Ask them about Emma was all it said.

But who was Emma, and who was them?

Chapter Nineteen

Carson was first into the mortuary, pushing the door open with a thump, Laura and Joe trailing behind him. It was really just the basement of an old hospital building, lined by cracked green and cream tiles, with a sign over the door in Latin – Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae. This is the place where death rejoices to help those who live.

She took a breath as she went in, the swinging door wafting the odour of cleaning fluids and stomach gases. She reached into her pocket for the small tub of Vicks she carried in her bag for moments like this, a quick smear under the nose taking away the worst. She could never get used to the smell of a freshly-opened stomach, like stale food mixed with vomit and gas.

Joe Kinsella was different. He was quiet, but there was an intellectual detachment about him, like he was there to spot something, not just get through the ordeal.

Laura could deal with post-mortems, but only just, because they were different to finding a body or being puked on by a drunk at the custody desk, where you deal with the moment, adrenaline driving the action. Post-mortems were cold and calculated, the exposure to death by appointment, and so there was too much time to think about it. She wasn’t one of those who could eat their sandwiches over the body, and it was the jokers that always made her wary. That was usually a front, their own way to deal with the difficulty of the situation.

Carson wasn’t like that. He was uncomfortable, worried about keeling over or feeling faint but was too macho to admit it, although he seemed determined to get the job done and get out.

When they walked in, Jane Roberts was already on the table, which was nothing more than a sloping tray with raised edges, built so that the blood could be sluiced into the drains without dripping onto the floor. Jane was uncovered, although there were plastic evidence bags over her hands, and she bore little resemblance to the attractive young woman who had gone missing. Her stomach was distended, with her skin showing a green tint and her face swollen, the sharp cheekbones and pouting mouth Laura had seen in photographs now gone forever.

The pathologist, Doctor Pratt, was walking round the body, trying to form a snapshot view before he started slicing. He was in a green scrub suit and what looked liked a Perspex welding helmet, although the visor was still up and over his head. He played the fool and the flirt, wide around the stomach, with grey hair sticking up wildly on top of his head, but he was the best there was, and that was all that mattered.

He gave Laura a smile as he looked towards them. ‘Ah, the cavalry. And McGanity. So good to see you. I heard they had you shoved into a uniform for a while.’

Laura smiled her greeting and went directly to the head-end of the mortuary table. It was nearer to the action, but could be a grim spot to be at when the Stryker saw shrieks into the skull and the scalp gets peeled forward like a swimming cap. The only saving grace was that the cooling fans were always at the top of the table, so that the smells were blown down the body, not up. It was always the ones at the feet who fainted. And Laura knew that this was going to be a bad one because the body had been lying outdoors for a few days, with plenty of time for the gases to start bubbling inside.

‘So you want to know what I think so far?’ Doctor Pratt asked, as he pulled his pen from the pocket of his green smock. ‘Step closer,’ and when Carson was by his shoulder, he said, ‘Look here,’ and used the pen to point to Jane’s wrists, just visible above the plastic evidence bags. Laura joined them, and saw brown marks on the edges of the forearms, the signs of abrasions. She knew what that meant: ligatures.

‘Tied up, just like last time,’ she said.

‘Not tied,’ the doctor said.

Carson frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Cloth or leather ligatures would give a more even ring around the wrists,’ Doctor Pratt said. ‘These marks seem more abrasive, as if it was something rigid against her wrist bones.’ He pointed to the right wrist. ‘What do those grazes remind you of?’

Laura looked closer. The scrapes on the wrist bone were typical of post-arrest injuries, where the cuffs had to be tight to restrain, but sometimes they caused grazes when they rubbed against the prisoner’s skin.

‘Handcuffs,’ Laura said.

The doctor smiled. ‘Just like handcuffs.’

‘So something has changed,’ Laura said. ‘The first girl was bound using something softer. Maybe it is someone copying?’

‘Possibly,’ Joe said, pulling at his lip, ‘but it will also make the killer harder to find.’

‘What do you mean?’ Laura said.

‘If she was cuffed, there won’t be much to find in those,’ he said, and pointed towards the evidence bags placed around the hands, there to collect any debris that may have fallen out of the fingernails or from the palms as the body was transported. ‘When people are strangled, both the killer’s hands are being used, and so they can’t fight off the victim, who will scratch and fight and gouge, and so you often get hairs in the victim’s fingers. If some of the skin comes with the hair, you can get the DNA. Or there might be skin under the fingernails. But if she was cuffed, there will be none of that.’

‘Was she strangled?’ Carson asked, looking at Doctor Pratt.

‘I can’t be too sure just yet, not until I open her up, but that would be my guess,’ he said. ‘Look at her cheeks. Do you see those little black specks.’

Laura peered closer, trying to see through the discolouration and bloating from being left outdoors for a few days. Then she saw them, like tiny dots.

‘They’re called petechiae,’ Doctor Pratt said.

‘Burst blood vessels?’ Laura said.

‘Pretty much so,’ the doctor agreed. ‘The pressure around the neck increases pressure in the veins and capillaries, and so they just pop when they reach the surface. I haven’t looked under the eyelids yet, or inside the nostrils, but there’ll be some there, I can guarantee it. And do you see that dried blood around her nostril?’

Laura nodded.

‘Again, more likely due to the strangulation than a punch.’

‘Is it manual strangulation?’ Carson asked.

Doctor Pratt breathed out noisily and then nodded. ‘My first guess is that she was throttled by a left-handed person.’

Carson looked surprised. ‘How can you tell?’

‘Look at the bruising on her neck.’

They all took a step closer. Laura could see some brown marks just under the jaw.

‘You can see her colour,’ Doctor Pratt said. ‘Lying outdoors since the weekend hasn’t done much for the poor girl’s looks, and so the marks could be due to putrefaction, that sometimes happens, that bruise-type marks are formed. Once I dissect the marks, I’ll be able to tell whether they were bruises inflicted before death.’

‘There are quite a few bruises,’ Laura said.

‘Yes, but they are mainly on her right side,’ Doctor Pratt said. ‘Or, as you might prefer it, the killer’s left. There are only two bruises on the left side of the neck. Think of a left-hand around the throat. That would be where the thumb would go. There are a lot more on the other side, where the fingers go. That is a left-handed grip. There are a lot of bruises though, and so he must have changed his grip.’

‘What if the killer was above her head when she was on the ground, looking down her body?’ Carson said. ‘That would make it a right-handed grip.’

Doctor Pratt shook his head. ‘Look how the bruises are just under the jaw. That shows the pressure was towards the jaw. If he had been over her head, the pressure would have been away from the jaw. And it was a one-handed grip too. The hand ends up under the jaw when you use one hand, whereas a two-handed grip tends to go around the neck.’