was found by the cleaner yesterday. Estonian girl called Lara. She’s still downing the vodkas.’
They stepped to the end of the sitting room. A white-overalled, white-masked forensic officer swerved out of the way, so the two men could see.
‘This is where we found her. Right here. The body was moved this morning. She was…sitting right there. You ready to see the photos?’
‘Yes.’
Sanderson reached to a sidetable. He picked up a folder, opened it, and revealed a sheaf of photographs.
The first photo showed the murdered old woman, fully clothed, kneeling on the floor with her back to them. She was wearing gloves, oddly enough. Simon checked the photo against the reality in front of him.
Then he looked back at the photo. From this angle the victim looked alive, as if she was kneeling down to search for something under the TV or the sofa. At least she looked alive – if you regarded her up to the neck only.
It was the head that made Simon flinch: what the murderer, or murderers, had done to the head.
‘What the…’
Sanderson offered another photograph:
‘We got a close-up. Look.’
The second photo was taken from a few inches away: it showed that the entire top of the victim’s scalp had been wrenched away, exposing the white and bloody bone of her skull.
‘And check this one.’
Sanderson was proffering a third image.
This photo showed the detached scalp itself, a bloody clogged mess of wrinkled skin and long grey hair, lying in the carpet; rammed through the hair was a thick stick – some kind of broom handle maybe. The grey hair was tightly wound around this stick, many many times, all twisted and broken. Knotted.
Simon exhaled, very slowly.
‘Thanks. I think.’
He gazed around the room: the bloodstains on the carpet were still very visible. It was fairly obvious how the killing must have been done: bizarre – but obvious. Someone had made the old woman kneel down, by the TV, then they had forced the stick through her long grey hair, then they had turned the stick around and around, winding the hair ever tighter on the stick, chewing all her hair into one great painful knot of blood and pain, tearing at the roots of the hair on her scalp, until the pulling pressure must have snapped, tearing off the entire scalp.
He picked out one of the last photos. It was taken from the front, showing the woman’s expression. His next words were instant – and reflexive.
‘Oh my God.’
The old woman’s mouth was torqued into a loud yet silent scream, the last frozen expression of her suffering, as the top of her head was twisted off, and popped away.
It was too much. Simon stiffened, and dropped the folder of photos on the sidetable; he turned and walked to the marble fireplace. It was empty and cold, with dried grasses in a vase, and a photo of some old people. A kitsch plaster statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary smiled from the centre of the mantelpiece, next to a small ceramic donkey. The yawning image of his brother, his hands coated in blood, came unbidden to his mind.
He purged it, and turned.
‘So…Detective…judging by that broom handle…it looks like…They twisted and twisted the hair, until it ripped off the top of…of her head?’
Sanderson nodded.
‘Yep. And it’s called knotting.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s a form of torture. Used through the centuries, apparently.’ He glanced at the door. ‘Tomasky did his research, like a good lad. He says knotting was used on gypsies. And in the Russian Revolution.’
‘So…’ Simon shuddered at the thought of the woman’s pain. ‘So…she died of shock?’
‘Nope. She was garrotted. Look.’
Another photo. Sanderson’s pen was pointing to the woman’s neck; now the journalist leaned close, he could see faint red weals.
It was puzzling, and deeply grotesque. He frowned his distaste, and said:
‘But that’s…rather confusing. Whoever did this, tormented the old woman first. And then killed her…expertly…Why the hell would you do all that?’
‘Who the fuck knows?’ Sanderson replied. ‘Bit of a weird one, right? And here’s another thing. They didn’t steal a thing.’
‘Sorry?’
‘There’s jewellery upstairs. Totally untouched.’
They walked to the door; Simon felt a strong urge to get out of the room. Sanderson chatted as they exited.
‘So…Quinn. You’re a good journalist. Britain’s seventh best crime reporter!’ His smile faded. ‘I’m not kidding, mate. That’s why I asked you here – you like a bloody mystery story. If you work out the mystery, do let us know.’
When he came to, groggy and numb, they were both outside, by the door to the bar. In the mountain sun. The girl was bleeding from her forehead, but not much. She was shaking him awake.
A shadow loomed. It was the barman. He was standing, nervously shifting from foot to foot, wearing an expression of compassionate fear.
He said in English, ‘Amy. Miguel – I keep him inside but but but you go, you must go – go now –’
She nodded.
‘I know.’
Once more the blonde girl grabbed David’s hand. She was pulling him upright. As David stood, he felt the muscles and bones in his face – he was hurting. But he wasn’t busted. There was dried blood on his fingers, from where he must have tried to protect himself – and protect the girl.
‘Crazy.’ She was shaking her head. ‘I mean. Thank you for doing that. But crazy.’
‘I’m sorry.’ David was wholly disorientated. She was British. ‘You saved me first anyway. But…I don’t…don’t understand. What just happened in that bar?’
‘Miguel. It was Miguel.’
That much he knew already. Now she was tugging him down the silent Basque street, past little restaurants advertising raciones and gorrin. Past silent stone houses with towers.
David regarded his rescuer. She was maybe twenty-seven, or twenty-eight, with a determined but pretty face, despite the bruise and the blooding. And she was insistent.
‘C’mon. Quick. Where’s your car? I came by bus.
