hard time climbing the stairs though. You see a lot of young women like this in the UK. It’s a ticking time bomb and I don’t see how the NHS will cope.”
Warren nodded politely, not really interested in the American’s opinions on Britain’s binge-drinking and smoking culture. “How did she die, then, do you think?” he asked, steering the conversation back to the matter in hand.
“It’s largely as Andy Harrison guessed at the scene. She was killed Friday evening, judging from her stomach contents, which are consistent with a tuna sandwich and a banana eaten at about one p.m. Cause of death was strangulation with her scarf. Prior to death she underwent very rough intercourse, probably penile. Bruising confirms that she was alive; however, we can find no signs of any struggle, suggesting that she was either compliant or unconscious.”
Warren raised a sceptical eyebrow and Jordan raised his hands in surrender. “I’m just saying it as I see it, Chief. Or, more importantly, how the defence will try and portray it. Consensual sex gone wrong.”
“So we have no evidence of rape.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” He pushed a photograph across the table.
“Look how smeared her make-up is. Assuming it’s the same lipstick that she had in her handbag, it’s waterproof and long-lasting. It shouldn’t really smear like that. Unless it was dissolved in solvent.”
Warren was one step ahead. “You’re suggesting that she was subdued by some sort of solvent, like chloroform, which smeared her make-up? That’s a bit Agatha Christie, isn’t it?”
Again, the American pathologist raised his hands. “As I said before, I say it as I see it. We’ve sent off for blood toxicology reports to see if she was sedated, but they’ll be a few weeks. There is no evidence of irritation to her respiratory passages, which rules out some solvents, but not chloroform.”
“What else have you got?”
“Not a lot really, although that in itself may be interesting. We can hardly find any trace evidence from the attacker.”
“So he wore a condom?”
“More than that, I would say. With this sort of rough penetration, I would expect some genital-to-genital contact. It would be hard to avoid. We’ve looked under the microscope and combed her pubic area, but we haven’t found a single alien pubic hair, or skin flake. The only thing we’ve found are traces of lubricant, consistent with that used on pretty much all of the major brands of condom, some tiny chemical traces that the mass-spec machine suggest is dry latex powder, and a commercial adhesive, usually found on rolls of sticky-tape.”
“I thought dry latex powder was discouraged in condoms because it causes allergies?”
“It is, but you can still find it in some cheap rubber gloves. If I were a betting man, I would suggest that our killer wore a couple of condoms at least, in case of accidents, has a shaved pubic area and used a cut-up rubber glove and sticky tape to ensure that he left no trace where he made contact with her.”
Warren winced. This was a sick person and, it would seem, clever and well prepared.
“Anything else on her?”
“We have found some fine powder on her coat that seems to come from brown cardboard and a couple of fibres that may or may not be significant. We’ll look at the database and see if the fibres are interesting.”
“She spent the day unpacking cardboard boxes,” offered Warren.
“That could account for the cardboard powder,” mused Jordan.
“Was she murdered and raped in situ?” asked Warren.
“It looks that way. Skin lividity indicates that she died in that position and wasn’t moved post-mortem — gravity pooled her blood just the way we’d expect. Her coat has two muddy patches that line up with indentations on the forest floor, suggesting that he knelt on her coat as he penetrated her. As I said before, the bruising indicates that she was alive at the time, but probably unconscious or compliant. I couldn’t say whether she died during or after the rape. Hopefully the toxicology tests will show that she was unconscious throughout.”
Warren nodded soberly. It was a small mercy, but he’d take it, he decided.
Next stop for Warren was the office of Det Supt Grayson to discuss their plans for the upcoming press conference. As always, Grayson had his dress uniform hanging on the back of his office door and Warren knew that he wouldn’t miss an opportunity to wear it in front of the cameras. Looking closely, Warren thought the man’s jowls seemed suspiciously shiny and his hair seemed even smarter than normal. The bugger’s had time for a bloody shave and haircut, Warren realised. For a second, he felt self-conscious — he hadn’t had a haircut for over a month and his early morning shave was some hours behind him — but then he shrugged mentally. If past form was anything to go by, he would barely say a word anyway and would almost certainly be edited out of the bulletin that was broadcast. He was only there because he was the named officer in charge of the investigation. One or two of his answers to more technical questions might be quoted in the broadsheets, space permitting.
The press conference would be a fairly formal, by-the-book affair. Since the family had informed everyone that needed to know about Sally’s fate, she would be named and her parents would both be present to make a plea for information. It had been decided that details of her death would be kept to a minimum to stop cranks and lunatics from wasting the police’s time with seemingly plausible stories full of authentic detail. No mention would be made of the rape. At the end of the conference, Det Supt Grayson would attempt to remind young women about being vigilant at night without sounding overly alarmist.
The conference was scheduled for six p.m. Just early enough for the editors of the six-thirty local news to squeeze it into the end of their bulletin. Depending on what else was happening in the world, the story might make it onto the seven p.m. national broadcasts. It was a definite for the late-night news and the next day’s papers.
Grayson had ordered a police car to take them down to the main headquarters at Welwyn and they had a few minutes to spare. Truth be told, Warren would far rather have driven himself. It might not be strictly legal, but Grayson had enough pull for the police driver to put the lights and siren on. Previous jaunts down the A1(M) with the detective superintendent had left Warren feeling decidedly shaken. Lights or no lights, one hundred miles per hour plus in rush-hour traffic was far outside Warren’s comfort zone and it was all he could do to stop his feet trying to stomp on an imaginary brake pedal. Grayson usually read the newspaper or fiddled with his BlackBerry smartphone.
As Grayson used his mirror to check his appearance Warren enjoyed the last few mouthfuls of his coffee. One benefit of being called to the boss’s office was his expensive filter-coffee machine and selection of fine roasts.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, Warren,” mused Grayson.
Warren was forced to agree. “It’s looking more and more like a stranger killing. That immediately rules out half of our usual lines of investigation.”
“Worse, it increases the chance of him striking again.”
Again, Warren had to concur. Most murders had a reason, the victim or victims killed for a purpose or as a consequence of an event. That reason might not be fathomable to normal-minded people, but it did mean that the murders were limited. Once the perceived slight had been avenged or the goal accomplished, the killings stopped. With a stranger killing that might not be the case; the act of killing might be the reason and didn’t necessarily lead to a resolution for the killer.
As he returned his empty mug to its saucer and grabbed his coat off the chair back Warren felt a heavy weight settle onto his shoulders. A slight ache started in his stomach. They were signs he’d grown to understand — this case was going to be a nasty one.