‘That you, Lorimer?’ Rosie’s voice sounded hollow as she called out in the darkness.
‘Yes. D’you want me across there yet?’
There was a pause as Rosie murmured something indistinct to her colleague then, ‘No. We’ll be up there shortly.’ There was another pause then she added, ‘No need for you to get your feet any wetter.’ The usual teasing note was absent from her voice making Lorimer stare through the murk. Whatever grimness lay before the two pathologists had wiped out any sense of levity.
With a feeling of relief, Lorimer turned and started back up the tunnel of stairs that would take him to ground level and into the blessed daylight.
Rosie and Dan had moved the body out of the dungeon and into the room used by the technicians and shifters where natural light flooded in from a window set high above them.
A light knock on the door made Rosie turn her head, a frown on her face, ever ready to repel boarders. Her brow cleared, however, when she saw Lorimer slip quietly into the room. His gaze immediately fell on the sodden corpse lying on a sheet of tarpaulin. Rosie watched as his expression suddenly altered.
‘You know her, then?’ she asked wryly for it was clear that the Chief Inspector had recognised the woman whose lifeless body lay centre stage before them. Lorimer nodded slowly, never taking his eyes off the bloated face, its shape distorted by the wire twisted around her neck.
‘Karen Quentin-Jones,’ he said at last.
‘But that was…’ Rosie broke off, remembering the imperious figure who had swept down the Artistes’ corridor. The pathologist gave her head a shake as if to clear the mental picture. But it persisted. Even as she recalled the woman to life, Rosie could not help but remember that other violinist’s corpse, a corpse she’d been in the process of examining when she’d caught sight of the figure clad in black lace. The body on the floor was fully dressed, coat buttoned up as if she had been about to step into the winter’s night. Only some other hands had stopped her. Hands that had held a wire across her throat, cutting off breath and life.
‘I’ll have to do a full post-mortem, obviously, but you can see for yourself.’ Rosie indicated the wire crisscrossing the neck.
Lorimer bent down, pointing to the ends of the wire. One end was curled into a neat little loop; the other held a small round of white plastic. He knew better than to touch anything. ‘Any idea what it might be?’ he asked.
Rosie made a face. He knew she hated to speculate but he always asked her just the same.
‘Guitar string?’
Lorimer looked more closely at the wire. Its silver coils were wound round and round the throat like some obscene African necklace. ‘Too long for a guitar,’ he muttered to himself.
‘What about a harp, then?’ Dan offered, his large hands making circles in the air as he mentally unwound the filament, calculating its length.
‘Could be. We’ll know soon enough,’ Rosie replied briskly.
Lorimer stood up again, the tone in her voice telling him it was time to leave the pathologists to their duties and begin his own. With his mouth set in a grim line, Lorimer realised that one of the first of these duties would be to inform Derek Quentin-Jones that his wife was no longer a missing person.
Chapter Twelve
When Maggie Lorimer stretched out her hand to halt the alarm’s intrusive bleep, she had no idea that another hand was at that moment unwinding a wire ligature from the neck of Karen Quentin-Jones. Maggie’s first thoughts on wakening were to remember the day of the week then calculate what time it was back home. She stretched her feet down to the coolest part of the bed then drew the single sheet up towards her chin, creating a tiny draught of air. The fan whirred quietly on the ceiling above, a noise she’d ceased to notice after all these weeks in Florida. Five more minutes, she told herself, five more minutes before the day need begin. She’d shower in the tiny cubicle adjacent to her bedroom then pad barefoot through to the open plan kitchen/living area, switch on the various machines that would deliver her breakfast while she rummaged in the closet for something suitable to wear. Waking up slowly gave her time to breathe before the rush began and, better still, gave her time to reflect.
Her mouth curved in a wide smile as she remembered last night’s telephone conversation with her mum. They were both coming out for Christmas! How Bill had fixed that, she couldn’t imagine. Mum had always been adamant that nobody would catch her flying on an aeroplane. But somehow Bill had sweet-talked her into it.
Bill. Maggie breathed a long sigh. They’d be here for two whole weeks. He’d promised. There was leave long overdue and he was taking it, he’d assured his wife. Maggie’s right hand drifted unconsciously to the place where her husband would lie. Two weeks. They’d be together, on holiday, for all that time. OK, Mum was going to be there too, but the nights would be theirs alone. Maggie closed her eyes and conjured up her husband’s face, the rough places around his jaw when he’d been too long away from a razor, the mole on his left cheek and the way his eyes crinkled when she made him laugh. She swallowed hard. Dwelling on such things would undermine her resolve. Better to think about practicalities.
There was so much they could all do during the holiday. Maggie forced her thoughts towards all the sights she wanted to share with the two people she loved best in the world. Some of these were right here in Sarasota. Mum would love the Marie Selby Gardens, especially all those orchids, and she’d have to take them to the Ringling Museum, its mock Venetian Palazzo looking out over Long Boat Key. There were other sights they might want to visit; places further afield that she’d been saving up to explore. Maybe they could take a mini-break down to the Keys? Her head buzzed with the possibilities. It would be fun to show off the bits of Sarasota that she knew so well, now. OK, she’d only been here for eight weeks, Maggie calculated, but already she felt proprietorial about the place. Her place. A few more weeks and they’d be arriving. She longed to show her husband the apartment. Maggie screwed up her eyes tightly. No. What she really wanted was to show him that she could do this thing on her own. It mattered that he saw her in charge of her life.
Maggie listened to the noises of traffic outside her window and that cawing bird she’d yet to identify. Bill might know what it was. How he’d love the birds out here, especially the brown pelicans flying idly over the water. Her mind raced ahead, skimming over the prospects of those precious two weeks. A sudden thought intruded like a cloud blotting out the sun. What would she feel once they’d gone home again? she asked herself. Loneliness? Regret? So far work had been a balm to soothe those self-inflicted sores. In January the new semester would begin. She’d have six more months of being busy at the High School before her exchange was up. Then what? a small voice asked. She pushed the thought away as her hand threw off the crumpled sheet.
Maggie’s feet hit the wooden floorboards that were already warm with the morning sun penetrating the slatted blinds. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she hauled the cotton nightshirt over her damp curls. Shower first, she told herself, then coffee, then …? Then the day would materialise into its usual pattern dominated by assertive teenagers and voluble colleagues, a weary voice reminded her. Her five minutes of peace were up. It was time to join the frantic tilt at accumulating credits that passed for education in this part of the world. That really wasn’t fair, she scolded herself. Maggie heaved a sigh. OK, so she had to confess: it was no better or worse than the system back home. At least it was warm here, she smiled ruefully, running fingers through her moist tangle of curls.