A Commonplace Killing by Siân Busby Page B

There was that faint odour of sewage that hung over everywhere that had been badly bombed; those houses that remained were mostly Class “B”s awaiting demolishment.
    “If I had just murdered someone,” he reasoned, “and had all the advantages a stolen handbag might afford, this is the last place I would stay.”
    Lucas nodded shrewdly.
    “I would have headed for the nearest main road – Caledonian Road – less than half a mile away that way, Holloway Road the same that way. A tuppenny bus ride and you have the whole of London at your disposal; within twenty minutes it would be as if you had never been here.” Cooper took out his pipe and began to clean it with a matchstick.
    He would have liked to have put in motion a dragnet of sixty men, strung out at two-yard gaps, slowly moving forward, eyes locked to the ground. He could hear the gales of laughter from Upstairs. Sixty coppers! If they could muster sixty coppers in the whole of London it would be a blasted miracle.
    “Organise a search of every front garden and dustbin between here and the main bus routes,” he said.
    “Are we looking for anything in particular, sir?”
    “Clues, Detective Inspector.”
    “Like a handbag?”
    “Well, that would do for a start.” He sucked on the empty pipe a couple of times until it squeaked. “And have someone get on to the missing persons bureau at the Yard.”
    A short distance away a fingerprint chap was delicately twirling a brush over the surface of a wall. He felt almost as jealous of him as he did of the pathologist. The chances of either of them telling him a thing of any use that he couldn’t have figured out for himself were, he reckoned, pretty remote. The infallible was nearly always the least part of it.
    “I say! DDI Cooper, isn’t it?” The pathologist was coming towards him, with his Harley Street drawl. He dusted off his pin-striped knees with an immaculate handkerchief which he handed to the girl assistant, then peeled off and handed her his rubber gloves. “Well, well! Haven’t seen you in a dog’s age, old man,” he said. He made a half-turn towards the body and gestured elegantly in its direction. “Death probably occurred eight to twelve hours ago – not more than fourteen, but I would hate to stake my reputation on that. It was quite warm last night which always buggers up the readings. Should be able to tell you a bit more when I’ve got her on the slab, old man; but at first glance I’d say it’s a classic case of right-handed strangulation. There’s a fair bit of bruising on the knuckles of her right hand. Would have left a nice shiner on the receiving end,” he said. “Bit like the one you’re sporting, Cooper, old bean.”
    Cooper stroked his cheek. He’d almost forgotten about the bruise he’d sustained the previous night.
    “So there was some sort of a fight then,” said Lucas.
    The pathologist gave them both his bedside smile.
    “Ah! That’s for you fellows to deduce,” he said.
    Cooper filled his pipe.
    “Nothing unusual about a tart getting into a fight with a customer who refuses to pay her,” said Lucas. “It happens most Saturday nights. Sometimes, every so often, it goes too far.”
    The girl assistant handed the pathologist his hat and helped him into his beautifully cut jacket. She brushed specks of soot from the shoulders with the flat of her hand.
    “Well, I had better get back to my Sunday lunch,” the pathologist was saying, “else the good lady wife shan’t be too happy with me!” He made his way towards his shiny motor with the girl assistant. “See you in the cold-store tomorrow, old man,” he said.
    Cooper struck a match and puffed on his pipe until it was alight. Unless the prof found her name and telephone number tattooed upon her backside, the post-mortem was probably an irrelevance. The woman had been strangled after some sort of fight and sexual assault. That much was obvious to all but a blind fool. He turned his attention back to the