There had been one interesting thing – apparently she had used a good chunk of data in the hours before her death, showing that she had been online on her phone. But there was no way for the phone company to track what she’d been doing.
‘Pat!’ Gill’s voice from the living room had taken on a familiar edge of exasperation, one that he hadn’t heard since before . . . well, since they all lived together. Patrick didn’t like to refer to the incident, even in his thoughts, if he could possibly avoid it.
‘Yes?’
‘Bonnie’s been calling you. Could you bring her some juice please?’
‘Dooce, Daddy!’ Bonnie echoed, in a matching tone of exasperation.
Hm, thought Patrick, she’s perfectly willing to talk to me when she wants something. That’s probably not likely to change for the next sixteen years or so.
‘Coming, darling,’ he said – and then immediately felt guilty because he hoped that Gill hadn’t thought the ‘darling’ had been addressed to her.
Solving murders was easier than this, he thought. At that moment he wished he was back in the incident room, a place where he didn’t have to make any emotional decisions further than what sort of biscuit to have with his coffee.
As he carried the juice in to Bonnie, his mobile began to vibrate in his pocket. Groping for it, he trod on a stray piece from the shape sorter, lurched and spilled the juice down his leg.
‘Ow, shit, f—’
He just managed to stop himself from saying more naughty words.
As Bonnie made a beeline for the remains of her drink, he answered the phone. ‘Lennon.’
It was Carmella. ‘Hey, Patrick. We just got the call from Daniel Hamlet.’ The pathologist who had been assigned to this case. ‘He says he’s ready to see you. He sounded excited.’
Chapter 7
Day 3 – Patrick
Of all the many people Patrick came into contact with through his work, Daniel Hamlet was probably the man he most admired and respected. The forensic pathologist was deadly serious about his professional responsibilities, Patrick thought, wincing at the involuntary pun. A black man in his mid-forties, with hair that was greying around the temples, Hamlet had shown rare emotion the last time they had worked together. But today he was back to his earnest, serious self, no sign of the excitement Carmella had mentioned on the phone.
‘I hear you have something interesting to share?’ Patrick asked as they walked towards the lab where the autopsy had been carried out.
‘That’s right. But first I want to show you something.’
Rose was laid out ready on a metal table, covered with a sheet. Even though Patrick had seen her body already, it still caused him to gulp down air as he approached. She looked even paler now, but more serene, removed from the bloody scene of her death.
‘So,’ Hamlet began. ‘The cause of death is clear – she was strangled. The murderer used a two-handed grip, suggesting that they may not be particularly strong. Of average strength, I would guess.’
‘He used his hands?’
‘Yes. Assuming it is a he.’
Patrick nodded. He had erroneously made that assumption before.
‘There is no sign of sexual assault, which is surprising. No semen. No sign of Rose taking part in any sexual activity at all, consensual or otherwise.’
‘Was she a virgin?’
Hamlet kept his eyes on the corpse. ‘It’s difficult to tell. I would say very possibly. But she definitely wasn’t raped. Of course, when I say no sexual assault, I mean nothing vaginal. Stripping her, touching her body . . . that is assault, of course. But there is no evidence that the murderer derived sexual gratification.’
‘I understand.’
‘She was in good health, a little overweight but nothing wrong with her at all. She ate a burger and fries an hour or two before her death, so it might be worth seeing if anyone spotted her in McDonald’s or similar that evening.’
Patrick made a note.
‘Now, the really interesting thing . . .’
‘The little cuts.’
‘Yes. The cuts are all so small that, though each one bled a little, they weren’t enough for her to bleed to death, even if the murderer waited a long time. The purpose of the cuts was undoubtedly to cause pain. Especially as perfume was sprayed into each one.’
The smell of the perfume had faded, but the scent came back to Lennon now – the way it had filled the hotel room, stinging his eyes and nose.
‘It would have hurt like hell,’ Hamlet said. ‘Like a hundred little wasp stings. Worst would have been these, on the softer and more sensitive parts of her flesh – her thighs, the soles of her feet. Unless it was part of some strange ritual I’ve never heard of, it seems clear this was done to cause her pain. A very unusual form of torture. Slow, painstaking and not too intense, but the cumulative effect would be quite awful.’
They both stared at the body, concentrating on the miniscule marks.
‘The murderer used a very sharp knife. Small, with a blade around four inches long. A pocket knife, but too sharp to be a penknife or Swiss army knife.’
‘Have you ever seen anything like this before?’ Patrick asked.
Hamlet nodded. ‘That’s what I wanted to tell you. The interesting thing is that yes, I have.’
Patrick felt it then: that tingle; the fizz in his bloodstream that acted like a narcotic; the rush that made him addicted to this job. He waited for Hamlet to go on, the pathologist seeming to enjoy the build-up of anticipation, like he was announcing the winner of the latest series of Britain’s Got Talent.
‘There were marks like these on a body I examined three months ago.’
He produced a file, which he’d clearly dug out earlier, and opened it. Immediately, Patrick felt confused. He had expected to see details of an autopsy on another teenage girl. But the date of birth of this victim was 1931. Her name was Nancy Marr, and she had lived in Wimbledon. Patrick vaguely remembered the case. He flicked through the autopsy report. Her body had been found in her flat, killed by strangulation. No sign of sexual assault.
‘Here,’ Daniel said, sliding a photograph from the file. It was a close-up of the woman’s torso, showing her collarbone and upper chest. There were around twenty little cuts on the skin, just like the ones on Rose’s flesh.
‘Shit,’ Patrick said, his voice hushed. ‘Was she naked like Rose?’
‘No.’ Hamlet pointed to the relevant text in the report. ‘Her top had been ripped just below the neck, seemingly as the result of a struggle, possibly the assailant grabbing hold of her before strangling her.’
Patrick leafed through the report. ‘Is it the same knife?’
‘Hmm. It’s impossible to say for certain, but it’s the same size.’
Patrick flicked to the back page. ‘Whose case is it?’