Open Writing

Sunday Morning

Even in death, and a gruesome death at that, it was immediately apparent to the newcomers why the Irish DI was taking it so hard. The dead girl had been as exactly as he had previously described. Coppenhall recalled their clandestine planning meeting held in that freezing cold, empty, country church. It seemed such a long time ago so much had happened, but in reality, it was only two days since the previous Friday afternoon. For a whore, the dead girl had been more beautiful than words could describe; she was a looker beyond his expectation. The hardness of her lifestyle hadn’t yet chiselled out deep set channels into her features. Relaxed in death she didn’t seem to have that grim resignation painted all over her features as did most Toms. No track marks from hypodermic use either, at least, none immediately apparent.

Like matched book-ends, Miller and Conroy stood together side-by-side looking with a respectful and detached admiration at the wench the DI had taken such a shine to. The body was slender but not thin, a pair of legs which seemed to have forgotten when to stop. The riot of chestnut curls fallen about her shoulders in a cascade and those deep breasts with their raised padded upturned nipples almost a hand span across, defied description. Both men silently reached the same conclusion, the DI had definitely lost a lot; this one would have been well worth taking the trouble to scrub up.

Already miserable, Alan Miller couldn’t help but compare the lifeless figure of the dead call girl to the missing foreign correspondent, Barbara Brownlow. For a brief moment Miller too, shared that same degree of loss with McGann, as the notion struck home. They were both in the same boat. The DI’s future, if unstated, plans had been shattered, likewise, so had his own unformed plans been similarly dashed by Barbara’s sudden departure to places unknown. Alan Miller felt just as betrayed as did the DI and just as impotent in the face of death and desertion. Neither of them could turn the clock back.

The sweet cloying smell of blood was strong; Miller averted his eyes from the mess of gore when the train wheels stopped their trundle over the corpse.

Coppenhall leaned in closer. ‘The pelvis and hip area have taken the worst of the impact. Smashed to smithereens. Deliberate intention of the killer or killers.’

Miller scribbled into his pocket book, more for something to do than any particular need: The triple wheels on the one line of track virtually severing the smashed body into two halves.

Nobody was likely to forget in a hurry what they were witnessing. To their trained eyes it was clear why the dead body had been placed on the line; this was no suicide. Like the Home Office pathologist, the four men took on board the deep cuts on the wrists, elbows and ankles where the girl had been tied with something akin to plastic cable ties. Her mouth showed evidence it had been slightly ripped, or torn, at the sides.

Coppenhall put it into words. ‘It’s likely she’d been bound and gagged at some point. Definitely murder by person or persons as yet unknown in my book.’

As he finally allowed the CSI woman to take her from him, the Irishman moved a strand of wet hair from her face with a delicate pass of his hand. Coppenhall looked away as McGann scrambled to his feet, unable to stop his eyes from betraying him. Stinging salt trails began running unchecked down the side of his nose, McGann straightened up slowly and turned his back towards the other men as he composed himself brushed shale from the knees of a black pair of shabby 501s. ‘I want him, Colin,’ he said thickly, the Dublin accent coming across more prominent than usual. Coppenhall noticed, ‘I know mate but if you let on. Let them know it’s got personal. They’ll have you off the case.’

‘It is personal. Chan’s killed her.’ With a shudder McGann passed the back of his hand under his nose and sniffed hard. The four men watched helpless as the obscene bloodied nakedness of the partly dismembered corpse was finally covered by a white sheet. A white paper suited woman officer attached to the Scenes of Crime Unit smiled sadly and patted the arm under the sheet. The gesture was unintentional, purely a human reaction. Miller struggled to keep his own chin still as the woman with the compassionate eyes looked up and addressed her comments to the tall DI still leaning protectively over the body which was about to be bagged and tagged: ‘I’ll look after her for you now, sir.’

‘Come on mate. We don’t know it was him. Not yet we don’t,’ said Coppenhall, shaking his head as they turned away. ‘You can’t go running after him as if he’s some second rate scumbag. This will take some doing. And, yer know what’ll happen next: Happy Larry’ll have you marked down officially as off the case if you carry on like this.’ Coppenhall squeezed his mate’s shoulder as he eased McGann towards the narrow path leading to where Miller had left the unmarked OBBO van.