‘You know what I’m thinking?’ she replied.
‘Go on.’
‘Where’s his coat?’
Bennett shuffled the coat hangers and pulled out a smart linen sports jacket.
‘Not that one.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That’s too lightweight for this time of year. Where’s the coat he was wearing on the night he was attacked?’
‘He wasn’t wearing one.’
‘It was cold that night. He would have been wearing a warm coat. Where is it?’
DI Bennett shrugged. ‘It’s not here, that’s for sure.’ He walked back over to the laptop and dragged the cursor to start copying files across. ‘Why don’t I see you back at the factory?’ he said to Kate. ‘I’ll let you know how we get on with Matt Henson.’
‘I’m not a civilian, Tony.’
‘I know. But you’re pregnant, and he may turn violent, and I don’t want Jack Delaney on my case, thank you very much.’
Kate shook her head. People continually treating her like a piece of porcelain because they were worried what Jack might think was becoming very old. But Bennett had a point, she conceded to herself, she was indeed pregnant and while it was true that she was not exactly a civilian she wasn’t part of the armed response unit, either.
‘Whatever,’ she said simply. She looked again at the books above the young student’s desk and pulled out the copy of
‘Now that might be what you detectives call a clue,’ she said.
*
Doctor Derek Bowman took the lid off the refrigerated box and put it to one side. Beside him stood Lorraine Simons, Kate’s erstwhile assistant, who was now being seconded to different forensic pathologists until a permanent replacement could be found. ‘How was Doctor Walker?’ she asked.
The doctor smiled. ‘Effulgent as ever. Glowing, almost. They do say that about pregnant women, don’t they?’
‘They do indeed,’ Lorraine conceded.
The pathologist shook his head as if disappointed at the world. ‘Quite glowing. Why pretty women such as yourself and she ever wanted to get into the grim world of forensic pathology is quite beyond me. You should be out on the catwalks of Milan or gracing the covers of
Lorraine blushed despite herself. She was a strawberry blonde with soft pale skin and a heart-shaped face that betrayed her emotions all too easily. She knew that Bowman was only pulling her leg but she frowned at him, mock serious. ‘I should report you to the politically correct police, sir.’
‘Please, Lorraine, there are no sirs here. It’s Derek, or “Bowlalong” if you prefer – that’s what everyone else calls me.’
‘Why “Bowlalong”?’
The doctor picked up a pair of latex gloves and snapped his hands into them. ‘I had that epithet bestowed on me at school. Always in a rush to get there, that’s my trouble, never taking the time to just stop and admire the view.’
‘You’re a busy man.’
‘That I am. That indeed I am. And talking of busy … let’s see if this poor mistreated creature has any secrets to yield to us from beyond the veil.’
He placed his hands in the box, lifted out the severed head of Maureen Gallagher and placed it on his examining table. The atmosphere in the room changed suddenly, a chill pervading the air as though someone had opened an industrial freezer’s door. There was no humour evident anywhere on either the doctor’s or his assistant’s faces now.
Maureen Gallagher’s skin had become even more mottled, the flesh softer, even though the head had been kept in the cooling box.
‘The press are saying she might be a nun, sir.’
‘The jackals of Fleet Street have got wind of what we’re dealing with, then?’
‘Just heard it on the radio.’
‘It’s certainly a newsworthy item. I can’t blame them for that.’
‘Do the police know who she is, then?
‘Just a humble cleaning lady, apparently. A volunteer.’
‘And this is what she got for her sins.’ Lorraine looked at the woman’s head. Her eyes had been closed now and she looked like one of the wax heads that anthropological experts build up over discovered skulls to recreate what the person might have looked like. ‘How old do you think she is?’
