Frozen Grave (Willis/Carter #3)(2)

‘You’ll thank me for these.’

He shut the doors on the back of the van and picked up his Croc box containing an assortment of variously sized evidence bags. ‘Follow me.’

Dermot, the scenes of crime officer, stood to greet them as they stepped inside.

‘That’s far enough,’ Sandford said, leaving the detectives at the entrance as he crossed carefully on stepping plates to the far side of the room. There were battery-powered LED lights in the corners. The only other light was filtering in past boarded-up windows and through the open entrance.

Carter switched on his head lamp and pulled up his mask against the smell of human waste mixed with cigarettes, alcohol and dog shit.

‘Christ – what a place to end up. You wouldn’t want an animal to die in this, let alone live,’ he said, looking around.

‘I reckon this is home to about twenty people,’ Dermot said, shining his torch into the far left-hand corner of the room. ‘And it looks like they left here in a rush,’ he said as his torch beam lit a mound of broken glass. ‘Besides all the empties, I found half a bottle of Smirnoff over there and three of these – used recently.’ Dermot held up a crack pipe in his hand.

‘Party time,’ said Carter.

Willis stepped round to stand beside him and get a better view as she shone her torch into the room. The woman’s body was lying on the far side near the back wall; the pale skin of her flank glowed in the dim light. Above everything else, all the obvious smells of dirt and defecation, Willis could smell the unmistakable sweet overtones of clotting blood.

‘I need more light on her,’ Harding said as she stepped across on the plates and squatted down beside the body.

Sandford picked up one of the LED lights and brought it nearer.

‘Rigor mortis is fully established,’ said Harding. Sandford knelt beside her, to help roll and hold the body on its side.

The corpse sighed.

‘Lividity is established too. She died here.’ Sandford rolled the body back. ‘Extensive bruising around the pelvic area and the hips, top of the thighs. Evidence of sexual assault, rape. Lacerations,’ said Harding. ‘There are also large areas of bruising around the shoulders, ribs and collarbone. Consistent with pressure being applied,’ she continued.

‘So she was held down and raped,’ said Carter.

‘There are multiple footwear marks around the body,’ Sandford said as he angled the light for Harding.

‘Which would explain the hasty exit,’ said Carter. ‘Everyone in here was involved in this in some way.’ He looked around. ‘Maybe she came in here with someone. Maybe this wasn’t her usual place to sleep and she drifted onto someone else’s turf. She pissed someone off.’

Carter was watching Dermot as he moved a mattress and propped it up against the wall then knelt to examine it.

‘Someone’s been bottled by the look of it. There is fresh blood on the mattress – still wet.’

‘No evidence of wounds consistent with being bottled,’ said Harding. ‘It looks like someone tried to strangle her though.’ She moved to one side so that the detectives could see the ligature around the woman’s neck.

Dermot stood and held something in the air for them to see.

‘Expensive knickers.’

He walked across and passed them to Carter.

Carter looked at the label. ‘La Perla. Very posh.’

‘There’s also one half of a pair of stockings attached to a suspender belt,’ Dermot said, taking the knickers back from Carter and putting them into a crime-scene bag. He handed the stocking across. ‘Just one so far.’

‘The other one is round her neck,’ said Willis, who was squatting level with the body and leaning into the room to get a better look.

‘This is expensive lingerie,’ Carter said, holding the stocking. ‘This outfit must have cost a hundred quid – probably two. La Perla is expensive, isn’t it, Doctor?’

‘Yes.’

Carter knew there was no point in him asking Willis. Dermot walked back across the plates and resumed his examination of the mattress.

‘Do we know the cause of death, Doctor?’ asked Willis.

Harding turned the woman’s head away from her.

‘There is a crush wound to the skull, a lot of blood lost here, and possible brain injury.’ She shone the light onto the woman’s face. ‘But there are so many other poss—’ She paused mid-sentence. She moved the light closer. Her voice quietened: ‘We’ll have to get someone else to perform the post-mortem.’

‘What’s the problem, Doc?’ Carter moved towards the body, stepping on the first plate.

Dermot stopped working and stood upright.

‘I know her.’

‘You sure?’ asked Carter.

‘Yes . . . of course I’m sure – I wouldn’t say it otherwise. I don’t know her well but I’ve met her a few times. Her name is Olivia Grantham. Early forties. She lives in Brockley, south-east London. She works for a solicitors’ firm in London Bridge, near the Shard.’

‘Any idea what it’s called, the place she works at?’

‘Spencer and Something. As far as I remember, she’s a junior partner.’ Harding started to pack away her kit.

Sandford and Dermot were poised, listening to the outcome of the conversation.