Broken Silence. Danielle Ramsay

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СКАЧАТЬ forced himself to look back down at the body. He had seen enough murder victims to know that luckily for her she was already dead before her attacker had decided to remove her face, otherwise they would have been looking at a gruesome bloodbath. The purplish, bluish marks around her neck were indicative of death by asphyxiation. Brady presumed the black scarf loosely knotted around the victim’s discoloured neck had been used to strangle her first, before the frenzied attack on her face took place. He could make out desperate scratches on her neck where he presumed the victim had tried in vain to loosen the choking material.

      He couldn’t help but notice the short denim skirt that barely covered her mottled, greyish-blue naked thighs. Or the tight, short-cropped black T-shirt that was so low cut that her well-developed breasts and black lacy bra were on show. His eyes drifted to her navel, attracted by the sparkling gem pierced into her belly button. But something else caught his eye. He crouched down and took a closer look.

      ‘Sir?’ Conrad asked as Brady turned to him.

      ‘Gloves?’

      Conrad handed Brady a pair of latex gloves.

      ‘What is it?’ Conrad asked.

      ‘I don’t know,’ muttered Brady, frowning.

      He gently undid the button and zip on her hipster denim skirt revealing black see-through pants. She had no pubic hair which didn’t surprise Brady. He was savvy enough to know that fashion, or more precisely the ever-expanding porn world, pressurised young women to sport Brazilian waxes, coupled with ludicrous fake boob jobs.

      But what did surprise him was the striking tattoo of a fire breathing jade dragon discreetly curled below her left hip. Brady turned and looked at Conrad.

      ‘See how red and raised the skin is?’

      Conrad nodded.

      ‘This is recent. The scab has gone but the skin’s still inflamed,’ Brady stated. ‘I reckon she got this done about four or five weeks ago.’

      He didn’t know much about tattoos, but even he recognised that this was a work of art.

      He carefully buttoned up her skirt, covering her modesty. Not that it mattered to her now, he thought, but she was still someone’s daughter.

      ‘How did you know it was there, sir?’ asked Conrad, surprised.

      ‘Part of it caught my eye,’ answered Brady as he carefully took in the rest of her body.

      She was also wearing an open black jacket and tan suede Ugg boots that reached halfway up her slender, bluish calves. But the boots had nothing to do with the weather. Ugg boots were just a fashion statement; a very expensive fashion statement at that. She could have been any one of a hundred young women who would have been out drinking last night in Whitley Bay. Brady was suddenly filled with revulsion at what was going through his head; she looked no older than the girl he had taken home. He felt a deep twist of regret as he realised he knew as little about Sleeping Beauty as he did about the body lying before him. Behind him he could hear the hushed voices of the forensic officers, waiting for him to finish.

      Let them wait, he thought. The SOCOs already had all the photographs they needed of the victim and the crime scene, so a few more minutes would make no difference when it came to bagging up evidence. Brady needed time to think, to breathe in the bitter reality of what had happened to this girl. He needed to understand why she had been brought here of all places. And crucially, why the murderer had chosen to kill her.

      ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ he mused.

      ‘It never does,’ answered Conrad with quiet reverence.

      Brady shook his head but couldn’t bring himself to explain what he had meant.

      He let his eyes drift over her outstretched small, fragile open hands. He could make out that her finger nails were neatly manicured but couldn’t see anything else. Forensics would find something, he was sure of that. Whoever had done this to her would have left some trace behind. It was the law of averages, thought Brady.

      He paused for a moment, catching his breath as his eyes were drawn back to her mutilated face; the harsh lights set up by the SOCOs sparing nothing.

      ‘Poor bloody girl,’ Brady quietly stated.

      ‘Yes sir,’ answered Conrad.

      ‘What do you think?’ Brady asked.

      Conrad shrugged.

      Brady wasn’t offended; Conrad rarely committed himself.

      ‘Does anything strike you as odd?’ Brady continued.

      ‘Yes, her face or what’s left of it,’ Conrad offered.

      ‘No, I’m more interested in what her attacker didn’t do as opposed to what he did,’ answered Brady.

      ‘She doesn’t seem to have been sexually assaulted,’ answered Conrad. ‘If she had her clothes would either have been fully or partially removed, but there doesn’t appear to have been any attempt made here, sir.’

      ‘And, she doesn’t appear to have struggled,’ Brady added. ‘Apart from these scratches on her throat here, Conrad,’ he said pointing. ‘Which suggests she fought to loosen the scarf from her neck. But that seems to be the extent of it.’

      If she had struggled with her attacker he would have expected some visible hair or tissue from the assailant to have been left in the victim’s hands or under her nails. A last attempt at desperately holding on to life. He was sure her own skin tissue would be evident under her nails, but as to her attacker’s, he wasn’t so certain.

      ‘Maybe she was knocked unconscious from behind first?’ Conrad offered.

      ‘But then why strangle her?’

      ‘Perhaps she started to come round, sir? So her attacker then strangled her with her scarf?’

      ‘Maybe … Let’s see,’ Brady said as he carefully knelt down beside the girl’s body, wincing as a burst of white pain exploded in his thigh.

      He breathed in shallowly for a few moments, waiting for it to pass.

      ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Conrad asked with genuine concern noticing that Brady’s olive-skinned complexion had paled.

      ‘It’s nothing,’ Brady lied.

      The last thing he wanted was Conrad questioning his ability to work.

      ‘Shine your torch over the back of her head for me, will you?’

      Trying to ignore the searing pain he felt, Brady carefully lifted what was left of the victim’s head and examined the back of it for trauma.

      ‘Nothing, we’ll just have to wait and see if any fractures are found during the post-mortem.’ He had seen enough blows to the head to recognise the trademark and there didn’t appear to be one there. But he could still be wrong.

      ‘Why did he do that to her face?’ Brady questioned as he shook his head.

      ‘To СКАЧАТЬ