Dance With the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller. James Nally

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СКАЧАТЬ stark warning set my heart on a club-footed gallop around my chest. Sudden shocks of any kind – physical, mental, even a really good joke – could cause me to suffer total collapse. It’s called Cataplexy, a rare side effect of insomnia and narcolepsy. An attack turns my bones to liquid; I simply capsize like an Alp, fully lucid but unable to move anything except my eyeballs.

      I gave myself a stern talking to: You’ve already fallen at the first today. You can’t go over again. They’ll label you a total flake.

      I galvanised myself by studying DS Spence’s dour, pinched face. He looked about as forgiving as a scalded hornet.

      He never stopped stomping about. Underlings had to build up to his ferocious pace, then fall in beside him to talk, veering and turning as he did in a surreal crime scene speed tango. When, finally, they left him alone for ten seconds, I set off in pursuit.

      ‘DC Lynch, sir, from the Cold Case Unit. I’ve been sent by my supervising officer, DS Simon Barrett, to take a look at the killer’s MO.’

      His lifeless, powder-blue eyes locked sullenly onto mine.

      ‘Is that a statement or a request?’ he barked in paint–peeling Glaswegian.

      ‘Sir?’

      ‘What is it that you want, Constable?’

      ‘I’m analysing the unsolved murders of prostitutes in the city over the past few years, sir, establishing links and connections between cases.’

      He squinted at me in irritated disgust. ‘We don’t even know who she is yet.’

      ‘I only need a few minutes, sir, maybe a chat with the pathologist.’

      ‘Why didn’t you just say so?’

      He continued to pitilessly survey my face, then laughed sourly. ‘I doubt if you could link this to another murder on the planet, son. It’s outta this fucking world.’

      Two gore warnings had me snorting air like a rhino with the bends. I stole one final lungful, banked it and pulled back the forensic tent flap. It felt like someone had just yanked open my rib cage and let my heart topple out onto the grass. All the blood in my head went south as my misfiring brain struggled to register the horror. I shifted from foot to foot, subconsciously trying to earth the shock. But it just ricocheted about my insides like a charged cannonball. I breathed in and out hard, willing the head swoon to pass.

      ‘Christ,’ I finally managed.

      A pathologist and a Scenes of Crime officer padded about in white overalls, shoeless and joyless, taking swabs and snapshots. I reached for my black, Met Police-issue notebook and pen. Jotting down the date, time and location steadied me. Falling back on training and routine, the clerical somehow formalised the grotesque chaos that lay at our feet. I reminded myself of my task here – to record the facts, not comprehend the crime.

      Her naked body, flat out on its back, had been sliced in two around the waist. The lower half had been positioned about a foot away from the torso and head. I started at the top.

      Jet black hair. A troubled forehead. Wide, thick eyebrows that looked like a four-year-old’s attempt to draw two straight lines. Tiny, narrowing, vivid grey eyes that looked puzzled. Early 20s. A ringer for actress Juliette Lewis. The corners of her mouth had been slashed right up to her ears, giving her a grotesque, purple ‘Joker’ grin, known as a Glasgow Smile – the city’s blade gangs had patented this sick ritual during the 1920s. You make a little incision in each corner of the victim’s mouth, then hurt them so that their screams do the rest.

      Her arms had been raised over her head, her elbows at right angles.

      Her breasts and stomach sported spoon-size gouges, red-rimmed. The lack of blood anywhere confused me.

      My eyes moved down to her spread-eagled lower half. Her intestines had been tucked neatly beneath her buttocks. Her pubic hair trimmed into a ‘landing strip’. More spoon-size gouge marks around her thighs.

      I watched the pathologist insert a thermometer into her rectum and wondered why anyone would choose such a profession. Especially this woman. Mid-40s. Sculpted blonde hair. Strong nose and chin. Imperious, rigid, poised, she clearly hailed from Britain’s ‘red trouser and Land Rover’ country elite. I could picture her astride a stallion sipping a pre–hunt sherry, or flagellating the local magistrate with a bullwhip. Yet here she was, crouched at the business end of a murder victim’s arsehole, the Last Judgement in a florid, shoulder-padded jacket and pearls.

      ‘Right,’ she said brightly, springing up, ‘let’s pop her into a bag and get her back to the mortuary.’

      Peeling off her polythene gloves, she turned to me.

      ‘Dr Edwina Milne,’ she announced, ‘and how may I help you, young man?’

      ‘DC Lynch,’ I said, offering a hand, ‘from the Cold Case Unit.’

      She gave my outstretched arm an arched eyebrow.

      ‘I don’t think so, DC. Not where my hands have been. Besides, they get very sweaty in these things.’

      She sealed the gloves in a transparent plastic pouch. She then squirted pungent splodge into her palms, rubbed them vigorously together and looked at me with a hint of impatience.

      ‘I’m analysing the unsolved murders of street girls from the last ten years, ma’am. I need to report to my chief today about any possible links between this and the others.’

      ‘Oh please. Ma’am makes me sound so bloody ancient. Edwina, if you can stand the informality.’

      ‘Donal, if you can stand the name,’ I said, wondering why so many upper-class British women seemed to be saddled with androgynous Christian names. I’d never met a working class Henrietta, Georgina or Jemima. Was there some sort of unspoken but institutionalised aristocratic distaste for femininity?

      Edwina’s hand rubbing slowed to a hypnotic, almost suggestive dandle: ‘Cause of death is, as yet, unknown. As is time of death. All I can say for certain is that she’s been dead for more than ten hours but less than three days. Hopefully I’ll be able to ascertain more after a full internal and external post-mortem.’

      I glanced over at the body, fly-tipped here like a busted fridge. Now the final indignity: every organ removed, analysed, bits of her sent away in jars for further tests. The rest of her poked and prodded, her most intimate parts photographed, scraped, swabbed or cut open. Body fluids, fingernail dirt and pubic hair sealed in plastic glass in the hope that it will trap her killer. But I knew from all the other unsolved cases that prostitute murders are notoriously difficult to crack. Street girls don’t talk. When you find a way to make them talk, their chaotic lives and suppressed memories make them unreliable, easy to discredit. Punters are too ashamed to come forward. The media sees no value in publicising the death of ‘a desperate skank’. Family or friends rarely come forward, pressing for answers.

      And so the girls lie in refrigerated cabinets for a year until the case is quietly shelved and what’s left of them swiftly buried in unmarked municipal graves. I wondered if this woman had family searching for her. Anyone who cared? Was there a person on the planet willing and able to identify her body?

      Edwina’s erotic hand motions stopped suddenly. ‘She has two perfectly round indentations СКАЧАТЬ