Asante shifts forward a little in his seat. ‘This is probably an outlier, but is there anyone Ms Smith may have crossed paths with in the course of her job – someone who might have a grudge against her?’
Her eyes widen. ‘A client, you mean?’
He shrugs. ‘It has to be possible, surely? Like you said, it’s life-changing, what you do. And it must be the last chance for some people – the only way they’re ever going to have a child.’
‘All too many of our clients are in that position,’ she says softly. ‘It’s very sad.’
‘Of course. But in situations like that, people can get desperate – they do things they’d never think of doing otherwise.’
‘We guarantee our clients complete confidentiality, Constable.’
‘I know. And I appreciate why.’
‘I want to help – believe me – you’ve put me in a rather difficult position. Not that you meant to, of course. But I need to talk to a couple of my colleagues so we can decide what’s best to do.’
Asante knows a departure signal when he hears one. He gets to his feet and she comes round the desk to shake his hand. Behind the heavy glasses her eyes are a brilliant green, but her face is troubled.
‘So you’ll get back to me?’
She nods. ‘As soon as I can. I appreciate the urgency, I really do.’
Outside, there’s a Mums and Toddlers group going on in the main hall, and judging by the smell, Silver Threads had fish for lunch.
He drops a fiver in the Samaritans donations box on his way out.
* * *
Telephone call with Colin Boddie, pathologist
10 July 2018, 12.50 p.m.
On the call, DC G. Quinn
CB: Ah, Quinn – I gather you’re in the hot seat while Gislingham’s away.
GQ: For my sins. What have you got?
CB: Fatality on the railway line last night. Ring any bells?
GQ: Yeah, think I saw the incident alert. Suicide, right?
CB: Wrong. Her neck was broken, yes, but that didn’t kill her, for the simple reason that she was already dead –
GQ: OK –
CB: – and had been for at least the previous two hours. I would estimate TOD as sometime between nine and eleven. The high overnight temperatures make it harder to be much more specific than that, I’m afraid.
GQ: Hang on, I’m writing this down –
CB: Though whoever did kill her clearly wanted us to think it was suicide. And he’d probably have got away with it too – if those hard hatters hadn’t spotted her, there wouldn’t have been anything left to autopsy. I have to hand it to him, if you want to obliterate the evidence 15,000 tons of freight train are a pretty definitive way of doing it.
GQ: So what was the actual cause of death?
CB: Suffocation. There’s bruising around the nose, but no fibres in the airway so he probably did it with his bare hands. I’ve taken some swabs in case there’s DNA, but don’t hold your breath – it’s a fair bet he was wearing gloves.
GQ: You said ‘he’ –
CB: Almost certainly.
GQ: Just because it usually is –?
CB: No, because there was evidence of sexual assault. No semen present, but extensive bruising in the thigh and genital area, and a pubic hair that I strongly suspect isn’t one of hers.
GQ: Shit.
CB: And for the record, no signs of a ligature, either on the wrists or elsewhere.
[muffled noises in the background]
Right. I think that’s everything. I’ll finish the formalities and email everything over. BTP will be handing this one off to you. It’s a Thames Valley case now.
* * *
When Everett gets back to the office Quinn comes over to her at once. She only has to look at him to know something’s wrong.
‘What?’ she says, her heart stumbling. ‘What is it?’
‘Colin Boddie just sent me this.’
He holds out his phone. She doesn’t want it to be true but there’s no mistaking the picture – the hair, the face –
‘It’s her, isn’t it?’
Everett swallows. ‘Yes,’ she says, her voice catching. ‘It’s her.’
* * *
When Quinn puts his head round Fawley’s door the DI is standing by the window, looking down at the street. Quinn can’t remember the last time he saw him doing that.
He clears his throat. ‘Sorry to bother you, but I’ve just had a call from Colin Boddie. There was a fatality found on the railway line at Walton Well last night. First responders thought it was a suicide but turns out she was suffocated.’
No reply. Fawley’s so still Quinn wonders if he even heard him.
‘Boss?’
The DI starts a little and turns round. ‘Sorry – what did you say?’
‘There was a fatality last night, on the railway line. Looked like suicide, but the PM says otherwise.’
Fawley frowns. ‘They’re sure?’
Quinn nods. ‘And there’s evidence of prior sexual assault.’
Fawley takes a breath. ‘Do we have an ID?’
‘That’s just it. We were already looking for her. That woman who was reported missing this morning? Boddie sent over a picture. We’ll need someone to do a formal identification but it’s definitely her.’
‘Right,’ says Fawley, brisker now. ‘What’s her name?’
* * *
PC Webster’s day is looking up. What started as a routine housesitting job has turned into a full-on crime scene supervision. He’s got CSI on-site already, a couple of squad cars out the front and a Sky News van just pulling up a few yards down the street. At this rate he’ll be getting on the telly. He drags his phone out of his pocket and surreptitiously texts his mum. No harm in being prepared.
Inside the flat, Clive Conway is working his way through the sitting room. He’s bagged up the handbag and taken prints from the door handles and obvious flat surfaces. When Nina Mukerjee appears in the doorway ten minutes later he’s on his hands and knees taking carpet samples.
‘Any luck?’ she says.
‘Nothing obvious.
