'The ligature wound, as I mentioned earlier, is not too severe, so I would guess it was made of soft material, perhaps a towel or scarf
Foster guessed the killer might have removed the evidence, but made a note to tell forensics to examine every item of clothing and material in the house.
'What about the wound to the throat?' he asked.
'Committed post mortem,' Carlisle responded. 'The carotid artery and jugular vein remain intact so the cut is not actually all that deep. More of a token gesture. Your killer is right-handed by the way. There are also signs of bruising and lividity on the back. I'm not yet one hundred per cent certain, but it seems likely she was killed inside the house, then dragged outside where her throat was slit.'
That made no sense to Foster. Most killers took care to hide a body. This one had done the opposite, bundling the body from the privacy of a house out into a garden where it might be seen.
'There was no blood in the house,' Foster said. 'But there was plenty in the garden.'
Carlisle nodded slowly. 'The lividity on the back is congruent with being dragged outside, which is why I made an educated guess that he killed her inside, then hauled her into the garden where he made the wound on her throat.'
This really isn't adding up, Foster thought. Any sign of sexual activity?' he asked.
Katie Drake had let her murderer into her house. Had she allowed him into the bedroom or had he followed?
Was she surprised by his attack or quiescent? They could not rule out some sort of sex game, even though she was fully clothed.
Carlisle shook his head. 'None whatsoever.'
A few scenarios ran through his mind. Had Naomi Buckingham arrived home and interrupted the killer? Is that why she had been abducted? But he had the tools at his disposal to kill her there and then. Why risk being seen taking her away?
'Any idea of the time of death?'
'Difficult to be absolutely precise, but I'd say with some certainty that it was around mid-afternoon yesterday.'
Naomi could have disturbed the killer. Yet there had been no sign of a struggle anywhere in the house. Which indicated that Naomi might also have known her abductor and gone with him willingly, unaware that her mother lay outside murdered.
'I've sent samples of blood to toxicology,' Carlisle continued. 'The liver was quite fatty, in the first, very early stages of liver disease, which indicates the victim was a heavy drinker. Other than that she was in reasonably good physical condition. She hadn't eaten for a few hours, not since breakfast.'
Any idea when the nail varnish was applied to her fingers and toes?' Heather interjected.
Carlisle shrugged.
Heather wandered over and took a look. 'I'd say very recently. And with some care, too. She was wearing quite a lot of make-up when we found her. Mascara, foundation, lippy, the works . . . What have you done with her clothing?' she asked Carlisle, urgency in her voice.
'They're about to go forensics. They're in a bag somewhere . . .' He turned to one of his technicians for confirmation.
A few moments later the bag was produced.
Heather put on a pair of gloves and took it to an empty dissecting table, where she poured out the contents, Foster at her shoulder. She ignored the blood-soaked shirt and skirt, and went straight for a black, diamante-studded bra, which she picked up between thumb and forefinger.
'Ta da!7 she said, turning to show it to Foster, making him flinch. 'Push-up bra. Not the sort of thing you wear around the house on a Monday afternoon. As I thought: she was on a promise.'
Naomi Buckingham was wrong. Her mother did have a man.
They managed to track Sally Darlinghurst, Katie's best friend, down to a small terraced house in Kentish Town.
Darlinghurst had been out all day, but returned at some point during the evening. She'd already been told the news of Katie Drake's death and her proud, handsome face, which looked familiar to Foster, presumably from one of her TV appearances, was still blanched by shock. She let Heather and Foster into her sitting room, adorned with ethnic artefacts, grotesque carved masks, a few wooden statues and colourful batiks hanging from the wall. The air smelled of incense and smoke. Once inside and seated on the sofa she lit the first of a chain of cigarettes.
Foster made their apologies and offered the usual condolences. Darlinghurst drew deeply on her cigarette, pushing away a blonde curl of hair that constantly fell over her right eye.
Awful,' she said in a crisp, well-enunciated voice. 'Just fucking awful. Any news about Naomi?'
Foster shook his head sadly. Heather explained the reason for the visit -- to build up as detailed a picture as they could of Katie Drake's life, in the hope it might lead them to her killer.
'What do you want to know?'
'What sort of person was she?' Foster asked.
'Wow,' she said. 'What a place to start. What sort of person was she?' Katie's friend looked away for a short period of time, lost in thought. 'She was honest. She was loyal. She was a fabulous mother, a good friend and a fucking good actress.'
'How long had you known her?' Foster asked.
'Sixteen years. She was twenty-one and I was a year older. We were in rep, doing a version of Salad Days. Bloody awful play. But we had a scream doing it. We came back to London and stayed friends. Through marriages, divorces, childbirth, for her at least, and all manner of job crises. She was always there for me, as I was for her.'
Foster nodded. 'How had she been recently?'
She tapped another cigarette from the pack and lit it.
'How had she been?' she said, repeating his question once more and glancing away. After another drag she answered.
'I haven't seen her for two months, though we spoke on the phone a couple of weeks ago. She was . . . OK. I mean, work was causing her a bit of angst, or rather the total bloody lack of it. I'd just landed a little part in a TV drama.
Load of bloody shit it is, too, but it's work. Usually we took great pleasure in each other keeping the bastards at bay and finding work, but I did sense she was a bit deflated. I think it must have been a year since she did anything and I'd not been doing too badly in comparison . . .'
'What do you mean by "keeping the bastards at bay"?'
Heather said, the beginnings of a smile on her face.
'Oh, that? Well, when you're an actress approaching forty the work tends to thin out, either that or the roles you get are pretty shitty ones. The men, of course, just keep getting more work. But that's the way it is. You can either plug away and keep the bastards at bay, or you can give up and walk away and . . . well, God knows what you'd do. Teach, or something.' She pulled a face.
'So if work had dried up, do you know how Katie spent her days?' Foster asked.
'She read. She wrote. I know she was trying to write a novel of some sort. Two days a week she helped out in a charity shop near her home.'
'Which one?'
'Cancer Research. Other than that, I know she had other friends, ones she'd made through Naomi, other single mums.'
'What did she do for money?'
A bit of voice-over work every now and then. Crappy but it pays good money. She had a lovely, clear voice. And whatever contribution she received from her ex-husband, though most of that was towards Naomi's upkeep.'
Was there a man in her life?'
She let out a derisive snort. "Men? We'd given up on those shower of bastards a long time ago,' she said and laughed.
'Sorry, detective,' she added, looking at Foster. And no, she wasn't a lesbian if that's what you're thinking. Bloody hell, no. What I meant is that neither of us enjoyed much luck with men. Both had a failed marriage. A couple of aborted relationships since. It was a major topic between us -- that and the whole work thing. I think it must have been at least a year since her last relationship. Maybe even longer.'