“Was she wearing makeup?”
“A little lipstick and eyeliner.”
“I need to sit down for a while and read the postmortem report.”
“I’l find you an empty office.”
Ten minutes later, alone at a desk, I stare at a stack of ring-bound photograph albums and folders bulging with statements. Among the pile is the postmortem report and results from blood and toxicology analysis.
CITY OF WESTMINSTER CORONER
Postmortem Report
Name: Unknown —— Postmortem No: DX-34 468
DOB: Unknown —— Death D/T: Unknown
Age: Unknown —— Postmortem D/T: 12 December 2002, 0915
Sex: Female
Anatomical Summary
1. Fourteen lacerations and incised wounds to the chest, abdomen and thighs, penetrating to a depth of 1.2 inches. They range in width from 3 inches to half an inch.
2. Four lacerations to the upper left arm.
3. Three lacerations to the left side of the neck and shoulders.
4. The direction of the sharp-force injuries tends to be downward and are a mixture of stabbing and incised wounds.
5. The hesitation marks are generally straight and accompany the deeper incisions.
6. Heavy bruising and swelling to the left cheekbone and left eye socket.
7. Slight bruising to the right forearm and abrasions to the right tibia and right heel.
8. Oral, vaginal and rectal swabs are clear.
Preliminary Toxicology Study
Blood ethanol— none detected
Blood drug screen— no drugs detected
Cause of Death
Postmortem X-rays reveal air in the right ventricular chamber of the heart indicating a massive and fatal air embolism.
I scan the report quickly, looking for particular details. I’m not interested in the minutiae of
how
she died. Instead I look for clues that relate to her life. Did she have any old fractures? Was there any evidence of drug use or sexual y transmitted diseases? What did she have for her last meal? How long since she’d eaten?
Ruiz doesn’t bother to knock.
“I figured you were milk no sugar.”
He puts a plastic cup of coffee on the desk and then pats his pockets, searching for cigarettes that exist only in his imagination. He grinds his teeth instead.
“So what can you tel me?”
“She wasn’t a prostitute.”
“Because?”
“The median age of girls becoming prostitutes is only sixteen. This woman was in her mid-twenties, possibly older. There are no signs of long-standing sexual activity or evidence of sexual y transmitted diseases. Abortions are common among prostitutes, particularly as they’re often coerced into not using condoms, but this girl had never been pregnant.” Ruiz taps the table three times as though typing three el ipsis dots. He wants me to go on.
“Prostitutes at the high-class end of the scale sel a fantasy. They take great care with their appearance and presentation. This woman had short fingernails, a boyish hairstyle and minimal makeup. She wore sensible shoes and very little jewelry. She didn’t use expensive moisturizers or paint her nails. She had her bikini line waxed modestly…” Ruiz is moving around the room again, with his mouth slightly open and a puckered brow.
“She took care of herself. She exercised regularly and ate healthy food. She was probably concerned about putting on weight. I’d say she was of average or slightly above average intel igence. Her schooling would have been solid; her background most likely middle class.
“I don’t think she’s from London. Someone would have reported her missing by now. This sort of girl doesn’t go missing. She has friends and family. But if she came to London for a job interview, or for a holiday, people might not have expected to hear from her for a while. They’l start to get worried soon.” Pushing back my chair a little, I lack the conviction to stand. What else can I tel him?
“The medal ion— it’s not St. Christopher. I think it’s probably St. Camil us. If you look closely the figure is holding a pitcher and towel.”
“And who was he?”
“The patron saint of nurses.”
The statement concentrates his attention. He cocks his head to one side and I can almost see him cataloguing the information. In his right hand he flicks open a book of matches and closes it again. Open and then closed.
I shuffle the papers and glance at the ful postmortem report. A paragraph catches my attention.
There is evidence of old lacerations running the length of her right and left forearms and inside her upper thighs. The degree of scarring suggests an attempt at self-suturing.
These wounds were most likely self-inflicted and point toward past attempts at self-harm or self-mutilation.
“I need to see the photographs.”
Ruiz pushes the ring-bound folders toward me and in the same breath announces, “I have to make a phone cal . We might have a lead. An X-ray technician has reported her flatmate missing in Liverpool. She matches the age, height and hair color. And how’s this for a coincidence, Sherlock? She’s a nurse.” After he’s gone I open the first folder of photographs and turn the pages quickly. Her arms had been along her sides when I viewed her body. I couldn’t see her wrists or inner thighs. A self-mutilator with multiple stab wounds, al self-inflicted.
The first photographs are wide-angle shots of open ground, littered with rusting forty-four-gal on drums, rol s of wire and scaffolding poles. The Grand Union Canal forms an immediate backdrop but on the far side I see a smattering of wel -established trees and the headstones in between.
The photographs begin to focus down onto the banks of the canal. Blue-and-white police tape has been threaded around metal posts to mark out the area.
The second set of photographs shows the ditch and a splash of white that looks like a discarded milk container. As the camera zooms closer it reveals it to be a hand, with fingers outstretched, reaching upward from the earth. Soil is scraped away slowly, sifted and bagged. The corpse is final y exposed, lying with one leg twisted awkwardly beneath her and her left arm draped over her eyes as though shielding them from the arc lights.
Moving quickly, I skim over the pages until I reach the postmortem pictures. The camera records every smear, scratch and bruise. I’m looking for one photograph.
Here it is. Her forearms are turned outward and lying flat against the dul silver of the bench top. Awkwardly, I stand and retrace my steps along the corridors. My left leg locks up and I have to swing it in an arc from back to front.
The operator buzzes me into the secure room and I stare for a few seconds at the same bank of metal crypts. Four across. Three down. I check the label, grasp the handle and slide the drawer open. This time I force myself to look at her ruined face. Recognition is like a tiny spark that fires a bigger machine. I know this woman. She used to be a patient. Her hair is shorter now and slightly darker. And she has put on weight, but only a little.
Reaching for her right arm, I turn it over and brush my fingertips along the milky white scars. Against the paleness of her skin they look like embossed creases that merge and crisscross before fading into nothing. She opened these wounds repeatedly, picking apart the stitches or slicing them afresh. She kept this hidden, but once upon a time I shared the secret.
“Need a second look?” Ruiz is standing at the door.
“Yes.” I can’t stop my voice from shaking. Ruiz steps in front of me and slides the drawer shut.
“You shouldn’t be in here by yourself. Should have waited for me.” The words are weighted.
I mumble an apology and wash my hands at the sink, feeling his eyes upon me. I need to say something.
“What about Liverpool? Did you find out who…”
“The flatmate is being brought to London by the local CID. We should have a positive ID by this afternoon.”
“So you have a name?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead I’m hustled along the corridor and made to wait as he col ects the postmortem notes and photographs. Then I fol ow him through the subterranean maze until we emerge, via double doors, into a parking garage.
Al the while I’m thinking,
I should say something now. I should tell him
. Yet a separate track in my brain is urging,
It doesn’t matter anymore. He knows her name. What’s past is past.
It’s ancient history
.
“I promised you breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Wel I am.”
We walk under blackened railway arches and down a narrow al ey. Ruiz seems to know al the backstreets. He is remarkably light on his feet for a big man, dodging puddles and dog feces.
The large front windows of the café are steamed up with condensation, or it could be a film of fat from the chip fryer. A bel jangles above our heads as we enter. The fug of cigarette smoke and warm air is overpowering.
The place is pretty much empty, except for two sunken-cheeked old men in cardigans playing chess in the corner and an Indian cook with a yolk-stained apron. It’s late morning but the café serves breakfast al day. Baked beans, chips, eggs, bacon and mushrooms— in any combination. Ruiz takes a table near the window.
“What do you want?”
“Just coffee.”
“The coffee is crap.”
“Then I’l have tea.”
He orders a ful English with a side order of toast and two pots of tea. Then he fumbles for a cigarette in his jacket pocket before mumbling something about forgetting his phone.
“I didn’t take any pleasure from dragging you into this,” he says.
“Yes you did.”
“Wel , just a little.” His eyes seem to smile, but there is no sense of self-congratulation. The impatience I noticed yesterday has gone. He’s more relaxed and philosophical.
“Do you know how you become a detective inspector, Professor O’Loughlin?”
“No.”
“It used to be based on how many crimes you solved and people you banged up. Nowadays it depends on how few complaints you generate and whether you can stick to a budget. I’m a dinosaur to these people. Ever since the Police and Criminal Evidence Act came into force
my
sort of policeman has been living on borrowed time.
“Nowadays they talk about proactive policing. Do you know what that means? It means the number of detectives they put on a case depends on how big the tabloid headlines are. The media runs these investigations now— not the police.”
“I haven’t read anything about this case,” I say.
“That’s because everyone thinks the victim is a prostitute. If she turns out to be Florence bloody Nightingale or the daughter of a duke I’l have forty detectives instead of twelve. The assistant chief constable wil take personal charge because of the ‘complex nature of the case.’ Every public statement wil have to be vetted by his office and every line of inquiry approved.”
“Why did they give it to you?”
“Like I said, they thought we were dealing with a dead prostitute. ‘Give it to Ruiz,’ they said. ‘He’l bang heads together and put the fear of God into the pimps.’ So
what
if any of them object. My file is so ful of complaint letters that Internal Affairs has given me my own filing cabinet.”
A handful of Japanese tourists pass the window and pause. They look at the blackboard menu and then at Ruiz, before deciding to keep going. Breakfast arrives, with a knife and fork wrapped in a paper napkin. Ruiz squeezes brown sauce over his eggs and begins cutting them up. I try not to watch as he eats.
“You look like you got a question,” he says between mouthfuls.
“It’s about her name.”
“You know the dril . I’m not supposed to release details until we get a positive ID and inform the next of kin.”
“I just thought…” I don’t finish the sentence.
Ruiz takes a sip of tea and butters his toast.
“Catherine Mary McBride. She turned twenty-seven a month ago. A community nurse, but you knew that already. According to her flatmate she was in London for a job interview.” Even knowing the answer doesn’t lessen the shock. Poor Catherine. This is when I should tel him. I should have done it straight away. Why do I have to rationalize everything? Why can’t I just say things when they enter my head?
Leaning over his plate Ruiz scoops baked beans onto a corner of toast. His fork stops in midair in front of his open mouth.
“Why did you say, ‘Poor Catherine’?”
I must have been speaking out loud. My eyes tel the rest of the story. Ruiz lets the fork clatter onto his plate. Anger and suspicion snake through his thoughts.
“You knew her.”
It’s an accusation rather than a statement. He’s angry.
“I didn’t recognize her at first. That drawing yesterday could have been almost anyone. I thought you were looking for a prostitute.”
“And today?”
“Her face was so swol en and bruised. She seemed so… so… vandalized I didn’t want to look at her. It wasn’t until I read about the scars in the postmortem report that I considered the possibility. That’s why I needed a second look at the body… just to be sure.”
Ruiz’s eyes haven’t left mine. “And when were you thinking of tel ing me al this?”
“I intended to tel you…”
“When? This isn’t a game of twenty questions, Professor. I’m not supposed to guess what you know.”
“Catherine was a former patient of mine. Psychologists have a duty of care not to reveal confidential information about patients.” Ruiz laughs mockingly. “She’s dead, Professor— in case you missed that smal detail. You conceal information from me again and I’l put my boot so far up your ass your breath wil smel of shoe polish.” He pushes his plate to the center of the table. “Start talking— why was Catherine McBride a patient?”
“The scars on her wrists and thighs— she deliberately cut herself.”
“A suicide attempt?”
“No.”
I can see Ruiz struggling with this.
Leaning closer, I try to explain how people react when overwhelmed by confusion and negative emotions. Some drink too much. Others overeat or beat their wives or kick the cat. And a surprising number hold their hands against a hot plate or slice open their skin with a razor blade.
It’s an extreme coping mechanism. They talk about their inner pain being turned outward. By giving it a physical manifestation they find it easier to deal with.