‘He fits the profile perfectly,’ she said. ‘Textbook. Just a matter of breaking him down, I would say.’
Fenwick stared at her. Phil knew he didn’t like profilers, only paid lip service to the idea of them for the sake of workplace politics and personal advancement. A win/win situation for him – able to take the credit if they got it right, providing someone to blame if they got it wrong. But he certainly didn’t like them interrupting when it wasn’t their turn. Fenwick blanked her.
‘Phil?’
‘Yeah, he fits the profile, but…’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You mean whether he’s guilty or innocent?’
‘Yeah. I just… don’t know.’
Fenwick waited for him to expand on that. He didn’t. Instead, Phil turned to Nick Lines.
‘Nick. Good to see you again. What you got for us?’
Nick Lines got slowly to his feet. ‘Quite a bit since yesterday, actually. Nothing more on the DNA front yet, unfortunately, and there won’t be for a while, I don’t think. So I took a journey down some other avenues. I checked the physical description we had of Adele Harrison against the body we’ve got. Looked for any distinguishing features.’
‘And?’ said Phil.
‘Well, we didn’t find anything at first. So I persevered. Adele Harrison had a tattoo on the base of her spine. You know what I mean. Popular among a certain type. Some kind of curlicue. Arse antlers, I believe they’re called.’
Despite or perhaps because of the tension in the room, everyone laughed.
‘Tart tats, you mean,’ said Mickey.
‘If we were less politically correct,’ said Fenwick, glancing quickly at Rose Martin to gauge her reaction.
‘Please,’ said Phil, ‘can we?’
The laughter died away. Nick Lines continued.
‘It wasn’t an easy match. There wasn’t much of her lower back left.’
Silence, tinged with guilt for the earlier laughter.
‘The skin’s been flayed off. Whether that was deliberate to stop us identifying her or whether it was just frenzy, I don’t know.’
‘Maybe both,’ said Phil.
‘Perhaps,’ said Nick, continuing. ‘But they hadn’t done a complete job. There were still traces of the tattoo left. I was able to reconstruct a partial impression from that.’
‘Julie Miller doesn’t have any tattoos,’ said Rose.
Nick nodded.
‘So you think that confirms it?’ said Phil.
‘As I said, we won’t have the DNA back for a while, but…’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe we should think about bringing her next of kin in for an identification.’
A depression settled over the room. He had all but confirmed what they suspected. But there was no sense of triumph or even achievement at it.
‘I found something else, too,’ said Nick. ‘Stomach contents analysis. Her last meal. As far as I can tell, dog food.’
‘Oh Jesus,’ said Phil, vocalising what the room must have been thinking. ‘It gets worse.’
‘Can we get a match on that?’ said Fenwick. ‘Find the brand, the make, maybe even the batch?’
Nick Lines nodded. ‘We’re already ahead of you. We’ve contacted all the major pet food manufacturers. Shot in the dark and may take a while, but stranger things have happened. Also. Suzanne Perry’s blood sample. They phoned me with results. Traces of pancuronium.’
‘That’s not good, right?’ said Phil.
‘Not good at all. It’s a muscle relaxant. Taken in large doses it paralyses the body. They can still feel but not move. It’s given to death-row inmates in lethal injections in the States.’
‘Charming,’ said Phil. ‘Well, let’s follow that up. See where a supply could be found. Check-’
The door burst open. A uniform rushed in.
Fenwick was first to react. ‘This is a-’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said the uniform, out of breath, ‘but this is urgent.’
‘What?’ said Phil.
‘The prisoner, sir, Anthony Howe…’
‘Yes,’ said Phil.
‘Tried to kill himself.’
58
Anthony Howe had managed to rip his sheets up to make a rope. Then, knots tested, pulled strong and tight, he had looped it round the light fitting. Lassoed in place it hung there, a hangman’s noose. He had placed it round his neck, pulled the slipknot tight. Stepping off the bed, the sudden jerk expelled what air there was from his body, forcibly denied access to any more. The jolt and drop weren’t sufficient to break his neck so he had hung from the ceiling, legs thrashing and air-cycling, hands grabbing at his throat, dangling and strangling. His face had turned purple and his bladder and bowels evacuated.
The makeshift gallows hadn’t held for long, his weight being too much for the electric cord, and it had given way, the noise of his body hitting the floor and alerting an on-duty uniform.
‘Get the paramedics in here!’
Phil ran into the cell. A uniform had removed the noose from Howe’s neck and was attempting CPR on him. His body was in a state and there was no trace of the cultured, arrogant university lecturer.
‘What’s happening?’ said Phil.
The uniform looked up, fingers locked together, hands pressing down hard, rhythmically, on Howe’s chest. ‘Still breathing, sir…’ Breaking off to count the presses. ‘… just trying… to revive him…’
And back down to breathe more air into his lungs.
Phil stood up, looked around, felt impotent rage inside him. The light fitting was on the floor in pieces, bulb and casing shattered. The noose was lying in a corner where the uniform had thrown it, a venomous snake, once dangerous, now dead.
The doorway was full: the whole team from the briefing room having followed him down, now crowding round, trying to get in, winning the world record for most number of people crammed into a door frame at one time.
‘Who was looking in on him?’ Phil said. ‘Who was checking him?’
Another uniform, standing by the door, keeping the press of bodies back, glanced nervously at him. ‘We did, sir, we checked in on him regularly. Looked like he was sleeping.’
‘Well, he wasn’t, was he?’
The uniform recoiled. ‘No… but we weren’t given any special orders. No suicide watch or nothing…’
Suicide watch. Phil looked down at the body, thought of Howe’s words in the interview room the previous night:
Phil hadn’t listened to him. Ignored him, in fact. He heard stuff like that all the time, thought nothing of it. Looked again at the mess on the floor.
At that moment the paramedics arrived, ushering everyone out of the way, taking over. Phil allowed himself to be led from the cell along with everyone else. Now the corridor was full of bodies.
Fenwick pushed his way over to Phil, placed an arm round his shoulder. ‘A word.’ He separated him from the rest of the group, walked him away to a quiet spot round a corner.
As Phil went he turned, saw Fiona Welch’s face. She was staring into the cell, her eyes lit up, a smile on her face. Fascination? He didn’t know. Didn’t have time to think about her now. He turned to Fenwick.
