she—’
Simon held up his hands. ‘You don’t need to tell me, none of my business.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Shall we begin? I’ll go and scrub up. Will you be joining us, DCI Darke?’
Dressed in ill-fitting green theatre scrubs, apron, gloves, wellington boots, hat and face mask, Matilda stepped carefully through the footbath and into the small and dimly lit post-mortem suite.
There was one fixed table in the centre of the room. On it lay Brian Appleby covered in a white sheet. Four other people stood nearby – Simon Browes, Lucy Dauman, and two others who looked identical in their scrubs. One was a Forensic Imaging Specialist, to photograph the post-mortem at every stage; the other was the Crime Scene Manager, there to collect trace evidence. Under their protective layers, Matilda couldn’t tell who was who.
In the corner, was a brightly lit anteroom known as the SOCO room. This was where the evidence was passed through to a waiting detective constable. In this case, Faith had made the journey from the police station. Her expression showed that she wasn’t happy about being here, but at least there was a wall of glass between her and the gruesome act of an autopsy.
‘What did the results of the digital autopsy show?’ Matilda asked.
‘We haven’t done one,’ Lucy said.
‘Why not?’
‘I was told this was death by hanging,’ Simon said.
‘It is.’
‘Then we don’t need a digital autopsy. The majority of what we need to know is external. As for internal, bruising won’t show up on the scans. It will save time and money for me to perform a straight invasive post-mortem.’
‘What about the organs?’ Matilda asked.
‘What about them?’ he asked, getting slightly irate at the delay.
‘Don’t we need to do a digital autopsy to see their condition?’
‘As far as I have been made aware, there are no gunshot or stab wounds. We’re not looking for the trajectory of a bullet or a snapped-off point of a knife. May I begin?’
‘By all means,’ Matilda said, reluctantly stepping back so as not to get in the way. She doubted if radiologist Claire Alexander would be happy.
Lucy removed the sheet and was presented with a body bag lying on the table. She broke the lock and opened the bag revealing a pale Brian Appleby inside.
Matilda angled her head to one side and studied Brian’s face. She could understand why Adele had been attracted to him. He had thick, dark brown hair, a firm jawline, smooth skin and just the hint of grey in his stubble, giving him a distinguished look. Matilda had to remind herself this man had sexually assaulted three young girls. There could even have been more. He had used his charms to convince Adele he was an upstanding member of the community, just unlucky in love. What did he need to do to win over a fifteen-year-old girl?
‘Did you hear me?’
Matilda looked up to see all eyes on her. ‘Sorry?’
‘DCI Darke, if you’re not comfortable viewing a post-mortem you don’t have to stay,’ Simon admonished.
Matilda stole a glance at Faith in the SOCO room who was hiding a smile. ‘I’m fine. I was … thinking.’
‘Well, have a think about this. Your man here was strangled before he was hanged.’
‘Really?’ she asked. ‘He didn’t die by hanging?’
‘He may well have been unconscious when he was finally strung up but if you look at the rope marks on his neck, they run horizontally.’ Simon beckoned her closer to the body. ‘As you can see, the rope was tied around his neck, but it’s not a firm mark at the back. I think he was subdued in a stranglehold, so the killer would have more control.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Matilda frowned, trying, but failing, to picture the scenario.
Simon let out a heavy sigh. ‘Imagine the killer standing behind you. He has his arm wrapped around your neck squeezing hard to render you unconscious, or on the cusp of passing out. He lets go. You fall to the floor, gasping for breath, and he throws the noose over your head and hangs you up with it. The rope cuts into your throat and goes up the side of your neck around the back of your ears. It’s a very slow and painful death.’
‘Right,’ was all Matilda could say. She changed her mind on what type of person could overpower someone of Brian Appleby’s build. They needn’t be stronger, taller, fitter; the element of surprise was more than enough.
‘Do you know the signs of ante-mortem hanging, DCI Darke?’ he asked.
‘The presence of ecchymosis around the ligature and the dribbling line of dried saliva down the front of his shirt,’ Matilda replied with a slight smile on her face.
‘Very good,’ he said, a slight condescending tone to his voice. ‘Not just a pretty face, DCI Darke,’ he added, for want of something better to say.
Or maybe I called Adele this morning and she told me what to look for.
‘Judging by the crime scene photographs, this is a partial hanging as his toes were found to be touching the floor. Is that correct?’
‘They were just touching the ground, yes.’
‘The weight of the head, arms and chest provide the fatal pressure on the neck. Mr Appleby was a well-built chap. His own muscle was his killer. I’m going to cut through the rope and leave the knot intact. I’m sure your Forensics are capable of tracing the rope and finding skin samples within the fibres.’
‘How long would he have taken to die?’ Matilda asked.
‘I’m surprised you don’t already know the answer to that, DCI Darke,’ he smiled at her through his face mask, his eyes twinkled. ‘It depends on how long he was struggling with his assailant. The usual time period for death by hanging is three to five minutes. He will have lost consciousness fairly quickly. However, when you’re dying, those few minutes can seem like an eternity.’
Dr Browes cut through the rope. ‘As I expected, a simple slip knot. A decent enough rope too, not too thick, not brittle. Your hangman wasn’t an opportunist. He, for argument’s sake let’s call him a he, knew the size of his victim and brought along the adequate tools required.’
‘Thirteen twists too,’ Matilda said, remembering Diana Black’s comment from Thursday morning. ‘A typical hangman’s noose, I believe.’ She was enjoying being smug.
Simon Browes ignored her. ‘I’m going to cut him open and take a look at his organs now. Not squeamish are you, DCI Darke?’
‘Not at all,’ she lied.
‘Ms Dauman?’
‘Of course not,’ another lie.
