Strangulation.
The tongue had been gouged by her own teeth as she died strangling. It was suggested that she was probably not uncon scious when the final force was applied.
Probably not unconscious.
The markings 4 LUV had been cut into the victim’s chest with a razor blade. Again, it was suggested this wound was not post-mortem.
4 LUV .
Ligature marks were also found on both the ankles and the wrists. Both sets of marks had drawn blood from deep cuts, suggesting that the victim had fought her attacker for a length of time. The palm of each hand had also been pierced through, possibly by a large nail or a similar metal instrument. A similar wound was found on the left foot and it appeared that an unsuccessful attempt had been made to inflict the same injury to the right foot, resulting in only a partial piercing.
The victim had fought her attacker for a length of time.
Further tests would be needed, however an initial examin ation of particles taken from the victim’s skin and nails revealed a strong presence of coal dust.
Coal dust.
I swallowed.
The vagina and anus showed tears and bruising, both internal and external. The internal tears to the vagina had been caused by the stem and thorns of a rose inserted into the vagina and left there. Again, the substantial majority of these wounds were not post-mortem.
The stems and thorns of a rose.
Horror on horror.
I fought hard for my breath.
They must have turned her over then, on to her chest.
Clare Kemplay’s back was a different world.
A different helclass="underline"
Two swan’s wings had been stitched into her back.
“TOOK THE WINGS CLEAN OFF AND LEFT THE POOR BASTARD JUST LYING THERE.”
The stitching was irregular and used a thin waxed rope. In places the skin and the muscle had been reduced to pulp and the stitching had broken free. The right wing had become com pletely detached, the skin and the muscle unable to support the weight of either the wing or the stitching, causing a large tear along the victim’s right shoulder blade.
“THEY’D HACKED THE WINGS OFF. FUCKING SWAN WAS STILL ALIVE.”
At the conclusion of the report, the pathologist had typed:
Cause of death: ASPHYXIA DUE TO STRANGULATION
Through the thin white paper I could see the outlines and shadows of a black and white hell.
I thrust it all back into the envelope, photographs unseen, dry heaving as I struggled with the toilet lock.
I wrenched open the cubicle door, slipping and falling into another fucking lorry driver, his hot piss hitting my leg.
“Fuck off you bloody puff!”
Out the door, sucking in the Yorkshire air, tears and bile across my face.
None of the injuries were post-mortem.
“I’m talking to you, puff.”
My mother was sat in her rocking chair in the back room, looking out at the garden in the light drizzle.
I brought her a cup of tea.
“Look at the state of you,” she said, not looking at me.
“Says you, not dressed at this time. Not like you,” I took a big mouthful of hot sweet tea.
“No, love. Not today,” she whispered.
Out in the kitchen the six o’clock news came on the radio:
Eighteen dead in an old people’s home in Nottingham, the second such fire in as many days. The Cambridge Rapist had claimed his fifth victim and England were trailing by 171 runs in the Second Test.
My mother sat staring out at the garden, letting her tea go cold.
I put the envelope on top of the chest of drawers and lay on my bed and tried to sleep, but couldn’t, and cigarettes didn’t help at all and only made things worse and likewise the mouth-fuls of whisky which just couldn’t or wouldn’t go or stay down, and soon I was seeing rats with little wings that looked more like squirrels with their furry faces and kind words but who would, suddenly, again become rats at my ear, whispering harsh words, calling me names, breaking my bones worse than any sticks or stones until I jumped up and put on the light, except it was day and the light was already on, and so off it would go and so on, sending out signals that no-one was receiving, least of all The Sandman.
“Hands off cocks!”
Shit.
“Anybody hurt in this wreck?”
I opened my eyes.
“Looks like you had quite a night.” Barry Cannon surveying the ruin of my room, a cup of tea in his hand.
“Fuck,” I mumbled, no escape at all.
“It lives.”
“Christ.”
“Thanks. And a good morning to you.”
Ten minutes later we were on the road.
Twenty minutes later, headache banging on an empty stomach, I had finished up my story.
“Well, that swan was found up in Bretton.” Barry was taking the scenic route.
“Bretton Park?”
“My father’s mates with Arnold Fowler and he told him.”
Blast from the past number ninety-nine; me sat cross-legged on a wooden school floor as Mr Fowler talked birds. The man had been a fanatic, starting a bird-watching club at every school in the West Riding, a colurruvin every local paper.
“He still alive?”
“And still writing for the Ossett Observer. Telling me you haven’t been reading it?”
Almost laughing, I said, “So how did Arnold find out?”
“You know Arnold. Owt goes down in the bird world, Arnold’s the first to hear.”
Two swan’s wings had been stitched into her back.
“Seriously?”
Barry looked bored. “Well Sherlock, I imagine the good people at Bretton Park’11 have told him. Spends every waking hour up there.”
I looked out of the window as another silent Sunday sped by. Barry had seemed neither shocked nor even that interested in either the gypsy camp or the post-mortem.
“Oldman’s got a thing about gypsies,” was all Barry had said, before adding, “and the Irish.”
The post-mortem had gotten even less of a reaction and had had me wishing I’d shown the photographs to Barry or, at the very least, had the bloody guts to have looked at them myself.
“They must be bad,” was all I’d said.
Barry Cannon had said nothing.
I said, “It must’ve been a copper at the Redbeck.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“But why?”
“Games, Eddie,” he said. “They’re playing fucking games with you. Watch yourself.”
“I’m a big boy.”
“So I’ve heard,” he smiled.
“Common knowledge round these parts.”
“Whose parts?”
“Not yours.”
He stopped laughing. “You still think there’s a connection to them other missing girls?”
“I don’t know. I mean, yeah. There could be.”
“Good.”
And then Barry began to rattle on about Johnny bloody Kelly again, the bad boy of Rugby League, and how he wouldn’t be playing today and no-one knew where the fuck he was.
I looked out of the window thinking, like who gives a shit?
Barry pulled over on the outskirts of Castleford.
“We here already?” I asked, imagining Dawson’s area would be much posher than this.
“You are.”
I didn’t follow, turning my head every which way.
“Brunt Street’s the first on the left back there.”
“Eh?” Lost, turning my head that way.
Barry Cannon was laughing. “Who the fuck lives at 11 Brunt Street, Castleford, Sherlock?”
I knew that address, raking through the pain in my brain until it slowly came to me. “The Garlands?”
Jeanette Garland, eight, missing Castleford, 12 July 1969.
“Give the boy a prize.”
“Fuck off.”
Barry looked at his watch. “I’ll meet you in a couple of hours at the Swan across the road. Swap horror stories.”