all that’s left of her, don’t you think?’
Brady knew that without a victimology, figuring out the modus operandi would be virtually impossible. To understand why she had been murdered, they needed her identity. Her family. Her friends. Her life story.
‘No identity, no murderer,’ Brady resignedly muttered.
He looked at Conrad.
‘You know what doesn’t rest easy with me?’
Conrad shook his head.
‘Whoever did this wanted her found. They wanted her to wash up on Whitley Bay beach. If she’d been dumped far enough out at sea then she wouldn’t have floated to the surface. Add in the fact that it’s easy enough to weigh a body down so it permanently disappears.’
Brady was worried. Something about this didn’t feel right.
‘Why did they want her found?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ shrugged Conrad.
Brady turned back to the body. ‘See the bruising on both her arms? Someone’s held her down. There’s finger marks on the upper part of her arms but also around her wrists …’ Brady paused as he stared at what was left of the victim’s hands.
‘We’ve searched, but again, nothing,’ informed Conrad.
Brady carefully picked up the victim’s left hand and closely inspected the stubs of flesh and bone where her fingers should have been.
‘They’ve been cleanly cut off. Different to the neck. Probably garden pruners.’
It was becoming more apparent that whoever had murdered her knew exactly what they were doing; without the victim’s fingers or head it was impossible to positively identify her. Unless, Brady mused, she had some other identifiable traits on her body; that and a missing person’s report to match. Otherwise, Gates had tossed a dead case his way. Brady’s gut feeling told him that Gates knew this case was sunk as soon as the headless body had floated to the surface.
‘No clothes, no jewellery, no plastic. No formal identification. Her fingers and head hacked off …’
He suddenly realised something was wrong. Her breasts looked unnatural. The skin looked too stretched, too taut. He carefully lifted one of her large breasts and looked at the skin underneath.
‘Sir?’ Conrad, asked, curious.
‘Fake, Conrad. See the scar tissue underneath where she was opened up to insert the breast implants?’
He was well aware of the statistics when it came to young women and anorexia and wondered if the victim was another casualty of society’s body fascism.
Brady let his eyes drift slowly down to her flat navel and then further to her perfectly smooth, waxed groin. Yet another testament to the ubiquitous influence of the porn industry; that and the fake breasts, he mused.
‘We don’t deliver on this one, Conrad, Gates will make damned sure that by the end of the year I’ll be begging for my P45.’
Brady shook his head. There was no way he would be able to cope stuck behind a desk for another six months. He’d go stir crazy; even the threat of being demoted to uniform and walking the drug-ridden streets of Blyth was better than pushing pens for the rest of his days.
He sighed heavily as he questioned his chances of solving this murder. His guts kicked off, telling him it didn’t look promising.
‘Let’s take a look at her back and see if there’s any identifiable marks,’ suggested Brady.
‘Are you sure, sir?’
‘Ainsworth’s finished with her, Conrad, so moving her now won’t make any difference.’
Conrad wasn’t so sure. He knew that Ainsworth, the head SOCO, had a ferocious temper and hated anyone messing with his crime scene. But he kept quiet, accepting that Brady knew what he was doing. He watched as Brady carefully rolled the body onto its stomach.
The victim’s back and legs were covered in bruises. Brady had expected as much, but there was something else which took him by surprise.
‘Look at this,’ he muttered to Conrad as he pointed out the distinctive mark at the bottom of her spine.
Conrad nodded, puzzled.
‘What do you think it is?’ Brady asked as he gently touched the newly puckered, burnt flesh with a white latex gloved finger, lightly tracing the shape of the mark. It was two inches in diameter and seemed to be a scorpion. Below it were the bold letters, ‘MD’.
‘I don’t know, sir. It doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before.’
Brady took out his BlackBerry and photographed the burnt flesh.
He didn’t like what was coming to mind and knew that Gates would like it even less.
He stood up and turned to Conrad.
‘Let’s see what Wolfe has to say. He is carrying out the autopsy?’
‘I believe so, sir.’
‘Good, that’s something then.’
They were going to need all the help they could get with this case. And he trusted Wolfe. He was a cantankerous old bugger who drank too much, but he knew his job. He was the best Home Office pathologist the force had ever had, and they’d had a few. Even Chief Superintendent O’Donnell was aware of Wolfe’s foibles, but since he was the best pathologist around, everyone turned a blind eye.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here. I think we could both do with some fresh air.’
‘So why didn’t the DCI ring me himself?’ Brady quizzed once they were outside.
He already knew that something wasn’t right.
‘He’s busy,’ Conrad replied uneasily.
Brady raised his eyebrows.
‘He’s dealing with another incident that happened last night,’ answered Conrad.
‘What? Involving Madley’s nightclub?’ asked Brady.
‘Yes, sir.’
That came as no surprise to Brady. He had noted the police tape sealing off the premises and the two uniforms stationed by the entrance as he had crossed the road heading for the beach that morning, and had assumed it was another early morning drugs raid. The nightclub belonged to Martin Madley, reputed to be the boss of the local mafia. Not that the police could ever finger Madley. It was rumoured that his main business was drugs. But right now Madley was the least of Brady’s concerns. He’d leave that to Gates.
‘Sir,’ Conrad said, trying his best to hide the apprehension in his voice. He was acutely aware that Brady still didn’t have any idea about what had happened in Madley’s nightclub. ‘We need to talk … before we go back to the station.’
‘Can it wait?’ said Brady distractedly.
He had only one thing on his mind right now and that was the mark burnt into the victim’s flesh. There was one person he needed to talk to and he needed to do it immediately.
Conrad didn’t answer him but his expression was enough for Brady to know something was troubling him.
‘Meet me back at the station. Then we’ll talk,’ assured Brady. ‘Just let me sort this out first. Alright?’
‘Yes, sir. But I need to speak with you as soon as you get back.’
‘Yeah, no problem. Just give me five minutes,’ Brady replied absent-mindedly. The last thing he wanted to do was make that call, but he had no choice.
Conrad nodded, realising that now perhaps wasn’t the best time. Not that there was a right time for what he had to tell Brady.
He reluctantly turned and walked across the beach back to the steps leading up to the lower promenade. He shoved his hands deep in his trouser pockets as he tried to figure out how to handle the fact that Brady still didn’t have a clue. The problem was, Conrad didn’t know how Brady would handle the news. He didn’t want to be the one to tell him, but perversely, he would rather it came from him than someone back at the station. In particular,
