The Stratford Murder by Mike Hollow (best thriller novels of all time .TXT) 📗

‘We’ll catch up with Mrs Parks later,’ Jago continued. ‘I want you to get fingerprints from Evans, and Mrs Parks and the dead woman too. See what prints you can find on the door handles and windows. And when we get back to the station, arrange for someone to come and secure that back door.’

‘Yes, sir. What did you make of it, sir? The door, I mean.’

‘In what sense?’

‘Well, there’s a woman murdered in the house, but the door was locked on the inside. So does that mean she must’ve known her killer – let him in?’

‘Of course not. The fact that the door was locked when the body was found doesn’t mean it was locked when she was killed. Someone could’ve found the door unlocked and got in, then locked it behind them, killed her and let themselves out the front way, as we did.’

‘Yes, of course. And they wouldn’t necessarily have had to come in through the back door anyway, would they? They might’ve just knocked on the front door.’

‘Indeed. On the face of it that would be simpler. But there’s the question of when she was killed too. If it was after dark, she might not have wanted to risk opening the door to a stranger, in which case it might suggest she knew them, might even have been expecting them. But on the other hand, these days if someone like an ARP warden had knocked and asked to be admitted she might well have let them in.’

‘And that business of the blackout curtains, sir. It’s a bit unusual for people to put a light on without closing them, isn’t it? Especially when it means they might get fined. So maybe she came home with the murderer and switched the light on, but before she had time to realise she hadn’t drawn the curtains she was dragged into the bedroom and killed. If the murderer left in a hurry via the front door, he might’ve just forgotten to go back to the kitchen and turn the light off.’

‘An interesting theory.’

‘Or perhaps it was that thing that sometimes happens with the meters. You know – the electricity runs out and all the lights go off, so you put another shilling in the slot and they come on again, but you forget to go and turn off the ones you don’t need. Maybe she did that and never went to check the light in the kitchen was off.’

‘Yes, but don’t forget it’s possible that she came home and never got as far as the kitchen before she was killed. The murderer might’ve gone looking for something in the kitchen after he’d killed her, and put the light on without thinking, then left. Who knows? We’ve got too many possibilities to be sure of anything.’

Their route from Carpenters Road to the police station in West Ham Lane was free of obstruction, and they arrived within minutes. A little later they took the short walk back up the road to Queen Mary’s Hospital. As far as they could see, no bombs had fallen close during the night, but ambulances were still edging through the brick-and-stone entrance archway. The hospital had lost a whole wing to a direct hit in the opening days of the Blitz the previous month, but it was still functioning as a casualty centre for victims of the air raids. Dr Anderson welcomed them at the mortuary.

‘Good morning again, gentlemen,’ he said breezily. ‘I trust you’ve had some breakfast.’

‘Yes, thanks,’ said Cradock.

Ah, so that’s why you were late, thought Jago, but he declined to voice his suspicion. The very mention of food in close proximity to the human remains that lay in the mortuary was enough to make him take kindly to the idea of fasting. If the bombs hadn’t mutilated those bodies, the forensic pathologist soon would – and with an unfathomable air of enthusiasm, if Jago’s experience was anything to go by.

‘Not yet, thank you,’ he replied. ‘I’ll get something later. I want to know what this woman died of.’

‘Very well, that’s simple,’ said Anderson. ‘Come in here and I’ll show you.’

They followed him into the post-mortem room. It was cold and forbidding, the very opposite of what a hospital should be, thought Jago – but this was a place for the dead, not the living. The chilling array of saws, chisels and scalpels laid out beside the table gave notice that this was the final destination for those who were now beyond the reach of hope.

‘There you are,’ said Anderson, gesturing towards the body. ‘She died from asphyxiation caused by strangling, as I said at the scene. But you were right to challenge my initial judgement – the presence of a ligature such as that stocking doesn’t necessarily confirm strangulation. I’ve had a look inside now, though, and I’ve found damage to the larynx consistent with strangulation.’

Jago looked down at the dead woman.

‘Poor kid,’ he said. ‘It’s not fair, is it? Here we are fighting a war so people can be safe in their own homes, but nowhere’s safe when there’s someone creeping around ready to kill a young woman like this. And we’re supposed to be the country that’s pulling together.’ He turned back to Anderson. ‘No question of doubt, then?’ he added.

‘No. There are also some tell-tale signs in the lungs. Would you like to see?’

‘I’d rather not, thank you.’

‘Very well. As you may know, they’re marks under the pleural surface that are caused by the rupture of the air cells – very characteristic of violent asphyxia. And then finally we have the tiny spots you may be able to see on her face.’

‘Petechiae?’

‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’

‘Too many times. I don’t take as much joy in it as you seem to.’

‘Ah, well. One man’s meat, as they say …’

‘Exactly, although perhaps not the most delicate way of putting it. Where did they train you?’

‘At Guy’s. In fact it was the clinical