What have we got? Facts that were too sparse to suggest any sense of direction. The policemen had returned from their search yesterday with a pair of knickers; they were large, white and matronly, and from the state of them had obviously been lying on the ground for far longer than the dead woman. Nothing else had been found.
The victim remained unidentified. The door-to-door inquiries had come up with two individuals-in addition to Mr. Rider-who suggested that the dead body was a prostitute. This, Breen considered, was a possibility. Streetwalkers used Hall Road, only five minutes’ walk away, but Carmichael said that nobody had reported any prostitutes missing.
What the body was doing out there in the open was a mystery. It was a halfhearted place to leave a corpse, barely concealed in such a public place. It suggested a lack of planning by the person, or people, who’d murdered her. The murder had been badly thought through. Or at least, the disposal of the body had been.
“No decent leads, really. It’s enough to make you sick,” said Jones. People snickered.
“Enough of that,” said Bailey.
“Ha-very-ha,” said Carmichael.
“I said. Enough.”
A woman police officer entered the room. Everyone stopped for a second and looked at her. Though there was a women’s unit at Marylebone, they were only on admin tasks and social work. If a crime involved a kid you’d ask one of them in. Apart from that, they never came into the CID office.
The woman blushed. She was gawky-looking; a thin, angular face, and dark hair cut into a lank bob.
Bailey scowled and said, “You’re early. I’ll be with you in a minute, Miss…?”
“Tozer, sir.”
“We’re wasting our time there,” said Jones. “Going over the same ground. She was dumped, Wellington said.”
“Breen?” said Bailey.
“I don’t agree. Until we know where else to look, it’s our best bet.”
“Waste of time, I say.”
“What about the woman who discovered the body?” asked Bailey.
“It wasn’t a woman. It was a girl. A nanny. No name yet. We’re looking.”
The one thing the door-to-door inquiries had established beyond doubt was that the orange mattress that had lain over her had been there before she had been dumped. Several people had noticed it, lying against the wall on top of the pile of rubbish.
Breen picked up the forensics report and started to summarize it for everyone in the room. In it, Wellington said pretty much what he’d said the day before yesterday to Breen. She had been strangled. He estimated that she had died between 6 p.m. and 10 p.m. on the previous day-around fifteen hours before she was discovered. The fact that blood had settled on one side suggested she was not dumped until at least two hours after she was killed, which meant that she had not been dumped until 8 p.m. at the earliest on the previous day, by which time the alley would have been dark.
“Nobody’s going to dump a naked bird in broad daylight,” said Carmichael.
“She’s not just a naked bird,” blurted the woman constable. A broad West Country accent made her voice sound doubly out of place.
Everyone stared.
“No, you’re right. She’s a naked dead bird,” said Carmichael. People laughed. Tozer colored but didn’t lift her glare from Carmichael’s face.
“That’s sufficient, thank you,” said Bailey. “Wait outside please, Constable, until we’re ready.”
The woman left. Breen picked up from where he’d left off. There were no obvious signs of penetration, though Wellington hadn’t ruled out a sexual assault. He looked at the woman constable through the glass. She was standing outside, looking at her feet, embarrassed.
“Missing persons?” asked Bailey.
Jones answered. “No one there matching the victim’s description in the last two weeks.”
“A pretty, young, naked woman stirs the prurient instinct. With that kind of attention it is useful to make progress fast. OK, everyone. Back to work,” said Bailey with a sigh. “And Breen?”
“Yes, sir?”
“That woman constable outside has applied to join CID.”
There was an immediate hush in the room.
“Like it or not, she’s been made a TDC,” said Bailey. Temporary Detective Constable. She was a probationer.
“You’re joking?” said Carmichael.
“It is not my doing, you can be quite sure of that.”
“Hell’s teeth.”
“She will be on the murder squad with you and Jones, Breen.”
“Oooh,” came the catcalls. “Breen has got a girlfriend.”
“What?” said Carmichael. “We’ve got to work with a bloody plonk?”
“I should imagine Breen needs all the help he can get.”
“But she’s a woman, sir,” continued Carmichael.
“Well spotted, Carmichael.”
“So’s Breen,” said Jones.
“That will be all, thank you,” said Bailey, closing the door behind him.
Seven
It was a new Cortina, F reg, pale blue with a white door, the letters POLICE picked out in black on the side.
The Temporary Detective Constable got in and tossed her hat into the back of the car, not saying anything.
“Right.” This was a new one on him.
He opened the door, sat down and turned the engine on, then went to put the car into reverse and almost passed out from the pain of the motion. “God,” he said.
“You all right, sir?”
The nerves in his shoulder were screaming. His skin prickled with a sudden sweat.
“Sir?”
He breathed deeply and reached his good arm up to adjust the rearview mirror so he could reverse without turning his head.
Gingerly putting the car into first, he made it out onto the street and up to the traffic lights without having to change gear again.
“Sure you’re OK?” she said.
“Fine.”
“Your arm. I heard you fell out of a tree,” she said in her rural accent.
“Yes.”
“Bet it hurts.”
“Yes,” he said. “A bit.”
They didn’t talk again until they were halfway up Lisson Grove.
“She wasn’t raped, then? The dead girl?”
He looked at her. She was young, probably only in her early twenties. “We’re not sure yet.”
“Got any leads?”
“Not so far,” he said.
She nodded, then said, “You’re still in second. You should change up.”
He dropped his arm down to the stick and the left side of his body flooded with pain again. He wasn’t sure he could do this.
There was a traffic jam ahead. He tried to see what was causing it, but a large bread van blocked the view.
“They said she was naked. Did you see her?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Was she pretty?”
He looked at her. “Not particularly, I don’t think. People look different when they’re dead.”
Now the car was going slowly he needed to change down again. Cautiously he moved his hand down to the gears. Another sudden stab of pain. He braked to avoid hitting the car in front, stalling the engine.
“What’s wrong?”
He laid his head on the steering wheel of the stationary car. “I’m not sure I can drive. I can’t seem to change gear. My arm’s too sore.”
“From when you fell…?”
“Does everyone know about it?”
She nodded. Somewhere behind a car horn sounded. Breen switched the hazard lights on and cars slowly started moving around them. After a while she dug in her bag. “Got an aspirin if you want,” she said.
They had given him painkillers at the hospital, but he wasn’t due another one until lunch. “We’re going to have to go back to the station.”
“You going to call in sick?”
“I can’t drive.”
Looking at him, she said. “Who’ll take over this case?”
“Sergeant Prosser, I suppose.”
She scowled and pulled out a packet of cigarettes from her bag, offering him one. Usually he didn’t smoke so early in the morning. He took one, though. First of the day. It would help with the pain.
“What if I did it?” she said.