***
Larry and Wendy met up with the senior crime scene investigator in Polperro. It was 9 a.m. before he arrived and, as he told them, he was just wrapping up. The man had little time for the London police to be angling in on what to him was a local issue. That was what Larry interpreted from the man’s attitude, and the fact that he did not introduce himself, did not shake his or Wendy’s hand. Compared to Gordon Windsor, the senior crime scene investigator that Homicide worked with in London, he was churlish.
‘You can see where she was dragged,’ the CSI said. ‘Over here, closer to the edge, you can clearly see where she was lifted up and thrown over the cliff.’
Even to Larry and Wendy that much was obvious.
‘It was a woman,’ the CSI said, explaining what he had to and no more.
‘Any idea as to her height? Would she have had to be strong?’ Larry asked.
‘Not necessarily. The murderer would have had the advantage of surprise, and the time from where the woman had been grabbed to where she had gone over the cliff would have been measured in seconds, probably no more than ten to fifteen. The evidence here doesn’t allow us to give the precise height of the woman, only that judging by the prints in the soil, she was most likely of a similar height to the dead woman. My report will put forward the premise, not the certainty. We have scuff marks of footwear on the ground, some belonging to the dead woman, others belonging to the murderer. The murderer was wearing boots, leather, black in colour.’
‘High heels?’ Wendy asked.
‘Not from what we can see. We’re confident that the boots were of good quality, and we have an imprint. I suggest you talk to the pathologist if you want to know about the condition of the body, but he’ll tell you no more than I can. It’s a forty-yard drop; she bounced off some jagged rocks on the way down before landing on the rocks at the shoreline. Death would have been instantaneous.’
Palmer had died at the hand of a man or men, so had Marcus Matthews, but now a woman was involved in the latest death. They were looking for two, possibly three murderers. The investigation was becoming complicated.
Liz Spalding’s body had been removed the night before. Larry and Wendy walked down the lane to the beach and then along to the rocks where she had ended up; there was little to see. Nobody, not even the police or the crime scene investigators, could stop the action of the sea washing further evidence away.
‘I suggest we go into Plymouth,’ Greenwood said. ‘I’ve set up an appointment with Forensics, and we’ll be meeting the pathologist this afternoon. He’ll be conducting the autopsy once we arrive. I intend to be present.’
At the station, there was a warm welcome from the others in the station, a few jokes about officers coming down from London to be shown how to conduct an investigation.
Larry was not in a mood to enjoy it, though; his wife had been on the phone, and yes, he was forgiven, but there was another demand when he came home. The smoking ban had been reiterated; the eldest child had a dry cough, the result of the stale cigarette fumes that were in the house every morning. He knew she was right. He took three quick puffs of the cigarette in his hand and then threw it away, the packet in his pocket and the disposable lighter soon after.
In Forensics, the chief scientist, a man of Indian extraction, although he spoke with a broad West Country accent, explained what they had found, the tests they had conducted.
‘The boots we believe are Gucci, judging by the pattern on the sole. We can’t be more than ninety per cent certain, but if they are, that would mean they were expensive. Not too many shops, at least down here, would sell boots like that. In London, I presume there are plenty of places.’
‘Are you able to give a type number or any more details? Wendy asked.
‘We’re checking. If we have any further information, we’ll let you know.’
Gucci boots in London, even if expensive, were within the financial reach of most women, especially the fashion-conscious and those gainfully employed in the City of London. Finding who could have purchased those worn at the murder scene would not be easy, Wendy knew that.
‘Any more you can tell us about the woman who committed the crime?’
‘We found a trace of lipstick on the dead woman’s clothing. It wasn’t hers.’
‘Cars rarely travel up the lane as it is narrow. The only vehicles are local tradesmen and residents who live up there,’ Jim Greenwood said. ‘We don’t have the luxury of CCTV cameras on every street corner as you do in London.’
In Pathology, five minutes’ drive away, the pathologist’s assistant introduced herself and took the three police officers into the pathologist’s office. His table littered with papers, a laptop in the centre, a monitor to one side. He looked up, put down the mouse he had been holding and put out his hand to shake the hand of all three officers in turn.
‘My name’s Felix Taylor,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you. We’ll be starting in ten minutes. I suggest you get yourself prepared.’
Neither Larry nor Wendy felt the need to attend the autopsy, as they had seen enough in their time, but Jim Greenwood was excited at the prospect.
‘I’ve had a cursory look at the body,’ Taylor said.
‘Is there anything you can tell us?’ Wendy asked.
‘I’m reluctant to comment before I have
