Lifeless - 5 (4 page)

Hol and looked up at the clock. Another twenty minutes and they

could cal it a night. He tried to picture Thorne in a stetson and cowboy boots but the image wouldn't stick.

Thorne was too dangerous to be a figure of fun.

Johnny Cash made good music to read post-mortem reports by.

This, after al , was someone who once famously sang about shooting a man just to watch him die. Whether this was big talk or just a very bad case of boredom, he sang as if he knew a great deal about death. Thorne wondered, as he read the words Phil Hendricks had used to describe the manner of Carol Garner's death, how much he real y knew. Now, the man with a voice like the long, slow tumble towards hel was singing about flesh and blood needing flesh and blood. Thorne certainly didn't require it, but the proof was there on his lap, right in front of him - the proof that sometimes, flesh and blood needed to destroy flesh and blood, too.

The body of the second victim, Ruth Murray, had been examined by another pathologist. Whorne had seen the initial report which confirmed strangulation as the cause of death and revealed that tissue had been removed from beneath the victim's fingernails for DNA-testing. He wasn't going to get too excited just yet. It sounded promising, but he would wait to see what Hendricks had to say once he'd carried out a second PM.

Thorne had once thought strangulation, as ways of dying went, to be a fairly soft option. It could surely not be as terrible as being repeatedly stabbed or bludgeoned. It was certainly not on a par with drowning, or suffocating or swal owing bleach.

He'd thought this, until he'd read his first PM report on a victim of manual strangulation. In many ways, the use of the bare hands to throttle - the flesh on flesh - made it the very worst type of kil ing. There was no weapon to separate kil er from victim. In most cases the victim would lapse into unconsciousness quickly, but the damage inflicted could be massive, often leaving the victim as bloody and bruised as if they had been attacked with a hammer.

Carol Garner had died from asphyxia due to the compression of the

carotid arteries, her body displaying virtual y every classic trait consistent with violent strangulation.

The eyes were open, the eyebal s distended, the corneas and skin

around the eyes showing signs of haemorrhage. The neck was a mass of bruises, some nearly an inch in diameter and there were bloody, half-moon-shaped indentations from the nails on the fingers and thumbs of the kil er.

Thorne's hands drifted towards his throat. He closed his eyes.

Was that chocolate bar his, Charlie? Did he give it you to keep you

quiet? Or did he produce it himself, afterwards, and eat it slowly, watching

her, while you were crying?

There was massive bruising and abrasion to the floor of the mouth,

the epiglottis and the lining of the larynx. The tongue had been al but bitten clean through. The crocoid cartilage was crushed, the thyroid cartilage virtual y unrecognisable and the hyroid bone was fractured. It was this internal damage which most clearly indicated the severity of the attack which led to Carol Garner's death.

Did you see it happen, Charlie? Did he shut you out of the room, or did

you stand and scream, and beat your tiny fists on his back and watch your mummy's eyebal s bulging out of their sockets?

Thorne leaned down to pick up the coffee that he'd left on the floor

by the sofa. It was stone cold. He looked at his watch. He'd been immersed in the details of death for wel over an hour. Thorne was as disturbed as always by this.., capacity he had.

He'd tried reading crime fiction once but it had not suited him at al .

He could barely read any so-cal ed thril er for more than a few minutes without starting to drift away, and yet a jargon-fil ed description of ruined flesh had him riveted. He was confident that there was nothing overly perverse in this. He could honestly say that he had never enjoyed watching an autopsy.

The truth was that an intimate knowledge of real kil ers and real victims made him a difficult reader to please.

Thorne had seen enough wild-eyed gunmen and bloodied blades, and soft-spoken, heavy-lidded perverts. He'd seen plenty of batterers and arsonists and smiling poisoners. He'd seen more than his fair share of damaged bodies: some dead, and others more damaged stil , left behind to remember.

He'd seen holes in flesh and holes in lives.

Thorne picked up his coffee cup and was heading for the kitchen to make another when the doorbel rang.

Hendricks was standing on the doorstep wearing a floor-length black leather coat and watch cap. He was brandishing a blue-striped plastic bag that was threatening to break at any instant thanks to the vast quantity of cheap lager it contained. The accent hardly suited dramatic declamation, but he did his best. 'Let us drink beer and talk of death.'

Thorne turned and headed back inside. Neither of them was big on ceremony. 'It sounds like you've already started on the drinking bit...'

Hendricks slammed the outer door and fol owed Thorne inside. 'I've been doing both, mate. I've been with Dr Duggan most of the day...' He closed the inner door and moved into the living room. 'He the one who did the first post-mortem on Ruth Murray?'

'She. Emma Duggan. Very good, and very fanciable, if you like that kind of thing.'

Thorne shook his head and reached into the plastic bag that Hendricks was now cradling gently. 'Formaldehyde does nothing for me, sorry.'

'And I've spent the last few hours up to my elbows in Ruth Murray myself, so yes,' Hendricks said, dumping the .bag on the sofa, 'I did have a couple on the way over.'

While Hendricks took off his coat, Thorne opened a beer and picked up the CD remote control. He switched Cash's Solitary Man back to the beginning. The guitar kicked in on 'I Won't Back Down'.

Thorne took the chair and Hendricks the sofa. It was a familiar and comfortable arrangement that, bar a few awkward weeks the year before, had been repeated at least weekly since Thorne had first moved in nearly eighteen months ago. He'd rattled around in the big house in Highbury for three years after his divorce, before final y taking the plunge and buying the flat He stil hadn't got used to the place. He did like the oatmeal IKEA sofa a lot better now it had a few beer stains, but though the place was at last starting to look worn, it had become no more welcoming.

The person responsible for most of the stains grunted, at home now and ready to talk about death.

'So... ?' Thorne was trying not to sound impatient.

'So... interesting.'

The phone rang. Thorne sighed, pul ed himself out of the chair and marched across to where the cordless phone stood, near the front door.

'Thorne...'

'Sir, it's Hol and...'

'Nothing so far then?' He could hear the confusion in the silence from the other end. 'Don't worry, Hol and, I can always tel if you're excited. Your voice goes up an octave.'

'Sir . . .'

'So, nothing at al ? Maybe we need to widen things geographical y as wel ...'

'There were a couple that looked likely, but there were arrests on both of them and the only other ones, two assaults.., and two women stabbed on the same day in July, didn't pan out timing-wise.'

'Sure?'

'Positive. McEvoy double-checked. Couldn't have been the same kil er who did both. Even if... you know, the times of death were a bit off.., he'd have needed a helicopter to have done both of them.'

'OK, knock it on the head ... like you weren't about to anyway. Tomorrow you might have more luck. I'm sure this wasn't his first time. You'l get something. Besides, you won't have any distractions.'

'Sorry?'

'I'm taking DS McEvoy with me to Birmingham.'

It took Hol and a few seconds to work out why Thorne might be going to Birmingham, and why he would want Sarah McEvoy to go with him. Once he had, he was grateful that he would be the one stuck in front of a computer al day.

Then, after he'd hung up, Hol and started to wonder what Thorne had meant by 'distractions'.

'Tel me about interesting.' Hendricks looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. Thorne went on. 'Ruth Murray. "Interesting", you said.'

Ruth Murray. 32. Married with, thankful y, no children. Hers actual y the first body to be found, wedged in behind a large metal rubbish bin in a road behind King's Cross station.

Hendricks had helped himself to the meagre contents of Thorne's fridge while he'd been on the phone to Hol and, and his reply was broken up as he attempted to swal ow an enormous bite of a cheese

sandwich. 'I'm writing it up... first thing tomorrow...'

'I won't be here first thing tomorrow.'

'I'l have it on your desk by midday, al right... ?'

'Just give me the highlights, Plail.'

Hendricks wiped his mouth, swung his legs off the sofa and turned to face Thorne. There were important things to be said. 'OK, wel first off, don't get too excited about the skin under her fingernails.' 'Because . . . ?'

'Because most of it's probably hers.' He explained before Thorne had a chance to ask him to. 'It's quite common with strangulations. The victim often scratches their own neck in an attempt to remove the ligature.., or in this case the kil er's hands.' As Hendricks explained, his hands automatical y went to his neck and Thorne watched them scrabbling at the flesh.

'She had good nails.., made a right mess of her neck. She might have scratched him as wel though, so it's worth looking at.'

'Carol Garner didn't have good nails?'

Hendricks shook his head. 'Badly bitten ...' Thorne wondered if

she'd begun biting her nails after her husband had been kil ed. Looking at her baby son and seeing his father. Never dreaming that the boy would be an orphan before his fourth birthday.

'But...'

'What?' Thorne leant forward, on the edge of his chair. Hendricks had been saving something up. Always the need to show off just a little.

'We might ... might, have another DNA source. Duggan missed something.'

'But you said...'

'She was good. Yeah, she is. Just not as good as me.'

Thorne could not keep the irritation out of his voice. 'For fuck's sake, Phil, can we cut the Quincy crap?'

'Al right ... look, once it had been established that there hadn't been a sexual assault, Duggan didn't see any point in looking for bodily fluids. It was a fair enough presumption real y, the body was ful y clothed, same as Carol Garner. But I'd checked when I did the PM on her, so I looked anyway...'

Thorne held his breath. He could feel the excitement building in the same place it always did: at the base of his skul . A tingling, a buzzing, a low throb of excitement and revulsion in advance of the detail to come. He hated it when it was sexual. There was always a slightly higher chance of a result, but stil , he hated it.

Hendricks was equal y excited. 'It was Luminol and UV that did it in the end. Tiny patches al over her face and on her arms. It took me ages to work out what it was; it was actual y more about working out what it wasn't...'

Thorne nodded. It was good news; if they caught him it almost certainly guaranteed a conviction, but it sickened him just the same. It was no consolation that the kil er would probably have done it after Ruth

Murray had been kil ed. If anything, it made it worse.

'Forty-eight hours then?'

Hendricks held up a hand. 'Yeah, hopeful y. There's real y only a minuscule amount of the stuff and to be honest, I'm not even sure we can get anything. There may be some cel ular material, but I've certainly never heard of it being done...'

Thorne stood up. 'Hang on, Phil, I'm lost here.., are we not talking about sperm?'

Hendricks shook his head. 'Tears, mate. Dried tears.'

Thorne's mouth actual y fel open a little. Hendricks casual y reached down for another can of beer. 'Fucker wasn't wanking while he was kil ing her, Tom, he was weeping.'

1983

Nicklin walked back towards the railway line, his right hand hanging awkwardly, cradling his clammy treasure. In his other hand was the last of a melting chocolate bar. He pushed what was left of it into his mouth, threw the wrapper onto the floor and turned around. He was twenty feet or so away, ready for his run-up, but Palmer had put the bat down.

Nicklin's face reddened. He had a good mind to strol back and start smacking Palmer over the head with it, but he stayed calm. 'Come on Mart, pick the bat up. This is going to be bril iant.'

The bigger boy shook his head, squinting at Nicklin and raising a

hand to shield his eyes from the sun. 'I don't want to.'

'Why not?'

'I just don't want to.' They stared at each other for a while. 'Why

can't I bowl? You're much better at batting than me...'

'You can bowl next time.'

Palmer looked vaguely sick. 'Are we going to do it again? But how... ?'

Nicklin laughed. 'There's loads of them round here. Now stop pissing around, Martin. Pick the bat up.'

Palmer said nothing, thinking about the two more weeks until they went back to school.

The rails began to hum; there was a train coming. They watched as it rumbled past, a knackered old engine pul ing a couple of rusty hoppers. Within thirty seconds, the only sound was a distant sizzle and the chirrup of a grasshopper from somewhere close by.

Palmer looked up. He saw the blue and pink splotches of cornflowers and foxgloves against the green of the embankment on the other side of the tracks. He saw mare's tails and periwinkles at Nicklin's

feet. He saw Nicklin just staring at him, with the look that made his

palms sweat and his head ache and his bladder start to fil .

Stil , he didn't want to do this.

It always came down to something like this. Nicklin would find him and they'd spend half an hour or so down by the railway line, chucking stones at bottles or talking about footbal , until Nicklin smiled that smile and the games would change. Then they'd be dumping turds through letterboxes, or lobbing eggs at buses, or... this.

Palmer could hear a rustling in the long grass on the bank behind him. He wanted to turn around and see what it was, but he couldn't stop looking at Nicklin. Suddenly, Nicklin looked real y sad. On the verge of tears almost. Palmer shouted to him.