‘I’m heading over to the pathologist now. Meet me there in twenty minutes,’ Windsor told Isaac. That was what he liked about the CSE: A man always enthusiastic, always willing to go the extra mile, and always affable. They were not comments Isaac could level at the pathologist, whom he had met before on several occasions, usually when a body was being cut open.
The pathologist, Graham Pickett, a tall, thin man in his late fifties, did not say much, and when he did, it was direct and to the point. So much so that Isaac had learnt to say little in his presence other than to ask the questions for which he needed answers.
‘Four hours in the water,’ Pickett said as Gordon Windsor and Isaac entered his office. ‘That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Isaac replied.
‘No sign of maceration of the skin, no water ingestion into the lungs, and a massive loss of blood, although that’s to be expected.’
‘What else can you tell us about the man?’
‘There’s a tattoo on the back of the shoulder. It appears to be in the shape of a spider’s web, but it’s crude.’
‘Your guess as to when and where?’ Windsor asked.
Pickett sat down in his chair and leant back. ‘Five years, at least. As to where? Either in prison or else in the far east.’
‘Any assessment of height, age, physical condition, at least while he was alive?’ Isaac asked.
‘Height would need one of the major leg bones, the femur or the tibia, at least to allow any accuracy. Regardless, judging by what remains, I’d hazard a guess at between five feet six and five feet nine inches, but that will not be in my report, other than with a disclaimer. I don’t want to be held accountable in court as to why I gave a height when I cannot guarantee the accuracy. With no legs, no fingerprints and no head, there’s not a lot more I can tell you, although based on my examination and assessment of the clavicle, the pubic symphysis and the sternal rib end, standard and verifiable tests, I would give the man’s age at between thirty and thirty-nine.
‘Caucasian or Asian?’ Isaac asked.
‘DNA will confirm, but the body is Caucasian, probably European. The body's not been long in the water, so the colour of the skin is fairly accurate.
‘Is it possible to ascertain when he was killed?’
‘Ten hours maximum, although the immersion in water caused more rapid blood loss. It must have been a hell of a mess; the serrations around the neck and the top of the limbs were caused by a chainsaw.’
‘It would need somewhere industrial,’ Isaac said.
‘You’re the detective, but yes, that seems possible. There would have been a horrendous amount of blood, as well as the noise of the chainsaw.’
‘Would there have been a lot of blood loss in the water?’
‘Probably not as much as you would expect, and there was not a lot left in the body when I examined it; also, no signs of drugs or alcohol. As you can appreciate, a dismembered torso doesn’t give a lot to work with. No signs of injuries either: broken bones, that sort of thing.’
‘Is it possible to tell if this is terrorist related, crime gangs, sexual deviancy?’ Windsor asked.
‘Don’t ask me,’ Pickett said. ‘Ask the DCI. I’ve told you what I’ve determined, and whoever did it was sick, but as to why and whom, I’ve no idea.’
‘One final question,’ Isaac said.
‘What is it?’
‘Was the body alive at the time of dismemberment?’
‘Impossible to tell,’ Pickett said.
Chapter 2
With the time in the water estimated at four hours, and with assistance from George Ashburton from the Canal and River Trust, the possible entry points were established. As it had been dark when the torso entered the water, the possibility that the person or persons responsible would have been seen was negligible.
And there was the unknown of how long the torso had been wedged under the houseboat. Isaac and Larry realised that the most likely scenario was that the body had entered the water no further upstream than the Westbourne Terrace Road Bridge. Although that was only thirty yards, the crime scene tape was extended as far as the junction of Chichester Road and Delamere Terrace on the southern side of the canal, and the junction of Bloomfield Road and Clifton Villas on the northern side. Isaac felt that near to the bridge was more likely, as both banks up from Westbourne Terrace Road Bridge were lined with houseboats stem to stern.
Windsor and his team, plus a contingent of eager uniforms, would be checking on the streets adjoining the canal: down on hands and knees if that was needed, looking for the minutiae that a crime scene invariably reveals.
Isaac reflected on what a thankless task they had in front of them. He well remembered his time on the beat, proudly wearing his police uniform. There had been some good times, some not so good, and being pulled in to walk or crawl slowly down the road or through the vegetation, occasionally planting a knee in dog excrement, did not qualify as good. And today, those out searching would be feeling the first throes of winter.
Wendy would be assisting, as would Larry, and any updates would be funnelled back to Isaac, who had the unenviable task of meeting with Richard Goddard, his senior. At least once a week they would meet, and on most occasions it was a pleasant affair, but the previous murder case had almost cost Goddard his job and had seen Isaac replaced as the senior investigating officer.
