thin legs which protruded under the starched white towel that had been placed over her middle, the tiny feet. ‘I see what you mean about being fortunate, sir.’
‘Yes, it’s all a matter of context, Billy, all a matter of context.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So we crack on, we continue. I will avoid damaging the face; she still has to be identified. Any ideas yet, Mr Ainsclough?’
‘None as yet, sir. We’re trawling through the missing persons reports, but she may be from outside London, as many young people are. If that is the situation here, she will only be registered as a mis per locally, that is local to her home.’
‘I see. Well, her hands are undamaged. I’ll cut them off and send them to the forensic laboratory together with her nail scrapings. They can lift her fingerprints. She might have a record. She might be known to you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘So, now we’ll see what she had for her last meal. . but, flat tummy, wasted, drawn looks, indicate little intestinal gas, which further indicates a recent time of death. I anticipate an empty stomach, she is close to anorexic.’
Shaftoe took a scalpel and drew it across the stomach. Little gas escaped. He opened up the incision and peered into the stomach cavity. ‘Yes, as I suspected. No food at all.’ Shaftoe took a length of stainless steel and worked it into the mouth and prised the mouth open causing the jaw to give with a soft, cracking sound. ‘Rigor is established,’ he announced, ‘thus placing the time of death between twenty-four and forty-eight hours ago but that is a very inexact science, as you know.’
‘Understood, sir.’
‘Ah. . she is British, distinctly UK dentistry, and work was done quite recently, so dental records will be able to confirm any ID if her fingerprints are not on file, or if a relative can’t identify her.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ainsclough replied, raising his voice to enable it to carry across the laboratory.
‘She didn’t leave you a message, no notes under the tongue or between her teeth and gums. I’ll check the other body cavities and send a blood sample for analysis, but it’s looking clearly like a case of strangulation after a period of being restrained. So I assume my report will be for the attention of Mr Vicary?’
‘Yes, please, sir.’
Frank Brunnie sat at his desk and read the ‘no trace’ result from his enquiry.
‘That,’ he murmured, ‘that I do not believe.’
‘You sound disappointed.’ Penny Yewdall glanced up from her desk which faced Brunnie’s. ‘Something amiss?’
‘What isn’t amiss? The whole wretched planet is amiss in one way or another.’ Brunnie leaned back and put his feet on his desktop.
‘If Harry Vicary catches you sitting like that you’re in the soup. You know what recent promotees are like. . new brooms sweeping clean; out to make a name for himself.’
‘Yes, he had a narrow escape. He’s consolidating now.’
‘So I heard. Drink, wasn’t it?’
‘Drink it was. He was given six months to get his act together, which he not only did, but he also did very well in the Jim Coventry murder.’
‘That’s the one in which Archie Dew was shot?’
‘Yes. Harry did well in that case. So, he sobered up, impressed their Lordships, got promoted, and he’s back on track, but he’s out right now. . so. .’ Brunnie let his feet remain on the desktop. ‘But this guy — ’ Brunnie tapped the computer printout — ‘“no trace”, “not known”. . no way, he’s a nasty. He smelled nasty, he looked nasty and I tell you, did he look alarmed when we told him that the guy Irish Mickey Dalkeith had gone to sleep in the snow right over the shallow grave of a woman. . or did he look alarmed? Guess which.’
‘I should guess. . er. . alarmed.’ Yewdall put her pen down and leaned back in her chair. ‘What does the Land Registry say?’
‘Same. The house in Virginia Water is registered in the name of one William Pilcher.’
‘You need a DNA sample or some item with his fingerprints on it.’
Brunnie grinned. ‘For that I will take my feet off the desk for Mr Vicary.’
‘You see, pretty girls do have their uses,’ Yewdall said with a smile.
‘So I am discovering. Fancy a trip out to sunny Kilburn?’
‘Not particularly,’ Yewdall replied. ‘It will take much to drag me to sunny Kilburn, not my favourite part of the Great Wen. . but. . but. .’
‘But?’
‘But anything to get away from this wretched paperwork. I know the value of it, but if I wanted to work in an office I’d have been a secretary or a bank clerk. So, let’s go.’ She stood and reached for her coat. Brunnie did likewise.
Thirty minutes later, Brunnie and Yewdall entered the premises of WLM Rents on Fernhead Road, W9, and were greeted by J.J. Dunwoodie snapping to attention with his eager to please attitude. Brunnie suddenly felt afraid for the safety of Dunwoodie, having just met his employer. He seemed to Brunnie to be akin to a lamb protecting a tiger.
‘Your boss?’ Brunnie said, shortly, abruptly.
‘Mr William?’
‘Yes, we need something he has touched.’
‘Oh.’ Dunwoodie paled. ‘I don’t know if I could. . if I should.’
‘Why?’ Yewdall smiled. ‘He couldn’t have anything to hide; he’s a very respectable, hard-working, clean-living businessman, a veritable pillar of the community.’
‘Yes. .’ Dunwoodie stammered, ‘he is. . but.’
‘But what? When did he last come here, to this office?’ Brunnie pressed.
‘Today’s. . about two, three days ago. Three days ago in the afternoon, late afternoon.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘He left to visit a property and then he was returning home.’
‘No. . no. . where in here? Where in this office did he go?’
‘Well, he went into the back office.’ Dunwoodie indicated the door behind to the left of him. ‘He keeps that door locked; even I can’t go inside there. I don’t know what’s in there.’
‘Even you?’
‘Well, I mean that I am the office manager and I can’t go in that room. All I need to access are the files kept in the cabinets. Everything I need is in those cabinets.’
‘I see, so where else did he walk?’
‘Nowhere. . just into the back office, watered the plants, then left to view the property Mr William hopes to acquire.’
‘He watered the plants?’
‘Yes.’ Dunwoodie pointed to a row of six money plants that stood on top of the filing cabinets in terracotta pots.
Brunnie noticed a small, red plastic watering can at the end of the row of money plants. ‘Did he use that watering can?’
‘Yes. . yes, he did.’
Brunnie walked across the hard-wearing felt carpeting and picked the watering can up by the spout. He took a large plastic bag from the inside of his coat and placed the can within it. ‘This will do nicely.’ He smiled.
‘Can you do that?’ Dunwoodie spluttered.
‘With your permission,’ Yewdall said, also smiling.
‘Well, I don’t. . I mean. .’
‘Thanks.’ Brunnie turned toward the door. ‘We’ll return it.’
‘Did you buy it locally?’ Yewdall asked.
‘Yes, the hardware shop, five minutes’ walk from here.’
‘So go and buy another one, an identical one, then no one will ever know, will they?’
‘I will have to tell Mr William,’ Dunwoodie squeaked.
