The Infirmary (DCI Ryan Mysteries prequel)(17)

“The CSIs bagged up the kitchen knives and any other sharp tools in Cooper’s home,” Phillips said. “We still haven’t found a murder weapon for Isobel Harris either.”

Pinter shrugged his bony shoulders.

“It would make sense to remove the evidence and sterilise off-site.”

Ryan looked up from his inspection of Sharon’s hands, which had been bagged separately to preserve evidence.

“Has the tox report come back yet?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Pinter said. “Neither has the histology report but they’re doing an express service and I’ve told them to ring you as soon as the results come through.”

Ryan paced a couple of steps around to the other side of the gurney, looking at the body from all angles.

“Is there nothing else you can tell us?”

Pinter bristled.

“I’m going as quickly as I can,” he said. “There was no blood or other secretions found on her person, other than her own, of course. That makes things harder for the forensic team…and for you, of course. The only thing we can say with any level of certainty is that the method of execution is the same.”

“With Isobel Harris, you said whoever did it had an exceptional level of skill,” Phillips said. “Would you say the same about whoever did this?”

Pinter raised a hand to smooth his crop of thinning hair and stopped himself just in time.

“Yes, I would. Look at the incision here,” he remarked, pointing towards the clean separation of Sharon’s right knee from the rest of her leg. “And here,” he pointed towards the neat separation of each of her finger joints. “It takes knowledge and skill to produce such a result and he consistently works from anterior to posterior, above the joint. With an everyday, run-of-the-mill job, you’d expect somebody to have hacked away willy-nilly but that’s not the case here at all.”

“Sharon Cooper has still been hacked apart,” Ryan said coldly. “However it was achieved, her killer is an animal and needs to be put down.”

Pinter flushed.

“I’m simply telling you that an amateur couldn’t have done this,” he argued. “And, while we’re at it, I might as well tell you I never believed John Dobbs could have killed Isobel Harris. There might have been slightly less finesse in her case, but the facts remain that a healthcare assistant couldn’t hope to emulate the mastery of an experienced clinician.”

There was a long, pregnant silence broken only by the sound of the clock ticking loudly on the wall.

“Mastery?” Ryan queried, softly.

“Well, you know what I mean,” Pinter said.

Ryan smiled but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Perhaps we’re looking at this the wrong way. Here I’ve been searching for a psychopath whereas I should have appreciated the kind of superior intellect I’m dealing with. Is that about it?”

Pinter nodded.

“I’d have thought that was obvious.”

Ryan gave him a long, level look.

“I’ll bear it in mind.”

*

They stayed for another hour discussing the intricacies of Cooper’s death, then Ryan and Phillips retraced their steps, exiting the mortuary via the service entrance that led them back out into the late morning sunshine. They raised their faces to the wind, breathing in the exhaust fumes from the car park and the dual carriageway just over the perimeter wall but still finding the atmosphere preferable to the noxious fumes circulating around the mortuary.

“Bit tense in there,” Phillips remarked, reaching for his cigarettes to clear the tension riding on his own shoulders. “This one’s getting on top of everyone. You can feel it.”

Ryan didn’t answer at first but turned as one of the junior doctors stepped outside to join them beneath the plastic canopy. She moved off to the far end where she slid down to the floor in one exhausted motion, leaning back against the outer wall while she retrieved her own packet of cigarettes. There was hypocrisy in there somewhere, Ryan thought, but he couldn’t blame her for not practising what she preached. Her fixed, glazed expression spoke of interminable double shifts dealing with emergencies and the general public. If nicotine helped, who was he to judge?

“Need a light, love?” Phillips called out.

She shook her head and waggled her lighter, sending them both a small smile of thanks before slumping back against the wall to stare off into the distance, puffing rhythmically.

Ryan picked up the thread of their conversation but kept his voice low.

“Did you hear the way Pinter was talking in there, Frank? It was…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Reverent.”

“That’s just Jeff. The bloke’s a nerd when it comes to anatomy and bodies and all that. He doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s the same reason he can’t get a girlfriend. He scares them off with all his shop talk.”

“Does he have an alibi for yesterday morning?” Ryan wondered aloud, ignoring Phillips’ attempt at levity. “I told you, Frank, I’m looking at everybody. Nine times out of ten, a victim’s killer is already known to them.”

“By God, you’re a cold bastard, sometimes.”

Ryan turned to him with fierce eyes.

“If that’s what it takes,” he snapped. “Whoever’s out there killing those women doesn’t give a damn about the sanctity of life, doesn’t care about shattering families. I don’t have time to worry about whether I’ve offended Pinter’s sensibilities—or yours, for that matter. I only care about finding this scumbag before he takes another one.”