as the bullet had passed through the upper part of the victim’s maxillary bone before travelling under the orbital socket and sending out shock waves that ruptured the blood vessels in both eyes, causing the haemorrhaging that had turned them a dark maroon colour.
Canning pushed the forceps through the pulped muscle and bone deeper inside the skull into the brain, trying to follow the path of the bullet as best as he could. ‘Dear oh dear,’ he shook his head. ‘The damage to the skeletal structure of the victim’s face is significant, as is the damage to soft tissue surrounding the entry point.’ He pushed the forceps still deeper. ‘The bullet I suspect was a fairly large calibre to have caused so much damage – .38 inch at least.’ Again he shook his head. ‘The damage to the right side of the brain is also very significant. On first examination I would estimate at least one quarter of it has been totally destroyed, with further significant damage being caused by the shock waves that would have been emitted by the projectile. Death would have been almost instantaneous. Even if the Critical Care Team had been able to keep her body alive, her brain was already dead. She couldn’t possibly have survived long term.’
‘Then we should thank God for small mercies,’ Sean told him.
‘Indeed we should,’ Canning replied.
‘And the bullet?’ Sean asked.
‘Give me a minute,’ Canning insisted. ‘With this amount of damage to the soft tissue the bullet could have moved significantly from where one might expect it to be.’
Sean waited impatiently as he watched the pathologist nimbly and diligently working the forceps inside the victim’s skull. ‘Ah ha,’ Canning suddenly smiled. ‘Be ready with the camera,’ he warned Justin, before slowly pulling the forceps clear and holding them closer to the lights. He spoke to Sean without looking away from the small, bloody object held firm in the tiny teeth of the surgical instrument. ‘I believe this is what your heart desires, Sergeant.’
Sean leaned in for a closer look, but the bullet was still in too much of a mess to see anything clearly. ‘Can you clean it?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’ Canning carefully dipped it into a small stainless steel bowl of water – very gently moving it back and forth until he was satisfied it was clean enough to be examined and then placed in an evidence bag. He lifted it from the bowl and again held it to the light. ‘Not much to see,’ he declared, twisting the shapeless metal object so he could see it from all angles. ‘Looks like lead.’
‘A manufactured bullet wouldn’t lose its shape that badly,’ Sean told him, ‘and it’s definitely no dum-dum bullet.’
‘Homemade then,’ Canning deduced.
‘That would be my guess,’ Sean agreed.
‘If the bullet was made,’ Canning surmised, ‘then the gun probably was too – a re-commissioned replica no doubt.’
‘Most guns out there are,’ Sean explained, ‘but we won’t know for sure until ballistic forensics examine it. I need to take it with me.’
‘Of course. Do you have an evidence bag?’ Sean produced a small plastic bag from his pocket and handed it to Canning. ‘I see you came prepared.’ The pathologist took the bag and filled in the required details with a pen he’d pulled from underneath his apron as if it was a magic trick. He used his initials and the fact it was his first exhibit to label the bag: RC/1. He signed it, sealed it and handed it to Sean. ‘Good luck,’ he told him with a slight raising of his eyebrows. ‘I think you’re going to need it.’
‘Thanks,’ Sean told him and headed towards the exit without ceremony. ‘I’ll let you know what ballistics find.’
Canning watched him disappear through the plastic swing doors. ‘An interesting fellow, don’t you think?’ he said to Justin, who just pulled a face of disinterest and shrugged. ‘I’ve got a strange feeling we’ll be seeing a lot more of DS Corrigan.’
***
When Sean arrived back at the Murder Investigation Team’s office, Featherstone was already briefing the rest of the unit as to what they’d discovered so far. Images of the CCTV covering the car park played on a large roll-down screen behind Featherstone, who provided a commentary of the events that led to the death of Sue Evans. Sean used the relative darkness of the room to approach unnoticed and stand at the back of the gathered detectives. Featherstone used a long wooden ruler to point at the things he wanted his audience to pay attention to.
‘Now we see the victim’s car approaching the entrance,’ he continued. ‘She swipes her ID card to raise the barrier and drives in. Here we can see she drives around to her named bay and parks up. There’s a delay for a few seconds while she does something inside the car – we don’t know what – probably gathering up her bits and pieces.’ He swept the ruler to the top of the screen. ‘While she’s still in the car the suspect appears from around the side of the studio building and jogs across the car park.’ Sean watched the small figure of the man dressed all in black as he headed towards the victim’s car. Where had he been hiding before he appeared from the corner? Or had he simply walked along the Southbank in the boiler suit, putting the balaclava on just before he came into view?
‘He stands slightly to the rear of the car,’ Featherstone explained, ‘presumably so the victim can’t spot him and waits a few seconds until she climbs out and sees him, by which time he’s already pointing the handgun at her head …’
‘She says something,’ Sean found himself saying too loudly before he could stop himself.
Featherstone hit pause and searched in the dark for the source of the question until he squinted in Sean’s direction. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I think she says something,’ Sean repeated sheepishly.
Featherstone looked at the screen and then back to Sean. ‘And if she did?’
‘Must have been a hell of a shock – to step out of your car and see a man pointing a gun at your face. Yet she still managed to say something. As if she …’
‘As if she what?’ Featherstone pushed him.
‘As if she knew him,’ Sean finished. ‘If she knew him, maybe she tried to appeal to him – asked him not to pull the trigger. I don’t think she would have spoken if she didn’t know him.’
‘Interesting,’ Featherstone tried to play along, ‘but how could she have recognized him? He was completely covered.’
‘Not his eyes and mouth,’ Sean pointed out. ‘She recognized his eyes. She recognized his lips. Maybe she said his name.’
There was a silence in the room for a few seconds before Featherstone spoke again. ‘Maybe. Let’s get a lip reader from somewhere and see if they can’t tell us what she said. If we’re lucky DS Corrigan may be right and she said this bastard’s name. Make life easier for us. Any more questions?’ The room was silent. ‘Good. And if we could hold our thoughts until the end of the footage that would be helpful.’ Sean felt the eyes of the room burning into his skin as Featherstone pressed play. A split second later a bright flash burst from the end of the revolver, but also from the front and back of the chamber, accompanied by a huge smoke cloud that momentarily obscured both figures until it drifted away in the light breeze, by which time Sue Evans was already lying on the ground breathing her last breath. A few moments later the shooter ran off in the direction he’d come from, disappearing around
