Bad Sister(18)

‘Yeah, that would be helpful.’

The pathologist greeted them, all smiles and joviality. He’d been equally jolly on the phone, telling Lindsay that he’d recently taken up the post following his predecessor’s retirement and was eager to be of assistance in the murder case. ‘Welcome DI Wade, DS Mack. I’m Dr Lovell. You can call me Harry.’ He swept up to the metal gurney theatrically. ‘A fine morning for it!’ He waved an arm, indicating around the windowless room.

Lindsay cringed.

‘Putting on a bloody show for us, then?’ she whispered to Mack, who looked to be suppressing a giggle behind his hand. Laughing in the morgue wasn’t professional. Still, Harry had lifted the tension; the anticipation of the event was now quashed a little.

Eric Hargreaves’ body looked fake; like a dummy someone had made for Halloween, or one carefully crafted by the special effects teams for TV shows like Silent Witness. His skin appeared pale and waxy until you took in the injuries. They had a purple-red tinge to them. The flaps of flesh hung to the sides of his torso like chunks of meat hanging off a slaughtered pig in a butcher’s shop, exposing his bent ribcage – a structure meant to protect his heart – now broken and useless. The whole scene looked surreal. That was the only thing that enabled Lindsay to distance herself – if she didn’t think of this body as a man, a once living, breathing man, she could get through this. As tough as she considered herself to be, no matter how many times she’d been to the morgue, it was one of her least favourite parts of her job. There was something unnerving about silent, still bodies. And her mind always conjured her dear dad, and unwanted visions of him lying on a slab in this very morgue.

Lindsay took a deep breath and turned to Mack, his height blocking the strip lighting. ‘Wouldn’t you be better sitting?’

‘Hah! No, I like to be able to see right inside, can’t take in all its glory if you’re sat.’

‘As long as you don’t faint. I’m not attempting to catch you if you do.’

‘I’m good. Thanks.’

Harry conducted an external examination, calling out measurements to the path assistant as he travelled around the body. Lindsay noted that Hargreaves had extensive tattoos but her ears pricked when she heard Harry say a few of them appeared to be new.

‘Oh? How new?’

‘I’d say, given the colour of the ink and the absence of swelling or scabbing …’ He paused, bending closer to the cadaver. Lindsay felt her upper body move forward, eager for him to carry on. ‘That three of these were acquired post-mortem.’ He looked up, raising his eyebrows in their direction.

‘That’s interesting. So, mutilation through cutting and through tattooing? Why bother with both?’ Lindsay wondered out loud. ‘Can you take pictures of those, please.’

‘Perhaps that wasn’t part of the mutilation,’ Mack said. ‘Could be a message?’

Lindsay’s blood pulsated loudly in her ears. A tingle of excitement travelled the length of her spine; that familiar feeling of adrenaline coursing through her.

‘A message for who?’ she asked quietly and the question hung, suspended in the room like oil on water.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


Connie


Connie watched Steph from the window of her office. She was weaving her way through the throngs of people, seemingly the only one moving down the street; Connie could see her small frame being buffeted as she attempted to go against the stream. She looked so slight; vulnerable. She was strong though, Connie felt sure of that. She had fight in her. But was she also full of lies? She pulled her gaze away from the window and sat at her desk. She needed to have a conversation with Miles Prescott.

It took a while before she was put through to him. Getting the right department was clearly an art form; pressing the right buttons to be connected to the right people. Finally, Connie heard a deep, gravelly tone – one of a man with a forty-a-day habit – that she recognised as Miles.

‘Miles, it’s Connie Summers, Stephanie Cousins’ psychologist.’

‘Ah, yes. Been expecting a call from you.’

‘Oh, really? How come?’

‘Well, she’s been getting a bit jumpy lately. Coming out with all sorts, so I figured she’d be speaking about it with you. A matter of time before you needed to cross-reference facts with me.’

Connie was taken aback. If he knew this, why hadn’t he contacted her? Perhaps Steph had been right about him, that he wanted to pull back from her, withdraw some support.

‘Right, well now that it’s been established that she’s currently going through an episode of anxiety, perhaps together we can come up with a plan of action.’

‘To be honest, Connie, there’s not much more I can do. She’s had input from the witness protection team for four months, we’ve given her everything required to make a new life, but she seems to be trying to sabotage her own integration with this latest lot of anxiety attacks—’

‘No disrespect, but you’ve been the one who has given her reason to be anxious.’

‘Er … I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘The letters? Forwarding them on to her without even knowing who they were from.’

‘Oh. I see. Well, I need to put you right there, I’m afraid. I didn’t forward her any letters. Every so often, one of the team will check her old address, and her uncle’s, to see what post, if any, is there. There’s been nothing of note for the entire time she’s been in Devon.’