Backlash (18 page)

Meadows moved closer to the cadaver, and bent over so far that her face was no more than a few inches away from it.

‘Would you say that all these wounds were made within a short space of time – say, a few hours – Doc?' she said.

‘What makes you ask that, Kate?' Paniatowski wondered.

‘I don't know, boss – it was just the first question that came into my head,' Meadows told her. ‘
Were
they inflicted in one session, Doc?'

‘I wouldn't want to commit myself without a more detailed examination, but my instinct tells me that is certainly the case,' Shastri said.

Paniatowski paced up and down. She should be used to this kind of thing by now, she thought. After all that she had seen during her years with the Mid Lancs police, she should be prepared for any example of human cruelty, however depraved. Yet it always came as a shock.

She stopped, and lit up a cigarette. When she inhaled, she tasted the by-now all-too-familiar mixture of cancerous smoke and formaldehyde.

She needed to think clearly, she told herself.

She needed to make herself as cold and analytical as her new sergeant seemed to be.

But, of course, it was easier for Meadows – because Meadows didn't have a teenage daughter.

‘What I don't understand,' she said, turning to face Dr Shastri, ‘is how the victim avoided injury to most of her trunk.'

‘She was wearing some sort of costume while she was being whipped, wasn't she, Doc?' Kate Meadows asked.

‘She was indeed,' the doctor agreed.

‘
I have all kinds of costumes at home
,' the demented punter had told Denise
. ‘Tight corsets, masks, shoes which are so high they are almost stilts . . .
'

‘If she was wearing a costume, how did her breasts get so scarred?' Paniatowski wondered.

‘Ah, that is because of the
kind
of costume that she was wearing while she was being tortured,' Shastri replied. ‘And is it precisely that costume, I believe, that she was still wearing when her body was discovered.'

‘Can I see it?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Of course,' Shastri agreed.

She walked over to a sterile cupboard, and returned with what looked rather like a high-necked swimming costume.

‘It is made of high-quality rubber, and it is very thick,' the doctor said. ‘If the whip had struck any part of her covered by this costume, it would not even have left a bruise.'

‘But the breasts?' Paniatowski persisted. ‘How did they get damaged?'

Shastri held up the costume, and Paniatowski could see the almost-circular holes cut in it at breast level.

‘It's a beautiful piece of work,' the doctor said clinically. ‘Carefully cut and very carefully sewn. The holes are perhaps a little too small, but I suspect that was deliberate, since it would squeeze the breast and make them plump up.'

She turned the costume round, to display the fact that it did not reach the neck, as the front did, but had been cut away almost to the buttocks.

‘It will not surprise you to learn that there are lash marks on the victim's back, too,' Shastri said. ‘The fact that her face was unmarked would suggest she was wearing some kind of hood. If it
is
the case, I should certainly find some traces of the hood during the autopsy.'

‘How long has she been dead?' Meadows asked.

‘I would guess that she died some time last evening, but, once again, I will be able to be more precise once I have conducted the post-mortem.'

‘So the poor girl was literally whipped to death, was she?' Paniatowski said, sadly.

‘No, boss, she wasn't,' Meadows said. ‘The whipping would have hurt, but it wouldn't have killed her.'

The look of calm competence that Meadows had been wearing since she entered the morgue was suddenly gone, and in its place was something that could almost have been called horror.

Paniatowski wondered what could have brought about this instant change of expression, but before she had time to examine her sergeant's face more thoroughly, Meadows had turned quickly away and was addressing Shastri.

‘I'm sorry, Doc,' Kate Meadows said. ‘You're the expert here, and I should just keep my big mouth shut.'

Shastri smiled. ‘Quite possibly so, Sergeant. But you are undoubtedly right – it was not the whipping which killed her. It is most likely that she was smothered, and I suspect the method used was a plastic bag over her head.'

‘Did she have anything on her feet?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Yes, she was wearing shoes.'

‘Can I see them?' Paniatowski said.

And she was praying, ‘Let them not be what I think they are . . . let them not be what I think they are . . .'

Shastri made a second journey to the cupboard, and returned with a pair of red shoes.

The heels were identical to the one found at the bottom of Elaine Kershaw's garden.

FOURTEEN

W
PC Crowther was directing the passing traffic away from the crime scene when she became aware that DI Beresford was standing next to her and eyeing her speculatively.

‘How tall are you, June?' Beresford asked.

Crowther gestured impatiently at a blue van which had slowed down to almost a halt.

‘There's nothing to see, so you'd best be on your way,' she called out to the driver.

The van reluctantly accelerated away, and June Crowther turned to face Beresford.

‘Some of the people who have driven past here in the last half-hour are worse than bloody vampires,' she said, in disgust. ‘How tall am I, sir? I'm five-feet-five in flat shoes.'

‘Five-five,' Beresford mused. ‘That's much too tall.'

‘Is it? Well, pardon me for breathing, sir,' Crowther said.

‘Still, you're the shortest woman here, so I suppose you'll just have to do,' Beresford said.

Crowther smiled. ‘You really do know how to sweep a girl off her feet, don't you, sir?'

Apparently not, if the previous night was anything to go by, Beresford thought.

But aloud, he said, ‘I've assigned somebody else to take over this job, and I'd like you to come with me to the ladies' bog.'

‘That's where the body was found, isn't it, sir?'

‘That's right.'

‘Why would you want me to go there with you?'

Beresford grinned. ‘Because, just as you've always dreamed might happen, I want to sweep you off your feet. And I mean that literally!'

‘I don't think I quite understand what you're on about, sir?' Crowther admitted.

‘You will, soon enough,' Beresford told her.

The police patrol car pulled up in front of the morgue, and Lucy got out of it. She was wearing a long dress and had a headscarf covering her hair. She was very pale, yet seemed surprisingly calm.

‘Thank you for coming,' Paniatowski said.

‘If it is poor little Grace in there, then it's only right she should be identified by someone who really cared for her,' Lucy said simply. ‘And you
do
think it's her, don't you?'

‘It's always possible that it's someone else, but she's the right age, and no one else has been reported missing,' Paniatowski replied.

‘It's her,' Lucy said, stoically. ‘I always knew it would end tragically. After the life she's had, how could it end any other way?'

Shastri appeared in the doorway. ‘I'll talk you through what will happen once we're inside,' she told Lucy, in a soft, caring voice which was totally free of both her usual humour and her usual cynicism.

‘Thank you,' Lucy said.

‘There are two rooms inside, right next to one another,' Shastri continued. ‘You will be in the first one, and the trolley with the person you have come to identify will be in the other. Do you understand?'

‘Yes.'

‘You will be able to see the trolley through a window. The person will be completely covered with a sheet, but when you give the signal that you are ready, the sheet will be folded back so that you can see that person's head.'

‘I don't want to see her through a window. I want to be in the same room as her,' Lucy said.

‘These procedures are designed to minimize the shock and distress you will experience,' Shastri explained. ‘I don't think you quite realize—'

‘I'm strong enough to take it,' Lucy said firmly. ‘And if you won't do it that way, you'll have to get somebody else to identify her.'

Paniatowski and Shastri exchanged glances.

‘Very well, but you do so at your own risk,' Shastri said.

‘Dying is as natural – and as ordained – as being born,' Lucy told her. ‘I can handle it.'

All three of them went to the room where the trolley had been left, and Shastri peeled back the sheet.

‘It's her,' Lucy said, and crossed herself.

‘Thank you for coming,' Paniatowski said again, and started to shepherd her towards the door.

But Lucy was not to be moved. ‘I'd like to spend a few minutes alone with my friend,' she said.

‘I'm afraid that is not possible,' Shastri told her. ‘There are certain legal requirements that I must—'

‘Please!' Lucy begged.

Shastri weakened. ‘If I do allow it, you must not touch the body in
any way
,' she said severely.

‘I promise I won't.'

The doctor nodded. ‘Very well. You have five minutes.'

Shastri and Paniatowski left the room, closing the door softly behind them.

‘I can't think what made me agree to that,' Shastri admitted, as they walked down the corridor. ‘It is certainly something I have never permitted before. Perhaps I did it because I had a feeling that Lucy had the
right
to be there.'

‘I know what you mean,' Paniatowski said – and wondered if she should mention the fact that she had half-turned as they were leaving the room, and had seen Lucy sinking to her knees.

Beresford and Crowther stood in front of the ladies' toilet.

‘Forensics have given this place the all-clear, so I'm going to conduct a little experiment,' Beresford said.

‘What kind of experiment?'

‘I'm going to pick you up and carry you into the loo. And
when
I pick you up, I want you to make yourself as lifeless as you possibly can.'

‘Because I'm the body,' Crowther said.

‘That's right,' Beresford agreed. ‘And I'm the killer.'

It wasn't that easy to manoeuvre the “lifeless” Crowther through the space between the wall and the wash basin, but it wasn't impossibly difficult either, and once they had passed that obstacle, Beresford opened the stall with his foot, edged his way in, and lowered his burden down on to the pedestal.

Beresford stepped out of the stall and closed the door.

‘Don't move your backside, but let your upper torso slump forward as far as it will go,' he said. ‘Got that?'

‘Got it,' Crowther agreed.

Beresford pushed the door open, and heard a banging sound as it connected with Crowther's head.

‘No, that's not right,' he said.

‘You're telling me it's not right,' Crowther complained. ‘I've probably got concussion.'

‘The thing is, Nathan Jones had to push really hard before he could open the door,' Beresford mused, ‘so the victim can't have been on the toilet, she had to be behind the door. Now how did the killer manage that?' He scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘Are you still slumped forward, June?'

‘No, I'm bloody well not,' Crowther said.

‘Then I'm opening the door again,' Beresford told her. He pushed it open, and looked down at the glowering Crowther. ‘I'm going to pick you up,' he continued, ‘and then I'm going to let you go again. And when I do, I want you to fall down.'

‘I want danger money for this job,' Crowther said.

Beresford hoisted her to her feet, and leaned her slightly towards him. Then he released his grip at the same time as he stepped backwards and tried to pull the door closed.

It didn't work. Crowther's falling body filled the gap, and the door was blocked.

‘We'll try again,' Beresford said.

‘Do we have to?' Crowther asked. ‘I've got a date tonight, and if it works out as I'm expecting it to, I'd like the feller to gasp at the beauty of my flawless skin, rather than look at my bruises and wonder if I'm a professional rugby prop forward.'

‘If you do take him to bed, you could always make love with the lights off,' Beresford suggested.

The words, unexpectedly, began to bounce around his brain.

You could always make love with the lights off! You could always make love with the lights off!

‘Are you all right, sir?' Crowther asked.

‘I'm fine,' Beresford assured her. ‘Look, June, if you
really
don't want to do it again, I suppose I could always ask one of the other WPCs to take your place.'

‘I'll do it,' Crowther said, resignedly. ‘But I'd just like you to bear in mind that when I joined the police force, it wasn't to be bounced around in some ladies' loo in the arse-end of nowhere.'

‘Duly noted,' Beresford said with a smile.

It took him another two attempts to get the dropping and retreating just right, but when he did, Beresford found as much difficulty opening the door as Nathan Jones had done.

‘So that's
how
he did it,' he said. ‘Now the only question, WPC Crowther, is
why
he did it.'