened to your ma.” He made an attempt to clear his throat and that sent him into a paroxysm of coughing. His chest shook fitfully and a rasping sound broke from his mouth.

Hunter watched on helpless as tears welled up in his father’s eyes.

“Bloody hell that hurt,” he cried out as he clutched his upper torso and pushed himself back into the bed. “What happened son?”

Hunter recounted the incident, the silver BMW ramming the car and how they somersaulted across the moorland. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Some accident, eh?”

“That was no accident dad. The BMW deliberately rammed you.” Hunter pushed himself upright. “Was this to do with that guy you were arguing with this morning?”