Die With Me (36 page)

‘So, what have we got?’ he asked at the top, wondering why she was dressed up on a Sunday.

‘Victim’s female, late twenties or early thirties. She’s been stripped naked. No ID as yet and cause of death unclear. They’re searching the area for any clothing or personal belongings but nothing’s turned up so far. CID are checking with MISSPER right now.’

‘Who’s the CSM today?’

‘It’s Nina Turner. I’ve just been speaking to her.’

‘Good,’ he replied. Nina was married to one of the other DIs in the Barnes office where he worked and was generally very thorough. ‘Where is she?’ He hadn’t noticed her in the car park.

‘She’s gone off to sort out the dog teams but she’ll meet you at the crime scene in ten minutes. We’d better get a move on as it’s a bit of a hike.’

They passed the Belvedere Restaurant and cut across the back lawn towards the woods. The last time he had been to Holland Park had been in the summer a couple of years back, when he had gone with Nicoletta, John, and a group of friends to the open-air opera. It had been Verdi or Donizetti, something lyrical and Italian. He remembered the strident sound of the park’s peacocks shrieking from time to time over the music and how hot it had been, sweating in his jacket and tie under the airless, tented canopy. Looking around now, the place was unrecognisable and he wished he had more time to stop and enjoy the spectacle.

It had been blowing a blizzard for days and the ground and every horizontal surface was covered in a thick white crust, several feet deep in places. Much of it was undisturbed, although a number of human tracks carved through the snow on much the same path as they were taking, with what looked like the tracks of dog curving off every so often into the distance. Although it had snowed heavily overnight, the park had been open for business that morning and he wondered how much ground had been disturbed and contaminated before the whole thing was closed off.

‘Christ, it’s cold,’ Donovan said, tucking her chin further down into the folds of her scarf. ‘I hate winter.’

‘Me too. Who found the body?’

‘Some kids, playing hide and seek this morning.’ She spoke breathily, as she struggled to match his pace. ‘I expect they got the fright of their lives, poor things. Dr Browne’s examining the body now.’

‘Arabella? What sort of mood is she in?’

She smiled. ‘It’s Sunday and she’s missed lunch.’

‘She’s not the only one,’ he said with feeling.

She looked over at him inquiringly.

‘I was at Nicoletta’s,’ he added, finding it necessary to explain for some reason. ‘We had barely started.’

She gave him a look of sympathy. ‘Poor you. She’s a fantastic cook, I remember. Was she matchmaking again?’

‘Of course.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing,’ he said emphatically, which brought another smile to her lips. ‘It was one of her friends from work. A woman called Sarah. Perfectly nice…’

‘But not your type?’

‘No. I was actually pleased to get Steele’s call.’

They tramped through the deep snow in silence and entered the woods. He wondered if she was thinking of the time when he had taken her to Nicoletta’s for lunch a few months before to cheer her up after the Bridegroom case. Perhaps the association was enough to awaken unpleasant memories and he looked over at her, but nothing registered in her expression.

The woodland on either side of the track was dense, with a mixture of rhododendrons, tall hollies, and bare deciduous trees that created a canopy of branches over their heads. Tartaglia thought how incredibly rural and quiet it all was, with not a road or house in sight. Apart from the wooden fencing on either side of the path, they might easily have been somewhere in the country, instead of central London. Numerous fallen trees dotted the area, brought down in the recent storms. Some still lay where they had fallen, others had already been partially cut up into logs. One, which looked as if it must have been well over a hundred feet tall, with a huge, ivy-clad circumference, had smashed through the wooden fencing that ran along one side of the path, its massive, frosted roots exposed to the air, like a giant hand.

The ground was uneven and they hadn’t gone more than a few yards when Donovan stumbled and slipped, her foot coming out of one of the boots. He reached out just in time to stop her falling.

‘Thanks,’ she said, shaking the snow off her red-stockinged foot before putting it back into the Wellington and walking on. ‘My feet have turned to ice. I can hardly feel them, let alone get a grip in these boots.’

‘They’re about the only practical thing about your get-up,’ he said, wondering again where she had been.

She laughed. ‘I borrowed them from one of the uniforms. I didn’t have time to go home and it was either that or ruin a brand new pair of shoes.’

A gust of wind blew a shower of ice particles into Tartaglia’s face from one of the overhead branches and he suddenly felt very cold, in spite of his heavy-duty leathers and boots. He heard the distant whirr of a helicopter somewhere above and he and Donovan glanced up at the sky. Although it had stopped snowing, it looked ominously dark and he remembered that the weather report had promised fresh snow.

‘It’s amazing how quickly the vultures appear,’ she said, as the helicopter noise grew louder.

‘Somebody’s been hot on their mobile to the news desk, as usual. I hope there’s nothing for them to see.’

‘All well under cover, according to Nina. Don’t worry.’

A minute later he saw the flicker of electric light through the thick branches ahead and heard the murmur of voices. They followed the track around into a wide clearing where several other paths came together, like the spokes of a wheel. A few wooden benches were dotted around as if this were a favourite place to sit, although he couldn’t imagine why as it was all so gloomy, with no view except of the trees. Here again the tracks were well trampled in the middle, although the banks of snow at the edges were high and untouched. A couple of uniforms from the local station stood huddled together just in front of the inner cordon, stamping their feet for warmth. Beyond, several blue-suited SOCOs were moving along slowly on their hands and knees in the snow, combing the ground.

‘The body’s in there,’ Donovan said, stopping just in front of the cordon tape which stretched across the path and pointing towards a large, fenced-off area of woodland about twenty feet away. He could just make out the top of the forensic tent behind some thick undergrowth.

‘How the hell do I get in?’

‘There’s a gap just along there to the right. Nina should be here any minute now. If you don’t need me, I’ll go back to the car park and see how we’re progressing with the ID. I’ll call you if there’s any news.’

Tartaglia signed in with the uniformed gatekeeper and put on protective clothing, gloves and overshoes before ducking under the tape. He walked around the perimeter of fencing, following the boarded walkway put down over the snow by the SOCOs to protect the track, until he came to the gap in the fence. He paused for a moment, gazing into the dense wooded area beyond. Even at this time of day it was dark in there, and nothing much was visible from the public path. Short of jumping over the high fence, the gap seemed to be the only way into the enclosure beyond. The hole had been inexpertly patched with chicken wire, with several broken wooden staves poking up through the mesh like bones. Judging from the tufts of hair caught on some of the points, it was a passage much used by dogs and other animals. He stepped carefully over the low barrier and started to pick his way through the deep snow, struggling to find a sure footing amongst the hidden layers of bracken and fallen branches.

The small forensic tent was tucked away in the middle of the enclosure behind a thicket of holly. Someone was moving about inside, silhouetted against the bright light of the lamps. As he lifted the flap, he was confronted by the broad rear view of Dr Browne, kneeling over something on the ground, a man with a camera standing beside her.

‘I want some final close-ups from this angle,’ Browne barked at the photographer, pointing with a gloved hand. ‘And the other side too before we turn her over. Then I want some more shots of her hands and feet before I bag them up.’

The photographer moved in closer and started snapping away. As each flash lit up the area, it penetrated Tartaglia’s head like a blade, leaving an echo of brilliance dancing in front of his eyes.

‘Afternoon, Dr Browne,’ he said, blinking several times, trying to focus, although with Browne and the photographer blocking his view there was nothing much to see.

Browne jerked round and peered up at Tartaglia through halfmoon spectacles, just visible between the hood of her suit and mask.

‘Glad you could finally make it,’ she said gruffly.

‘Was I that long?’

‘When you’re stuck out here in the bloody cold, a minute seems an hour.’ The photographer was still snapping away and she turned to him. ‘Give us a minute will you, John? Inspector Tartaglia wants to feast his eyes on our wood nymph and there’s not enough room in here to swing a cat.’

‘OK,’ John said cheerily, putting his camera down. ‘Give me a shout when you’re ready.’ He stepped out of the tent.

‘You’ve certainly got an interesting one here,’ Browne said, wheezing as she struggled to her feet. ‘Which is some small consolation for spoiling my Sunday lunch. Take a look.’

She shifted aside. Under the dazzling glare of the electric lamp, Tartaglia saw the naked body of a young woman. She was kneeling down in the snow, head bent right over touching the ground, her face almost entirely hidden beneath a tangle of pale blonde hair which spread out stiffly in front of her like waterweed. He followed the delicate outline of her shoulders, the smooth curves of her back, her hips and buttocks, which were glistening and luminous under the light. Her legs and arms were folded beneath her and disappeared into the snow. For a moment he pictured a partially carved statue emerging from a block of marble, so pale that it was difficult to see where the snow ended and flesh began. He felt cold just to look at her.

As he adjusted his eyes to the light, he could just make out faint patches of pinky-red
livor mortis
along her neck, shoulders and back, just visible beneath the sparkling carapace of ice.

‘So she’s been moved,’ he muttered, looking over at Browne. ‘Was this how you found her?’

‘More or less. From what I’ve been able to see, there are some areas of lividity along the back of her legs and arms too, so she was lying flat on her back for several hours after death, although she was moved into the current position before the lividity became completely fixed.’

‘Any idea when she was moved?’

‘In these temperatures it’s difficult to tell. Judging from the colour of the hypostasis, she’s been kept at a low ambient temperature either here or somewhere else. As you know, it’s impossible to be precise, but I’d hazard a guess that she was shifted anything between twelve to thirty-six hours after death. And it gets even more curious, as you’ll see if you take a closer look.’ She raised her thick brows for emphasis.

Intrigued, he moved forwards and knelt down beside the unknown woman, carefully brushing aside some of her hair and examining what he could of her face. Her forehead rested on her hands and her eyes were open and stared vacantly at the ground, eyelashes and brows frosted white. She looked maybe in her late twenties or thirties, although it was always difficult to tell.

‘Oh Christ,’ he murmured, as he moved aside some more of her hair. Her hands were tightly bound at the wrists with duct tape and clasped as if in prayer.

‘Her knees and ankles are also taped together,’ Browne said. ‘Although you won’t be able to see properly until we get her out of here.’

He nodded automatically, still focusing on the woman’s hands.

Her nails were manicured but unpainted and she wore no rings, or any form of jewellery, although that meant nothing.

‘Any idea about cause of death?’ he asked, getting to his feet, still looking at the woman. Something about the pose immediately struck him as symbolic, although he couldn’t think what it reminded him of. The image locked in his mind as he wondered who she was, whether she had a husband or family or friends who were missing her.

Browne grunted and folded her arms across her bulk. ‘No obvious yet, other than that she clearly didn’t do this to herself.’

‘You surprise me. So no visible signs of injury?’

‘There’s some minor bruising to her face and a few deep scratches around her mouth. From what I can see, it’s possible she was sexually assaulted. Once we turn her over, I’ll take swabs. But a full exam will have to wait until I get her back to the mortuary. It also makes more sense to fingerprint the tape on her arms and legs back there and I can’t examine her properly until I remove it. We’ll catch our deaths if we stay here much longer.’

‘You’ll check the tape for traces of saliva?’

‘Of course,’ Browne said, emphatically. ‘I can’t see anyone bothering with a pair of scissors out here. We’ll look for tooth marks on the tape as well, just in case.’

‘Assuming she’s been out in the open all this time, I suppose there’s no way of telling if she died here or if she was dumped?’

Browne shook her head. ‘The snow under her is about a foot deep, and when we got here, she had another six inches or so on top of her which was fresh and untouched. I’d say most of the more recent stuff’s probably accounted for by what fell in the night.’

‘So, she’s been here at least twenty-four hours?’

‘At least. She’s also got traces of leaf mould in her hair. The only place where the ground is exposed is under some of those thick holly bushes outside. Maybe that’s where she was lying before. I’ve sent someone out to take samples.’

‘It’s not easy getting into the enclosure, even in daylight. And there’s nothing in here for anybody to see. Are there any signs that she was dragged or pulled along at all?’

‘Apart from what I’ve already mentioned, the body’s unmarked. She either got here under her own steam which, I agree with you, seems unlikely, or she was carried in, dead or alive.’