The Professor was going through the preliminaries for the purpose of the recording tape. Height; weight; state of the body. The soft Scottish twang reminded Mike of the Mrs Doubtfire character from the Robin Williams movie.
She hooked one hand behind Collins’s head and raised it from the wooden resting block. Then carefully she began to slide the still knotted rope over the bloated, discoloured face. The SOCO officer clicked off several shots of the process with his Nikon camera.
Rolling the head from side to side she delicately stroked and touched several parts of Collins’s neck.
“As a slip-noose was used, ligature was in contact with the skin right around the full circumference of the neck,” she began. She moved the head again fixed a finger to an area of the neck and the SOCO officer racked off several more shots.
“Now this is interesting,” she announced after pursing her lips for a moment, “although there is evidence of bruising on and around the carotid vessels on the right hand side of the neck, except for the uppermost part of that side the ligature marks are faint and deficient on the sides and back.”
Mike took a step towards the body “What does that mean Professor?”
Lizzie held up a latex-gloved hand, a clear order that she wanted him to say nothing else. With her other hand she took up a scalpel from a tray next to her. Then pushing her spectacles up onto the bridge of her nose she began slicing into the soft tissue of the throat area of the cadaver. Diving her fingers into the incised front of neck, she began pulling and probing the larynx.
“There is bone injury in the air passage. There is a fracture of the hyoid.” She gave off a long drawn out “Hmmm,” before continuing with the remainder of the post mortem. Part way through she scraped under the finger nails, dropped some fibres into sample tubes and held the hands up for the Scenes of Crime Officer to photograph. Finally, after two hours she dropped the last of her instruments back onto a metal tray and snapped off her surgical gloves.
“Suicide by hanging?” Mike asked
“Oh indeed dear, this man’s demise was caused by strangulation, but this was no suicide.”
Lizzie McCormack’s response took him aback. “Not suicide?”
“The evidence couldn’t be much clearer. This man was murdered. See here.” The Pathologist raised Collins’s head from the support block and motioned a finger over the incised opening in the throat. “Contusions to the soft tissue and underlying muscle, and a fractured hyoid, all of which are indicative of manual strangulation. Coupled with the fact that the rope marks around the neck are merely superficial I conclude that he was already dead when he was strung up.” She took a long pause. “When it comes to murder they can’t pull the wool over my eyes. I have a few more tests to carry out but I’ve also found trauma to the face which leaves me to believe he has suffered significant blows to the mouth and left cheek which could have rendered him either unconscious or semi- conscious. Finding those injuries caused me to carry out further examinations, particularly of the hands. I found that the majority of his fingernails are broken and there are fibres and possibly flesh beneath the remains of his nails. I bet if you go back to the tree where you found this man hanging you will find striation marks on the branch, which has been caused by the rope when his dead weight has been hauled up.”
Mike gasped at the magnitude of these findings. His mind was racing. If it hadn’t been for Professor McCormack’s experience in dealing with murder victims this would never have been spotted. It could only mean one thing — Geoffrey Collins had been set up to make him look like the murderer. He pictured in his mind the recent bust at Collins’ flat. The real serial killer must have somehow got into Collins’s flat, assaulted and strangled him, used his computer knowing the police would trace it back to him, left the recently taken photographs of Kirsty and cleaned up any trace of himself before he’d left. And that’s why SOCO found the surfaces wiped with concentrated bleach. In his head he tumbled around everything he had recently learned. There was only one conclusion. Kirsty Evans’s attacker and the slayer of Carol Siddons, Claire Fisher and Rebecca Morris, had tried to throw them off his scent by killing Collins and making it look like suicide.
“The crafty bastard,” Mike said aloud.
“Wash your mouth out with soap dear,” Lizzie responded drily.
“Sorry Professor, I was just thinking aloud.”
She smiled back. “I know, and you’re right the person who did this is very crafty — and brutal, and if I wasn’t so good, he’d have succeeded.”
No pub tonight, Mike thought to himself. The hunt is back on.
* * * * *
I don’t know why they call this a green room, Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw thought to himself as he re-read his script, there’s not a drop of alcohol in sight.
He shuffled uneasily in his seat as the male make-up artist flicked a blusher brush filled with foundation across his face.
“Do I have to wear that stuff?” he had barked earlier, grimacing at the thought of having to wear make-up for the first time in his life.
“Despite the fact that you look well for someone who is in their late forties we all need a little help in front of the cameras,” the make-up artist said.
The SIO made final notes to the speech he was going to make. His second visit to the ‘Crimewatch’ studios was much sooner than he had anticipated, but he knew they had to ‘up the ante’ if they were to catch this killer. He had committed murder at least four times and would have added Kirsty Evans to his list had it not been for the quick reactions of a Paramedic out on his evening jog.
The numerous ‘actions’ were still being processed, and the new ones to find a link with Geoffrey Collins were being carried out at this moment as he prepared himself for the evening’s live programme.
Detectives had already pulled Collins’ prison and Probation files and were ploughing through them. They’d all come to the conclusion during the day’s briefing that the killer must have known Collins was a convicted sex offender and that was why he had chosen him as the ideal candidate to throw them off his scent.
There had also been a very difficult debate during that meeting as to whether the use of the leather belt should be disclosed, especially as it was a significant piece of evidence. He had to argue strongly that they had very little choice. They had to act before someone else was murdered.
“And if showing that belt on TV will jog someone’s memory and give us that golden nugget by which we can identify our killer, then it will be worth it,” he had told his teams.
The buzzer above the door sounded and the ’three minutes’ light flashed on.
The make-up artist pushed the handle of his brush underneath Michael Robshaw’s jaw and manoeuvred the Superintendent’s head from side to side.
“Pretty as a picture” he whispered. “Go break a leg.”
* * * * *
She was following the light along the tunnel. Through the darkness she could see the trees and fields ahead and the summer breeze brushing her face brought with it the smell of freshly mown grass. But with every stride her experience was one of dragging feet through treacle and her pounding heart felt as if it was about to burst through her chest.
Though she couldn’t see him she could sense he was getting closer, almost hear him breathing down her neck, and smell the foul stench of the halitosis from his mouth. Rebecca was shouting to her, waving her to safety. And then he was on her, grabbing at her hair and clawing at her skin. She was tugged forward so hard that her feet left the ground. Then something was tightening around her neck and the air left her lungs with a whoosh.
She tried to fight back, biting and scratching her attacker, but he was on top of her and she couldn’t move. She was totally at his mercy.
He lowered his head and she caught the first glimpse of his face. It was a hazy image she saw but she thought she recognised him. Rebecca was trying to tell her who it was; she had been there when she had first seen him.