Bridget Halloran stayed in the office; she dealt with the paperwork, prepared the prosecution cases, coordinated the support staff who dealt with the collecting of evidence, the filing of it, the documentation, the peripheral activities. She was a great friend of Wendy’s, and they shared a house now, since the death of Wendy’s husband, and after Bridget had kicked out her last live-in lover, although Bridget, younger by seven years than Wendy at forty-eight, still had the occasional man to the house; not that Wendy was concerned, as she was always discreet. The only consternation to her was that she didn’t have the success that Bridget had, although at fifty-five and suffering from arthritis and now high blood pressure, she knew that she had not maintained the same vitality as her friend, the spark that men found attractive.
And besides, Wendy had to admit that it didn’t worry her either way, not that much, not anymore, but still…
***
Apart from the clothing and the inscription, no further indications as to the woman’s identity were found. As Isaac Cook saw it, that was the primary focus, and if the man had killed once, a seemingly premeditated crime as the woman had apparently been at the graveside willingly, he could kill again.
The grave’s occupant had died on 15th September 1873, which seemed unrelated, but it did raise questions as to why that grave, did it have a significance, and why that night at that hour.
In his office, Isaac sat in his chair. It was eight in the evening of the second day. Across from him, Larry, Wendy and Bridget. They were the core team that he had moulded; they were the best there was. Wendy could find people who wanted to stay hidden better than anyone else; Larry’s contacts out on the street invaluable, but his propensity to drink too much still of concern; and finally, Bridget Halloran, who had joined Homicide on Wendy’s recommendation. The woman was a genius with a computer and an internet connection, able to find information that others preferred to keep hidden.
Bridget was an office person, whereas Larry and Wendy were glad to be out of it as much as possible, although Isaac, a self-professed workaholic, always insisted on a daily end-of-day wrap-up meeting to discuss the day’s results, to plan for the next.
‘Larry, what have you found out?’ Isaac asked.
‘The woman’s not on any criminal database, and until we have a positive identification, we’re flying blind, asking questions, not even sure they’re the correct ones either.’
‘Did anyone see the woman on the night?’
‘No one we’ve found, which isn’t surprising. She had no distinguishing features, average in terms of height, weight, blood type, hair colour. Apart from the tattoo on her leg, that is.’
‘Bridget, you’ve been researching it, any luck?’
‘I can give you a dozen places within walking distance of the police station that could have done it,’ she said.
Isaac felt he was asking questions to which he already knew the answer. However, when everything has been exhausted, asking again can sometimes uncover a hitherto hidden fact, a not previously considered possibility.
‘Any luck with the inks used?’
‘I’ll visit the most likely places tomorrow,’ Wendy said. ‘It’s unlikely they’ll know who she is; a lot of women, some men, have Buddhist chants tattooed on them, but usually on the shoulder.’ Wendy thought back to the holiday in Greece with Bridget, the effects of too much ouzo, the small stars tattooed on their left ankles. They still laughed about how silly they’d been back then.
‘Strength through adversity. It could be significant,’ Isaac said.
‘Or it could mean nothing. It’s attractive to look at, not that I’d do it myself,’ Wendy said, looking over at Bridget.
‘Check on inks, batch numbers, samples of the most likely inks used and when. It could help.’
‘I’ll get what I can and get it over to Forensics, see what they can make of it.’
‘Larry, let’s focus on where you’re at.’
‘As I said, no criminal record and nobody seems to know anything about her. A Jane Doe at this time.’
‘Unless she took public transport or drove there, she would have to be a local.’
‘I’m looking. Give me a couple of days. I should turn up something.’
‘That’s the problem, we don’t have the luxury of time. It’s a clear case of murder, a woman in a cemetery, a man she had obviously known, a knife in her back. Any luck with the knife?’
‘Any department store in London, the cutlery section. An eight-inch knife, the sort that most houses would have; it’s not a name brand, generic Chinese, but sharp.’
‘Sharp enough to have killed the woman with one stab? Not even a frenzied attack.’
‘How could he be sure that she would be dead within a few minutes?’
‘The blade pierced the left atrium of the heart. The chances of survival are rare.’
‘Does that mean it was luck that he stabbed her in the right place or he knew where to direct the knife? The latter would indicate medical knowledge; the former, more than likely.’
‘Or he could have had military training. If he had killed under orders, he could have been trained in how to take out a man without making a noise,’ Larry said.
‘We’re postulating here. The man saw the two youngsters walking through.’
‘He could have got a good look at them, even if they hadn’t seen him,’ Wendy said.
‘Dependent on
