Troy had never walked away from an autopsy.
Until now.
He sat at his desk.
Two in the morning.
Listened to Kolankiewicz.
“Cervical fractures, C4 and C5. I would say death was instantaneous. Two fingers on the right hand broken at the proximal phalanges, third and fourth fingers. After death, I think. There is paint in the skin and I’d assume the hand trailed along the bannisters as she fell. Bruising to the skull beneath the hairline, and visible bruising to the right cheek, where she landed after the fall. I conclude Lady Stainesborough bounced off the stairs several times before she came to rest.
“Stomach indicates she had not eaten in a while. Modest amount of alcohol. Perhaps a single gin and tonic. Not enough to make anyone unsteady. Anyone used to alcohol, that is. And … no evidence of recent intercourse.”
For a while neither man said anything.
Then Troy said, “Time of death?”
“Around five.”
“What time does Jack say the cleaner arrived?”
“Around five. I got a call from Jack before half-past.”
“So … she just missed him?”
“Him?”
“The killer. You think there’s a killer. I know there was one.”
“My boy, perhaps what you are not yet telling Jack you should tell me.”
Troy said nothing.
“Just tell me.”
“The name Bill Blaine means nothing to you?”
Kolankiewicz shrugged.
“He was an MI5 agent. Five sent him to Vienna to de-brief Guy Burgess. I assume you know Burgess approached me while I was there. Blaine was shot only yards from our embassy. I was standing next to him. It’s a secret, at least for now, and it’s assumed on high that it was a KGB hit. Blaine was Venetia Stainesborough’s brother-in-law. But … he was a double agent. Venetia knew he was a double agent, and that kind of knowledge is dangerous. It’s what got her killed.”
Kolankiewicz had sat holding an envelope. He opened it and took out half a dozen large photographs.
To Troy they were all but abstract.
He turned them one way, Kolankiewicz turned them the right way.
“Upper arms, left and right. Triceps and biceps. You might mistake the marks for skin blotches. They’re faint, almost invisible … but the spacing is the giveaway, thumbs and fingers. Large hands, a big grip, not hard enough to have created obvious bruises, indeed I flatter myself many a quack would have missed it … but someone, someone taller than she, held her from above, and in front—”
“And threw her down the stairs.”
“Did you ever doubt it?”
“Not for a second.”
Not so long ago Troy had needed someone to die.
Now he needed someone to kill.