The pathologist, Dr Riley – Susan as Janine knew her – was still bent over the body. She looked at Janine.
‘Looks like she was strangled; bruising to the neck. The face is very badly damaged.’
‘From the water?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Janine grimaced. The woman’s face had been spoilt deliberately.
‘ID?’ Richard asked.
‘Nothing. No clothing. There’s a wound to the upper right thigh. The surface skin removed.’
Janine looked back at the body. ‘A tattoo?’
‘Could be.’
‘Or a birth mark?’ Richard suggested.
The pathologist nodded. ‘She was weighed down. Gym weight strapped to each foot, one round the neck.’
‘But she didn’t stay down?’ Janine said.
‘Not heavy enough. And as the body filled with gas…’
They needed to identify the woman as soon as possible. Knowing who she was would be the key to the direction the investigation would take. ‘If we move fast,’ Janine said, ‘we can get an appeal on the news this afternoon.’ She looked at Susan. ‘Can you give us vital statistics?’
‘Twenties, dark hair. Five foot six, slight build.’ Richard entered the details in his daybook.
‘Perfect.’ Janine told her. ‘How soon can you do the post-mortem?’
The pathologist smiled. ‘You queue jumping?’
‘Moi?’
‘See what I can do.’
‘And the report?’
Susan raised her eyebrows, folded her arms.
‘One’s no good without the other,’ Janine studied her.
‘Early afternoon – if I skip lunch,’ she said dryly.
‘Very overrated, lunch,’ Janine countered as she made to leave the tent.
Butchers and Shap, sergeants both: the one big-boned, plump and ginger-haired, the other trim, sharp-faced and balding, caught the call when the Mercedes was found. On their way back from a training day on community liaison that had been cancelled due to illness, it was Butchers whose ears pricked up as the radio squawked into life. ‘Stolen vehicle, wanted in connection with RTA, driver failed to stop. Blue Mercedes, registration Victor 384, Zulu, November, Bravo. Reported on waste ground off Dunham Lane. Unit to attend.’
Butchers jerked his head at Shap.
‘Base, we’ve got this,’ Shap said.
Butchers took the next left, his homely face set rigid with determination.
When they reached the windswept location the car was still ablaze; thick, oily smoke coiled up into the air carrying the stink of burning rubber and plastic. Hard to tell it had been a Mercedes, let alone a blue one.
Butchers sighed volubly.
‘Flambé.’ Shap said. ‘Owner’s going to be made up, isn’t he?’
