Wendy Lee asked him.
‘Forty-two next month,’ he replied.
‘Maybe you want to think about doing some exercise,’ she said pointedly.
‘It’s all right for you, Dr Lee – you’re a lot closer to the ground.’
Harriet Walsh stood and nodded to her team. ‘Let’s get her down to the workshop. See what we can see.’
‘So what are we looking at, detective?’ asked Tuttle, the first time he had spoken since they had entered the crime scene. ‘Prostitution, trafficking, ritualistic killing. Or an accidental death covered up and the wedding ring removed as possible evidence of her identity?’
‘Could be any of the above.’ The detective inspector shrugged. ‘Truth is … as of this moment I don’t have a clue.’
Tuttle nodded sagely.
The difference between him and Harman was, he did have one. He had a very big clue.
‘Well, let me tell you something else, then,’ he said.
Chapter 21
DI KIRSTY WEBB pulled the zipper on her coat up firmly.
She was leaning against the wall of a building, built sometime in the sixteenth century, and watching her people process the crime scene.
Such as it was. A poorly lit cobbled backstreet off one of the quads of Chancellors University. At least, it would have been poorly lit if the police hadn’t mounted bright halogen lights to photograph and work the scene.
Three female students from the university had been viciously assaulted. One of them kidnapped. One of them slashed with a knife. One of them beaten with a baseball bat and even now fighting for her life in hospital.
Could be a murder case before the night was out.
DI Webb took a sip of her coffee and scowled. The crystal-ball gazers at the Meteorological Office were promising a sunny day for Saturday and she was supposed to have the weekend off. She’d hoped to get in the garden and sort things out.
Fat chance of that now. This case would put paid to all that. Chancellors University was all about old money. And that meant pressure from above. It always did.
So the garden would go untamed for a while longer. Which would have suited her ex-husband, Webb thought bitterly. Her mood worsening as she took another sip of coffee and wondered why she was even thinking about the bastard.
But she knew exactly why. Goddamn him! Tomorrow was their wedding anniversary. Ten years ago instead of punching him on the nose like he so richly deserved, she had simply slapped him and said yes.
She crumpled the styrofoam coffee cup in her hand and watched as the ambulance drove away. Its sirens shrieking into the night air and the noise bouncing of the cloistered walls of the warren of buildings that made up that part of the university.
The lead scene-of-crime officer ducked under the police-line tape and approached. He was followed by DS Andy Crane, Kirsty’s partner.
‘You got anything good for me?’
The SOC officer smiled. He was a handsome man, tall, lean, in his late twenties. ‘Detective Inspector Webb,’ he said, grinning wider. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’
‘You’re funny, Richard. Funny like chlamydia.’
‘They say God loves a trier.’
‘They say God loves everyone. Me, I hate most people, so stop flapping your lips like a fishwife and tell me what we’ve got.’
DS Crane shrugged. ‘The paramedic sedated the first one – the knife victim – so we didn’t get much from her. A black van. Hooded men. She wasn’t sure how many. More than three.’
‘They say anything?’
‘No. The one they beat up with a baseball bat tried to stop it, apparently. Some kind of karate nut or some such.’
DI Webb gestured to the taped-off area of the road. ‘Any sign of what we might call clues?’
‘There are some faint tyre marks, and some blood droplets which we are pretty sure are going to turn out to have come from the injured girl’s arm.’
‘Who phoned it in?’
The detective sergeant pointed across to the pavement where a woman in her thirties was drinking a mug of tea, a female uniformed
‘Forty-two next month,’ he replied.
‘Maybe you want to think about doing some exercise,’ she said pointedly.
‘It’s all right for you, Dr Lee – you’re a lot closer to the ground.’
Harriet Walsh stood and nodded to her team. ‘Let’s get her down to the workshop. See what we can see.’
‘So what are we looking at, detective?’ asked Tuttle, the first time he had spoken since they had entered the crime scene. ‘Prostitution, trafficking, ritualistic killing. Or an accidental death covered up and the wedding ring removed as possible evidence of her identity?’
‘Could be any of the above.’ The detective inspector shrugged. ‘Truth is … as of this moment I don’t have a clue.’
Tuttle nodded sagely.
The difference between him and Harman was, he did have one. He had a very big clue.
‘Well, let me tell you something else, then,’ he said.
Chapter 21
DI KIRSTY WEBB pulled the zipper on her coat up firmly.
She was leaning against the wall of a building, built sometime in the sixteenth century, and watching her people process the crime scene.
Such as it was. A poorly lit cobbled backstreet off one of the quads of Chancellors University. At least, it would have been poorly lit if the police hadn’t mounted bright halogen lights to photograph and work the scene.
Three female students from the university had been viciously assaulted. One of them kidnapped. One of them slashed with a knife. One of them beaten with a baseball bat and even now fighting for her life in hospital.
Could be a murder case before the night was out.
DI Webb took a sip of her coffee and scowled. The crystal-ball gazers at the Meteorological Office were promising a sunny day for Saturday and she was supposed to have the weekend off. She’d hoped to get in the garden and sort things out.
Fat chance of that now. This case would put paid to all that. Chancellors University was all about old money. And that meant pressure from above. It always did.
So the garden would go untamed for a while longer. Which would have suited her ex-husband, Webb thought bitterly. Her mood worsening as she took another sip of coffee and wondered why she was even thinking about the bastard.
But she knew exactly why. Goddamn him! Tomorrow was their wedding anniversary. Ten years ago instead of punching him on the nose like he so richly deserved, she had simply slapped him and said yes.
She crumpled the styrofoam coffee cup in her hand and watched as the ambulance drove away. Its sirens shrieking into the night air and the noise bouncing of the cloistered walls of the warren of buildings that made up that part of the university.
The lead scene-of-crime officer ducked under the police-line tape and approached. He was followed by DS Andy Crane, Kirsty’s partner.
‘You got anything good for me?’
The SOC officer smiled. He was a handsome man, tall, lean, in his late twenties. ‘Detective Inspector Webb,’ he said, grinning wider. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’
‘You’re funny, Richard. Funny like chlamydia.’
‘They say God loves a trier.’
‘They say God loves everyone. Me, I hate most people, so stop flapping your lips like a fishwife and tell me what we’ve got.’
DS Crane shrugged. ‘The paramedic sedated the first one – the knife victim – so we didn’t get much from her. A black van. Hooded men. She wasn’t sure how many. More than three.’
‘They say anything?’
‘No. The one they beat up with a baseball bat tried to stop it, apparently. Some kind of karate nut or some such.’
DI Webb gestured to the taped-off area of the road. ‘Any sign of what we might call clues?’
‘There are some faint tyre marks, and some blood droplets which we are pretty sure are going to turn out to have come from the injured girl’s arm.’
‘Who phoned it in?’
The detective sergeant pointed across to the pavement where a woman in her thirties was drinking a mug of tea, a female uniformed
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