“You’re too late, Josh,” I said, terminating the call. Sometimes he could be a gigantic dickhead. Then it occurred to me that Karen obviously wasn’t being kept up to speed by Homicide West. Someone was going to get their ears burned. I considered calling her again, but decided against it. She would only have told me to get on with my own work. But the crime writer’s murder was very much in my domain. Could the killer be making a point to me? That was exactly the kind of thing I’d been expecting Sara to do for the last two years.
I went over to the window that ran all along the south wall of my flat. Spring still seemed as far away as Acapulco, the Thames running gray and chill. On sunny days the view was great, but in winter London looked like a dead zone from the fourth floor. At my old place in Herne Hill, I hadn’t had a view beyond the neighbors’ overgrown Leylandii. I didn’t miss it-the place in Chelsea had cost me a large part of my earnings from
I went to my workspace, an enormous, antique partners’ desk in the corner of the living area. There were three computers on it, although I only used one. That was the problem when you made a lot of money unexpectedly-you bought a load of unnecessary gear.
I booted up and logged on to my e-mail program. Among the new messages was one from my editor, Jeanie Young-Burke. I hadn’t accepted an advance for the new novel, so there wasn’t a deadline. But she was still pressing me about how I was getting on. There was also one from Christian Fels, my agent. Although he was nearing retirement, he still had the instincts of a great white shark when it came to making deals. He’d had several offers from publishers for another nonfiction crime book. The problem was, I didn’t have any material.
Could the murder with the white-chalk pentagram be exactly what I needed?
“What’s this about the victim being a bestselling crime novelist, Inspector?” Karen Oaten demanded, the phone pressed tight to her ear.
“How did you-” Luke Neville audibly gulped. “I was just about to ring you, ma’am…I mean, guv.”
“I’m sure you were,” Oaten said, frowning at John Turner. “Have you seen the preliminary CSI and postmortem reports?”
“They’re just in.”
“E-mail me everything you’ve got. The next time you hold out on me, you’ll be talking to the AC. Am I clear?”
“Yes, guv.”
Oaten slammed the phone down. “Wanker.”
“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 unenthusiastic. 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
