"Neville the Lip?" Turner asked.
"Yes. I've half a mind to take the case from Homicide West just to teach him a lesson."
"We've got plenty on our hands as it is," Turner said, in a long-suffering voice.
"I know that, Taff. But the AC's got the hots for the Ifield Road murder and I reckon he'll be even more excited when he finds out the victim was a big-name writer."
Turner put a heap of files on her desk. "I'll leave these ongoing case reports with you then," he said, with a tight smile.
Oaten stood up quickly. "Oh, no you don't. We're going through them together." She raised a finger. "I've got a better idea. Get Pavlou and Browning in here."
Turner returned with the detectives a minute later.
"Guv," they both said tentatively.
"Don't worry, I've got something delightful for you." Oaten grinned. "See this pile of case files?"
They both nodded. Detective Sergeant Paul Pavlou, of Greek Cypriot parents, in his midthirties and with a permanent shadow of beard on his face, looked unenthusias- tic. Detective Sergeant Amelia Browning was a newcomer to the team, a short woman in her late twenties with bobbed brown hair.
"Split them up between you and go through them. I want you to make lists of all the leads that haven't been followed up and rank them according to potential effectiveness."
"Em, isn't that your job, guv?" Pavlou said, his eyes down.
"We're a team, aren't we, Paul?" Oaten riposted. "I'm giving you the chance to show your mettle. We'll be needing another inspector soon."
The detectives left with the files, Pavlou now with a spring in his step.
"Paul's got what it takes," Turner said. "Far too early to say about Browning."
Oaten nodded. "How are the rest of them treating her?"
The Welshman shrugged. "Okay. They took her down the pub last Friday and tried to get her pissed. Apparently she was the last person standing-and she was drinking some brain-damaging real ale."
Oaten laughed. "I thought there was more to her than meets the eye when I interviewed her. Right, let's see if Neville's sent the reports over." She opened up the internal mail program on her computer. "Looks like he's jumped to attention. They're here." She clicked on the attachments and printed out two copies.
They both read for several minutes.
"Okay," Oaten said. "Redrose's postmortem. He was right about strangulation by ligature being the cause of death. He found traces of what he expects tests will show is leather-so, maybe a decent-quality shoelace."
"Or a cord from a pendant."
Oaten nodded. "Could be. The fracture on the side of the skull was probably caused when her head hit the floor." She looked up. "So, if the victim was lucky, she was unconscious when she was throttled. The face was pounded by a blunt object, dimensions approximately three by two centimeters, consistent with the haft of a knife or similar. The blade-sharp and with a smooth edge-was used to slash her face and to sever the left ear. No fingerprints found on the body. Same serrated blade probably did for the cat. The time-of-death window is between eight and eight-thirty."
"Listen to this, guv," Turner said, his eyes farther down the page. "'Likelihood that victim's finger and toenails were cut by her assailant. Several are uneven, with minor cuts in the surrounding skin. No clippings found at locus.'" The inspector stopped abruptly and let out a groan. "God, I hate murders done by crazies."
Oaten continued reading. "'Also, a section of pubic hair approximately four by four centimeters has been cut recently, some hairs remaining in situ. Ends suggest single blade rather than scissors, so reasonable assumption that killer removed hairs. Victim's underwear has been repositioned with some care. So far, CSIs report no cut hairs found in house. A lock of hair was also cut from above the forehead with a similar blade, again no traces found in proximity of body.'"
"Trophies?" Turner asked.
"I'd have thought the ear was enough of a trophy." Oaten rubbed her chin. "Remember those Satanists that we caught a year ago? They took hair and nails, and used them in their so-called spells."
"They were vile people," the Welshman said with a shiver.
"There's also the pentagram in the garden to suggest this is some kind of ritual murder." Karen Oaten raised a hand. "Hang on, Taff. We're not finished yet. Redrose is nothing if not thorough. 'The prone position of the body is worthy of note-i.e. it was turned over by the murderer after the pubic hair was removed. Examination of the rectal area shows damage compatible with sexual abuse. However, no semen or condom lubricant have been detected. A possible conclusion is that the butt of the knife used to disfigure the victim was inserted into the anus. Underwear was repositioned with care.'"
"Christ," Turner said, his face pale. "What the hell kind of animal uses a knife-butt to sodomize a dead woman?"
Oaten caught his gaze. "Maybe we should be thankful it wasn't the kind of animal that would have used the other end of the knife."
The inspector gave his boss an appalled look. "We have to keep our emotions in check, Taff." Oaten moved to the next report. "The CSIs say 'Muddy footprints, size nine footwear with heavy tread, probably workman's boots, to be confirmed, leading from back door to area around body, mud matching that in victim's garden. Impressions from same footwear on other side of wall inside Brompton Cemetery, in direction of house, but impossible to follow far on asphalt road. Footprints lead from body to front door. Also decreasing amounts of mud on steps and pavement to right of house. Impossible to follow beyond twenty-seven point two-four meters.'" Oaten looked up. "That's interesting. He got in the back door, but went out the front, bold as you like."
"'No other footprints apart from victim's near the back door, those at least twenty-four hours old,'" Turner continued. "'But there were traces of black wool fibers around the body, as yet unidentified. No fingerprints apart from victim's on any surfaces. The CD had been burned on a computer, "Sympathy for the Devil" copied ten times. The CD player in sitting room was activated by the machine's timer, which had been set for 20:30.'"
"Presumably giving himself time to get away." She shuffled through the papers. "Someone must have seen him. Even if he got over the wall of the cemetery unseen, there are plenty of houses whose occupants could have seen him in the street."
Turner was examining DI Neville's report. "No witnesses found as yet, locals still being questioned by uniforms. At least they've identified the body. In the absence of any relatives in her address book, the neighbor agreed to do it. That must have been a hard job, given the state her face was in. Additional confirmation by dental records is also under way."
Oaten leaned back in her chair. "So what have we got? A cool customer, who managed to get in the back door- a standard Yale lock, with minimal signs of damage, so he knew what he was doing. He was also lucky as the victim must have forgotten to bolt the door. He was calm enough to draw the pentagram and write the Latin words with a steady hand. The pattern of footprints suggests that Mary Malone hadn't been in the garden for at least a day and the chalk was recently applied. So, a cold-blooded killer, who waited for the victim. I'd guess the cat was mutilated to terrify her. The killer was determined enough and had sufficient strength to tighten the ligature, though the victim was probably unconscious from the fall. Then he took the ear, hair and nail clippings, and-get this for weird-put her underwear back carefully after he'd abused her from behind. Having achieved all that, he left the Stones song playing so loud that it was bound to attract attention. Why would he take the risk?"
"Because he's a bastard who's showing off, daring us to catch him if we can."
"Possibly," Oaten said, frowning. "It's not exactly the kind of behavior you'd expect from a Satanist. They're usually drug-crazed kids or sad, middle-aged men." She pointed at him. "We've both been saying 'he,' but there's no reason, apart maybe from the shoe size, to rule out a female killer."