‘Just reading George Orwell’s theory about the English murderer.’
‘Anything in the archive? Have you found out who your diarist is?’
She shook her head.
‘Just some gruesome pictures. What are you doing here?’
‘Passing through. Saw your car in the car park and guessed where you’d be.’
‘That predictable, eh?’
He shook his head.
‘There aren’t many options in Lewes.’
A harried waitress brought over Tingley’s coffee, slopping some of it on to the table as she put it down.
‘I’ve been reading up on Sir Bernard Spilsbury. Do you know why he was the only forensic pathologist ever to have been knighted whilst still working?’
Kate shrugged.
‘Because his knighthood unduly impressed juries. They automatically believed him. He was a Sir, for goodness sake. But, of course, he wasn’t always right. He was a scrupulous man but he was also egotistical and dogmatic. He was quite capable of jumping to conclusions beyond the limits of the facts. He fancied himself a kind of Sherlock Holmes. He wasn’t.’
‘So what do you think he got wrong in this case?’
Tingley soaked up the spilt coffee with a napkin.
‘I think we agree that the police did a damned good job of tracing most of the missing women in Britain aged around twenty-five. And, if our dead girl wasn’t brought in from abroad – though it’s quite possible she was – the likelihood is that she is among the seventy or so missing women not traced.’
Kate nodded agreement.
‘Assuming,’ Tingley said, matter-of-factly, ‘Spilsbury was right about her age.’
Kate’s eyes widened and she started riffing through the pages of her notes.
‘What was his evidence for that conclusion?’
‘I don’t know. He drew the conclusion after examining the torso. But here’s the funny thing. Much of the evidence for establishing a woman’s age is in the skull – the fusing of bones and so on. Since the skull wasn’t there – how did he reach that conclusion?’
Kate thought for a minute.
‘I read that, in the Mancini murder case, a friend of Violette Kay’s reported her missing, but because she was outside the age range Spilsbury had proposed the police didn’t take her disappearance seriously.’
Tingley nodded.
‘They focused entirely on women within the narrow age range Spilsbury proposed. But do you remember the police surgeon who first examined her?’
‘He thought she was older.’
‘That’s right – he put her age at about forty.’
Kate sat forward.
‘But if the police surgeon was actually correct, then the whole of the police investigation was flawed.’
She tapped the table.
‘And there’s nothing we can do about that now. We’ve reached a dead end.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Tingley said.
Kate frowned.
‘We could find the body – find where the victim is buried.’
‘How?’
‘It would be a pauper’s grave, right? Brighton would have buried her. They’ll have records.’
‘But even if we dig her up, how would that help us to identify her?’
‘DNA,’ Tingley said quietly. ‘You can extract it from bones.’
‘I thought you could only identify people from their DNA if you have their DNA on a database. And there wasn’t a database in her day.’
‘There are other ways.’
‘Actually, you’re right. I read this book saying that everybody is related to five women way back when. We can all be traced back. So we’d be able to figure out quite a lot about her.’
Tingley nodded.
‘Ancestral DNA. DNA breaks down into one hundred and seventy-seven different parts, some of which indicate ancestry. Let’s say we come up with Native American, European and sub-Saharan strands. We won’t, but just suppose. You only get that combination in the Caribbean. Then we get voluntary tests from a couple of hundred males and females from the same area. Then we compare their DNA and family history with our victim to identify which island, or even town, they come from.’
‘They can do that?’
‘Sure – remember that little boy they found chopped up in a sack in the Thames? They traced him right back to his village in Africa. There have been some really interesting studies of the ancestral DNA of phaseolus vulgaris.’
‘Phaseolus vulgaris?’
‘Yes – the common bean. It has two major geographic gene pools.’ Tingley caught the look on Kate’s face. ‘But maybe that can wait.’
‘I think so. How do we find out where she was buried?’
Tingley thought for a moment.
‘Well, the local council will have records of who is buried where. But hang on – didn’t Spilsbury take the body back up to London to examine it?’
Kate was silent for a moment.
‘No, no – he took internal organs but the body stayed in Brighton, I’m sure.’
‘Did they cremate in those days?’
Kate squeezed his arm.
‘God, I hope not.’
The fire brigade was already there. Two engines outside, two firemen on top of ladders hosing the flat through the blown-out front windows. There was a terrible smell that caught at the back of her throat.
‘We think we got it before the rest of the house took fire,’ the fire chief told Gilchrist. ‘But I’m afraid your flat is pretty much gutted.’
Gilchrist was both seething and frightened.
‘Can I go in?’
‘Tomorrow, sure.’
‘It was arson,’ she said.
‘You surprise me, officer. I think you’d be best getting away from here for now. Come back tomorrow.’
‘Is there anything left?’
‘We don’t know yet. I’m sorry.’
Williamson was looking awkward, standing on the pavement, trying to keep an eye on Gilchrist without making it obvious, trying to hide his concern.
Gilchrist went over to him.
‘Looks like I don’t have anything except what I’m wearing. Weird feeling.’
‘Is this to do with the Milldean thing?’ Williamson said.
‘Oh, I think so.’
‘You’re being warned off?’
‘I think that’s the gist of it.’
‘Is it working?’
Gilchrist looked up at the steam and black smoke billowing out of her window. She could feel the shakes starting but she knew that was adrenaline more than anything. At least, she hoped that was what it was.
‘I’ll get back to you on that.’
Tingley said he had to see a man about a son – whatever that meant – so Kate drove back into Brighton, parked in the Church Road car park and walked along to Brighton Museum. On the ground floor she passed Dali’s
