Anna had only been in this job for two days, but already it had taken a toll on her domestic life. There was dirty washing in the bathroom and she badly needed groceries. She jotted several items down on a shopping list and decided to pick them up on her way into the station the next morning.
That finished, she poured herself a glass of wine and set about making supper. It was after eleven by the time she had eaten and she realized as she opened the file on the fourth victim that she was too tired to take anything in. She set her alarm for half past five the next morning and crashed out.
In the morning, she had a shower, got dressed and made some coffee. By six o’clock she was feeling much brighter as she opened the file.
Barbara Whittle, another well-known prostitute, had been forty-four at the time of her death. Her body had been found in a state of advanced decomposition. There were the usual on-site photographs, plus close-up shots of her tied hands and her neck, where her tights had been wrapped and drawn taut to strangle her in the same way as the others. This case was put on file in 1998.
Barbara was almost five feet eight and her body was ravaged by alcohol. The corpse showed severe bruising, numerous abrasions and lacerations. The ligature mark, which ran in a horizontal groove around her neck, was embedded deeply. Due to the lengthy period of time before discovery, the victim’s bound hands were white and swollen and a wedding ring cut deep in the bloated skin.
Barbara was quite dark skinned, with frizzy permed hair. Anna thought she must at one time have been very pretty. Like the others, she had numerous children, of unknown whereabouts. Though murdered in London, Barbara Whittle had resided in Manchester. Her body waited six months to be identified.
Anna felt a chill running down her spine. They should not hold off a press release: these women, whatever their lives had become, had deserved a warning of the horror that awaited them. If the killer planned to continue murdering these working girls, they should know of the danger they were in. Anna glanced up at the clock at that moment and panicked: she was going to be late for the office.
By the time she arrived, Langton had already left the incident room for the pathology lab. She drove there, aware that by this time it was half past ten and she was very late. After hurrying into the building, she found Langton with Henson, staring at an illuminated X-ray unit. They turned as she came into the room and apologized for her lateness. Langton returned to his scrutiny.
Enlarged on the screen, the strange circular wound to Melissa’s neck was deep, just breaking the surface of the skin. Langton peered closer. ‘Maybe a ring with a rounded stone?’
‘Possibly,’ murmured Henson. ‘But if it was punched in her neck, it would have left more bruising. I’ve no idea. By the way, at the back of her head, there’s a small bald patch. Looks like a clump of hair was torn out.’
Henson switched on the next light box. ‘Right, next. This is an X-ray of the brain tissue ? see where we’ve got the blue and green areas? The blue is enlarged. This means your girl was unconscious for some time prior to death.’
Henson clicked on the next photograph, which showed the ligature wound to her neck. ‘It’s so tight that it’s almost cut through to the jugular, pressing on to it. The skin abrasions from the garrotting are really appalling. Poor little soul didn’t stand a chance.’
He lit up another X-ray; this one focused on Melissa’s belly. ‘This is interesting. You can see there are marks on her stomach. I would say these came from being carried, possibly over someone’s shoulder. See the indentation here and just beneath her belly button?’
Henson cocked his head, still looking at the picture. ‘I’d say he was right-handed.’ He mimed lifting something heavy and placing it over his shoulder. ‘Yes, could be right-handed.’
‘Could they be punches?’ Anna ventured.
Henson narrowed his eyes. ‘Punches?’
‘Yes, the one on her stomach looks like part of a fist to me.’
Henson pursed his lips. ‘I doubt that is a punch. As I said, more like a bruise from being carried.’
Langton was growing visibly impatient, but Henson hadn’t finished his deliberations.
‘She died where you found her. The time of death we’ve got down to approx five weeks ago. We’re expecting more details of the insect infestation, but it’s difficult to get all that much as the weather plays such a part. It went from very cold to nearly seventy degrees in a matter of a day.’
Langton stated that he did not want the coroner to release the body until they were certain it would not be required for further examination.
‘Have it your way. The parents have been calling constantly. They want to arrange a funeral service. But if you need her, fine; we’ll keep her on ice.’
Depressed about the limited information he had gained, Langton walked silently with Anna through the car park. As she stopped by her car, she said, ‘Sorry I was late, sir.’
‘That yours?’ he asked, still glowering.
‘No, I stole it to get here. Joke.’
She was fumbling for her keys and when she looked up to smile, seemingly oblivious to her, Langton was walking away towards a patrol car and uniformed driver.
She got into the Mini only to find a notice plastered across her windscreen: ‘Private car park. For medical employees only. Your car will be towed away’.
Her attempts to rip the notice off left strips of partly glued paper across the windscreen. She swore softly and repeatedly, for a very long time.
Mike Lewis glanced up from his desk as Anna put the Barbara Whittle file back and signed out her fifth victim for more late-night reading.
‘Get anything helpful from that old fart Henson?’
‘No. Murdered where she was found,’ replied Anna. ‘Possibly carried over the killer’s shoulder. You?’
‘Yards of fucking CCTV footage, plus two hours with that Cuban fruit and nut. His BO is the worst I’ve ever come across and I’ve had my fair share of smellies.’
They were interrupted by a sudden burst of laughter from a group of detectives round DC Barolli’s desk. He was holding up an article from the internal Met newspaper.
‘Says here, they’re lowering the physical entrance requirements for women; they just can’t keep up. You read this, Jean?’
Jean gave them a sour-faced glance, but Moira, a big blonde with heavy breasts, grinned with derision. ‘Wankers. It’s brains, not brawn, that cracks a case.’ Though Moira waited for a response, they avoided her scrutiny and returned, mumbling, to their desks.
‘Any of you beefcakes traced the girl’s handbag yet? You should try getting off your arses?’ Moira broke off as Langton appeared in the doorway. She returned to marking up the board.
‘What was that?’ he asked as he joined her.
Anna listened curiously. She had also been struck by the fact Melissa had no handbag and that none of the other victims’ handbags had been recovered.
Moira answered Langton earnestly. ‘I know they never mentioned it in the reconstruction, but surely she’d have had one? Why would she walk off from her boyfriend without a purse when she was supposedly heading for the tube?’
‘Boyfriend couldn’t recall if she had one or not.’
‘Yeah, but they don’t notice. He said the same thing about her coat.’ Moira flipped through her notebook. ‘All she had on was a T-shirt and mini skirt? When it was cold out? But the no-bag thing really worries me. Doesn’t make sense.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Langton turned to Barolli at his desk. ‘Have you been back to The Bistro?’
‘Yep. We questioned waiters, the owner and managed to trace a couple of customers. No one remembers much. The place was jammed, so even though it was cold, some of them were eating outside. Melissa and Rawlins sat at the table ringed on the right of this photo.’
Langton frowned over the photographs of the restaurant.
‘CCTV footage ready yet, Mike?’
‘Any minute, gov. There’s a hell of a lot of tapes to be checked over. If our sighting of her from the Cuban is correct, we’ve got her at Old Compton Street, corner of Greek Street, so we’ve had to cover a lot of possible
