“Name it,” Dillon said, feeling inwardly relieved.
“You buy me dinner.”
Dillon smiled. “Deal,” he said offering her his paw-like hand to shake. Maybe dating a mortuary technician wouldn’t be so bad after all. And, knowing that she didn’t normally date coppers, made him feel privileged.
“I can’t think of any better way to piss that weasel off than by dating his least favourite boss,” she said. “Can you?”
That wiped the smile from Dillon’s face. “No, I suppose not,” he agreed.
◆◆◆
Jack was feeling quite chuffed as he hung up fifteen minutes later. Having been briefed by Deakin, he’d given detailed instructions on how he wanted this latest development progressed. He made a quick call to update Holland, and then he took a leisurely stroll back to the mortuary, arriving just in time to see Tony Dillon emerge from the building with a strikingly pretty girl at his side. The two of them seemed very cosy together, and Tyler couldn’t help but marvel at his randy partner’s ability to pull just about anything that moved.
When Dillon caught sight of him, he whispered something in the girl’s ear and squeezed her arm affectionately, and then he ambled over to meet Jack.
“I see you smell of death again,” Tyler said, fanning his nose with his hand.
Dillon sniffed the air around him several times, and then he sniffed his sleeve. “You know what, Jack, I hate to say this but I think I’m getting used to it.”
“She seems nice,” Tyler said, nodding towards the girl, who was now chatting to Copeland as he finished loading his van. “Although, I doubt Karen would be overly keen on her.”
“Don’t even go there,” Dillon warned.
“Is that the mortuary attendant everyone raves about?”
Dillon nodded. “It is.”
“Does she smell as manky as you?” Tyler asked, grinning.
“Probably,” Dillon admitted, “but I bet she scrubs up very nicely when she’s in her own time.”
“You know it’ll all end in tears, don’t you?” Tyler told his friend.
“What will?” Dillon asked, guardedly
“When Karen and mortuary girl both find out that you’ve been dating the other one,” Jack explained. “Ouch! It doesn’t even bear thinking about.”
“I haven’t been out with either of them yet, and you’ve already got me pegged as a two-timer! Thanks, mate.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jack said, although his sarcastic tone made it clear he wasn’t. “I’ve obviously misjudged your intentions.”
“I’m telling you, you’ve got me all wrong,” Dillon insisted, piously.
Tyler rolled his eyes. “When you come out with crap like that, I half expect your nose to grow a couple of foot longer,” Jack told him.
Dillon grinned, mischievously. “Okay, you got me,” he confessed. “So, how long do you reckon I would be able to get away with it before they found out?”
“Not long enough,” Jack said. “But enough about your love life, what did the pathologist say?”
“Only what we expected,” Dillon told him. “Claxton thinks the killer slit her throat first, and then mutilated her genitalia with his hunting knife. He isn’t sure which followed next, the flaying of her face or the frenzied stabbing that turned her torso into a pincushion. The pathologist stopped counting the incisions when he reached eighty-eight. Lastly, the killer decapitated her; Claxton is satisfied that this was done after she expired.”
“Any sign of recent sexual activity?”
Dillon grimaced and shook his head. “Jack, how could anyone possibly tell? Honestly, if you went into Tesco and bought a pound of mince it would probably be less shredded than that poor girl’s womb was. We’ll just have to wait and see what turns up when the forensics come back. Anyway, how did you get on?”
Tyler gave a bored shrug. “The inquests went exactly as expected. However, I do have an interesting, hot off the press, update for you,” he told his partner. “I’ll fill you in on the way back to the factory.”
◆◆◆
Steve Bull led a dishevelled looking Henry Boyden out of his cell and through to the custody office. Boyden’s hair was sticking up and he smelled slightly of body odour; a night in the cells will do that.
Today’s custody sergeant was a stern-faced female in her mid-thirties. She wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that made her look like a librarian, and her brown hair was swept back in a ponytail. “What’s happening with this man?” she asked, eyeing Boyden with disapproval. “I was told you were awaiting forensic results before further interviews could be conducted.”
“That’s right,” Bull told her. “We were waiting for DNA and fingerprint comparisons to come back, but they’re all in now, and I can tell you that Mr Boyden’s fingerprints and DNA don’t match that of the Whitechapel killer. Therefore, we will be taking no further action against him in relation to the matters for which he was arrested.”
A wave of intense relief flooded through Boyden as this was said, and he had to hold onto the custody officer’s desk to stop his legs from giving way. “I told you I didn’t kill those girls,” he said angrily, “but you wouldn’t listen, and now you’ve ruined my marriage and my life. I’m going to sue the lot of you for wrongful arrest, false imprisonment and defamation of character.”
Ignoring the outburst, the custody sergeant turned to her gaoler. “Harry, be a love and dig out this man’s belongings, please. As soon as they’re restored to him, I can show him the door.” Boyden had been a complete pain in the arse all morning, with his non-stop whingeing, and the custody officer couldn’t wait to get rid of him; if he hadn’t been complaining about being locked up for something he hadn’t done, he had been demanding to be allowed to ring his wife. Unfortunately, Mrs Boyden had made it abundantly clear that she didn’t want her husband to contact her, and he had gone into a right strop when he’d been informed of this, blaming the murder squad for poisoning her mind and turning her against him.
“Actually,” Steve Bull said. “You might want to hold off
