The woman stared back at him as if she knew what he wanted to do and was inviting him to try. Just fucking try. He smiled at her. She tossed her chin in the air and walked on by.
Didn’t she realize who he was? Didn’t she realize she was in the presence of greatness? He had complete control over other human beings – over her, if he wanted it. He had power at his fingertips that she would never know because she wasn’t worthy. He picked the women he chose to play his game very carefully. He handpicked them and he decided their fate from that moment on. He decided how they lived and how they died.
He turned back to watch the magnificent machines he loved. The massive cranes stretched up to the sky and prepared to do battle with one another, lowering and lifting their mighty heads. His head hurt with the pleasure of it all.
‘Got a light, mate?’ An art student from nearby Saint Martins interrupted his thoughts. The student had a hand-rolled cigarette in between his fingers. His hands were dotted with paint.
‘Got a light, mate?’ he mimicked. The young man scowled and turned his head away for a few seconds as if considering his reaction.
‘Got a light? Got a light?’ he parroted again.
For a second the two men stared at one another.
‘Go fuck yourself.’ The young man shook his head and started walking away. ‘Fucking weirdo.’
Chapter 5
Doctor Jo Harding had a reputation for being as cold as the corpses she cut up. She was brittle inside, steel outside. She worked exclusively for the Murder Squad. She carried out the forensic post mortems in her laboratory in the Whittington Hospital mortuary department which was just a few minutes’ walk from Fletcher House and Archway Police Station.
Mark, the mortuary technician, knocked and entered her office as she was looking at the X-rays.
‘Inspector Carter and DC Willis are on their way over, Doctor.’
She pushed her chair back and looked up from her desk. ‘Okay – you can begin. I’ll be out in a minute.’
Mark left her office with a nod and went to get changed before going through to the body store and wheeling out the body from the canal. He waited to unzip the body bag. For him there was a ceremonial aspect to the disrobing of the victim. He showed reverence, in deference to the deceased person. He was a sensitive soul. He already smelt the odour of advanced decomposition. He kept his eyes lowered as he opened the zip all the way and then his eyes took in her injuries one by one and he felt a heavy sadness that was the same today as it had been the first time he’d seen a dead body, the day he started work at the funeral home where he had worked for eight years before joining Doctor Harding. He sadly peeled the edges of the bag back and looked at the auburn-haired woman, her face moulded into a mannequin of horror, her auburn hair snaking out and he thought how beautiful she must once have been. He moved to the top of the table and laid out the necessary tools on the tray above the sink.
Harding picked up the post mortem forms before going through to get changed into new scrubs and an all-in-one suit, white boots. Then she picked up visor and gloves and joined Mark in the post mortem room. The body was waiting on the stainless-steel dissection table.
She signalled to Mark to help and together they slid out and folded up the plastic sheet that the body had been wrapped in, ready to be sent to the crime lab. Harding carefully peeled away the last of the polythene from around the victim’s neck. ‘We’ll get the preliminaries done ready to start the examination when they get here. Start by brushing and washing her hair, eyelashes, eyebrows and pubic.’
Mark nodded that he understood and began gently combing her hair. He eased out the tangles and used a syringe to squirt water onto the scalp, flushing the debris into a bowl.
Harding was watching him from the corner of her eye. They’d been working together for three months now and were still getting used to one another’s ways. He washed the victim’s hair as if he were in love. He tilted his head one way and another as if mesmerized by the strands of colour in her hair. Harding coughed. She saw his hands speed up – efficiency replace sentiment – and watched as he finished up before removing the tray full of the washing liquid. He began combing through her eyebrows and eyelashes, and removed the make-up that had been hiding the swollen cheese-like texture of her face. Her bulging eyes were lovingly wiped clean of blue eye-shadow with cotton pads, her cheeks cleaned of red stain. When he finished the face he moved down to comb through her pubic hair.
Harding looked up from behind her plastic eye shield as Carter and Willis approached wearing full forensic suits. Harding handed Willis the camera with a querying look. Ebony nodded and took it. She switched it on and checked it was working before moving silently around the body photographing. After Harding, Ebony knew more about forensic pathology than anyone else in the room. And, although her degree was in criminal justice and law, forensics had been a hobby all her life.
Mark switched on the extractor fan beneath the table as Harding began official proceedings.
‘The diener here is Mark Langham; he has washed and prepared the body for autopsy,’ Harding dictated as she moved along the side of the dissection table. ‘We have collected hair samples and will continue with the exterior examination. DI Dan Carter and DC Ebony Willis are in attendance at the post mortem examination of the victim, a woman found dead this morning, pulled out of the Regent’s Canal. DC Ebony Willis will be recording the visual account of the autopsy. We are looking at a white female, approximately twenty-four years of age. She is five foot six and weighs six stone seven pounds. She has yet to be identified. She’s been in the water for approximately twelve weeks. Decomposition and submersion in water for a period of several months has caused a blackening of the skin which is lifting and separating from the muscle, on her body and limbs. Her abdomen is swollen and has a green hue.’ Harding halted at the top of the table. ‘Her head has been encased in plastic, which has led to it being preserved; adipocere has formed, giving it a tan colour, and causing a retaining of features as the fat melted.’
Harding moved to the side of the table and picked up the woman’s hand. ‘All but two of the fingers are missing on her right hand; they were probably lost while she was in the canal.’ She looked at the two ragged ends to the fingers and nodded to Mark, who had already anticipated her needs and handed her a scalpel and specimen tray. ‘We’ve already taken fingerprints.’ She began to cut away each of the nail beds from the two fingers, and deposited them onto the tray. She turned the woman’s arms over.
‘No obvious signs of the use of needles.’ Harding stopped dictating. She looked across at Carter.
‘Any luck with the jewellery or the tattoo?’
‘Not yet.’
‘What about the heroin?’
‘No reports of any problems on the streets, Doctor.’
‘Maybe she came from abroad and brought it with her,’ answered Harding.
‘If she did we might never find out about it – or her,’ replied Carter.
‘Really?’ Harding said sarcastically. ‘You surprise me, Inspector. So defeatist.’
Carter glanced Ebony’s way. They both knew what the sharp end of Harding’s tongue felt like. She rarely thought before she spoke. She didn’t see that she needed to. She was cocooned in the mortuary world where she was queen and reigned supreme.
She continued her examination: ‘Overall, the body is in a very poor state. I count… three infected ulcerated sites on her torso, a further six on her limbs. The largest of the wounds is on her left thigh.’
Mark followed her silent instruction as he moved into place and laid a paper tape measure down the length of the wound. ‘Twenty-four centimetres top to bottom, width sixteen point five. Depth…’ he said as he placed a Q-tip into the wound and gently prodded the base until he found the lowest point then he slid his fingers down level with the surface and took a reading – ‘seven centimetres deep in the centre.’ He slid the Q-tip around, prodding the sides of the wound. ‘Underpinning of the wound at ten o’clock, depth of…’ he measured it the same way as before – ‘five centimetres.’