A Game of Proof

Christ.

The body, like all bodies, looked pathetic. It was only the second corpse Terry had seen since his wife, Mary, was killed and he coped with it by concentrating on the way it was no longer a real living person but something essentially, fundamentally different. Something not just dumped here by the murderer but also discarded by the original occupant; a wrapping, no longer required on the journey. There has to be some sort of afterlife, he thought. Otherwise — this is it.

The body lay twisted, half on its back and half on its side, the limbs asprawl, the face wrenched sideways, half buried in brambles and nettles. The uppermost side of the face, the left side, was discoloured by mud and a bruise on the cheekbone just under the eye. The other side, which he gingerly lifted with a latex gloved finger before letting it fall, was imprinted with twigs and mud and leaves, among which ants and worms crawled industriously. But it was not the face or the white, stiffening limbs which caught the eye the most. It was the red gash in the throat, wide enough for a man’s hand and so deep he thought he could see bone and cut sinew inside it, from which the blood had gushed out and dried all over the girl’s blouse and arms and onto the trampled grass around.

Terry stepped carefully, where the Scenes of Crime Officer, Jack Middleton, showed him. The body was in a group of bushes a few yards from the river path down which, presumably, a man had come walking his dog early this morning to meet this unwelcome surprise.

‘Looks like your misper, doesn’t it, Terry?’ Jack Middleton said. He wore white overalls, and in one latex gloved hand he held the print of a proud, smiling Emily Newby that Terry had copied from the school photo on Sarah’s mantelpiece. Underneath was a brief description of the clothes she was believed to be wearing.

‘Probably,’ Terry agreed gloomily. ‘Can’t be sure from the face, but the hair colour and jacket are the same. Poor kid. When was she found?’

‘About seven thirty, I think. But she’s been dead for hours before that. Arms and legs are pretty much rigid.’

‘When’s the doc coming?’

‘Any minute now.’ As they spoke a slim young man in a suit came up the track, carrying a doctor’s bag. Terry went to meet him.

‘Dr Jones?’

‘Yep. Where’s the patient?’

‘Over there. This officer will show you where to walk. We don’t want to spoil any footprints.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll keep out of the mud as much as I can. I only bought these shoes last week. Hand sewn.’

Terry had worked with Andrew Jones before and knew he was precise, thorough, and very acute. The down sides were his vanity, and the defensive callousness he affected towards human corpses, approaching them with as much emotional involvement as a master chef contemplating a prime side of beef.

His initial examination did not last long. Death was obvious, and the cause equally apparent. While the SOCO took photographs Terry asked: ‘When did it happen, roughly?’

‘Ten to twelve hours ago, I should say, judging by the stiffness of the limbs.’

‘Late last night then, an hour or so before midnight, you’d say?’

‘Yep. Can’t really be more precise than that.’

‘Anything else you can be precise about before you get her in the lab?’

‘Clearly she died from the throat wound — carotid artery severed, arterial blood everywhere. Presumably a knife, probably inflicted from behind. A right-handed assailant — probably held her head up by the hair, baring the throat, and then slashed from left to right. Hell of a big sharp knife too — machete maybe — he’s cut right through to the vertebrae. I’ll be able to tell you more after a closer examination.’

‘Any other obvious injuries? There’s a bruise on the face, isn’t there?’

‘Mm, yes — not sure when that was inflicted. She’s also been raped.’

‘What?’ Dear God, how much worse can it get, Terry thought. Dr Jones flashed him a mocking, clinical smile.

‘Didn’t you lift her skirt? No doubt about it, I’m afraid. No knickers, bloodstains on her thighs and vaginal bruising. That’s good news, at least.’

‘Good news? How do you make that out?’

‘We’ll almost certainly find semen. Then if your budget can stretch to it we’ll do a DNA profile and snap! You’ve got him. Open and shut, no argument.’

‘We’ve got to find him, first, doc. And her knickers, it seems. Are they lying about somewhere?’ He glanced at Jack Middleton, who shook his head.

Dr Jones shrugged. ‘Probably took them home, as a souvenir. His version of a teddy, to keep on the pillow at night.’ The disgust on Terry’s face stopped him from going further. ‘Sorry. It’s a filthy murder, I know. When that photographer’s finished we’ll get the body down to the lab. I’ll start the PM as soon as she’s identified. Have you any idea who she is?’

Terry sighed. It was the task he was dreading. ‘Oh yes. That’s one thing we can be sure of, I think.’

‘Is your husband at home?’

‘He went to school. It’s my turn by the phone today. Punishment for yesterday.’ Sarah attempted a wry smile, conscious she must look a mess to Terry. Only a couple of hours’ sleep for the second night running, on a diet of coffee and arguments — hardly the best beauty regime. As Terry frowned she thought, he’s furious with me about the Harker case. No doubt he was, but his face showed a far deeper worry, a more profound concern which she didn’t want to acknowledge. She shivered. ‘Can I offer you coffee?’

‘No, thank you. Mrs Newby …’

‘Sarah, please. We are still colleagues, aren’t we? In a sense, anyway — or haven’t you forgiven me for …’ Keep chattering and he won’t say it.

‘We’ve found a body.’

‘What? Oh.’ She sat down quite suddenly on a chair, as though the strings in her legs had been cut. ‘Oh my God.’ Her hand over her mouth.

Terry sat opposite her, waiting for the shock to sink in. It’s like wounding a person, he thought. I might as well walk in here with a gun and shoot her. If a gun could stun and not kill, that is. The reaction is the same. The shock, often numbness before the pain.

She drew a deep shuddering breath, and looked up at him. There was a mute appeal in her eyes but she didn’t ask.

‘I’m very sorry. We think it’s Emily but we can’t be sure. It’s a girl of her age and appearance wearing the jacket you described to us. Blue and red leather.’

‘Dead?’ A tiny hope, a plea.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh. Oh God!’ The tears came suddenly, in a rush, and she would have collapsed altogether on the floor if Terry hadn’t caught and held her. For a while they stayed like that, he kneeling awkwardly in front of her armchair, she sobbing with her arms around his neck. He held her, patted her back. ‘I’m so sorry, love. So very very sorry.’

After a few minutes, an age, she scrambled awkwardly to her feet. Terry found a pack of tissues in his pocket — he had come prepared. But they were the devil to unwrap.

‘Thanks.’ She wiped her eyes, mascara all smudged, blew her nose. ‘Terry, it is her, is it?’

‘We think so but we can’t be absolutely sure. We need you — or your husband — to identify her, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh God, no. Emily! Is she badly — injured?’

‘I’m afraid so, yes. But you’ll only have to see her face.’

‘Tell me.’ The hazel eyes stared straight into his, like a wildcat defending her kitten.

Terry didn’t want to go into this. ‘Her throat was cut. But you do need to identify the body, Sarah, I’m sorry. Or your husband can do it if you prefer.’

‘I’ll ring Bob.’ She fumbled her way to the phone. The school secretary answered. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Newby, he’s