His & Hers(31)

I stop at the gas station to buy cigarettes on my way to meet Priya. From what she said in her text I know I’m going to need them. The roads are empty, so it doesn’t take long to get where I am going, and I decide to have a quick smoke before getting out of the car. Something to stop my hands from shaking.

Visiting a mortuary is something I’ve done a hundred times before—a regular part of my job when I was in London—but it’s been a while and this feels very different. I can’t stop thinking about last night and how I left Rachel the way I did. What happened wasn’t my fault, but I doubt other people would see it that way if they knew the truth.

I force myself to step inside the building, trying not to gag at the smell, which is so much worse in my head than it is inside my nostrils. When I see Rachel’s body on the metal table, I have to cover my nose and mouth. If there weren’t other people in the room I’d close my eyes too, but Priya is staring at me in her customary intense way. She sees me as her boss and sometimes I think that’s all it is, but there are other times, like now, when I can’t help wondering if there is more to it than that. Not that I’d ever do anything about it. She isn’t unattractive or anything, but mixing business and pleasure has never worked out well for me.

I ignore Priya’s stare and return my attention to Rachel. Somehow it wasn’t as bad in the woods, when she was still fully clothed and lying among the leaves, like a modern-day Sleeping Beauty. Seeing her like this—naked on a silver slab and cut open like an animal—is all a bit too much. I would not have chosen to remember her this way, but I expect it is the version I will not be able to forget. Along with the smell. Her eyes are closed now at least.

“Will you be needing a bucket?” asks a man I’ve never met.

I think it’s reasonable to assume he is the forensic pathologist, given where I am and what he looks like. But always best to be sure who it is you are talking to, I find.

“DCI Jack Harper,” I say, “and thanks for the offer, but I’m fine.”

He stares at my outstretched hand but does not shake it. I think he is being rude, until I notice that the gloves he is wearing are covered in blood.

He is a wire coat hanger of a man, thin and twisted as though a little bent out of shape, while at the same time looking like he may have sharp edges if handled the wrong way. His messy gray eyebrows make an exaggerated effort to stretch across his heavily lined forehead, like long-lost friends who only fight when they finally meet in the middle. And the hair on his head is still black, as though it has forgotten to age at the same time as the hair on his face. He smiles with his eyes, not his mouth, and the man looks a little too thrilled to have something to do, in my opinion. I can see spots of her blood on his apron and have to look away.

“Dr. Jim Levell, pleased to meet you,” he says, without sounding it. “It was the stab wounds that killed her.”

If that’s the best he can come up with, I fear I’ve had a wasted journey.

His casual tone seems a little unprofessional—even to me—but then this is the first murder I’ve had to deal with since I came back to this quiet corner of the countryside, so perhaps he is out of practice. Regardless, I have already decided not to like him. From the look on his face, I conclude that he isn’t an instant fan of mine either.

“Any thoughts on the weapon?” I ask.

“Relatively short blade actually, kitchen knife, perhaps? She might not have died as a result of one or two, but there were over forty wounds of almost identical depth—all over her chest—so…”

“So she didn’t die straightaway?” I finish the sentence he seemed unable to.

“No, I doubt that very much. It wasn’t the wounds that killed her, it was the blood loss. It will have been rather … slow.”

Priya stares at the floor, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care and carries on with his findings.

“It’s my belief that the killer cut the victim’s fingernails at the scene, and probably took them with him. A souvenir, perhaps. Or, if she managed to scratch him, perhaps he was worried about what we might find beneath them. I’ve taken swabs, but I suspect he wore gloves. I have no doubt this was planned.”

I picture the Tic Tac box that I found in my car earlier, full of nail clippings.

I need to get rid of it.

“You keep referring to the killer as male—” I start to say.

“We found semen.”

Of course he did, and of course it is mine.

“Any update on the victim’s car?” I ask, turning to Priya.

I need time out from the pathologist.

“No, sir,” she replies.

I know that Rachel’s Audi TT was in the parking lot outside the woods last night; she parked right next to me. But nobody else is aware of that and her car certainly isn’t there now. I continue to stare at Priya.

“Did we get any usable tire tracks in the end?”

“No, sir. The rain washed almost everything away. Anything we did get turned out to be a car or van belonging to either the press or … us.”

“Meaning?”

“The tracks of your car, for example.”

“I told you that failing to cordon off the parking lot was a mistake. Don’t beat yourself up about it. Nobody knows it all, and those who pretend they do know even less than the rest of us.”