Mason stepped back a pace, his voice sounding croakier by the minute.

  ‘Estimated time of death?’

  The doctor stood for a moment, removed his wool beanie hat, and ran his fingers through silky white hair. ‘It’s difficult to be exact. Not more than four hours, I’d say.’

  ‘Four hours!’

  ‘She didn’t die here if that’s what you’re thinking, this one was murdered.’

  Mason flinched as the SOC’s camera flash bounced off the dead woman’s wax-like features. From where he now stood, only the rear half of the Polo was visible. The air reeked of diesel fumes, and the temporary floodlighting was casting ominous shadows over the entire crash scene. It was then he noticed the water authority’s van roof had been cut away. There was blood over the driver’s seat, oil on the floor, and the steering wheel had been removed by the emergency services.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Mason asked.

  ‘Take your pick: there’s bruising to the neck and severe blunt force traumas to the back of the skull. No doubt a detailed post-mortem examination will tell us more.’

  Mason tried not to dwell on it.

  ‘Strangled?’

  The doctor nodded. ‘There’s oil stains on her dress but very little blood, which you’d anticipate finding from such extensive head trauma injuries.’

  ‘Murdered elsewhere, well I’ll be damned!’

  From what he could see, Coldwell Lane ran a good half mile to the crossroads with Windy Nook. Judging by the impact damage, speed was the overriding factor here.

  Stepping from the shadows he was met by Sergeant Morrison, an old school copper now nearing retirement. The sergeant removed his peaked cap and peered in through a small jagged opening at the rear of the Volkswagen Polo. What Morrison didn’t know about RTC’s wasn’t worth discussing.

  ‘What do you think, old-timer?’ Mason asked.

  ‘It looks like the driver’s done a runner, boss.’

  Mason stared at him quizzically.

  ‘TWOC, do you think?’

  ‘We’ll need to check whether the vehicle was in gear before it collided,’ the sergeant confirmed. ‘At least that should tell us how it arrived here.’

  ‘Who would jump ship with a dead woman sat beside you?’

  ‘Some scumbag did.’

  Mason peered into the well of the vehicle again. There was glass everywhere, a strong smell of engine oil and the metallic clicking sound of cooling metal. Fingerprints found on the steering wheel might uncover something. There again, it had probably been wiped clean. He stared at the dead woman’s face. She was a pretty thing, with long wavy brown hair, high cheekbones, and incredibly long eyelashes. She looked so innocent, he thought.

  He flashed his torch beam ahead of them. Some crime scenes spoke volumes to him, but not this one. This one felt different, as though he’d stepped through an open door not knowing what was on the other side. What had started off as a routine road traffic accident was now a full-blown murder investigation.

  As he walked back towards the recovery vehicle, he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. Hold on a minute!

  Chapter

  Two

  Jack Mason rolled out of bed in a sweat. It was eight thirty, and he’d not slept a wink. He showered, got dressed and went downstairs and made himself a mug of coffee before settling down into his favourite chair. Breakfast television was already playing out on last night’s fatal road traffic accident, which somehow looked different in broad daylight. Diversions in place, a local news presenter was reporting havoc to the early morning rush hour traffic. As police officers continued with their investigations, Coldwell Lane and the surrounding districts were still closed to the general public. With no mention of murder, Mason felt somewhat relieved. At least he had a head start on the press.

  It was late morning when he finally reached Gateshead Police Station. Part of the Northumbria Police’s Central Area Command, these past few weeks had been hectic. His new office furniture had arrived, but he still had mountains of paperwork to file away. Sited on the third floor with views overlooking the car park, Matalan and Gateshead Magistrates’ Court, his office was rectangular in shape. It had a low ceiling, cream coloured walls, and was fitted out in heavy duty brown carpet tiles. Not exactly his choice of colour either. He would have preferred green, as it was much more soothing to the eye.

  Logging onto his computer, he ran back over the overnight serials. A hit and run in Felling, a street brawl outside The Gloucester public house in Gateshead High West Street; all seemed to add for another regular night. When he came to the Alpaca thefts though, he paused in reflection for a second. This was the third such incident in as many weeks, and all within a ten mile radius of each other. Having gained the attention of Acting Superintendent Francis Sutherland, Mason was taking no chances. His new boss had a fixation that NAFIS, the National Automated Fingerprint Identification System, was the be-all and end-all to solving every crime. If that wasn’t bad enough, just how he was going catch Alpaca thieves using a fingerprint recognition system was beyond him. But just in case, and as a precautionary measure, he would need to think of something.

  Never a dull moment, he cursed.

  ‘A quick word in your ear, if I may,’ Sergeant Holt said, poking his head in round the open office door.

  ‘Yes, George.’

  ‘An update on last night’s RTC, if I may.’

  ‘Good man, what’s happening?’

  ‘Coldwell Lane has finally reopened, boss.’ The Sergeant’s bottom jaw tightened slightly. ‘Mind, it took emergency teams the best part of an hour to release the dead woman from the vehicle. She’d been strangled, apparently.’

  ‘Not exactly an accident then?’

  ‘It would appear not––’

  ‘What about her vehicle?’

  ‘Ah, yes, the ignition keys,’ Holt dithered. ‘They were turned to the unlock position, and the vehicle was in neutral on impact. According to Road Traffic, it looks like it was free-wheeled down into Coldwell Lane.’

  ‘Nasty!’

  ‘Which means the transit van driver didn’t stand a bloody chance.’

  ‘What about the VIN?

  ‘It checks out – the vehicle belongs to a Miss Caroline Harper,’ Holt replied.

  Did anyone witness anything, Mason wondered? It was eleven o’clock, nearing closing time – surely somebody must have heard or seen something suspicious on their way home from the pub that night. There again, Felling wasn’t exactly a police friendly area and he certainly wasn’t pinning his hopes on anyone coming forward with information. No, whoever had murdered this young woman certainly knew what they were doing.

  ‘What news on the van driver’s condition?’

  ‘According to the QE, there’s been a slight improvement.’ There was hesitation in the sergeant’s voice, a checking of notes. ‘He’s still in a coma, apparently.’

  Mason knew his next question was pointless, but he still felt the need to ask it.

  ‘What news on the Volkswagen’s driver?’

  ‘Still nothing,’ the sergeant said, his voice trailing off.

  Mason’s frustrations were interrupted by another coughing fit.

  ‘Any news on the dead woman’s ID?’

  ‘We’ve recovered a black purse. It was found wedged down the front passenger seat of the vehicle.’

  ‘A purse––’

  ‘Yes, it’s currently with forensics.’

  ‘Anything in it?’ asked Mason, lifting his head in interest.

  ‘A young woman’s driver’s licence, a couple of payment receipts, and––’

  ‘Forensics you say?’

  ‘Yes. Tom Hedley’s dealing with it. And before you ask, it will take him at least twenty-four hours to sift through the detail.’ The Sergeant’s face looked sheepishly across at him. ‘He’ll let you know the results as and when they come in.’

  Mason considered the facts. There were more questions than answers. Even though DNA and dental records were a more reliable source of identification, the prospect of waiting another twenty-four hours didn’t exactly excite him. Besides, the minute the press found out she’d been murdered all hell would be let loose. News travelled fast, and walls had ears. No, he thought, he would need to find another way round it. There again, if the driving licence photograph matched that of the dead woman now lying in the mortuary, there was a slim chance he might be able to pull something off.

  Despite a heavy chest cough, at least his headache had cleared.

  ‘What news on last night’s break-ins, George?’

  ‘Nothing yet, boss. No doubt they were drugs related.’

  Mason nodded his agreement.

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Just one more thing,’ the sergeant said. ‘A couple of newspaper reporters have been hanging around in reception. They’re obviously looking for a statement on last night’s RTC.’

  ‘Any mention of murder?’

  ‘No, fingers crossed. No doubt they’ll be sniffing around the Coroner’s office once a post-mortem has been carried out,’ the sergeant replied.

  Mason was about to say something when he broke into another coughing fit.

  ‘That chest of yours sounds bloody awful, boss.’

  ‘It’s nothing a stiff whisky won’t put right, George.’

  With that the sergeant took off.

  His mind running amok, Mason picked up the office telephone and rang forensics. Within minutes the image of a young woman’s driving licence flashed across his computer screen. The first thing he checked was the date of issue. From what he could see, Caroline Harper was an attractive young woman. Thirtyish, slightly built with long shoulder length hair. She had a pale complexion and high cheekbones. He didn’t know this young woman, but she was far too young to have fallen into some monster’s hands. There again, murder came in all forms and guises, and it certainly wasn’t selective.

  Mason jotted down the address, Prince Consort Road, Gateshead, and closed his notebook. He knew the area well. There were a couple of decent pubs there, so it was probably worth a visit. Pleased with his findings, he answered a few e-mails, sifted through his mail, and tidied a few more files away. Things were looking up, and if the dead woman now lying in a Gateshead mortuary was Caroline Harper, then it wasn’t going to be an overly complex case to solve.

  It had started to rain by the time he’d reached the car park.

  He wasn’t impressed.

  Chapter

  Three

  Armed with the latest information, earlier that morning DCI Mason had contacted Dr Gillian King, the Senior Anatomical Pathology Technician at Gateshead Coroner’s Office. Things were coming along nicely and after revisiting Coldwell Lane, he decided to call in at the mortuary. Situated close to the main hospital entrance, from the outside the coroner’s office looked just like any other building in the street. Inside was a totally different matter of course. Still suffering from man-flu, his head had cleared somewhat. Even so, his nostrils weren’t immune to the putrid smells now permeating throughout the building. Mason hated mortuaries at the best of times. No matter how much disinfectant they used, the place still reeked of death.

  Wearing a blue gown, green plastic apron and white boots, Dr Gillian King was a florid, corpulent woman. Married with two teenage sons, she had a matronly appearance which was surprisingly the opposite of what Mason had anticipated finding in such morose surroundings.

  ‘You’re early, Jack,’ said King. ‘Is someone coming to make a formal identification?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘Well,’ replied King, ‘the post-mortem examination isn’t due to start until three o’clock this afternoon. How can I help?’

  Mason cursed his luck as he reached into a pocket and pulled out a small brown envelope. The ink barely dry, he noted, as he handed King a copy of Caroline Harper’s driving licence.

  ‘Would this be the same young woman who was brought here during the early hours of this morning?’ he asked.

  ‘How did you come by this information?’ asked King.

  ‘It was wedged down the front passenger seat of the victim’s vehicle.’

  ‘Not in her handbag?’

  ‘No, she wasn’t carrying one.’

  King raised her heavily pencilled bushy eyebrows and stared at the woman’s driving licence. ‘Caroline Harper,’ she whispered. ‘I take it you’re looking for some kind of informal identification?’

  ‘It would be useful, yes.’

  ‘It’s difficult to tell, Jack. Perhaps you might care to take a look for yourself.’

  The minute he stepped into the post-mortem suite, Mason felt his stomach lurch. This was the last place he wanted to be right now. Detached from the rest of the building, the room was cold, windowless, and felt distinctly creepy. The walls, light grey in colour and blue speckled floor tiles, were overshadowed by a long bank of steel fronted fridges running along the entire length of one wall. Three stainless-steel post-mortem tables dominated the central ground. None of them were occupied. Void of feeling, the room had that all too familiar morbid finality about it that Mason detested. The people who came here usually didn’t have very much to say for themselves.

  He watched as a middle-aged Anatomical Technician wheeled a blue hydraulic body trolley towards one of the fridge doors, opened it, and dropped one of the stainless-steel body trays down onto the trolley. The first thing he noticed after she slid the cover back to reveal the dead woman’s upper torso was her eyes. They were wide open and staring back at him just as they had done earlier that morning. He took a deep breath. King pointed out the blunt force trauma to the back of the young woman’s skull. There were also two noticeable lacerations running diagonally across the right cheek bone, as though freshly cut with a surgical knife. Moving closer, he could see distinct evidence of bruising to the nape of the neck. Consistent with concentrated thumb pressure, he also noted there was noticeable bruising to the ankles and wrists. Mason paused in reflection for a moment – a gathering of thoughts.

  Dr King, meanwhile, had picked up a small digital camera from a nearby stainless-steel workbench and connected it to her laptop. After taking several close-up images of the young woman’s facial features, she deftly aligned them with the photograph he’d given her.

  ‘This isn’t an exact science, you do realise that. However, the position of the eyes, nose and jaw line, all align.’ The Home Office Pathologist pointed to the computer screen and made a little sweeping gesture. ‘There are two distinct moles, one here on the left maxilla – the other above the left brow ridge.’

  As if to record the time, King habitually glanced up at the large white wall clock. She checked herself, and then said, ‘I would undoubtedly say it’s the same person, but please don’t quote me on that. Not until a formal identification has been carried out.’

  ‘I’m grateful,’ Mason nodded.

  The Home Office Pathologist frowned. ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s this place,’ Mason shuddered. ‘It always gives me the creeps.’

  ‘I would have thought you were used to it by now, Jack.’ King smiled. ‘There again, after thirteen years of working here I suppose you become immune to it.’

  ‘I’ve never liked mortuaries,’ Mason admitted. ‘It’s not the living that concerns me, it’s your clients. They spook the living shit out of me.’

  King’s face showed concern.

  ‘There’s something else you should know,’ she said, leaning back against the stainless steel workbench. ‘The severe bruising to the young woman’s ankles and wrists, it’s consistent with being constrained at some point. What’s more, she’s missing both her middle and ring fingers from her left hand. They were removed at mid-point closest to the palm.’

  Her gaze held his.

  ‘What, during the accident?’

  ‘No. Prior,’ King replied bluntly.

  ‘Her left hand,’ Mason said thoughtfully. ‘That’s odd.’

  ‘It’s strange you should mention that. Some years ago, I was asked to carry out a similar post-mortem on a young woman in Durham. She too was early thirties, and attractive as I remember. It was one of those cases that leave an everlasting impression on your mind. I’ll never forget it. She was found in a rubbish skip having suffered a severe blunt traumatic episode to the back of her skull. She too had died from manual strangulation. Why I remember the case is that she was missing both her middle and ring fingers from her left hand.’

  Mason stepped back a pace, taken aback by King’s equivocal remark. Feeling a right prat dressed in his blue gown and overshoes, he tried to focus his mind.

  ‘When did this take place?’

  ‘It would be six years ago, near Seaham harbour as I remember.’

  ‘A rubbish skip––’

  King’s eyes narrowed. ‘Two young females both murdered under very similar circumstances, both missing fingers on the same hand.’

  Pen poised at the ready, Mason shuffled awkwardly again.

  ‘Any other injuries I should know about?’

  ‘I’m not a detective, Jack, but something to bear in mind is the Seaham woman was a drug addict as I recall.’

  ‘What are the chances of the killer not being the same person?’ Mason sighed.

  ‘That’s more your department, I’m afraid.’

  Mason, now hanging on Dr King’s every word, chewed the end of his pen. ‘Tell me, what did he use to saw off the victim’s fingers?’

  ‘They were cut not sawn.’

  ‘Before or after she was strangled?’

  ‘Let’s wait for the post-mortem results before we go jumping to conclusions.’

  Mason cocked his head to one side. ‘Off the record––’

  ‘This is another drugs related case in my opinion,’ King replied.

 

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