Читать книгу Tennison - Lynda La plante - Страница 7
ОглавлениеJane got up early and had a shower. She decided to try on the dreaded bridesmaid dress. She unzipped the black bag and the salmon-pink taffeta skirt spilled out: just looking at the dress made her feel ill. The boned corset had a sweetheart neckline and there were now puffball sleeves. The huge satin bow and wide sash were pinned to the hanger. She sighed. The frock was hideous. She pushed the skirt back and zipped up the bag. She quickly dressed and made her escape without waking her parents or sister. She left a note to apologize for being so late home and left it on the breakfast counter.
Jane arrived at the station early; she didn’t want to miss the post-mortem of Julie Ann Collins. She knew how lucky she was to be asked to attend, as most probationers got to attend only run-of-the-mill, non-suspicious postmortems.
*
The detectives on the murder investigation had worked hard until the early hours of the morning. With the assistance of officers from the special patrol group, they had made enquiries in the vicinity of the playground, on the Kingsmead Estate, and at Edgar House on the Pembridge Estate where the victim was known to have squatted. Sadly they had not uncovered any witnesses who had noticed anything unusual or who had seen Julie Ann with anyone the previous day. She and Eddie Phillips were known on the estate, as was the fact that they sometimes squatted in one of the empty flats, but it seemed that they never caused any problems or bothered anyone. Eddie, the detectives discovered, had a grandmother called Nancy Phillips who lived on the estate and he stayed with her when he wasn’t shooting up or high on drugs.
Shortly before midnight, while the SPG officers were still on the estate, they stopped a young male drug addict, Billy Myers, just outside the block where Julie Ann had squatted. It transpired that he knew the victim and, along with another drug addict, had spent the previous night with Eddie. He told the officers that Eddie was so spaced out on heroin he wouldn’t have known what time of day it was, and when he had asked him where Julie Ann was, Eddie had said he didn’t know and hadn’t seen her since she’d gone off with a punter in a car. The officers traced the other drug addict and he gave the same story without any prompting.
The police divisional surgeon had examined Eddie. He had a number of needle marks from injecting heroin in his left arm, but no marks on his body that suggested he had been involved in a violent struggle.
Bradfield and DS Gibbs had re-interviewed Eddie, who still protested his innocence, and when asked if he was with anyone on the night Julie Ann died he said he couldn’t remember as he was high on drugs.
Eddie’s description of the last time he’d seen Julie Ann was still vague, as it was at least two weeks ago. He blamed drugs and methadone for his memory loss, and when asked about the red car he’d seen her getting into he said he was ‘pretty sure’ it was a newish Jaguar as it was shiny and he liked them. Eddie was unable to give a description of the driver, saying that he only saw the car from behind and didn’t take any notice as he thought it was probably some punter picking Julie Ann up for sex.
Bradfield was beginning to doubt Eddie’s involvement in Julie Ann’s murder, but couldn’t rule out the possibility that he was hiding something or knew someone who might be involved.
During the interview Eddie had been asked who their drug dealer was. He told them that Julie Ann used to get drugs for both of them, but he didn’t know who from. Evidently, Julie Ann used to let her drug-dealing punters have sex in return for heroin, instead of cash. Bradfield found it repellent that Eddie allowed his so-called girlfriend to sell her body in order to feed their heroin habit. When asked if Julie Ann had a pimp, Eddie said he didn’t know but Bradfield suspected he was lying. However, there was no incriminating evidence to charge Eddie or keep him in custody, so Bradfield had him released pending further enquiries. He warned Eddie to stay with his grandmother and that at some point he or one of his detectives would want to speak with him again.
Without any witnesses, they had no clear time of death, only that Julie Ann’s body had been discovered at 9 a.m. the day before by some kids. It was clear that she had been strangled, but they needed to know what time she was killed, and whether the murder had happened in the playground or elsewhere.
Bradfield demanded that his officers push any informants they had to find out who had supplied Julie Ann and Eddie with heroin. He instructed them to check all the red-light districts in Stoke Newington, Holloway, King’s Cross and Soho for any toms who might have known Julie Ann or seen a red Jag loitering for pick-ups. He wanted the car and driver traced, even if it meant speaking to everyone in London who owned a red Jaguar, which could run into thousands.
*
Jane went to the parade room in the back yard to check her tray for any internal mail or notices. She opened an envelope with her divisional number and station code. It contained the results of her latest continuation training exam and she had passed with an overall mark of 85 per cent. With plenty of time to spare Jane decided to have a coffee and a Chelsea bun in the canteen. She was just heading up the stairs when she saw Kath Morgan coming out of the CID office dressed in flared jeans, a T-shirt and denim jacket.
‘You’re in early,’ they both said in unison.
Jane explained about the invite from DCI Bradfield to attend the post-mortem.
‘You lucky so and so, Jane. I’ve never been to a proper murder one, only a routine natural-causes death. Anyway, after that DS Gibbs gave me a tip and told me to use some Vicks VapoRub – you put a bit under each nostril to avoid the stink. In fact I’ve still got the unopened pot I bought. It’s in me parade-room tray, help yourself to it.’
‘Oh, thanks, Kath, I will. Why don’t you ask if you can come as well?’
‘I’m busy already. I got a bit of info about a burglar working the Holly Street Estate over by London Fields. He’s turning over the old folks’ flats and nicking pension books and cash. DS Gibbs said I could do a plain-clothes shift with the crime squad to try and nick him on the plot. I hope it pays off, Jane, as I really want to get onto the crime squad and then get selected for detective.’
‘It would be a first for this station, Kath, a woman detective.’
‘I know! There’s only a couple of other WDCs in the Met, but I’m determined to prove myself.’
Jane smiled. ‘He of the thirty years’ experience would have a heart attack. A woman detective . . . what a bloody disgrace.’
‘Pissing Harris off would be a bonus,’ Kath replied and they both laughed.
Kath’s tone became serious as she continued.
‘Listen, about that bloke you mentioned, the one that threw you out of his mother’s flat. Was his name John Bentley?’
‘Well, I’m pretty sure it was. Irene Bentley was the name on the rent book and he called her Mum.’
‘Before I went off duty last night I had a quick look through the collator’s criminal index cards. There’s a Bentley whose description matches but he lives at a different address. Bit of a nasty sod from a nasty family: he’s been done for GBH.’
Jane smiled saying she was glad she hadn’t tried to dig him in the ribs with his mother’s umbrella.
‘Lucky you didn’t. From his record he’d have likely walloped you one.’
The CID office door flew open as DC Edwards came out. ‘Come on, Kath, get a move on. We need to get the obo van parked up before the suspect gets there,’ he said as he rushed past her.
‘I’m friggin’ ready so keep your hair on,’ Kath shouted and turned back to Jane. ‘I know why he wants to make a quick arrest . . . there’s a game of shoot pontoon followed by three-card brag in the CID office tonight and his fingers are twitching to lose his weekly expenses.’
Kath started to follow the disgruntled detective down the stairs, but stopped.
‘Listen, there’s a place coming up soon at the section house in Mare Street. It’s just down the road and would save you loads of time travelling, but you got to make it snappy or the room will go. It’s only a fiver a month as well.’
‘Thanks, Kath, I appreciate it.’
‘And have a word with the collator about the Bentleys – he’ll probably know a lot more – always good to get to know who the villains on the patch are.’
Jane went to the collator’s office on the ground floor. The post was held by PC Donaldson. Rather overweight and with thinning grey hair, he had worked at Hackney Police Station for over twenty-five years. There wasn’t much Donaldson didn’t know about who was who in Hackney’s criminal underworld. He received and collated information about criminals on the division and dispersed intelligence to the beat officers about crime trends and people wanted or suspected of a crime. His knowledge was invaluable, and he was highly respected by everyone in the station as a genuinely nice man who had time for everyone, male or female.
Donaldson flicked through the index-card drawer marked ‘B’. ‘Here it is, full name John Henry Bentley, aged thirty-seven.’ He withdrew the three cards from a plastic sleeve and handed them to Jane who looked at the black-and-white mug-shot picture on the front.
‘That’s him,’ she said.
PC Donaldson drew out two further cards from the ‘B’ drawer.
‘They’re a well-known family who’ve lived in Hackney all their lives. All of them villains and all hard as nails, apart from the mum Renee, bless her. John’s got a council house on Middleton Road and his younger brother David, who’s thirty, lives with his mother on the Pembridge.’
Jane noticed that amongst John Bentley’s convictions there was grievous bodily harm, burglary and theft.
‘Middleton Road is by London Fields, isn’t it?’ PC Donaldson nodded.
‘WPC Morgan’s doing an observation on the Holly Street Estate for a burglar nicking pension books. Do you think it might be . . .?’
‘No way. Nicking pension books or snatching old ladies’ handbags isn’t their style, plus John Bentley’s been clean for quite a few years. They have their own code of honour, his kind, the number one rule being you don’t grass to the police and two you don’t turn over old people. If they caught someone doing that they’d beat the crap out of them and break their fingers for good measure. That’s how John got his conviction for GBH.’
‘The victim grassed on him?’
‘No, CID heard him screaming – they caught John breaking the poor bloke’s fingers with a hammer.’
Jane winced. ‘I got the impression his mother was frightened of him.’
PC Donaldson handed Jane another index card for a Clifford Bentley, aged seventy-two. He explained her fear probably stemmed from her old man, ‘Cliffy’ as he was known, knocking her about before he got a ten-stretch in Wormwood Scrubs.
‘He’s real handy with his fists, but more as a renowned bare-knuckle fighter. At one time he associated with the Kray twins as a bag man collecting protection money.’
‘What did he go to prison for last time?’
‘The Sweeney got a tip-off from a snout and nicked him on the pavement,’ he said.
Seeing the look of puzzlement on Jane’s face Donaldson explained that ‘snout’ meant informant and ‘the Sweeney’ was the Met’s flying squad nickname from the Cockney rhyming slang ‘Sweeney Todd’. The unit had no boundaries and operated all across London investigating commercial armed robberies. Clifford Bentley was arrested whilst trying to rob a security van during a bankcash collection and he’d have got a much longer prison sentence if the gun had been real and loaded. Donaldson remarked that it wasn’t Clifford’s usual style, but rumour had it he urgently needed cash to pay the Krays off on a gambling debt.
‘What happened to the informant?’
‘Don’t know, but word has it he’s part of a concrete pillar somewhere.’
‘Is John Bentley a builder?’ Jane asked, recalling seeing the power tools brochures in Renee’s kitchen.
‘Could be, but like I said he’s been clean for a while and can turn his hand to anything.’
‘What does the brother David do?’
Donaldson handed Jane his index card. ‘Not a lot after he smashed his legs up. Good few years back he was out with his dad and brother nicking lead off a church roof when night-duty CID caught them red-handed. David tried to do a runner: silly bugger jumped off the roof and broke his legs badly. Big sob story at the trial as he was in a wheelchair. His barrister played the sympathy card, the soft judge fell for it and David got a light sentence.’
Jane looked at David Bentley’s card and saw that the arresting officer was the then Detective Sergeant Bradfield.
‘Can I take these cards with me to have a look-over?’ PC Donaldson explained that no one was allowed to remove the cards from his office, but she could make notes if she wanted. The other alternative was to order copies of their criminal records on microfiche from Scotland Yard. Jane said not to bother and that she had just been curious after meeting the over-aggressive John Bentley the day before.
‘Well, good on you. Always good to do research for yer knowledge, and any time you want to know who’s who, you come to me.’
*
Jane got the Vicks VapoRub from Kath’s tray. She was making her way to the mortuary when DCI Bradfield sped into the station yard in his light blue Ford Zephyr, causing her to jump out of the way as he pulled up abruptly into a parking bay. He got out of the car, said nothing to her, but simply nodded. She could see from the look on his face that he was not in the best of moods. He strode ahead of Jane forcing her to hurry in his wake, and she was almost clipped in the chest as he pushed open the door to the mortuary and went towards the coroner’s assistant’s office. He held up his hand in a gesture for her to wait behind him, then opened the door and peered in.
‘DCI Bradfield. Are they ready to go with the PM on my murder victim?’ he asked.
Jane heard a murmured reply, and then Bradfield closed the door.
‘Follow me,’ he said abruptly, walking down the corridor and banging open the swing doors to the examination room as if he was on some sort of mission. He patted his pocket for his cigarette pack and stuck one into his mouth then paused to light it, leaving a trail of smoke behind him.
The awful putrid smell in the room hit Jane instantly and made her gag. The head mortician was finishing stitching up the decomposing body of an elderly man on a white porcelain examination table. She had been warned about the smell by Kath, but hadn’t expected it to be so bad. Opening Kath’s jar of Vicks she put some on her finger and rubbed it below her nostrils.
‘That’s not a very bright idea, luv,’ the mortician said with a touch of sarcasm.
Jane noticed Bradfield raising his eyebrows and shaking his head as if she was dim.
‘Sorry, what’s not a bright idea?’ she asked, wondering what was so amusing.
‘The menthol in the Vicks clears your nasal passages so you’ll be able to smell even better now.’
‘She’s a probationer . . . first PM,’ Bradfield said, grinning, and the mortician laughed, saying he thought as much.
Jane felt silly and realized that she was the butt of the joke Gibbs had initially intended to play on Kath.
To distract herself she looked around the small room. The walls were lined with white brick-shaped tiles and the stone-flagged floor was angled to a gulley which ran down to a drain area. The other porcelain examination table was clean and dry and on it was a large wooden chopping board and round plastic bowl. To one side were two steel trolleys which were covered with an array of different-shaped cutting instruments. On one trolley there was a white butcher’s scale with a steel meat tray resting in its holder. Then the doors swung open and a tall dapper man in his mid-forties with swept-back blond hair walked in. He was wearing a brown wax Barbour jacket, white shirt, blue-and-white-striped tie, grey slacks and brown zip ankle boots. He was carrying a large black doctor’s-style case which he put down on the clean examination table. Jane thought he must be the forensic pathologist as DCI Bradfield greeted him with a friendly smile and firm handshake.
‘I’m glad I got you on this case, Paul. The Chief’s breathing down my neck and pressing for results, but right now we’ve still got bugger all,’ Bradfield said.
‘Who’s the wooden top?’ Paul asked, using a detective’s term for a uniform officer.
‘WPC Tennison, meet Detective Sergeant Lawrence, best lab liaison officer in the Met. Any suspicious death or murder scene, he’s the man you want working it,’ Bradfield said and patted him on the shoulder.
DS Lawrence gave him a suspicious glance. ‘You after a loan of money for the office card game or something?’
‘You can’t even take praise now?’
Jane realized this was the first time she had seen Bradfield smile: it made him appear quite boyish. She had been made aware of the highly respected role of a lab sergeant during training at Hendon, and Bradfield and Lawrence obviously rated each other highly. There were only twelve lab sergeants in London and they were all experienced detectives with twenty years-plus service. They worked alongside forensic scientists at crime scenes and at the Met’s laboratory in Lambeth. They didn’t make arrests as this could detract from their invaluable input.
‘You got any thoughts on the scene, Paul?’ Bradfield asked, his cigarette dangling from his lips.
‘It’s a bit of a minefield. There were lots of footprints but it is a kids’ adventure playground.’
Lawrence added that some were ‘plod-issue boots’, referring to the footprints of the uniform officers who trampled over the scene, but he had concentrated on the footprints near the body, and had taken some plaster-cast lifts to examine in the lab. It was hoped they might get a possible size and be able to compare them to any suspect’s shoes. DS Lawrence said he had been to the station and visited Eddie Phillips in the cell, but he was wearing Cuban-heel boots which didn’t appear to match any marks at the scene.
‘What about prints?’ Bradfield asked.
DS Lawrence shook his head. ‘We concentrated on anything metal, but due to the recent heavy rain we only managed to get a few lifts. I’ve had them sent to fingerprint branch to look at.
The mortician finished on the old man, wrapped a shroud round the body and placed it on a metal trolley. As he picked up a shower hose Jane hadn’t noticed that Bradfield and DS Lawrence had stepped into the side corridor leading to the fridges. The mortician turned on the hose and started washing down the examination table and floor. The force of the spray sent dirty bloodstained water splashing onto Jane’s skirt, shoes and tights, causing her to squeal and jump back out of the way. The mortician then threw a bucket of water onto the floor, and gave it a quick once-over with a mop. From the smell the water contained a large measure of disinfectant. She didn’t say anything to him but strongly suspected it was an intentional initiation to the mortuary for probationers.
The assistant mortician wheeled a shrouded body into the room, and Jane could see from the blonde hair hanging loosely over the edge of the trolley that it was Julie Ann’s. The assistant handed DS Lawrence some paper bags containing the victim’s clothing and then wheeled the old man’s body out to the refrigerators. Lawrence had a quick look in the bag that contained Julie Ann’s white socks and her boots.
‘We got quite a few red fibres on the soles of these socks, probably from a carpet of some sort. I’ll get the scientist to check all the clothing for any similar or other foreign fibres. Her platform boots are blue cloth and patent leather so we might get a fingerprint off them if he dragged her.’
DS Lawrence then took out her underwear. ‘Looks like there might be some semen-staining on the gusset.’
‘She was a tom so there’s probably bucket loads of it,’ Bradfield replied sarcastically. He patted his pockets for his pack of cigarettes and lit up a fresh one.
‘Look out, here comes the miserable munchkin,’ DS Lawrence said as the swing doors opened.
A small stumpy man entered the room carrying a clipboard and paper. He was in his fifties, with grey thinning hair and half-moon glasses perched unsteadily on the end of his bulbous red nose.
Jane observed that his green mortuary gown and black wellington boots were stained with blood and body tissue, and deduced that he must be the pathologist. The two morticians slid Julie Ann’s shrouded body from the trolley onto the table.
‘Try and keep your fag ash off my instruments today, DCI Bradfield. DS Lawrence, you’re doing exhibits and photographs, I take it?’ the po-faced Professor Martin said as he wrote their names in his notes. He turned towards Jane, lowered his head and peered over the top of his glasses. ‘And you, young lady, are . . .?’
‘Probationary WPC 517 Golf Hotel Tennison, on B Relief Hackney, sir.’
Martin sighed. ‘This is a mortuary, not a courtroom – I can see you are a WPC and an unusually pretty one . . . name and number is all I require. I’m Professor Dean Martin, and not to be confused with the crooner.’
Seeing Jane staring at the red spider-web marks on the Professor’s face, DS Lawrence leant towards her and whispered, ‘He drinks like Dean Martin though . . . that’s what too much whisky does to your skin.’
Professor Martin put a black-rubber apron over his gown and pulled on some green-rubber gauntlet gloves. The apron had two metal link-chains at the neck and waist to hold it in place.
‘I wasn’t needed in court this morning so I’ve already done my external examination of the body. Gather round, please,’ Martin said as he moved towards the body and then, like a magician, pulled off the shroud in a theatrical flurry to display the naked girl.
Jane gave a sharp intake of breath. Julie Ann’s body was alabaster white, stretched out with her hands placed at her sides. DS Lawrence got a camera out of his kit bag and took some photographs.
Martin looked at Jane as he spoke. ‘Time of death is the question most consistently asked by detectives in murder investigations. However, due to many variables, it is extremely difficult to determine, and can never be one hundred per cent accurate.’ He flicked over a page on his clipboard.
‘He’s showboating for her benefit,’ Jane heard Bradfield mutter to DS Lawrence.
‘So, as to time of death for little missy here: the body was found at 9 a.m. in the open. Livor mortis, which is due to the settling of the blood after death, was well developed, thus indicating the victim had been in the same position for six to twelve hours. At the scene at 10.30 a.m., I took vaginal swabs and a rectal temperature. I have considered the overnight external air temperature, which in turn influences the rate of heat loss from the body and affects the onset of rigor—’
Bradfield sighed. ‘Can we just have it in layman’s terms, Prof?’
Martin puffed out his chest indignantly. ‘By my calculations she was killed on Sunday the 13th of May sometime between 6 p.m. and midnight.’
‘It didn’t get dark until just after eight and it’s unlikely she was killed outside in broad daylight,’ DS Lawrence remarked.
‘Do you think she was killed at the playground, or elsewhere?’ Bradfield asked Martin.
‘I don’t know, it’s impossible for me to say.’
‘She could have been murdered indoors somewhere nearby, carried on foot in the early hours and dumped,’ DS Lawrence speculated.
‘OK, Sherlock, how’s that explain her bra still being round her neck?’
Martin spoke before Lawrence could answer. ‘It was tied in a double knot and so tightly neither I nor DS Lawrence could unpick it at the scene. In the end I had to cut it free with some scissors.’
DS Lawrence removed the bra from the paper bag and showed it to DCI Bradfield so he could see the knot for himself. He then removed the blouse and laid it on top of the bag.
‘The two upper buttons on the blouse are missing and they weren’t found at the scene.’
‘They could have come off at any time, even accidentally,’ Bradfield said.
Lawrence pointed to the chest area of the blouse.
‘There’s tear damage where the buttons were, which suggests a struggle.’
Jane stepped forward so she could get a better look at the bra.
‘Excuse me, sir, but the bra’s strapless, so he could have removed it at the scene while she still had the shirt on during a bit of foreplay.’
There was a sudden silence in the room as all three men looked at each other and Jane thought she was about to get a dressing down.
DS Lawrence glanced at Bradfield, nodded at him and whispered, ‘It’s a good point.’
Professor Martin tapped his clipboard with his pen to get their attention.
‘We’re going round in circles and the fact is I have to consider both possibilities: was she murdered at the scene, or dumped there? Now can we get on with the postmortem, please?’
Professor Martin peered down at his clipboard as he walked round the table to Julie Ann’s left side. ‘I have had a close look using a magnifying glass and cannot find any hypodermic needle marks that appear to be recent.’
He lifted up her left arm and pointed to the black and blue track marks around her inner elbow joint, which Lawrence photographed.
‘As you can see there is bruising around all these injection sites, which indicates they are old. It’s difficult to determine the exact age of the bruising as veins in junkies start to collapse after repeated heroin injections. However, I would estimate the most recent to be anywhere between one to two weeks old.’
‘So that suggests she was off heroin just before she was murdered?’ Bradfield remarked.
‘Possibly, but I believe your victim was attending a treatment centre for help, so she may well have been prescribed methadone as an opiate substitute.’
Bradfield made a note in his pocket book to ask the treatment centre about the methadone. Martin lifted Julie Ann’s right arm and they could see that the whole of the inside of the lower arm was badly bruised.
‘You can see there is blue and yellow coloured bruising to the inside length of the lower arm caused by severe blunt-force injury, which has ruptured blood vessels in her skin.’ Martin asked the morticians to turn the body over.
The extensive bruising and welt marks to Julie Ann’s back and buttocks were quite horrifying, even Bradfield and DS Lawrence were visibly shocked. Jane shuddered at the thought of the pain the poor girl must have suffered during the beating. Professor Martin explained that initially the injuries would have appeared dull red to blue, but over time the red blood cells would have been broken down, releasing the yellow-brown hue seen on the edges of the blue-bruised areas on her back.
‘So the bruising’s old?’ DS Lawrence asked.
‘Yes, the yellow colour does not appear until a few days after the initial injury and you can see the clear differences from the red marks round her neck caused by the strangulation. In this poor girl’s case I’d estimate the beating injuries are at least six to ten days old. The type of surface and force that impacts on the body will have an effect on the intensity, size, shape and pattern of the bruising as well.’
‘Any idea what caused them?’ Bradfield asked, brushing cigarette ash off his jacket.
Martin said that due to the time lapse since the injuries were inflicted, it was hard to tell. However, it was clear that whoever had inflicted them must have been in a rage, and some of the welt marks still had a faint curved pattern that could have been caused by something like a walking stick.
Martin looked at Jane. ‘WPC Tennison, would you mind crouching down in a side-on foetal position and raising your right arm, palm outwards, as if you were cowering and trying to protect your head?’
Hesitantly Jane did as requested so Martin could act out his theory.
‘The assailant stood in front of the victim’s right side and raised the weapon. This in turn caused the victim to hold up her right arm to protect herself from the beating,’ Martin said as he swung his arm in a backwards and forwards motion. ‘She was hit three or four times on the lower arm before falling over and being repeatedly struck across the back and buttocks.’
Jane followed Martin’s cue and fell to the cold wet floor. There was silence in the room as she peered up and saw the three men staring down at her with a look of bewilderment.
Bradfield shook his head in disbelief. ‘The Prof didn’t mean for you to actually do that bit, Tennison, so get up.’ She felt embarrassed, yet relieved, as the floor smelt of disinfectant and the tiles were not that clean.
Bradfield looked at her impatiently as she stood up and raised her hand as if in a classroom.
‘Excuse me, Professor Martin, is it possible to tell if the attack occurred when she was fully clothed or naked?’
‘Very good question. We have a bright little probationer amongst us, and one not keeling over for a change. But then again we’ve not got to the fainting part yet.’ Martin chortled and then cocked his head to one side, looking at Jane.
‘I may have been able to give you a clearer answer had the beating taken place up to seventy-eight hours before death, as marks from the clothing are sometimes visible on the surface of the skin.’
‘Was she raped?’ Bradfield asked, becoming even more impatient.
‘There’s some old bruising on the inner thighs, but nothing recent or unusual for someone who worked in the sex trade.’
Professor Martin said he would now start the internal examination. Jane knew she had to keep calm, and decided that the best thing to do was to try to think of it as a biology lesson in human anatomy. Bradfield then took her by surprise as he gently patted Julie Ann’s right foot: it was a gesture a father might give to his sleeping child.
As Martin stood over the body a mortician handed him a scalpel from the instrument tray. He proceeded to make a deep incision in the shape of a Y from the front of each shoulder to the bottom end of the breastbone, and then down from the sternum to the pubic bone. The skin and muscle from the cut was peeled back, with the top flap pulled over the face of the body. A mortician then sawed the ribs off exposing the internal organs. Jane noticed the smell, but it was not as pungent as the smell of the elderly man’s body. DCI Bradfield got out his packet of Woodbine non-tipped cigarettes and lit one up from the butt of his previous one, handing another to DS Lawrence. He hesitated and proffered the pack to Jane. She declined, but she did find that the smell of the cigarette smoke helped mask the stench from the body.
Martin now cut into the bladder and took a urine sample. Together with a blood sample from an artery he handed it to DS Lawrence for toxicology tests at the lab.
The assistant mortician placed a large plastic bowl between the legs of the victim. Professor Martin cut away the internal organs, sliding them in one block into the bowl. Then he carried it over to the other table to do a closer examination and take some samples for microscopic study.
Jane took a few deep breaths, exhaling the air from her mouth as she started to feel queasy.
The mortician used a saw to cut a circle around the top of the skull, and then removed it with a T-shaped bone chisel and hammer. Next came the brain, which he took over to Professor Martin who was still examining the internal organs and weighing them.
Oh my God, Jane said to herself, and unable to watch shut her eyes. She took a few more deep breaths and sniffed. Contrary to what she had been told the VapoRub did in fact help keep her standing upright, but the overpowering smells and sights were making her feel sick.
‘There may be another reason your victim wanted to get herself off heroin. I have discovered a dead foetus in the uterus. She’s about 2.9 inches long, weighs .81 of an ounce and some teeth have started forming – so I would estimate Julie Ann was twelve to fourteen weeks pregnant. The child could have died at the same time as the mother, or possibly as a result of the earlier beating.’
Hearing this new information made Jane open her eyes, and she was so taken aback by the fact that the victim was pregnant her dizziness went. Martin placed the foetus in an airtight container filled with formaldehyde, and although Bradfield and Lawrence both looked, Jane could not bring herself to do so.
‘My God, it doesn’t even look human, more like a baby monkey,’ Bradfield whispered in shock.
‘It is human, believe you me, and sadly perfectly formed for the time of the gestation,’ Martin said quietly.
*
The post-mortem examination of Julie Ann Collins lasted nearly three hours and DS Lawrence took extensive photographs of all her injuries. As he packed his camera in its bag he leant over to Jane.
‘You did well, luv. Most probationers keel over as soon as they see the body on the slab – and good spot about the bra being strapless.’
Jane smiled. Bradfield told her to get a move on and she dutifully followed him out of the mortuary. She thanked him for letting her attend the post-mortem.
He stopped and cocked his head to one side, looking down at her.
‘Congratulations, Tennison. You impressed me – very attentive and you asked intelligent questions. But I’ve never had anyone thank me for allowing them to attend a post-mortem before.’ He hesitated before he asked what she felt about the fact that their victim had been pregnant.
‘So sad – perhaps she didn’t even know?’
‘Maybe, but it makes me want to catch the bastard even more. She was only seventeen years old, and now it’s a waste of two lives, not just one.’
‘Do you think Eddie Phillips killed her?’
He didn’t reply and remained deep in thought as they crossed the station yard. Jane asked him if she could be excused now the post-mortem was over as she was on late shift.
‘What time is it?’
‘Three o’clock, sir.’
‘Is Sergeant Harris on duty?
Jane nodded. Bradfield handed her a £1 note and told her he needed to talk to him. In the meantime he wanted her to go to the canteen and get him a coffee and a ham sandwich then bring them to his office.
Jane went to the washroom first as she could smell disinfectant on her hands and clothes. It was so strong she realized she’d have to get her jacket and skirt dry-cleaned and her shirt washed. She scrubbed her hands over and over, but the smell persisted and she wished she’d kept some decent soap in her locker.
Looking in the washbasin mirror Jane smiled at herself and swore she’d never be silly enough to lie down on a mortuary floor again. She removed the Vicks VapoRub from her handbag and, deciding to forget about the two embarrassing incidents altogether, dropped it in the bin. But she could not forget the sight of Julie Ann on the mortuary table, nor the terrible beating she had suffered.
