‘Shit!’ he says, ‘Cooper.’
‘Morning, Monk.’
‘Detective Constable Abbott to you.’ Monk hauls him to his feet. ‘This is a crime scene and private property. You’re trespassing.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Offensive language- that’s another charge.’
‘Gimme a break.’
‘The film.’
‘I don’t have any film. It’s digital.’
‘Then give me the bloody memory card.’
‘People have got a right to see these pictures,’ says Cooper. ‘It’s in the public interest.’
‘Yeah, sure, woman hanging from a tree; big public interest story.’
I leave the two of them arguing. Monk is going to prevail. He’s six-foot four. Nature wins again.
I climb a gate and follow the road to where police cars have blocked off the lane. DI Cray is standing beside a mobile canteen, stirring sugar into tea. She stares at my trousers.
‘I fell down.’
She shakes her head and pauses to watch the white body bag being carried past us on a stretcher and loaded into a waiting Home Office van.
‘What makes someone like Sylvia Furness take off her clothes, walk out of her flat and come here?’
‘I think he used the daughter.’
‘But she was at a riding school.’
‘Remember what Fuller said? When he met Christine Wheeler on the path last Friday, she asked about her daughter.’
‘Darcy was at school.’
‘Exactly. But what if Christine didn’t know that? What if he convinced her otherwise?’
DI Cray draws breath and runs her hand across her scalp. Her short hair flattens and springs back again. I catch her staring at me as though I’m a strange artefact that she has stumbled across and can’t name.
Off to my right I hear the sounds of a commotion, several people shouting at once. Reporters and news crews have crossed the police tape and are charging up the farm track. At least a dozen uniforms and plainclothes converge on them, forming a barricade.
One reporter pivots and ducks under the line. A detective tackles him from behind and they both finish up in the mud.
Veronica Cray utters a knowing sigh and tips out her tea.
‘It’s feeding time.’
Moments later she disappears into the throng. I can barely see the top of her head. She orders them to step back… further still. I can see her now. The TV lights have bleached her face whiter than a full moon.
‘My name is Detective Inspector Veronica Cray. At 7.55 this morning the body of a woman was found at this location. Early indications suggest the death is suspicious. We will not be releasing her name until her next of kin have been informed.’
Each time she pauses, a dozen flashguns fire and the questions come almost as quickly.
‘Who found the body?’
‘Is it true she was naked?’
‘Was she sexually assaulted?’
Some of them are answered, others parried. The DI looks directly at the cameras and maintains a calm, businesslike demeanour, keeping her answers short and to the point.
There are angry objections when she ends the impromptu press conference. Already pushing through their shoulders, she reaches my side and pulls me towards a waiting car.
‘I have no illusions about my work, Professor. My job is pretty straightforward most of the time. Your average murderer is drunk, angry and stupid. He’s white, in his late twenties, with a low IQ and a history of violence. And gets into a pub brawl or gets sick of his wife’s nagging and puts a claw hammer in the back of her head. I can understand that sort of homicide.’
By inference she’s saying this case is different.
‘I’ve heard stories about you. They say you can tell things about people; understand them; read them like tealeaves in a cup.’
‘I make clinical judgements.’
‘Whatever you want to call it, you seem to be good at this sort of thing. Details are important to you. You like finding patterns to them. I want you to find a pattern for me. I want to know who did this. I want to know why he did it and how he did it. And I want to stop the sick fuck from doing it again.’
25
The house is quiet. Strains of classical music drift along the hall. The dining table has been pushed back against the wall. A lone chair remains in the centre of the room.
Darcy is dressed in trackies rolled low onto her hips and a green midriff top which shows the paleness of her shoulders and stomach. Her chestnut hair is pinned tightly into a bun.
She balances one leg on the back of a chair with her toes pointed and leans forward until her forehead touches her knee. The outlines of her shoulder blades are like stunted wings beneath her skin.
She holds the pose for a minute and rises again, drawing her arm above her head as if painting the air. Every movement has an economy of effort, the dip of a shoulder or extension of a hand. Nothing is forced or wasted. She is barely a woman, yet she moves with such grace and confidence.
Sitting on the floor, she stretches her legs wide apart and leans forward until her chin touches the floor. Her teenage body, extremely stretched and open, looks athletic and beautiful rather than vulgar.
Her eyes open.
‘Aren’t you cold?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘How often do you practise?’
‘I should do it twice a day.’
‘You’re very good.’
She laughs. ‘Do you know anything about ballet?’
‘No.’
‘They say I have a dancer’s body,’ she says. ‘Long legs and a short torso.’ She stands and turns side-on. ‘Even when my legs are straight the knee is bent slightly backwards, you see that? It creates a better line when I’m on pointe.’ She rises onto her toes. ‘I can also flex my feet forward to be vertical from knee to toe. Can you see?’
‘Yes. You’re very graceful.’
She laughs. ‘I’m bow-legged and duck-footed.’
‘I used to have a patient who was a ballerina.’
‘Why were you seeing her?’
‘She was anorexic.’
Darcy nods sadly. ‘Some girls have to starve themselves. I didn’t have a period until I was fifteen. I also have curvature of the spine, partially dislocated vertebrae and stress fractures in my neck.’
‘Why do you do it?’
She shakes her head. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
She turns her toes outward.
‘This is a pas de chat. I leap off my left leg starting from a plie and raise my right leg into a retire. In mid-air I raise my left leg into a retire as well so that my legs form a diamond shape in the air. You see? That’s what the four cygnets do when they dance in Swan Lake. Their arms are interlaced and they do sixteen pas de chats.’
An abiding sense of lightness makes her float through each jump.
‘Can you help me practise my pas de deux?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Come here. I’ll show you.’
She takes my hands and puts them on her waist. I feel as though my fingertips could reach right around her and touch in the small of her back.
‘A little lower,’ she says. ‘That’s it.’
‘I don’t know what I’m doing.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Nobody watches the man in a pas de deux. They’re too busy watching the ballerina.’
‘What do I do?’
‘Hold me as I jump.’
Effortlessly, she takes off. If anything it feels as though I’m holding her down rather than up. Her bare skin slides beneath my fingers.
She does it half a dozen times. ‘You can let go of me now,’ she says, giving me a teasing smile.
‘Perhaps you don’t like ballet. I can do other dances.’ Reaching up, she unpins her hair and lets it tumble over her eyes. Then she grinds her hips in a long slow circle, squatting with her knees apart, running her hands along her thighs and over her crotch.
It is shamelessly provocative. I force myself to look away.
‘You shouldn’t dance like that.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not something you should do in front of a stranger.’
‘But you’re not a stranger.’