owner had got a lift back to Portsmouth from a friend who vouched for him. He’d returned with a can of petrol the next day. The Peugeot owner had gone for a sea trip along the coast to Worthing with some friends in a motorised inflatable and returned too late to collect his car. No women were involved in either case.
The inventory of items found on the beach gave no obvious clue. A pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses with a broken side-piece could have belonged to the victim, but how could you tell without DNA or fingerprint evidence?
“Why does anyone choose to strangle a woman on a crowded beach in broad daylight?” Hen asked Stella. “I don’t buy theft as the motive. I really don’t.”
“We don’t know what she had with her,” Stella said. “Maybe she was carrying a large amount of money.”
“On a beach? No, Stella, there’s something else at work here.”
“Crime of passion?”
“Explain.”
“A man she’s dumped gets so angry that he kills her.”
“What-follows her to the beach?”
“Or they drive there together to talk about their relationship, and she tells him it’s over, there’s a new man in her life. He turns ballistic and strangles her. Then he picks up her bag and returns to the car park and drives off. If they came together and he left alone it explains why we didn’t find her car at the end of the day.”
“That part I like. The rest, not so much. The strangling was done from behind, remember, and with a ligature. I doubt if the killer grabbed her by the throat in a fit of rage and squeezed the life out of her. He took her by stealth.”
Stella didn’t see any problem with that. “So they had their row and she told him to get lost and turned her back on him because she didn’t want to argue any more.”
“What did he use?”
“Use?”
“For a ligature.”
“I don’t know. Anything that came to hand. There are pieces of rope on a beach. Or cable.”
Hen said, “It’s more likely he brought the ligature with him.”
“Meaning it was premeditated?”
“Yes.”
A fresh thought dawned on Stella. “Well, what if she was wearing some kind of pendant on a thin leather cord? He grabbed it from behind and twisted it.”
“Better. You might persuade me this time.”
“You know the kind of thing I mean?” Stella said, her eyes beginning to shine at the idea.
“I do. Something out of one of those Third World shops, with a wood carving or a piece of hammered copper.”
“Exactly! You see, guv, I still think it’s more likely this was a spur-of-the-moment thing. If it were planned, it wouldn’t have happened where it did. He’d have taken her somewhere remote.”
“You’re making a couple of assumptions here. First, the killer is a man. All right, the odds are on a man. Second, that he drove her there.
The post mortem was conducted the following morning by James Speight, a forensic pathologist of long experience, with Hen Mallin in attendance, along with Stella Gregson, two SOCOs and two police photographers, one using a video recorder. Formal identification (that this was the body discovered on the beach) was provided by PC Shanahan, one of the two who had been called to the scene first. He left the autopsy room before the painstaking process of examining the body externally got under way.
Hen had to be patient in this situation. Dr Speight gave minute attention to the marks around the corpse’s neck, having the body turned by stages and asking repeatedly for photographs. An outsider might have supposed the photographers were running the show, so frequently did the pathologist and his assistant step away for pictures to be taken. After three-quarters of an hour the body was still in the white two-piece swimsuit she had been wearing at the scene. The external findings would probably be more crucial than the dissection in this case. It was helpful to be told that there were no injection marks, nothing to indicate that woman had been a drug- user.
He pointed out that the ligature had left a horizontal line, apart from the crossover at the nape. There was some bruising in this area probably made by pressure of the killer’s knuckles. He noted the two scratches above the ligature mark on the right side of the neck and said indications of this kind were not uncommon, where the victim had tried to pull the cord away from her.
“It’s entirely consistent with strangulation by a ligature,” he said in that way pathologists have of stating the obvious. “I can’t see any pattern or weave in the mark, yet it’s fairly broad, more than half a centimetre. Not so clear-cut or deep as a wire or string. It could have been made by a piece of plastic cable or a band of leather or an extra thick shoelace. Certainly from behind. That’s where the pressure was exerted.”
“These scratches,” Hen said. “Is it likely she scratched her killer?”
“Possibly-but her fingernails are undamaged. I doubt if she put up much of a fight. Death was pretty quick, going by the absence of severe facial congestion and petechiae. There’s no bleeding from the ears. It’s not impossible she suffered a reflex cardiac arrest. We’ll find out presently. And the sea appears to have washed away any interesting residue under the nails. I’ve collected what I can, but it looks to me like sand.”
“Could she have screamed?”
“Before the ligature was applied, yes. Once it was in place, I doubt it.”
“So if he surprised her from behind, as it appears, and it was done under the cover of a windbreak, people nearby wouldn’t have known?”
Dr Speight gave a shrug.
“They wouldn’t have heard much, would they?” Hen pressed him.
“A guttural, choking sound, perhaps.”
“Like waves breaking on a beach?”
The doctor smiled. “Romantic way of putting it.”
“But you see what I’m getting at?”
“And it’s outside my remit.”
He continued with his task, removing the clothes and passing them to the SOCOs, and taking swabs and samples. Before proceeding, he gave some more observations. The relative absence of cyanosis, or facial coloration, suggested she had succumbed quickly, probably within fifteen seconds. There were no operation scars and no notable birthmarks or tattoos. She had the usual vaccination mark. Her ears were pierced. She still had all her teeth, with only three white fillings. Her copper-coloured hair was natural.
The next hour, the internal examination, might have appeared more proactive than the first, but mainly it confirmed the earlier observations, except that the unknown woman had definitely died of asphyxiation, not cardiac arrest. “The strangling was efficient,” Dr Speight said without emotion.
The findings gave minimal assistance as to identity. She was about thirty to thirty-five and sexually experienced, but had not given birth.
“So what’s new?” Hen muttered to Stella as they left the autopsy room. “Don’t know about you, but I need a smoke and a strong coffee.”
By three twenty each weekday, you couldn’t get a parking space in Old Mill Road, where the junior school was. Parents massed outside the gates and waited for their offspring to emerge with the latest piece of handiwork made of egg boxes or yoghurt cartons. Haley Smith was always one of the last, and Olga was always waiting for her.
Today, unusually, the class teacher, Miss Medlicott, walked across the playground with Haley, hand in hand. For a moment it crossed Olga’s mind that her child might be unwell, so she was relieved to see some colour in her face and a broad smile. Like many of the others, Haley was holding a sheet of paper.
“I’ve done a lovely picture, Mummy,” she called out, and waved it so energetically that it was in danger of tearing. “Do you want to see?”
Olga nodded, at the same time searching Miss Medlicott’s face for some clue as to why she was with Haley. “Beautiful!” she said without really looking. Devoted as she was to her child, she knew she was no artist. Other
