really need to speak with Miles—’
‘He won’t believe me.’ Steph got up, heading for the door. She turned, shaking her head. ‘Like you don’t.’
Connie remained in her chair. Chasing after her would be futile; nothing she could say would change Steph’s current anxiety state. Miles was only person who could do that.
Lindsay read through the transcripts again. The interviews with prison staff had yielded a list of Hargreaves’ known associates. The security team informed them of the SIRs that had been handed in relating to him; these security information reports mostly detailed the names already given to them, but also contained overheard conversations between Hargreaves and other prisoners – some drug-related, and some from staff members who’d been on the receiving end of a veiled threat or remark, or intimidating behaviour. All relatively normal stuff as far as the staff were concerned. A lot of the prisoners had similar reports. None of the information flagged up any major warning signs, and there was no obvious individual who might have been instrumental in his escape at his mother’s funeral. Lindsay tasked a small team to check out the names on the list.
They’d questioned the officer Hargreaves had been handcuffed to when he escaped, and, as yet, he was holding up under pressure, giving nothing but the original story. He’d been dragged to the entrance of the cemetery, where bolt cutters and a knife were hidden, and threatened by Hargreaves to help him release the cuffs. Despite another prison officer coming to his aid quickly, it still appeared that Hargreaves had had time to get away. Somehow that didn’t make sense to Lindsay, but everyone was sticking together and there was no other evidence to the contrary at this point.
‘So, what are we up to today, Boss?’ Mack flashed her a toothy grin.
Lindsay considered this for a moment. The pathologist was due to carry out the post-mortem this morning. Although they’d got a lot from the preliminary findings, it would be interesting to discover the not-so-obvious. Hargreaves’ wounds were externally gruesome, in-your-face mutilation obviously meant to shock, but she wondered if there would be any surprises – what might be lying beneath the surface waiting to be found.
‘Fancy a trip to the mortuary? I got us an invite.’
‘Oh, how could I resist such an invitation?’ Mack drew himself up to his full height. ‘I bet you’re a bundle of fun on a date, aren’t you?’ He grabbed the keys and headed for the door. ‘Come on then, Ms Macabre. Let’s get over there.’
It was Lindsay’s first time in the morgue since Erin Malone. The smell as she entered through the double doors instantly brought back the memory of the murdered teenager. Was this post-mortem going to be any easier to watch because this victim had been a criminal, not an innocent like Erin? He was a person, after all. Like Erin, he had had a family, friends. Had he been a good man once, and then merely taken the wrong path? He’d attacked women. He’d shown no remorse. Was this his punishment? But did anyone deserve to be hacked up, spread open and left on display?
‘You okay, Boss?’
‘Yep. Fine. Just eager to find something out about our murderer. I’m hoping he’s left us a bit of himself behind.’
‘Yeah, that would be helpful.’
The pathologist greeted them, all smiles and joviality. He’d been equally jolly on the phone, telling Lindsay that he’d recently taken up the post following his predecessor’s retirement and was eager to be of assistance in the murder case. ‘Welcome DI Wade, DS Mack. I’m Dr Lovell. You can call me Harry.’ He swept up to the metal gurney theatrically. ‘A fine morning for it!’ He waved an arm, indicating around the windowless room.
Lindsay cringed.
‘Putting on a bloody show for us, then?’ she whispered to Mack, who looked to be suppressing a giggle behind his hand. Laughing in the morgue wasn’t professional. Still, Harry had lifted the tension; the anticipation of the event was now quashed a little.
Eric Hargreaves’ body looked fake; like a dummy someone had made for Halloween, or one carefully crafted by the special effects teams for TV shows like Silent Witness. His skin appeared pale and waxy until you took in the injuries. They had a purple-red tinge to them. The flaps of flesh hung to the sides of his torso like chunks of meat hanging off a slaughtered pig in a butcher’s shop, exposing his bent ribcage – a structure meant to protect his heart – now broken and useless. The whole scene looked surreal. That was the only thing that enabled Lindsay to distance herself – if she didn’t think of this body as a man, a once living, breathing man, she could get through this. As tough as she considered herself to be, no matter how many times she’d been to the morgue, it was one of her least favourite parts of her job. There was something unnerving about silent, still bodies. And her mind always conjured her dear dad, and unwanted visions of him lying on a slab in this very morgue.
Lindsay took a deep breath and turned to Mack, his height blocking the strip lighting. ‘Wouldn’t you be better sitting?’
‘Hah! No, I like to be able to see right inside, can’t take in all its glory if you’re sat.’
‘As long as you don’t faint. I’m not attempting to catch you if you do.’
‘I’m good. Thanks.’
Harry conducted an external examination, calling out measurements to the path assistant as he travelled around the body. Lindsay noted that Hargreaves had extensive tattoos but her ears pricked when she heard Harry say a few of them appeared to be new.
‘Oh? How new?’
‘I’d say, given the colour of the ink and the absence of swelling or scabbing …’ He paused, bending closer to the cadaver. Lindsay felt her upper body move forward, eager for him to carry on. ‘That three of these were acquired post-mortem.’ He looked up, raising his eyebrows in their direction.
‘That’s interesting. So, mutilation through cutting and through tattooing? Why bother with both?’ Lindsay wondered out loud. ‘Can you take pictures of those, please.’
‘Perhaps that wasn’t part of the mutilation,’ Mack said. ‘Could be a message?’
Lindsay’s blood pulsated loudly in her ears. A tingle of excitement travelled the length of her spine; that familiar feeling of adrenaline coursing through her.
‘A message for who?’ she asked quietly and the question hung, suspended in the room like oil on water.
Connie watched Steph from the window of her office. She was weaving her way through the throngs of people, seemingly the only one moving down the street; Connie could see her small frame being buffeted as she attempted
