Tennison. Lynda La plante
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and the mortician laughed, saying he thought as much.
Jane felt silly and realized that she was the butt of the joke Gibbs had initially intended to play on Kath.
To distract herself she looked around the small room. The walls were lined with white brick-shaped tiles and the stone-flagged floor was angled to a gulley which ran down to a drain area. The other porcelain examination table was clean and dry and on it was a large wooden chopping board and round plastic bowl. To one side were two steel trolleys which were covered with an array of different-shaped cutting instruments. On one trolley there was a white butcher’s scale with a steel meat tray resting in its holder. Then the doors swung open and a tall dapper man in his mid-forties with swept-back blond hair walked in. He was wearing a brown wax Barbour jacket, white shirt, blue-and-white-striped tie, grey slacks and brown zip ankle boots. He was carrying a large black doctor’s-style case which he put down on the clean examination table. Jane thought he must be the forensic pathologist as DCI Bradfield greeted him with a friendly smile and firm handshake.
‘I’m glad I got you on this case, Paul. The Chief’s breathing down my neck and pressing for results, but right now we’ve still got bugger all,’ Bradfield said.
‘Who’s the wooden top?’ Paul asked, using a detective’s term for a uniform officer.
‘WPC Tennison, meet Detective Sergeant Lawrence, best lab liaison officer in the Met. Any suspicious death or murder scene, he’s the man you want working it,’ Bradfield said and patted him on the shoulder.
DS Lawrence gave him a suspicious glance. ‘You after a loan of money for the office card game or something?’
‘You can’t even take praise now?’
Jane realized this was the first time she had seen Bradfield smile: it made him appear quite boyish. She had been made aware of the highly respected role of a lab sergeant during training at Hendon, and Bradfield and Lawrence obviously rated each other highly. There were only twelve lab sergeants in London and they were all experienced detectives with twenty years-plus service. They worked alongside forensic scientists at crime scenes and at the Met’s laboratory in Lambeth. They didn’t make arrests as this could detract from their invaluable input.
‘You got any thoughts on the scene, Paul?’ Bradfield asked, his cigarette dangling from his lips.
‘It’s a bit of a minefield. There were lots of footprints but it is a kids’ adventure playground.’
Lawrence added that some were ‘plod-issue boots’, referring to the footprints of the uniform officers who trampled over the scene, but he had concentrated on the footprints near the body, and had taken some plaster-cast lifts to examine in the lab. It was hoped they might get a possible size and be able to compare them to any suspect’s shoes. DS Lawrence said he had been to the station and visited Eddie Phillips in the cell, but he was wearing Cuban-heel boots which didn’t appear to match any marks at the scene.
‘What about prints?’ Bradfield asked.
DS Lawrence shook his head. ‘We concentrated on anything metal, but due to the recent heavy rain we only managed to get a few lifts. I’ve had them sent to fingerprint branch to look at.
The mortician finished on the old man, wrapped a shroud round the body and placed it on a metal trolley. As he picked up a shower hose Jane hadn’t noticed that Bradfield and DS Lawrence had stepped into the side corridor leading to the fridges. The mortician turned on the hose and started washing down the examination table and floor. The force of the spray sent dirty bloodstained water splashing onto Jane’s skirt, shoes and tights, causing her to squeal and jump back out of the way. The mortician then threw a bucket of water onto the floor, and gave it a quick once-over with a mop. From the smell the water contained a large measure of disinfectant. She didn’t say anything to him but strongly suspected it was an intentional initiation to the mortuary for probationers.
The assistant mortician wheeled a shrouded body into the room, and Jane could see from the blonde hair hanging loosely over the edge of the trolley that it was Julie Ann’s. The assistant handed DS Lawrence some paper bags containing the victim’s clothing and then wheeled the old man’s body out to the refrigerators. Lawrence had a quick look in the bag that contained Julie Ann’s white socks and her boots.
‘We got quite a few red fibres on the soles of these socks, probably from a carpet of some sort. I’ll get the scientist to check all the clothing for any similar or other foreign fibres. Her platform boots are blue cloth and patent leather so we might get a fingerprint off them if he dragged her.’
DS Lawrence then took out her underwear. ‘Looks like there might be some semen-staining on the gusset.’
‘She was a tom so there’s probably bucket loads of it,’ Bradfield replied sarcastically. He patted his pockets for his pack of cigarettes and lit up a fresh one.
‘Look out, here comes the miserable munchkin,’ DS Lawrence said as the swing doors opened.
A small stumpy man entered the room carrying a clipboard and paper. He was in his fifties, with grey thinning hair and half-moon glasses perched unsteadily on the end of his bulbous red nose.
Jane observed that his green mortuary gown and black wellington boots were stained with blood and body tissue, and deduced that he must be the pathologist. The two morticians slid Julie Ann’s shrouded body from the trolley onto the table.
‘Try and keep your fag ash off my instruments today, DCI Bradfield. DS Lawrence, you’re doing exhibits and photographs, I take it?’ the po-faced Professor Martin said as he wrote their names in his notes. He turned towards Jane, lowered his head and peered over the top of his glasses. ‘And you, young lady, are . . .?’
‘Probationary WPC 517 Golf Hotel Tennison, on B Relief Hackney, sir.’
Martin sighed. ‘This is a mortuary, not a courtroom – I can see you are a WPC and an unusually pretty one . . . name and number is all I require. I’m Professor Dean Martin, and not to be confused with the crooner.’
Seeing Jane staring at the red spider-web marks on the Professor’s face, DS Lawrence leant towards her and whispered, ‘He drinks like Dean Martin though . . . that’s what too much whisky does to your skin.’
Professor Martin put a black-rubber apron over his gown and pulled on some green-rubber gauntlet gloves. The apron had two metal link-chains at the neck and waist to hold it in place.
‘I wasn’t needed in court this morning so I’ve already done my external examination of the body. Gather round, please,’ Martin said as he moved towards the body and then, like a magician, pulled off the shroud in a theatrical flurry to display the naked girl.
Jane gave a sharp intake of breath. Julie Ann’s body was alabaster white, stretched out with her hands placed at her sides. DS Lawrence got a camera out of his kit bag and took some photographs.
Martin looked at Jane as he spoke. ‘Time of death is the question most consistently asked by detectives in murder investigations. However, due to many variables, it is extremely difficult to determine, and can never be one hundred per cent accurate.’ He flicked over a page on his clipboard.
‘He’s showboating for her benefit,’ Jane heard Bradfield mutter to DS Lawrence.
‘So, as to time of death for little missy here: the body was found at 9 a.m. in the open. Livor mortis, which is due to the settling of the blood after death, was well developed, thus indicating the victim had been in the same position for six to twelve hours. At the scene at 10.30 a.m., I took vaginal swabs and a rectal temperature. I have considered the overnight external air temperature, which in turn influences the rate of heat loss from the body and affects the onset of rigor—’
Bradfield sighed. ‘Can we just have it in layman’s terms, Prof?’
Martin puffed out his chest indignantly. ‘By my calculations she was killed on Sunday the 13th of May sometime between 6 p.m. and midnight.’
‘It didn’t get dark until just after