‘So on the third day, Nicky tried to report Suze missing. His nearest police station happens to be Northern Divisional HQ. To say they were not interested would be a profound understatement. Nicky had a come-apart in reception and nearly got arrested himself. But no action was taken. The body turned up four days ago in the Brade Canal in the course of an angling competition. According to the pathologist, she’d been drowned, but not in the Brade.’
Paula clicked a button on the pointer in her hand and a video window sprang to life on the whiteboard. Dr Grisha Shatalov, the pathologist, smiled out at them in his scrubs. His warm voice with its soft Canadian accent was stripped to tinnyness by the cheap speakers. ‘When we have an apparent drowning, the first thing we look for is whether it really is a drowning. Especially if the victim is, like this one, a drug user. Because sometimes a drug overdose can look like a drowning, the way the lungs fill up with fluid. But I can tell you for sure that, although Suzanne Black was a heroin user, this was not a drug overdose.
‘So now we have to figure out if she was drowned where she was found. Have I told you about diatoms before? Doesn’t matter if I have, I’m going to tell you again. Diatoms are microscopic creatures, a bit like plankton. They’ve got shells made of silicate, and they live in open water. Fresh water, salt water. Lakes and rivers. Every body of water has different diatoms. They’re like a fingerprint, and they also vary according to the time of year.’ His smile grew wider. ‘You guys are fascinated, right? OK, I’ll cut to the chase. When you drown, the diatoms make their way into your tissues. Lungs, kidneys, bone marrow, that kind of thing. We dissolve the tissue in acid and what’s left is proof of what river or lake you drowned in.
‘Well, we did the analysis and there are no diatoms in Suzanne Black’s body. That means one thing and one thing only. She did not die in the canal. She died in tap water. Or filtered water, maybe. We ran some tests on her lungs and we found traces of soap, which to my mind narrows it down to a bath or a deep sink. I hope this little lecture has been helpful.’
Carol shook her head. ‘Smooth-talking bastard. One of these days I’m going to get the prosecution to play one of his cheery little vids to the jury. However, this is really useful information. We’re not looking for a struggle by the canal, we’re looking for wherever he took her for a bath.’
‘Maybe he took her home with him,’ Kevin suggested.
‘He seems to be careful,’ Carol said. ‘I don’t know that he’d have risked that. We need to find out where she took her punters. OK, on you go, Paula.’
‘She was fully dressed when she was found,’ Paula said. ‘She wasn’t weighted down, but the body had snagged on the usual canal debris, so she’d been in the water a while. They didn’t catch the tattoo at first because the skin was so degraded.’
Carol winced at the word. No matter that it would have been used by Grisha himself; it still felt like an adjective that had no place being applied to a human body. ‘But there’s no doubt about it?’
Paula shook her head. ‘Dr Shatalov is clear. It’s a postmortem tattoo and it looks very similar to the ones on Kylie and our Jane Doe.’
‘If she drowned in a bath, there’s a chance someone saw her with her killer. He had to take her somewhere with a bath. A house, a hotel or something,’ Chris said.
‘That’s right. We need to get her photo on the local news, see what that brings out of the woodwork. Kevin, talk to the flatmate, Nicky. See if he has any photos of her.’ Carol frowned, considering. ‘Let’s keep a lid on the connection for now, if we can. Penny Burgess has been sniffing round, but Dr Hill sent her off with a flea in her ear. She talks to any of you, do the same.’ She gave Kevin a direct look, but he was ostentatiously scribbling in his notebook. ‘We’ll get DS Reekie to do the press call, keep MIT out of the picture for now, let the media think this is his. If our killer thinks he’s not caught our attention, it might provoke him into breaking cover.’
‘Or killing again,’ Paula said, shoulders slumped. ‘Because, right now, we’ve got almost nothing you could call a lead.’
‘Any chance we could get Tony to take a look at this?’ Everyone froze at Kevin’s query. Sam stopped fidgeting, Chris stopped taking notes, Stacey stopped tapping on her smartphone and Paula’s expression was fixed at incredulity.
Carol’s mouth tightened as she shook her head. ‘You know as well as I do, we don’t have the budget.’ Her voice was harsher than they were accustomed to.
Kevin flushed, his freckles fading against the scarlet. ‘I just thought … since they’re winding us up anyway, why not? You know? You’re leaving us. What have you got to lose?’
Before Carol could respond to this uncharacteristic defiance, the door to the squad room burst open. On the threshold, hair awry, one shirt tail hanging out, jacket collar askew, stood Tony Hill. He looked around wildly before his gaze settled on Carol. He gulped air, then said, ‘Carol, we need to talk.’
There was no affectionate indulgence in Carol’s glare. ‘I’m in the middle of a murder briefing, Tony,’ she said, her tone chilly.
‘That can wait,’ he said, continuing into the room and letting the door sigh shut behind him. ‘What I have to say can’t.’
10
An hour earlier, Tony Hill had been sitting in his favourite armchair, his games console controller in his hands, thumbs dancing over buttons as he whiled away the time until it was reasonable to expect Piers Lambert to be at his Home Office desk. The warbling trill of his phone broke into his concentration and his car spun off the road in a scream of brakes and a screech of tyres. He scowled at the handset on the table beside him. The best chance he’d had in ages to breach the final set of levels and now it was gone. He dropped the controller and grabbed the phone, noticing as he did so that it was late enough to call Piers. Just as soon as he’d dealt with whoever was on the phone.
‘Hello?’ There was no welcome in his greeting.
‘Is that you, Tony?’ The voice sounded like a Tory cabinet minister – posh with the edges deliberately rubbed off. A man more superstitious than Tony would have freaked out. Tony simply held the phone a few inches from his face and frowned before returning it to his ear.
‘Piers? Is that really you?’
‘Well spotted, Tony. You don’t usually cotton on so quickly.’
‘That’s because you’re not usually in the forefront of my mind, Piers.’
