Come A Little Closer Page 4

  It’s a strange experience telling this kind elderly woman my story, but I can sense that she’s listening carefully and not judging me.

  ‘That’s not good, is it?’ Thea says. ‘Remember you can talk to me any time you like. I’m used to listening.’ She leans towards me slightly, as if about to share a secret. ‘The doctor is a psychiatrist, you know.’ She looks at my face and sees something there. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m not suggesting you need his help, but I often used to speak to his patients when they were in the waiting room, so their barriers were well and truly down before they went in for their consultations. He’s helped many people find the right way as a result of the cutting-edge techniques he pioneered. I’m so proud of him.’

  Thea glances at where her husband is sitting across the aisle, his head resting against the window, eyes closed. I can feel how much she loves him and I’m envious. But Ian is now back in my head, and as I turn away to take in the sight of the first of over two thousand stupas and pagodas on the plains of Bagan, I wonder what I’m going to have to do to get rid of him.

  Maybe it’s the sight of all those shrines, or maybe it’s the wine, but the words are out of my mouth before I’ve had time to consider what I’m about to say.

  ‘I’m beginning to feel I’ll never be rid of him. Sometimes I wish he was dead.’

  Thea pats my leg again, displaying not a hint of surprise. ‘Might be best for everyone,’ is all she says.

  9

  One of Tom’s least favourite tasks was attending a post-mortem, particularly when the body was that of someone so young. But he was hoping Amy Sanders would be able to give him something – anything – to work with, because in the case of the woman found at Pennington Flash they had nothing to go on at all.

  They still had no idea who she was, and nobody who fitted her description had been reported missing in the last few weeks. The team had started the laborious task of checking through older missing-persons records, both locally and from further afield, but it felt as if they were looking for a needle in a haystack. Given that across the country more than three hundred thousand people were reported missing each year and the authorities were often not informed if they returned home safely, it was a mammoth undertaking. Without having something to help them narrow their search down, it was likely to be a long job unless they struck lucky.

  The only clue to the cause of death was the slight cyanosis that Jumbo had spotted, which indicated a lack of oxygen, and Tom was hoping Amy could give them something more concrete to focus on so he could stop his endless hypothesising. Had she been drugged and then smothered? Had she died somewhere else and then been brought to the Flash? If she had come alone, how had she got there? There were no cars unaccounted for, and she had no coat, not to mention no shoes. And where were her shoes? Although they were searching for them, everywhere was still covered in snow, and they were unlikely to be found until it melted.

  As well as cause of death, he needed the pathologist to give him a time frame so they could review CCTV footage. There were no cameras in the country park itself, but they could access those on the roads close to the entrance on the off chance that their victim had caught a bus and walked the rest of the way, despite the lack of a coat. Maybe her coat was with the shoes.

  On top of everything else, the toxicology results were likely to take days, and it felt to Tom as if the investigation had no direction. They were thrashing about in the dark. They didn’t even know yet if this was murder, suicide or accidental death.

  He pushed open the door to the mortuary suite, trying to curb his irritation at their lack of progress. ‘I hope you have some news for me, Amy,’ he said to the pathologist, earning himself a pair of raised eyebrows above her mask.

  ‘Yes, I may well have,’ she said, in the brisk voice that Tom had become accustomed to over the previous twenty-four hours. ‘I’m as certain as I can be that she died exactly where she was found. Look here,’ she said, pointing to an area of lividity. ‘This is where she was sitting, the lowest point in her body. If she had been moved – unless she was in exactly the same position where she died – the pattern would be different. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  Tom resisted the temptation to mention that he had been to one or two post-mortems in his time, and smiled at her instead. ‘I get that, thanks.’

  ‘Good. I thought you would. So there’s no sign of any physical trauma, and all her organs seem to be in reasonable order, although I would say she was slightly undernourished. But nothing too serious. She was possibly of quite a nervous disposition – her nails are badly bitten – but she was clean and unlikely to have been a vagrant.’

  Tom nodded, appreciating her staccato presentation of the facts. ‘Do you have any idea of the time of death?’

  ‘That’s a bit more tricky. The outside temperature was sub-zero – I understand it hit minus ten on a couple of nights – and it was only marginally warmer inside the hut, which gave minimal protection from the extreme cold. She was very close to being frozen, although not enough to stop all decomposition. Based on those factors, I’ve tried to come up with a timescale, but there are so many variables that could affect it. On balance, I would say she died either immediately before the freeze or within the first two to three days of it. Had it been earlier, more decomposition would have taken place. Sorry – that’s as precise as I can make it.’

  ‘She died in the hide, you believe, so that’s a help.’ Tom mulled over the options, speaking them out loud to try to make sense of them. ‘If she arrived after the start of the freeze, it had to have been on foot, given that the park area was closed to traffic. Even if we ignore the lack of shoes and coat, both of which could have been discarded, it would have been a difficult walk in those conditions. On the other hand, if someone took her there by car and left her, whether to die or not we don’t know, then it has to have been in the few hours before the freeze set in.’

  ‘That just about sums it up,’ Amy said. ‘There’s something else I would like to run by you, though.’ She beckoned him a little closer. ‘You mentioned slight cyanosis, and you were right, but as you and Jumbo noted there is no sign of any violent act. Even if she had been smothered with a cushion you would have expected her to put up a fight – unless she was drugged, and we won’t know that until we get the tox results. But possibly more relevant is the fact that there weren’t any fibres in her mouth or her nostrils.’

  Amy pointed to the woman’s neck. ‘She wasn’t strangled, but if you look very closely, there is evidence that something was tied around her neck. Not tight enough to asphyxiate her, but tight enough, and there are one or two places that look as if something was rubbing on the skin before death. See here…and here.’

  Tom looked at the marks and then back at Amy. He had no idea where she was going with this.

  And then she told him.

  Becky looked around the incident room. Everyone seemed to be slouching in their seats, and she understood why. They had nothing to work with. They had no realistic timescale to investigate yet; they didn’t know how the woman got to the Flash, or even who she was. It was difficult to know where to start. Tom was due to give a statement to the press later that day in the hope that someone had seen something – anything – but they were clutching at straws.

  Just as she decided she should stand up and give a rallying speech to the team, Tom strode into the room and passed a number of photographs to Keith Sims to pin on the board. He was wearing what Becky referred to as his ‘important meeting’ suit. The very dark navy looked good on him and hung well on his broad shoulders. As Keith organised the pictures, Tom slipped off his jacket to reveal a powder-blue shirt and a tie which Becky couldn’t help thinking was unnecessarily cheerful. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled back the sleeves to halfway up his forearms.

  Becky sat a little straighter. Something was firing Tom up. Her reaction must have caught his eye, as he looked across and raised his eyebrows a fraction. Becky had seen that expression bef
ore and she felt a tingle of anticipation.

  Tom started to speak, and the room fell silent. He explained that the post-mortem had been completed and he wanted to talk the team through the findings. All eyes were on him.

  ‘Due to the fact that access to the Flash was very limited once the snow came, Dr Sanders believes we should focus on those hours of the night before the freeze started eight days ago. It was zero degrees by midnight, and the park was still accessible then, but by six the next morning the snow was thick and heavy. And it got colder. If our victim was driven there, our window is that night until the early hours, and it’s our starting point for checking CCTV. However, we can’t rule out the possibility that she walked there. Don’t be distracted by the lack of shoes, which might be irrelevant. We’re still looking for them. Realistically we need to expand the dates of interest for people walking into the park by three days.’

  There was a general groan at the thought of the extra footage they would have to look at, but Becky’s eyes were on Tom. She had a feeling he was holding something back – she was sure of it – something that would revitalise the investigation and get the best from the team.

  ‘As to cause of death, we won’t know for sure that it wasn’t an overdose until we get the tox results, but Dr Sanders has made another observation which is interesting, although it’s little more than an idea at the moment. She has confirmed that the woman died of oxygen starvation – hypoxia – but how that happened is far from clear.’ Tom pointed to the whiteboard, where a close-up image of the woman’s neck was visible. ‘During the postmortem Dr Sanders found the marks you can see here. She believes they were made by something tied securely around our victim’s neck. She wasn’t strangled – the marks are far too faint for that and there is no damage to her throat – so our pathologist believes there is a possibility that a plastic bag was placed over her head and secured.’

  DS Keith Sims, who had joined the team when Becky was on prolonged sick leave and had stayed ever since, raised a hand.

  ‘Yes, Keith,’ Tom said.

  ‘It’s my understanding that the build-up of carbon dioxide and lack of oxygen resulting from this type of suffocation induces a feeling of panic. Surely the victim would have attempted to rip the bag off her head?’

  ‘DS Sims is correct,’ Tom said, addressing the room. ‘But our victim doesn’t appear to have put up any fight at all, which could suggest that she had been drugged and was already asleep when the bag was placed over her head. However, Dr Sanders has another theory.’ Tom pointed to an image on the screen.

  Becky peered at it, wondering what it could be. It showed a small depressed circle in the dirt-covered boards on the floor of the hide, as if something had been placed there.

  ‘This picture came from Dr Osoba, the crime-scene manager. He and Dr Sanders believe that her findings, together with this photograph and a very small piece of parcel tape found at the scene, suggest one way in which our victim may have died.’

  Becky had no idea where this was going, but there was a briskness in Tom’s voice that confirmed she had been right about his expression. She leaned forward, all her attention focused on him.

  ‘We believe that death may have been via what is commonly called an exit bag.’ There was a murmur around the room and people shifted in their seats. ‘I called our newest team member, Lynsey, from the mortuary and asked her to find a suitable explanation for you. Over to you, Lynsey.’

  Lynsey got to her feet and glanced at Becky, her eyes wide. Becky gave her an encouraging smile, and the young detective picked up her notes.

  ‘An exit bag, also known as a suicide bag, usually consists of a large plastic bag with a draw cord – which can be something as simple as an elastic band slipped over the head or a piece of string – to close the bag. A pipe is inserted into the bag and sealed in place using something like parcel tape. This pipe is connected to a cylinder containing helium or nitrogen, both of which are readily available – particularly helium – and the gas is fed into the bag. For the victim, it’s a painless death. They breathe normally and comfortably and are unconscious through lack of oxygen in a few seconds. Death takes a little longer – maybe ten minutes – but the victim feels nothing.’

  There was a buzz in the room, and Becky nodded to Lynsey. She had done well, and had it not been for the telltale flush that seemed to plague her, Becky would have thought she had all the confidence in the world.

  ‘Thanks, Lynsey,’ Tom said. ‘That’s a perfect description of what has become something of a favoured suicide method. As you probably know, helium can be bought from shops that sell balloons for parties. If nitrogen was used though, it will be difficult to prove. There will be no trace of it in the body because the air we breathe is over seventy per cent nitrogen. Either way, we think the circular marking on the floor might indicate where the cylinder was placed.’

  Becky looked around at the team. People weren’t slouching now. They were turning to each other and talking in low voices. This was new. They hadn’t had a case like this before, and Tom’s eyes briefly met Becky’s again.

  ‘There was no cylinder at the scene, no plastic bag, and nothing but a tiny scrap of parcel tape. So if this really is how she died, she had help. Someone went with her to that place, and whether she willingly submitted to having the bag placed over her head or was incapacitated before she died, at best this is a case of assisted suicide, which is a crime. Alternatively, this has all the hallmarks of a very clever murder.’

  10

  Time is passing too quickly on this holiday. I feel as if I’m racing towards the moment when I will have to return home and face reality, and I can’t bear the thought. I struggle to focus on conversations and find myself tuning out whenever I’m in a group, letting others speak.

  It is as if Thea has read my mind and come to my rescue, because earlier she took me to one side. ‘We’re going to get a separate table for dinner tonight,’ she said. ‘Would you like to join us?’

  It was kind of her to ask. I do feel safe in their company, and I’m sure Thea wants someone to talk to. The doctor – whose name I have discovered is Garrick – doesn’t say much. Thea says he’s a thoughtful man who likes to focus on subjects rather more significant than who has the biggest pool in Louisiana, a not-so-subtle dig at Donna.

  At dinner we talk about the day, what we’ve seen, what we love about the place, and it’s not until we are on to the main course that things become more intense, and I start to feel slightly uncomfortable. Thea asks me to tell her about my life.

  I have no intention of mentioning Ian again, but do I want to tell her about my dysfunctional family? I don’t want to talk about my dad. I haven’t spoken to him for months – not since he and my stepmother, Annabel, gave Pops hell for giving me some money to help me buy my house. Apparently they thought everything should go to them, and things turned very nasty. Instead, I plump for a safe conversation about my job.

  ‘I work as part of the events team at Manchester Central – the convention complex. I was so lucky to get the job; there aren’t many opportunities like that in and around Manchester.’

  Thea gives me a wide smile. ‘How lovely! We go into Manchester quite regularly. It’s become such a pleasant city. We live just on the border with Cheshire. Do you enjoy your work?’

  I answer honestly. ‘I love it, but it can be pretty full on and it’s a huge responsibility logistically. My boss, Tim, is a bit of an idiot, which is unfortunate.’

  Thea and Garrick are facing me, and on the table behind them sits Paul. He has kept to himself most of the time, although I often look up and find his eyes on me. Tonight he has his back to us, but I notice he’s leaning back in his chair, and I get the impression he’s trying to hear what I’m saying. Why would he care about my work?

  I’ve felt even more ill at ease around him since Donna leaned across one day when we were at lunch, signalling with her scarlet-painted talons for us to come closer. ‘I heard an odd thing today about that man,
Paul,’ she said, whispering and glancing around to see if anyone was listening. ‘The steward told me that he’s taken every trip on this boat since the end of December. He’ll have done three trips before he goes home.’ Donna nodded her head once, as if this was very telling. ‘He’s staying on board until early February. What do you think that’s about, then?’

  None of us had an answer, but I couldn’t help wishing that I too could stay on board and not have to face what I knew was waiting for me at home.

  Thea has just asked me another question about my job when the cruise director, Joel, approaches our table. ‘Excuse me,’ he says, leaning down to speak to me quietly. ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, but we have an urgent call for you. Can you come with me, please?’

  I look blankly at him for a second, thinking that he must have got the wrong person. I know the number on the boat is only to be used in an emergency, and as I rise slightly unsteadily to my feet, my shaking legs knock against the table.

  I turn and scurry after Joel. His tiny office is next to the dining room, and he tells me kindly that the call has been put through there. He shows me in, hands me the phone and then quietly leaves.

  ‘Hello?’ I say, my voice hesitant, uncertain of what on earth could have happened.

  ‘You’re a bitch, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Ian!’ I whisper his name fiercely into the phone, my heart pumping. ‘What the hell are you doing calling the emergency number?’

  ‘You won’t answer my texts, calls or emails, so what the fuck do you expect me to do?’

  I feel myself about to apologise, to make excuses, but I swallow the words.

  ‘I can’t get a mobile signal here and there’s no Wi-Fi.’

  ‘Liar,’ he spits down the phone. ‘I read the brochure. It says there is Wi-Fi.’

  ‘Yes, Ian. Wi-Fi can be transmitted through the ship, but only when there’s a signal into the ship – which is practically never. It’s the truth, honestly.’