“It was a medieval cemetery, an unconsecrated burial ground for prostitutes and others who couldn’t afford proper burial,” Maura answered. “When London Transport began work here on the Jubilee Line extension a few years ago, they started digging up bodies. Work was stopped, and the place has been in limbo since. London Transport want to use the property for part of their travel hub; the local residents want a park, with some sort of fitting commemoration for those buried here. Meanwhile, the heroin addicts have a field day.”
“I suspected she might be a junkie, when we met her,” he said, remembering the girl’s edgy pallor.
“She could have met someone here, looking for a buy.”
“Maybe. But dealers don’t usually strangle their clients.” The bruising was clearly visible on the girl’s exposed throat.
“A rape gone wrong?” suggested Maura.
“Not unless he dressed her again.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe this was a random killing, and neither do you. We’re a few hundred yards from the warehouse where Laura Novak was killed, not to mention the fact that it was Beverly Brown who reported the fire.”
“Could she have seen something else that night?” Maura mused. “But if so, why didn’t she report it?”
“Maybe she didn’t realize what she’d seen. Maybe she was protecting someone.”
“Or maybe she was frightened,” Maura said slowly.
“With good reason.” He thought of the two little girls, now motherless, like Harriet Novak. Whoever this bastard was, he had to be stopped.
And what of Harriet? Gemma was right, time was running out. He tried to put aside the fear that Harriet was already dead, that they would find her body tossed away like a bit of rubbish, as Beverly Brown had been.
“If this was the same killer,” said Maura, “why no attempt to hide the victim’s identity this time? Or to hide the body? She wasn’t even covered.”
Kincaid glanced round the barren lot. “Lack of means? Lack of opportunity?” He grimaced as a gust of wind blew grit in his eyes and a fat raindrop splashed against his cheek. The rain had been teasing since midmorning, advancing and retreating like a shy schoolgirl, but now the sky to the west looked thunderous. “Let’s get that tarp up,” he called out to the uniformed officers. “The Home Office pathologist won’t be happy if her trace evidence gets washed away.”
When a car pulled through the cordon of patrol cars and Kate Ling got out, he found he wasn’t surprised.
“Duncan,” she said as she reached them. “If you really want to see me every few days, you could just buy me a drink.”
“Hullo, Kate. You remember Inspector Bell, from the other day?”
Already pulling on her gloves, Kate nodded at Maura. “I hear you got an ID on the warehouse corpse.”
“News travels fast in exalted circles,” Kincaid told her. “That’s about all we’ve got, so far, and now…” He gestured at the body before them. “This young woman was a resident at the women’s shelter across the street from the warehouse.”
Kate squatted, graceful even in such an awkward position, and gently tilted the girl’s head back with her gloved fingers. “There are obvious signs of manual strangulation, as I’m sure you’re aware.” She pulled back the eyelids, then stretched her hand across the throat, matching her own hand to the bruises. Her finger and thumb fell short on either side by half an inch. “Not a particularly large hand, either, but he – or she – seems to have been strong enough to subdue her single-handedly.”
“Right-handed?”
“Looks that way.”
“Could she have been sedated?” asked Maura.
“Did she shoot up, you mean?” Kate pushed up the right sleeve of the girl’s sweater, then repeated the process with the left. “There are some tracks, but nothing that looks terribly recent. Unless she injected somewhere else.”
“Can you tell if she fought her attacker?”
The pathologist lifted the hands in turn, examining the fingertips.
Beverly’s nails were bitten to the quick, and one cuticle bore a smear of dried blood. “Hers?” Kincaid asked, bending down to look more closely.
“I think so, but…” Kate isolated the middle finger on the right hand. “Even as short as her nails are, we may have some trace evidence here.” She looked up. “You know I can’t tell you much more until I get her on the table. I can’t even be absolutely certain that strangulation was the cause of death.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Time of death? Come on, live dangerously, Doc.”
“You never give up, do you?” asked Kate, flashing him a grin. Then she turned back to the body, checking the exposed skin of the arms for lividity, testing the limbs and neck for rigor. “I’ll have to get a temp, but off the cuff I’d say at least twelve hours. But if you quote me, I’ll deny it.” She stood up and reached for her instruments. “Oh, and livor mortis seems to be very well defined. I don’t think she was moved from this spot.”
“Well,” said Kincaid. “At least this time we have an idea where to start.”
Gemma had driven Kit back to school, insisting that he finish his afternoon classes. He hadn’t objected. He hadn’t spoken at all during the drive from the court to Notting Hill, and his silence worried Gemma more than any angry tirade.
When she stopped the car, she said, “It’ll be all right, Kit. We’ll work things out.”
He’d given her a look that told her he knew it was an empty promise, and when she tried to hug him, he pulled away. As she watched him walk into the school gates, she felt a rush of helplessness, followed by a fury that left her trembling.
Not trusting herself to talk to Kincaid over the phone, Gemma had rung Doug Cullen for directions to the crime scene. She’d left her schedule free for the afternoon, as she hadn’t known how long the court proceeding would take, and she decided that anything pending could wait a bit longer. She was going to Southwark.
Now she ducked under the tape strung round the edge of the rubble-strewn vacant ground, then stood for a moment, picking out Kincaid’s figure among the group huddled round a tarp at the far side of the lot. Their faces were briefly illuminated by the photographer’s flash and she recognized Kate Ling and Maura Bell.
Kincaid looked up then, and when he saw her, he came quickly to meet her.
His smile of greeting faded as he saw her face. “Gemma. Is everything okay? How did it go?”
“It was a disaster. It was bloody well dreadful, if you want to know.” All her pent-up anger and worry spilled out in a flood of bitter words. “It couldn’t have been worse if we were axe murderers. Eugenia seemed plausible, while we looked like irresponsible parents – not that the judge could see that we had any qualifications to be Kit’s parents. Without proof that you’re Kit’s natural father-”
“I’ll talk to her – I can explain-”
“And the worst thing about it was that at least part of what she said was true. Ian is irresponsible. And we’re not always there for Kit. You weren’t there for him today.”
Kincaid looked devastated, and Gemma knew that if she’d meant to wound him, she’d succeeded.
“I know I let him down,” he said in appeal. “I’ll make it up to him somehow. Surely the judge will see reason.” He gestured towards the group gathered round the body. “I couldn’t leave today. I had no choice.”
“You did have a choice. You chose the job,” she spat back at him. But even as she said it, she saw the mortuary attendants lift Beverly Brown’s small form onto a body bag, and she wondered whether she would have done the same.
When Kincaid and Maura Bell rang the bell at the shelter, the door buzzed open immediately. The stairs seemed steeper than the last time he’d climbed them, the stairwell more dank and airless. His legs felt leaden and his shirt, still damp from the sudden soaking they’d received at the graveyard, clung to his skin as tenaciously as Gemma’s words haunted his conscience. As he followed Maura upwards, he was grateful to her for pretending she hadn’t witnessed their very public row.