Cooper and Fry Crime Fiction Series Books 1-3: Black Dog, Dancing With the Virgins, Blood on the Tongue. Stephen Booth

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СКАЧАТЬ waited. ‘And?’

      ‘I don’t know what else to say really.’

      ‘Her looks don’t tell us much about her personality, Miss Milner.’

      ‘As I say, I didn’t really know her.’

      ‘But I’m sure you’re a good observer. What do you do for a living?’

      ‘I’m a teacher.’

      ‘Of course. So you’re used to assessing children. What did you think of Laura Vernon?’

      Helen lowered her eyes to avoid the policewoman’s direct stare. ‘I suppose I thought she was rather too precocious. She was a bit brash, a bit pushy. Arrogant, even.’

      ‘Arrogant?’

      ‘Well, she struck me as the sort of girl who had been told so often how clever and attractive she was that she had come to believe it and expected everyone to behave accordingly. We see the type in school sometimes. They can be very disruptive.’

      ‘Thank you. That’s very helpful.’

      Cooper had his head cocked on one side, watching Helen as she answered Fry’s questions. Helen thought he must see how disconcerted she was by the abrupt approach.

      ‘Finished?’ he asked Fry.

      ‘Ready when you are.’

      ‘I might call in and see how your grandparents are for myself sometime,’ he told Helen.

      ‘Grandma would be pleased,’ she said. ‘I think she took a liking to you. It would cheer her up. She remembers you, you know.’

      Fry was becoming impatient. ‘We’ve got some properties to call on yet, Ben. We’d better go.’

      ‘Sure.’

      ‘And your family, Ben,’ said Helen, as he turned away. ‘How are they?’

      But it seemed to Helen that Ben Cooper must not have heard her question as he walked away towards his car. He didn’t reply, didn’t even look round, but gave a small gesture, a half-apologetic wave. It was Diane Fry, following him, who took the trouble to turn and look back.

      

      Juliana Van Doon gazed down at the naked body and shook her head at the question.

      ‘No rape. No genital abrasions, no semen traces or any other bodily fluids. Sorry, Chief Inspector.’

      ‘No sexual intercourse, forced or otherwise?’ said Tailby. He knew it sounded as though he was disappointed, but he didn’t worry about what the pathologist might think of him. She was experienced enough to know it was only because such traces would have made his job a lot easier.

      After the clothes had been removed, the body had been photographed and all external signs had been recorded. The clothes themselves had been set aside for forensic examination. Now Mrs Van Doon was ready for the autopsy itself, the careful dismantling of the victim’s body in search of minute scraps of information.

      Stewart Tailby had attended too many postmortems over the years. The first ten or twelve had been a cause of humiliation, as his stomach had revolted at the smell of exposed intestines and the wet, sucking sound as organs were removed. His tendency to turn faint and leave the room to vomit had been a source of hilarity in his first CID posting. Though he had learned, like everyone else, to mask his feelings and control his stomach, he had never learned to accept in his heart the absolute necessity of the final horrors and indignities that were inflicted on a victim of violent crime. The fact that these gruesome acts were perpetrated in the name of forensic science – and ultimately, he supposed, in the name of justice – made no difference at all.

      In the autopsy room, some police officers chose the pretence of graveside humour. That was not Tailby’s style. He retreated instead behind a facade of silence and detachment, coated in a thin veneer of formal jargon and easily repeatable, meaningless phrases. In a way, he could be physically present, yet keep his feelings aloof from the things that had to be done. Tailby knew that he was already considered a cold and austere man by his colleagues and junior officers; some even said he was pompous and self-important. But it was a small price to pay to maintain your distance from realities that struck too close to home.

      ‘That’s not to say the victim was unfamiliar with sexual intercourse,’ said Mrs Van Doon. ‘Not at all, not at all.’

      ‘No?’

      ‘I would say the young lady was far from being a virgin, Chief Inspector. Fifteen years old? Very promiscuous, some of these young people now.’

      ‘You’d think that the risk of AIDS would make them think twice, wouldn’t you?’

      ‘This one won’t be worrying about AIDS, in any case.’

      The pathologist was dressed in a green T-shirt and baggy green trousers, with her mask hanging round her neck ready for work. With her hair tied back and her face devoid of make-up and harshly lit by the mortuary lights, the pathologist still looked striking. It was all down to the bone structure, thought Tailby. That, and the thoughtful grey eyes. He had once, as a young detective, harboured secret dreams about Juliana Van Doon. But time had passed and the feelings had faded. He had married and been divorced since then. And his feelings had died completely.

      Tailby would have liked to have been able to leave the postmortem room before the pathologist reached the stage of opening the body and removing the organs. Before she used the stainless-steel saw to cut through the sternum, and before the electric trepanner sliced off the top of the girl’s damaged skull. He told himself that there would be little to learn from the gory process in this case, except that Laura Vernon had died in perfect health.

      ‘The bruise on her leg?’ he said.

      ‘Ah. Interesting, yes. Not unknown, I understand, in sexually motivated killings. You would be asking yourself why there is only this one sign of a possible sexual assault. Was the attacker interrupted? Yes, interesting.’

      ‘Not a bruise made by a blow, then. A hand gripping the leg? But I would expect two separate marks, at least.’

      ‘No, no, no,’ said Mrs Van Doon. ‘You misunderstand. If you look more closely, you will see small punctures where the flesh is swollen. This is not an injury caused by the bruising of fingers. I suspect these are teeth marks, Chief Inspector.’

      Tailby perked up with sudden interest. ‘Someone bit her,’ he said. ‘Someone smashed her skull, then bit her on the thigh.’

      ‘Possibly,’ said the pathologist. ‘Interesting?’

      The detective peered more closely at the mark. It looked no more than a bruise to him.

      ‘Can you be sure?’

      ‘Well, no. I need to obtain the opinion of a forensic odontologist, of course. I have already contacted the University Dental School in Sheffield. We can get photographs and impressions, and excise the area around the bite to preserve it. And then we can compare the impression with a suspect’s dentition. It’s up to you to produce the suspect, of course.’

      ‘It’s an odd place for a bite.’

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