Val McDermid - The Torment of Others

Carol filed the information away for future action. Vernon unpeeled the plastic bags from Sandie’s hands and began taking scrapings from under her nails. ‘Any thoughts on time of death?’ Carol asked.

‘An imprecise science at the best of times,’ Vernon said drily. ‘My best guess would be somewhere between midnight and eight yesterday morning.’

‘No way to tell if she had sex before she was attacked, I suppose?’ Carol asked.

‘No chance. The damage to the surrounding tissues is so severe it will be impossible to tell whether there was any ante-mortem bruising. If it’s any comfort to you, there’s no apparent sign of any gross anal penetration.’

Before Carol could respond, the door behind them opened. Tony glanced over his shoulder. That single look told him the woman who had entered was a police officer. There was something unmistakable about her casual air of authority in this context. She wore a long black leather coat, the collar turned up against the blustery weather outside, making her look as if she was auditioning for a feminist version of The Matrix. She barely glanced at the body on the table before crossing to Carol.

‘Morning, DCI Jordan,’ she said. ‘Mr Brandon said I’d find you here.’

Carol hid her surprise, though not from Tony. He knew her well enough to read the faint rise of the brows, the slight widening of the eyes. ‘Sergeant Shields,’ she said. ‘What brings you here?’

‘Mr Brandon didn’t call you?’ Jan’s face showed consternation.

‘No.’

‘Ah. I expect he’s left a message on your voice-mail. I tried to call you myself earlier and I couldn’t raise you. Anyway, he’s seconded me to your team for this investigation. He said you were a sergeant under strength and thought it might be useful to have someone on the team who knows the street scene.’

‘That makes sense.’ Carol’s voice had ice at its heart. Already Brandon seemed to be reneging on his promise to give her a free hand, and she didn’t like what that said about her.

‘He seemed to think so,’ Jan said, turning towards Tony. ‘And this must be the man who reads our minds.’

Tony assumed the expression of a man who’s heard it all before. ‘Only if you’re a sexually motivated serial offender.’

Jan laughed. ‘My secrets are safe, then.’ She held out a hand. ‘I’m Jan Shields.’

Tony returned the handshake. Strong, warm hand. Exactly what he’d expect from someone who’d just demonstrated how sure of herself she was.

Jan turned back to Carol. ‘Another one bites the dust, eh?’

‘In a particularly unpleasant way,’ Carol said repressively.

Jan shrugged, stepping forward to see better what Vernon was doing. ‘It’s a high-risk occupation.’

‘So is being a cop,’ Carol said. ‘But when one of us dies, we get a little respect.’

Jan gave an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to sound callous. But when you’ve been in Vice as long as I have, they all start to look like meat while they’re still on the hoof.’

Tony didn’t find Jan’s attitude surprising. He’d met too many cops–and clinical psychologists–on the edge of burnout not to have some sympathy with the defensive positions they adopted. He took a step away, moving closer to the table. ‘Did you do the post mortems two years ago?’ he asked.

Vernon nodded. ‘I did.’

‘What do you think?’ Tony asked.

‘If I didn’t know better, I would say this woman had been the victim of the same killer. The pattern of the wounds is quite distinctive. Unique, really. The only time I’ve seen it before was in the murders Derek Tyler was found guilty of.’

‘What did he use? A knife of some sort?’

‘As I recall, Tyler never gave up the weapon. At the time, I surmised it was something home-made,’ Vernon said. ‘The wounds certainly don’t match any implement I’ve ever come across. And I did ask one of my colleagues who’s an expert in toolmarks for an opinion.’

‘So, what kind of home-made?’ Carol interjected.

Vernon studied the blade of his scalpel. ‘It’s hard to be certain. The wounds are consistent with a narrow, flexible blade. A razor blade rather than a craft knife. But there are dozens, hundreds of cuts. The best guess my colleague and I could come up with was something along the lines of a latex dildo with a series of razor blades inserted quite deeply into it.’

Carol’s intake of breath was audible. ‘Jesus,’ she said.

‘Danger, nutters at work,’ Jan said bitterly. ‘That right, Dr Hill?’

Tony frowned. It made no sense. Nothing added up. If the police had captured the wrong man, the real killer should have reacted by taking another victim then and there. Sexually motivated murderers didn’t like other people being given credit for their handiwork. To wait two years to strike again was all wrong. He needed to talk this through. ‘Carol?’ he said softly.

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