DS Wendy Knight stared at the crime-scene photograph of Ella Barrington. Ella's swollen purple face looked lifeless as her head sat indented in the mud. Blood had trickled from her nose and dried onto her lips. Her eyes had the appearance of glass, almost doll-like.
It wasn’t how Wendy had expected to spend her morning, but she had waited to be called onto her first murder case for a long time. DCI Jack Culverhouse, in his usual inimitable style, was giving a run-down to the rest of the investigation team.
‘Ella Barrington, aged twenty-one. Prostitute.’
Wendy smiled to herself and gave a small shake of the head. Culverhouse’s reputation preceded him: he always got to the important details first.
‘Discovered by an early commuter at Mildenheath Train Station at six-thirty this morning. We've got a combination of strangulation and suffocation, according to the SOCO boys. Oh, and her throat was slashed, too. We've no way of telling yet what actually killed her, but I think we can rule out a tragic accident.’
A nervous chuckle rippled through the incident room.
‘All forensics can say at this stage is that it's almost certain she died on the spot where they found her — there’s mud under her fingernails which matches indentations in the ground, and it doesn’t look like she was dragged there after she’d died. Her throat was cut, but they reckon that was done after she’d died.’
‘Which direction?’ Wendy asked.
‘Sorry?’
‘Which direction was her throat cut in? You said they knew.’
‘From left to right, apparently, but I don't see what difference it makes at this stage, Knight.’
Wendy knew that one could tell a lot from the direction of a cut. ‘It makes quite a bit of difference, actually. It makes him right-handed.’
‘What?’ Culverhouse asked, seemingly put out that someone so new to murder investigations should have the audacity to show him up like that.
‘You said her throat was cut from left to right. That means the killer must have been right-handed.’
‘Listen to me, Knight. I've not got time to listen to your theories on bloody forensics — that's why we've got those dickheads in white suits crawling all over the body.’
‘I was only saying—’
Culverhouse shot a telling stare in Wendy's direction. That was her cue to shut up and listen.
‘The body was easily identifiable. She’s known to most of the response units, and let’s just say the desk sergeants have had to deal with her a fair few times. Besides which, she had her driving license on her in her purse, which made identification somewhat easier.’
‘She still had her purse on her?’ Wendy asked.
‘Correct. Any more bright theories you’d like to enlighten us with, Knight? Apart from the bleedin’ obvious, I mean.’
Wendy thought twice before saying anything.
‘That means the killer wasn't motivated by money or stealing her possessions,’ Culverhouse said. ‘Our motive wasn’t theft. Boys and girls, we're looking at a cold-blooded prossie killer.’
Wendy was amazed that Culverhouse had ever managed to scale his way up the apparently politically-correct modern police force. She recalled a story she had been told by a colleague when she mentioned that she was looking to join CID. Legend had it that Culverhouse's wife had done the dirty on him and run off with his child, leaving him with a deep hatred of women. She had heard that he would go out of his way to make sure that prostitutes and female petty offenders would be dealt with swiftly and to the fullest extent of the law, even if it meant the odd con getting away with murder — sometimes literally. Of course, she also knew that the working environment of the modern police service meant that rumours and supposition were rife.
There was an air of intrigue around the SIO; there was no denying that. Wendy, though, had always been wary of DCI Jack Culverhouse and his hard-cut reputation. Now, on her first real murder case, she knew she was going to need all the help she could get. Talk about being thrown in at the deep end.
Debbie Weston, a middle-aged Detective Constable who was also relatively new to CID, whispered to Wendy, her blonde hair arced over her eye as she tilted her head. ‘I really don't know how he stays so calm and jokey. I'd be bricking it if I had to lead a murder investigation.’
‘It's a case of having to, Constable Weston. Murders are simply business. You can't let it get personal or it'll eat away at you until there's nothing left,’ Culverhouse barked. Debbie Weston was a new addition to the department and would have to learn the hard way about Culverhouse's legendary supersonic hearing. She got the impression that he spoke with a voice of experience.
The ringing phone pierced through the hubbub in the incident room. DS Frank Vine leaned across the desk and answered it.
‘It's for you, guv.’
DCI Culverhouse strode confidently towards the desk and listened to the voice on the other end of the line for a few seconds.
‘Same MO?’
He sighed, before murmuring a ‘thank you’, replacing the handset and turning back to the now-silent incident room.
‘They've found a second victim.’