Part 2 (2/2)

David shrugged. He pushed with his feet and sent the chair back across the floor, making it twirl and spin. He came to a halt, gave her a grin. 'You know what, Sally? You're a good Christian woman and now you've put it like that I can see the error of my ways. The dumb Polacks are relying on the money, so I'll do the right thing.' He stood and went to the door. 'I'll call the agent, renegotiate our contract. I'll complain about your work say I want you you off the job, the Polish tarts can stay.' He winked. 'Tell you what, I might even double their money. That should put a smile on their faces.' off the job, the Polish tarts can stay.' He winked. 'Tell you what, I might even double their money. That should put a smile on their faces.'

6.

'I was cagey about discussing this in the field.' The pathologist stood next to Ben and Zoe at the dissecting table in the hospital mortuary, looking down at Lorne Wood's remains. The room was closed, a uniformed officer sitting outside the door, just one mortician and the photographer in attendance. 'In my experience, a case like this? You limit the spread of information. Limit the people who know the details.'

The photographer moved around the body, taking it from every angle, coming in close on the tarpaulin, which was still drawn up to Lorne's chest. Just as she'd been found. Zoe watched, her lips pursed. She had been here before, in this room, with this pathologist, but they'd always been straightforward murder cases. Horrific and tragic all of them, but uncomplicated the victims, mostly, of bar fights gone wrong. Once a shotgun victim a farmer's wife. Of course, this wasn't going to be anything like those cases.

When the photographer had taken all the necessary shots, the pathologist stood next to Lorne's head, using a torch to look up into her nose, lifting both eyelids and s.h.i.+ning the light into them.

'What's the blood?' Zoe asked. 'The stuff coming from her mouth.'

The pathologist frowned. He peeled back a tiny part of the tape and stood back so Zoe could peer down at it. The skin at the edges of Lorne's mouth was stretched around the tennis ball. And the corners had indeed split two bloodied cracks each about a centimetre long. Just as the CSM had said.

Zoe gave a small nod. 'Thank you,' she said stiffly. She straightened and took a step back.

'I think the ball's dislocated her jaw too.' The pathologist put both hands under Lorne's ears and felt it, his eyes on the ceiling. 'Yup.' He straightened. 'Dislocated.' He glanced up to get the photographer's attention. 'Do you want to get some shots of this while I'm holding the tape back a bit?'

There was silence in the room while the photographer worked. Zoe avoided looking at Ben and she guessed he wouldn't be meeting her eyes either. Neither of them had said anything on the drive over, but she was sure his head would be full of the same things hers was like, what was going on under that tarpaulin? The pathologist seemed to take an agonizingly long time with the photographer and with taking samples from Lorne's hair and nails. It was an age before he went to the tarpaulin.

'OK?' he said, his eyes on Zoe and Ben's faces. 'Ready?'

They nodded.

He drew the tarp back slowly, and crumpled it into an evidence bag the mortician was holding out. Zoe and Ben remained motionless, staring at what was in front of them. Taking it all in.

She was dressed from the waist up in the grey Banksy T-s.h.i.+rt. Below that she was completely naked. Her legs had been opened and positioned in a frog shape, knees out to the sides, soles together. At first Zoe thought her abdomen and thighs were covered with red slashes. Then she saw they were marks made in a waxy reddish-orange substance. 'What is that? Lipstick?'

'You'd think so, wouldn't you?' The pathologist pushed his gla.s.ses up his nose and leaned in, frowning. 'It says something. Maybe you should uh?'

'”All like her ...”' Ben inclined his head sideways, reading the letters that ran up the inner thigh. '”All like her”? Is that what it says?'

'And this?' The pathologist indicated her abdomen. Letters running across it below her ribs, spanning her navel. 'Very clear to me.'

'”No one”?' Zoe murmured. 'No one.' She glanced up at Ben. As if he might have an answer. He shook his head. Shrugged.

'The other thing that struck me when I was in the field was this.' The pathologist bent and looked under Lorne's b.u.t.tocks. 'He's rolled up all her clothes her jeans, her socks, her underwear, put them under there. And, unless I'm very much mistaken, they're not torn, not ripped.'

'She let him take them off?'

'Depends by what you mean by ”let him”. Maybe she didn't have a choice. Maybe she was beyond struggling at that point.'

'You mean he raped her when ...'

'When she was unconscious,' Ben said quietly. 'That he knocked her out and then got on with it. Which is why no one on the ca.n.a.l heard anything.'

'I'm not saying anything. What I'm doing here is pointing out the areas of interest we could pay attention to during this postmortem. Which ...' he pushed the spectacles up his nose and moved the gooseneck lamp so it was s.h.i.+ning directly on Lorne's face '... is going to take a long time. I hope you don't have dinner plans.'

7.

Sally stood in David Goldrab's utility room, the iron forgotten in her hand, his words going round and round in her head. Twenty quid an hour off the books. No tax. Six hours a week Twenty quid an hour off the books. No tax. Six hours a week. A hundred and twenty pounds every week to add to her pay packet? At the moment she and Millie were just squeaking by after food, utilities, council tax and interest payments. An extra four hundred and eighty a month would mean she could begin to pay off the loans. Buy Millie a new school dress, new jeans. But working for David Goldrab? Here on her own, with all his rudeness and bl.u.s.ter? She wasn't sure.

Since Julian had left, it seemed that every day there had been a new obstacle, a new impossible predicament. And there was never time to think it through properly. Back in the days before Sally and Zoe had been separated from each other and sent away to different boarding-schools, Mum used to watch old films on TV on Sat.u.r.day. There was a character in one of her favourites who liked to say, 'Morals? We can't afford morals.' That was what happened at the bottom of the pile: you let ideals, like not stealing other people's work, sink to the bottom of the list somewhere beneath the electricity bill and the school uniform. You learned to swallow the things you really wanted to say.

She put down the iron, slid its plastic heat-cover closed and went into the kitchen. David was standing in the breakfast room, scratching his chest, idly clicking through the channels on the big wall-mounted TV screen. Danuta was crouched next to the sink, her back to them, sorting through the cleaning equipment. When Sally came in David raised his eyebrows, as if he was surprised to see her. 'OK, Sally?'

She nodded.

'What can I do for you, darling?'

She made a face nodded fiercely at Danuta, who was still rummaging in the cupboard.

'Sorry?' David said politely, glancing uncomprehendingly at Danuta's back. 'Beg pardon?'

Sally swallowed hard. 'Mr Goldrab, have you got a moment? There's something I need to ask you about.'

David gave a small smile. He turned away from her and went back to clicking through the channels. Sally waited. She watched as he calmly pa.s.sed news channels, channels where everyone seemed to be under water or on a mountain ledge, one with a woman lying on a bed, dressed in nothing but a pair of bright orange pants and cheerleader socks, staring at the camera with her finger in her mouth. When he'd got to the end he clicked all the way back again. Then he turned to Sally. Again, he seemed surprised to see her still there.

'OK, OK.' He sounded impatient. 'Go to the office and I'll be there in a bit. Don't give me a headache over it.'

The office was on the ground floor and was filled with computers, shelves of recording equipment, and cabinets of golfing trophies. On the walls were framed pictures of David looking proud with horses, his arm round girls in bikinis, grinning in a bow-tie next to a variety of celebrities that Sally recognized from programmes like The X Factor The X Factor. She sat down and waited. After five minutes he appeared, closed the door and sat opposite her. 'Sally. How can I help? Something on your mind?'

'The agency will think it's strange if suddenly I'm not available two afternoons a week and you cancel the agreement with the three of us at the same time. They look out for things like that.'

He grinned. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. 'See? What did I say? Told you you've got the smarts. It's OK. I'll call the agency, tell them I want to cut down the hours so you and the Polish tarts don't come so often say, every ten days. We'll let that situation cruise for a couple of months, then I'll cancel with them. It's win-win for you, darling. And anyway ...' He smiled and bent towards her. For a moment she thought he might put his finger under her chin and raise her face to his. '... It's not like I'm asking you to strangle someone. Is it?'

She didn't smile.

'So? Day after tomorrow, then, Princess?'

'Just one thing.'

He raised an eyebrow. 'A request? Nice.'

'Yes. Please I don't want you to call me a tart.'

He leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head and chuckled. 'Know what, girl? I'll do you a special introductory offer I won't call you a tart and I won't call you a c.u.n.t either. OK? I won't call you a c.u.n.t. Unless, of course, you act like one.'

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