Devil in the Detail by A.J. Cross (love letters to the dead .TXT) 📗

He’ll know about it.’ He headed for the door. ‘That’s the least of my concerns. Tomorrow, we start talking to the people who knew the Lawrences.’

Judd watched him go. ‘The trouble with Sarge is he takes everything personally.’

Traynor looked up. ‘Probably because his is the name heading the investigation.’

‘That wouldn’t get me in a state when I’m in that position.’ She reached for the phone. ‘Want me to ring Molly Lawrence to say I’m available to talk to her whenever it suits her? Will?’

‘Leave it with me for now. There are some things I have to think about.’

TWENTY-THREE

Wednesday 19 December. 10.10 a.m.

Chong’s gloved hands deftly unsealed the grey plastic bag and removed several others of brown paper from inside it. Watts watched, impatience climbing as she opened the largest of them, reached inside and pulled out a heavy coat. She carefully unfolded it on to the sheet of thick white paper covering the examination table.

‘One black winter coat, property of Molly Lawrence.’

Her hands moved over it, patting its surface, stopping when they reached the pockets. She reached inside one – ‘Left pocket void’ – and reached into the other. ‘Right pocket contains …’ She drew out a dull looking object, laid it on the paper. They both looked at it.

‘Her watch,’ said Watts, seeing the thick layer of dried blood covering it.

‘It’s probably a nice one if we could see it properly.’ She called to her PM suite assistant. ‘Igor? Camera, please.’

He arrived with a nod for Watts, stood close to the table, angled the camera downwards and fired off several shots of the watch. She lifted it carefully, peered at it, took a lens Igor was offering, looked again. ‘I can see one fingerprint in the blood … possibly a second.’ She looked up at Watts, his eyes fixed on the watch. ‘I can see that you’re stunned by my expertise.’

‘Molly Lawrence said she hid her watch in her pocket so that the shooter wouldn’t get it. I should have been on to it before now.’

She reached for it and placed it carefully inside an evidence bag. ‘I recall you telling me how heavily stained her hands were at the scene. She probably handled it after she and her husband were shot, maybe to check it was still safe inside her pocket.’ She walked from the table and returned with a small, handheld device. ‘Before I send it and the rest of the clothing upstairs, I’ll vacuum the coat, including the pockets.’

‘And once Adam has it all, he’ll do the same.’

‘Yup. That’s because we’re anal-retentive, science-y types.’ She looked up at him. ‘I phoned the hospital about Mike Lawrence’s clothing when it didn’t arrive and was informed that it had already been disposed of. Incinerated.’ She watched his colour build.

‘They knew he was a homicide victim!’

‘I’m merely delivering the news that the disposal is a done deal,’ she said, evenly. ‘Like you, the hospital staff were under pressure that night. It’s just another thing to let go of, Bernard.’

‘I’ll check is what I’ll do.’

‘Thought you might. Being a compulsive police-y type.’

Consulting the label on the next bag, she removed its contents. ‘One expensive-looking cream silk shirt, property of Mrs Molly Lawrence.’

Gently unfolding it, she placed it flat on the paper-covered surface. It was stiff with dried blood on its right side, all of it now a dull rust. A picture of Molly Lawrence slumped against the front passenger door rushed into his head, a detail getting his attention: a small, round hole low on the right side of the shirt, another close to it.

‘Entry and exit bullet holes,’ said Chong, carefully folding it and placing it to one side, reaching for another item. ‘Black wool trousers.’ She turned them around to him. ‘Extensive blood-run over the upper back portion from the waistband downwards.’

‘I overlooked the possibility of DNA and I should have got on to the hospital and requested these clothes days ago. It’s basic training-manual stuff.’

‘They’re here now and they’ll all be thoroughly tested. We might get something.’

She folded the trousers, returned them to the bag, opened another and removed an item of pale pink underwear. She held up the delicate lace pants, also heavily bloodstained, reached for the matching bra. ‘Molly Lawrence has a subtly expensive taste in clothes,’ she murmured. ‘And you were straight into a high-pressure murder case with all the markers of a non-contact shooting motivated by theft. There was no reason to consider the possibility of sexual contact.’

‘You know what I’m saying. I’m losing my edge.’

He watched her return each item to its relevant bag, hand them to Igor, then methodically fold the thick white paper covering the table onto itself several times, before placing it inside a plastic bag and adding details to its label.

‘That’s my job done. I’ll take it all to Adam so he can do his thing with any hairs, fibres and whatever else there might be.’ She regarded him for several seconds. ‘Bernard, his team might find somebody else’s DNA, they might not. I know it’s frustrating but try to lose the “bulldog-with-toothache” look. It doesn’t become you.’

She shook her head as he headed for the door and out. Removing latex gloves, she rang the hospital and was informed that if an inventory of the Lawrences’ clothes had been taken, its whereabouts was now unknown. Years ago, Chong had worked in an emergency hospital department. People did their best in life-and-death situations. Things got overlooked. It happened to all workers involved in those kinds of situations.

Going to her desk she consulted her copy of the Lawrence case file, found the home telephone number of the husband’s family. A woman answered.

‘Mrs Lawrence? This is Dr Chong, the pathologist at headquarters, Rose Road. I apologize for intruding at this time but I understand that your son and daughter-in-law visited you earlier that evening of the incident? Is there any chance that you recall in detail what your daughter-in-law was wearing?’

She listened, wrote down details, thanked the woman and put