Fergus moved to the woman’s hands and examined her fingernails. ‘Initial examination of the woman’s hands and arms indicates no defensive wounds.’ He paused again, pulling his microscope closer and magnifying a small pinprick mark on the victim’s right arm. ‘A needle mark on her upper right arm indicates that the victim was perhaps subdued by injection. Again, the tox results will reveal more.’
The low buzz of the intercom connecting warned Fergus that Taffy was about to begin his incessant interrogation. But today was not the day for that. Fergus had no energy for it, so stemming his guilt, Fergus raised his eyes and stared right at Taffy. ‘Not today, laddie, eh? I’ve got a lot on and believe me, all your questions will be answered in my report, but you’ll get that report much more quickly if you just wheesht and let me get on wi’ ma job.’
The hurt look in Taffy’s eyes made Fergus feel like a complete bastard. The lad looked as if he’d swiped his sweeties from him. Toughening up, the pathologist hardened his heart and continued the post-mortem, all the time aware of the constant cloud of hurt emanating from the observation area.
Thrusting his guilt aside, he moved on to examining the internal organs, with his assistant moving around the room taking photos and marking findings down on the chart as they worked. Reaching the womb which contained a heartbreakingly small foetus, McGuire paused, sniffing back a tear before removing the foetus from the womb. This poor little thing hadn’t had a chance – not a damn chance after its mummy was murdered. What a waste – a damn waste. Who knew what this child would have grown up to be – how much joy would he have brought to the world, to his family and friends? Fergus took a moment to utter a silent prayer and then reverently placed the small body in a tray, to examine later.
Two hours later, exhausted and drained, Fergus turned to the small foetus and, sad though it was to complete a post-mortem on a foetus, Dr McGuire treated it with as much respect as he’d treated the mother.
‘Male foetus, approximately 16 weeks of development. Normal development … most likely died from suffocation due to mother’s death. Tox screen and DNA for paternity checking sent off.’
Nodding at his assistant, Dr McGuire left the post-mortem room, pulling off his coverings as he left, a ball of anger making him want to smash his hand into a wall – perhaps he and Angus were more alike than most people thought, for more than once Angus had done just that when things got too much for him.
Chapter 10
Bradford
Miranda Brookes’ husband, Ricky, had come in to be questioned. His alibi was sound, so at least Gus knew they could focus on finding other suspects. It was rare for a spouse to have such a concrete alibi, but his driving activity was registered by Morrisons supermarket, the company he delivered for and he’d been delivering to a Morrisons in Stoke-on-Trent at 8 a.m. At a stretch, the husband could have arranged for someone else to off his wife, but the elaborate crime scene made Gus doubt that. He and Alice joined Ricky Brookes in one of the more welcoming interview rooms – the ones for grieving relatives and kids. It was decked out with a sofa and a couple of comfy chairs with a coffee table separating the arrangement.
When they entered Brookes was pacing up and down the room and one look at the man’s tear-stained face and pallor told Gus that it was unlikely that this man was anything other than a grieving husband whose life had just been blown apart. He glanced at Alice for confirmation of his assessment and she gave a slight nod in response to his unspoken question.
Stepping closer, in line with Covid restrictions, Gus indicated that Mr Brookes should sit down opposite. Both Gus and Alice had donned masks for the interview and sanitised their hands on their entry to the room. Brookes had hurriedly pulled his own mask up and over his nose, but not quickly enough to hide his trembling lips and tear-stained face.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr Brookes.’ Gus’s tone was soft, reassuring, and confident. He’d conducted so many interviews with grieving relatives over the years that he was well aware that giving in to his own fury or sadness would make things worse for the family member. By maintaining a professional kindness, the relatives somehow or other, usually managed to get through the interview, if not quite in one piece, at least with as little anguish as humanly possible.
Sitting on the sofa with Alice, Gus hated the necessity of social distancing in a circumstance like this. Brookes sat down opposite, his leg pinging up and down as if of its own volition. It was clear that his grief made him unable to remain still.
‘Who did this? Who could do this to my wife? Miranda was … we were having a baby. We were having a…’ Ricky didn’t finish his sentence. Instead he glared at Gus. ‘You have to find them. Whoever did this. You have to find them.’
Gus nodded. ‘I know this is difficult for you, Mr Brookes, but I need to ask you some questions. Believe me, they are relevant to our ongoing investigation and they’re really necessary. We also need to record this interview for our records if that’s OK, OK?’ Gus hoped his eyes conveyed the concern and sincerity he felt. Normally a small smile, or a slight pressing of his lips together did the job, but right then he had to rely on
