Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

Oaten went up the steps. “And the song was…?”

“An old Rolling Stones one, actually.” Neville gave a weak smile. “‘Sympathy for the Devil.’ The volume was turned up full.”

Oaten raised an eyebrow. Matt had got tickets when the band had played Twickenham a couple of years back. That song had been the standout number, Mick Jagger high above the stage in a red top hat and tail coat.

“I was always more of a Beatles man, myself,” Turner muttered.

They followed DI Neville inside. The house was impeccably clean and tidy, shelves full of books on every wall. At the far end of the long sitting room, a familiar figure was standing over the short but bulky female corpse lying facedown on the floor. The dead woman wore a calf-length blue skirt, and pink slippers with pom-poms were lying at irregular angles to her feet, about a meter away.

“DCI Oaten, what a pleasure.”

“Good evening, Dr. Redrose,” Karen said, her tone formal. She didn’t much like the potbellied, red-cheeked pathologist, even though he was good at his job. “What have you got here?” She bent over the remains of the obese woman. The thick legs were bare and marked by the purple cobwebs of varicose veins. There was a patch of blood on the gray carpet at the left side of her head.

“What I’ve got,” said the medic, “is something less than pleasant.” He looked up at his assistant, who was standing by. “All right, the police photographer’s finished and we’ve taken our shots. Let’s turn her over.”

The woman was moved onto her back, the two men grunting with the effort. The victim’s face was a mess of blood and ripped skin.

Taff Turner swallowed hard, trying to prevent his weak stomach from erupting.

“And also rather unusual,” Redrose said, his normally languid tone replaced by one that suggested a fascination bordering on the unhealthy. “Severe lacerations and heavy blows to the face.” He extended an arm. “And the left ear has been removed.”

“Jesus,” Turner said, averting his eyes from the sight.

Oaten looked at the carpet around the body and the nearest wall. There was no blood spatter. “I take it the injuries were inflicted after death.”

Redrose nodded. “I’ve examined the skull. There’s a serious depressed fracture, probably from a fall.” He shook his head and then smiled. “But that wasn’t what killed her.”

Oaten was irritated by the pathologist’s ability to take pleasure from his work, but she didn’t show it. That would only have encouraged him. She looked back at the dead woman. It was impossible to tell if any other trauma had been inflicted. Apart from the face and head there was no blood, and her clothing didn’t appear to have been disturbed.

“Let me help you, Chief Inspector,” Redrose said. He turned the victim’s head to the right and put his forefinger close to an area of the neck. “You see the ligature mark?”

Oaten nodded. The dull red line was narrow. “Any sign of what was used?”

“Not in the immediate vicinity, ma’am,” a uniformed officer said.

The pathologist laughed. “Careful, laddie. The chief inspector’s one of those female officers who prefers to be called ‘guv.’”

Oaten gave Redrose a tight smile. “So she was strangled.”

“Correct. The marks suggest by something pretty narrow, like a shoelace. I’ll see if there are any fibers later.”

“And the time of death, Doctor?” Oaten asked.

The pathologist looked affronted. “Surely you realize it’s too early to say.”

She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Would you care to hazard a guess?”

“Oh, very well,” Redrose said, with a brief smile. “Given the body temperature, I’d say no more than two hours ago.”

Oaten looked at her watch. It was nearly ten.

DI Neville appeared at her side. “The neighbor called about the noise at 8:43 p.m. So that gives us a pretty tight window of eight to around eight-thirty. I’ve just been talking to the guy next door. He isn’t sure, but he reckons that the music started about a quarter of an hour before he made the call.”

“Did he see anyone leave the house?” Turner asked, his notebook and pen out.

Neville shook his head.

Karen Oaten stood up and took in the room. The back door was ajar and on the carpet near it were some small bloodstains. “What happened there?”

Neville stepped up. “The CSIs have already taken them away.”

“Them?”

“The severed head and body of a black cat,” the detective inspector said. “There’s more blood on the paving stones out back. It looks like it was slaughtered there.” The bottom lip went between his teeth again.

“Do we know if it was the victim’s?” Oaten asked.

Neville nodded. “The neighbor confirmed she had one like that. It, or rather he, was called Noir.”

Black, thought Oaten. The victim must have liked black humor. Or was she into old crime movies? She turned to Neville. “Do we know who she was?”

“No formal identification yet. The neighbor declined, but we’ll work on him once she’s been cleaned up in the mortuary. There are bank and credit cards in a purse in the hall. The name’s Shirley Higginbottom. There’s a nameplate on the front doorframe that says S. Higginbottom, so there isn’t much doubt that was her.”

“Any cash?” Turner asked.

Neville looked at his notebook. “Sixty-four pounds and eight pence. And there are two laptops, a plasma TV and a load of jewelry upstairs.”

Oaten was looking at the body again. “Well, clearly we’re not looking for a burglar who was interrupted-”

“Inspector?”

They all turned to the back door. A fresh-faced young man in a crumpled suit and white overshoes stood there, looking at Oaten and Turner in confusion.

“DC Lineham,” Neville said unenthusiastically. “Two weeks on the job and thinks he knows it all,” he said to Oaten, not bothering to lower his voice. “What is it then? You can talk in front of our colleagues from the Violent Crimes Coordination Team.”

“I thought I recognized DCI Oaten from the TV,” Lineham said, stepping forward.

“Not inside!” yelled Neville. “You need a coverall and a change of overshoes, idiot.”

The young constable’s cheeks reddened. “Sorry, guv,” he said. He was well-spoken, probably a graduate on the fast-track scheme. “Perhaps you’d like to come out here then.”

“What have you found?” Neville said wearily. “Don’t tell me there’s another headless moggy in the garden.”

“No, sir. It’s a bit more…em, sinister than that.”

Oaten and Turner exchanged glances and went to the back door. They took off their bootees. Steps led down to a garden that was lit by lamps set into the side of a paved path. A CSI was on his knees on the grass next to one of the stone slabs, examining it close up.

As they got closer, Karen Oaten’s heart began to sink. This was the last thing she needed.

The investigator looked up at them. “White chalk, drawn with a steady hand, I’d say. It’s a-”

“Pentagram,” Oaten and Turner said in unison. They’d worked more than one case involving the paraphernalia of Satanism.

“What’s that writing in the middle?” Neville asked, peering forward from the closest stepping plates that had been put down to protect any footprints.

“It’s Latin,” put in DC Lineham eagerly. “‘FECIT DIABOLUS.’” He looked around the blank faces excitedly.

“Meaning?” Oaten prompted.

“Meaning ‘The devil did it.’”

Inspector Neville groaned and slapped his forehead. “This and the bloody Stones track. We’ve only gone and got ourselves a sodding Satanist murder.”

Oaten looked at John Turner, then they both concentrated on the pentagram.