She took the phone and squinted at the screen, then put her fingers on it and zoomed in. Out. In again. Swiped through to the next one and did the same thing, all the way through tilclass="underline" ‘Now it’s just pictures of your cat.’
‘She’s a very pretty cat.’
A raised eyebrow, then Isobel swiped through the photos of Wilson’s kitchen again. ‘From the quantity of blood and the way it’s pooled, I would say some sort of tourniquet was used. Otherwise you’d be looking at arterial spray all up the wall and probably ceiling too. Going by the state of the table, they must have used something as a chopping board, wedged it in under Professor Wilson’s arms before the blow.’ She returned Logan’s phone, leaving little sticky red fingerprints on the screen.
Urgh...
King frowned at her. ‘Hold on. Chopping board?’
‘Well of course, “chopping board”. If they didn’t use one, there’d be deep gouges in the tabletop, wouldn’t there? From the axe head.’
‘Oh.’ King pointed. ‘What’s the chance of surviving something like this?’
‘A bilateral amputation proximal to the radiocarpal joint?’ She pursed her lips, humming as she frowned at the stumps. Then: ‘Under sterile conditions, with trained staff, proper equipment, and anaesthetic: almost guaranteed.’
Yes, but Professor Wilson hadn’t had any of those things.
‘Hacked off with an axe in a kitchen?’ Isobel pushed the tray towards Sheila. ‘You’re opening yourself up to primary and secondary infection. Without some very strong antibiotics it’ll be septicaemia, then sepsis, then septic shock, multiple organ failure, and death.’
Sheila picked the right hand up and scraped out the dirt beneath the index fingernail. ‘Assuming he isn’t... dead already.’ She wiped the black gunge into a small glass container and moved on to the next finger.
Maybe Professor Wilson would be better off if the initial shock killed him? If it was that or slowly dying from the pus-filled wounds where his hands used to be, what would be kinder? Quick and painful, or slow, drawn out, and tortuous, praying for a rescue that never came?
And talking of where Professor Wilson’s hands used to be...
‘Hold on.’ Logan pointed at the stained tinfoil package. What looked like a folded sheet of paper sat in a thick clotted puddle of congealed blood ‘There’s something else in there.’
‘So there is.’ Isobel picked up a pair of tweezers and leaned in. ‘Presumably a message of some kind?’ She unfolded it as King clacked and flashed. ‘A4, white, probably laser-printer or photocopy paper. Heavily stained.’
But the words in the middle were still clearly visible: ‘THE DEVIL MAKES WORK’.
King appeared from behind his camera again. ‘What’s that supposed to...?’ Then it must’ve dawned, because his mouth clicked shut. ‘Oh. Yes.’ More photographs.
Logan tapped Isobel on the shoulder, then tipped his head towards the severed hands. ‘Can we fingerprint those? I know they’re probably Professor Wilson’s, but just in case?’
‘Sheila?’
‘I’ll fetch the Livescan machine... Professor.’ She did, returning with something the size of a box of cat treats. Switched it on. Bashed her palm against it a couple of times when nothing happened. Then smiled and pressed the scanner against the tip of the right hand’s index finger. She did the middle finger and the thumb too.
The Livescan machine bleeped in Sheila’s hand, then one of the laptops let out a tinny ding.
‘We have a match... Professor.’ She fiddled with the laptop’s keyboard. ‘Hands belong to one Professor Nicholas Wilson. The prints are in the system marked, “for elimination” and “from the professor’s study, bathroom, and bedroom”.’
Shirley and her Scene Examiners ride again.
Logan huffed a breath on his bloodstained phone screen and scrubbed it against his SOC suit’s sleeve. ‘Whoever it was wiped the kitchen down with antibacterial wipes. No prints where it happened.’
‘Then I think we can safely assume that the remains do indeed belong to Professor Wilson.’ Isobel raised an eyebrow. ‘Or, at least, the right hand does. Let’s not make assumptions until we’ve checked them both.’
Logan shook his head. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’
King grimaced. ‘For his sake, I certainly hope so.’
13
Logan followed King out through the side doors and up the steps to the Rear Podium car park. Windscreens and bodywork gleamed in the blazing morning sunshine, but this part was painted dark with shadows. At least it cut the heat a bit.
King stopped at the top. ‘So we’ll be looking for a dead body in a couple of days.’
‘If he’s not already dead.’
‘Because things weren’t difficult enough.’ King covered his face with his hands for a moment, curling forward from the waist. ‘Hardie’s going to pop an artery.’
‘We can’t not tell him it’s probably murder.’
King stood up straight again, arms hanging loose at his side. Strings cut. ‘Maybe we can tell him it’s a good thing? Let’s be honest: a dead Professor Wilson will kick up a lot less fuss than a live, angry, bitter one with no hands.’
Wow.
‘You do know you said that out loud, right?’
‘Oh come off it. The dead don’t give press conferences telling everyone what a useless bunch of turds NE Division are.’
True. But still...
King checked his watch. ‘Look, I’ve got to go brief the team. Any chance you can pop past Hardie’s office and let him know?’ Then without waiting for an answer: ‘Great, thanks.’ And with that he marched off, hurrying in through the station’s back doors. They swung shut behind him with an ominous clunk.
Coward.
‘OK, will do.’ Logan stuck his phone back in his pocket and wandered into King’s MIT office. Just in time to rake over the dying embers of the team briefing.
King was at the front of the room, holding up a full-colour copy of the bloodstained ‘DEVIL MAKES WORK’ message, the whole team gathered around, staring at it. Well, everyone except for Heather, who was presumably off doing something important. Hopefully getting a round of teas in.
King lowered the printout. ‘Soon as the media get hold of this you know what’ll happen. It’ll be like wading through a septic tank full of alligators. So go: achieve!’
Chairs squeaked as they rose and bustled out, faces grim, determined, until only Logan, King, and Steel were left.
As soon as the door closed, King sagged forward until he was nearly bent in two. Shuddered. Scrubbed his face with his hands. Mumbling through his fingers. ‘We’re completely and utterly screwed...’ He looked up at Logan. ‘What did Hardie say?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Hardie got dragged into a three-hour review meeting with Detective Superintendent Young about two minutes after I got there. So we’ve got a little breathing space.’
‘At least that’s something.’
Steel stuck her feet up on the nearest desk. ‘Aye, well Horrible Hardie can poke it up himself if he thinks he’s blaming us for this. We’re no’ the ones hacked Professor Wilson’s hands off.’
King sagged even further. ‘Try telling the media that.’
The door swung open and in strutted Heather, clutching an evidence bag, smiling like she’d just discovered quilted toilet paper. Nodding at them. ‘Boss, Guv, Roberta.’
‘Please tell me you’ve found something?’
She held up the evidence bag. ‘Lab’s been over the Jiffy bag: only viable fingerprints on the outside are the BBC receptionist, presenter, and producer. Everything else is too smudged.’