Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
I had the treat of being accompanied by Wrigley to the mortuary, sitting next to him in his newly purchased Lexus and enduring his long explanation of why he and his wife had decided this was the perfect retirement vehicle.
“This is my last post-mortem, Mia,” he also explained as he opened the door into the forensic suite viewing platform for me. “My last case.”
“When do you finish?”
“As soon as this is done with. My successor is ready to go, so in a couple of weeks I’ll be watching cricket.”
I didn’t want to say that it wouldn’t be much different than usual.
The body of Andrew Smith, someone who’d been alive and talking to me twenty-four hours ago, lay on the slab, the bright, clinical light flattening whatever humanity the mortuary usually tried to preserve. The rope mark stood out immediately; a narrow reddish-brown furrow around the neck.
“At first glance,” Nate said, pulling his gloves tighter. “You can see why someone at the scene would think it was suicide. Ligature round the neck, body suspended from height, no obvious catastrophic injuries.” He gestured towards the mark. “But the detail’s where it starts becoming problematic.”
“Oh Jesus,” Wrigley muttered. “It’s not a fucking suicide, is it.”
I ignored him, and so did Nate.
“In a typical suicidal hanging,” Nate continued. “Especially partial suspension, you’d usually expect the ligature mark to angle upwards towards the knot. It creates more of a V-shape because of the direction of force.” He paused. “This one’s comparatively horizontal.”
One of the techs altered the camera that projected onto the screen in the viewing gallery, showing a close up of Andrew Smith’s neck. I could see what Nate meant, the line straight across his neck.
“The knot position’s odd too,” Nate continued. “It was sitting high and back behind the left side of his head. Awkward placement if he tied it himself.”
“What do you mean?” Wrigley asked.
“The knot would’ve been difficult for him to tie. Not impossible, but not easy.” Nate reached for an iPad and brought up scene photographs. “What’s more interesting is the internal injury pattern.”
He enlarged one of the autopsy images, bruising deep within the tissues of the neck.
“There’s significant haemorrhaging in the strap muscles here.
” He pointed to what he was referring to, which was useful as I still hadn’t acquired much medical terminology.
“And bruising along the anterolateral neck structures which are mostly left-sided. That tells me there was force applied while his heart was still beating.”
“So he was alive when pressure was applied,” Wrigley said, sounding fatigued.
“Exactly. But I’m not convinced suspension caused all of it.” Nate swiped to another image. “There’s additional compression beneath the jawline and behind the neck that fits more with ligature tightening from behind rather than body-weight suspension alone.”
I folded my arms, tightening them across my chest. “Like Amanda.”
Nate glanced up briefly. “Yeah. Like Amanda.”
I felt cold, more facts starting to slot into place.
“There are petechial haemorrhages in the eyelids and conjunctiva.” He spoke clinically, in full flow now.
My brother played Cluedo and watched true crime documentaries.
He read detective novels and went to more conferences than he needed to.
“Facial congestion too. You can get that in hangings but combined with the rest -” He let the sentence trail.
“What about the rope?” I said, studying the marks on Smith’s skin.
“Kernmantle rescue rope leaves a fairly clean furrow because the sheath’s smooth. There’s not much abrasion patterning. But there are effectively two pressure events here.” He zoomed in again. “Initial constriction, then suspension afterwards.”
“You’re sure?”
“As sure as I can be before histology comes back.” Nate stepped away from the table. “My working opinion is that Smith was strangled from behind using the rope, likely rendered unconscious very quickly, then suspended post-mortem or peri-mortem to stage the scene.”
“Meaning?” Wrigley needed it spelling out before his hopes died.
“He was either already dead when they hung him from the tree,” Nate said, picking up a scalpel, “or so close to death that the suspension made very little difference.”
We stayed for the next hour, watching and listening to Nate as he went through the process of examining the centre of our crime scene, trying to understand as he analysed Andrew Smith’s body, finding out what he could about the man’s final hours.
“He ate approximately seven hours before he died, judging where the digestion process was up to,” Nate said, looking at contents that scored another item off my will-not-eat list.
“What time did you leave his house?” Wrigley asked me.
“Seven-thirty,” I said, looking away from the screen and turning my back to the viewing window. “So he could’ve eaten half an hour after, or later. It definitely didn’t smell like he’d just eaten when we got there.”
“Any idea of time of death, Doctor?” Wrigley said too loudly.
“I won’t be as specific in my report, but I’d say in the early hours of the morning, looking at rigor, stomach contents and overnight conditions. Between two am and five am.” That was about as specific as we could’ve hoped for, even if it wasn’t in his report.
Wrigley leaned back against the window, next to me. “The body could’ve been there for longer if it wasn’t for school kids pissing about. It was well hidden in the copse of trees – chances are a dog walker would’ve found it later. It was someone who knew the area.”
“Lily. There was a set of women’s footprints. But I don’t know why. What would be her motive for killing Andrew Smith?” That didn’t tie up.
“Then we’re back to Smith’s son. Lachlan and Verity were speaking to members of The Holding this afternoon; they’re devastated and couldn’t speak highly enough of Smith.
No one had any detail about his son and only a couple of people remembered anything about him.
They did know who Graham Mercer was though.
” Wrigley studied me, watching for a reaction.
“Why would they mention him?”
“Someone said they’d need to let him know, as he was due to meet with Smith on Friday.”
“I thought he was living abroad?”
“He still has his house in the area. I’ll speak with him.” He looked away from me, not expecting a response.
He should’ve known me well enough by now. “He’s a bent cop, isn’t he?”
Wrigley turned back to me, holding a pause that almost made me lose my breath.
“Mia, there’s no such thing as an unbent cop.
We all have our thresholds; it’s just some are lower than others.
But yes, there were always rumours about Mercer, and I’ve been told to look the other way before now.
” He carried on watching me. “I retire with this case. I don’t have a career to worry about, and I know I’ve nothing that could ruin my pension.
Let me fight this one.” He headed towards the way out.
“Someone showed you the redacted files, didn’t they? ”
“How would they?”
He laughed, leaving me at the morgue without a car.
I hadn’t been abandoned. The plan was I’d head back into town with Nate, as there was a random midweek leaving do for one of the CSIs who’d seen the light and was moving to France to renovate a gite.
Socialising was the last thing on my list to do; I wanted to head home, go for a run and sleep, with a shower that was still a form of water torture thrown into the mix. But there were things to do before I got that treat.
Nate drove us back into town, quieter than usual, which meant he said very little. We were at the lights at the top of Oldham Street when he broke his silence.
“Have you heard from Elin Rees recently?”
My spine froze. “No. Not for a few weeks.” DCI Elin Rees was the detective overseeing the search for our father after his escape from prison. “Why?”
The only sound in the car was of the indicator.
“I had a postcard from New Zealand. Nothing on it, just my address and a stamp.” He turned right, heading towards my usual car park.
“Call Elin. Let her know. We could get the stamp tested for DNA.” I was in no mind to prevent Stan from being tracked down.
“It’s self-adhesive. He wouldn’t be that stupid.” Nate sighed, long and loud. “I’ve let Elin know.”
“Could anyone else be sending you postcards from New Zealand?”
“Not that I can think of. I’m also not sure why Stan would send something to me. It’s not like he’s ever tried getting in touch much before. Idiot.” He cursed a driver who cut in front of us.
I’d have used much stronger language.
“He could be dead.”
He gave a short laugh. “Don’t sound so hopeful.”
“He’s trouble for us, and our careers. I owe him no loyalty though; if I got the opportunity, I’d shop him.
” And I’d feel no guilt about it. He was corrupt, unethical, narcissistic.
The list could go on. I probably needed several years of therapy to process and accept the trauma Stan Garrity had inflicted on me, but I preferred to channel it as anger.
“I think he knows that, Mia.”
“But what about you? If you knew where he was, would you let Elin know?” Because I wasn’t a hundred percent sure he would.
“I’d rather not know where he was, so I didn’t need to make that decision. But when it comes to it, I would do.” He pulled into the car park. “We’ll see if I get another blank postcard.”
“Or a blank cheque.”
“He wouldn’t bribe me. I’m not that person. Are you coming straight to the pub?”
I shook my head. “Need to see a woman about a cat.”
Darcy Harrop was already sat at one of the tables in Colin’s café, a vat of coffee in front of her. She was looking around the place as if she couldn’t quite believe she was actually there.
“Want another drink?” I asked, stopping by the table.
“Does he do anything apart from coffee or tea?” She stared at the ancient menu above the counter as if she was expecting its offerings to be altered.