Blood Will Out (11 page)

“No. It seemed to be getting closer and went on and on and on. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore, so I decided to go and take a look outside.”

Elodie gently extricated herself from her niece's arms, and stood up. Moretti could see rust-red streaks and smears on the pale yellow sweater she was wearing; the wristband of the sleeves were heavily encrusted with the playwright's blood. There was a smudge of blood on her cheek, and her long hair was probably smeared also, but with that colour it was difficult to tell. She staggered slightly as she stood, and he got up and took hold of her arm. She was tiny, nearly a head shorter than his six feet.

“No.” She shook him off, almost angrily, and Moretti returned to the chair he had pulled over opposite the sofa. The lady was not for touching, apparently, or only by Falla. “I've got some adrenalin to get rid of. Don't worry, it takes a lot to make me faint, and I've already done that with the emergency crew.”

She started to pace up and down between Liz and Moretti, talking as she did so, her sentences short and clipped, but her voice under control.

“I opened the door. The motion light outside had come on. Hugo was lying just beyond the back door in a pool of blood. I could see the trail he had taken to get there. He looked up at me and made this terrible gurgling sound, and I could see his neck.”

Elodie stopped pacing and turned to Liz.

“I knew he was in serious trouble, so I grabbed anything that came to hand, which happened to be the fleece jacket I keep near the back door, and I started applying pressure. Thank God he's such a little fellow, and thank God for adrenalin, because I was able to get him into the house — well, enough to close the door. You see, I didn't have to be a medical expert to know that kind of injury doesn't happen when you trip over something in the dark. That kind of damage is — man-made.”

Elodie returned to sit by Liz, who took her hand. She didn't pull away from her niece, Moretti noticed, but leaned against her, closing her eyes.

“Before you shut the door, did you see anything at all?” Moretti asked.

“No. But I think he'd travelled quite a long way.”

“Why do you say that, El?”

Elodie looked up at Liz's question, and her reply was soft, quiet, chilling. “Because of the trail that shone in the moonlight behind him. Like a bloody flare-path.”

There was a pause and, as Moretti started to get up, Elodie Ashton started to speak again.

“Who would have thought little Gandalf would have so much blood in him?”

Her words grew into a crescendo of sound as she started to laugh, helplessly, shock overwhelming her once more.

The Run

I
t
was unusually quiet in the incident room. Woken in the small hours of the morning by Moretti's phone call informing him of the attempted murder of Hugo Shawcross, Chief Officer Hanley's instinct for self-preservation and desire for a peaceful life surfaced rapidly.

“Let's keep this first meeting to a need-to-know group, Ed. Who would that be?”

“Al Brown, PC Le Marchant, PC Mauger, Jimmy Le Poidevin. I have told DS Falla to come as soon as she feels she can.”

“Her aunt must be in shock. Shouldn't she have been in hospital overnight?”

“She's coping well. But there's quite a cleanup to be done, and DS Falla is taking care of that.”

Who would have thought Gandalf would have that much blood in him?

Gandalf
?

“Blood everywhere, sir.”

“Horrible. Poor old lady.”

Moretti thought of correcting Hanley, but refrained. No point at this hour of the night going into descriptive specifics that were unnecessary.

Jimmy Le Poidevin, head of forensics, was unusually subdued. He and his team had barely slept, and his first remarks were addressed to Al Brown, who was looking his usual dapper and well-turned-out self.

“Seen anything like that before, back in the centre of the universe?”

“London, you mean?” Al Brown smiled serenely, unperturbed by the forensic chief's adversarial tone, which he had heard more than once the night before. “Yes. Garrotting was a favourite technique used by one of the street gangs while I was doing my training.”

“Well, it certainly isn't
here
,” said Chief Officer Hanley, looking in irritation at Jimmy Le Poidevin. “This is — unprecedented. Do we have any reports yet from the hospital, Moretti?”

“Not yet. I told them we want to hear from whoever examined Hugo Shawcross as soon as possible.”

Chief Officer Hanley turned to Al Brown. “This is where your expertise and Met training will come in useful, DC Brown. Perhaps you could tell us how you would set up a team at the outset of a similar investigation.”

Jimmy Le Poidevin made a little puffing sound like a steam engine under pressure, and Al Brown looked at Moretti. Knowing how Al felt about Hanley's expectations, and seeing the effect this had on the head of forensics gave Moretti a mildly euphoric sensation that cleared his head, rapidly compensating for his lack of sleep.

Then his mobile rang.

“It's DS Falla, sir. She's on her way from the hospital, and she's bringing Dr. Edwards with her, to give us a report. We're in luck. Dr. Edwards performed the autopsy on Gus Dorey, and she's perceptive.”

Moretti looked at Al Brown. “If DC Brown doesn't object,” he said, “I would like to fill you in on some details of the Dorey suicide.”

Chief Officer Hanley turned his irritated attention from Le Poidevin to Moretti as Al Brown sank back in his chair.

“The Dorey suicide?” he repeated. “This is hardly the time or place, Moretti. What on earth has
that
got to do with
this
?”

“I'm not sure, sir. But before Dr. Edwards arrives, perhaps I could go over a few things, including the visit of advocate Hamelin, and his conversation with DS Falla.”

“Hamelin?”

Moretti now had Hanley's undivided attention. He gave the chief officer a succinct account of what little they had unearthed at the hermit's shack, moving on to Marie Gastineau's original complaint and the events at the reading, culminating with the strange coincidence of the news item found by PC Mauger and the unlikely appearance of the silver fox at Hospital Lane. By the end, the chief officer was looking bemused.

Not
surprising
, thought Moretti.
So
am
I
.

“Are you suggesting, Ed, there's a link between the Gastineaus and this — this horrific attack? Good God!”

“Good
grief
.” Jimmy Le Poidevin stirred in his seat and stood up, turning to Chief Officer Hanley. “Before we explore Ed's flight of fancy, sir, may I go over more factual aspects of the crime? SOCO's report, for instance?”

“Of course,” Hanley looked at some papers he held in his hand. “I have already looked at what you have to say, Jimmy, and it seems you didn't find much. Apart from blood, that is.”

“Well, true, sir.” Jimmy went on, bloodied but unbowed. “But from the evidence of where the blood trail begins, the victim was originally attacked at the end of his own property, and somehow made his way up the path of Ms. Ashton's property to her back door. I'll be curious to hear from the doctor how he managed
that
with his throat slashed. We erected lights, of course, but I have a crew back there today to check if we missed anything. The ground is littered with leaves, chestnuts, all that kind of shit, and it'll be easier in daylight. We are hoping, of course, to find whatever was used to do this.”

“May I interrupt, sir?”

Al Brown looked cautiously at the head of forensics and then at the chief officer. Hanley gave an authoritative wave of the hand, and a warning glance at Jimmy Le Poidevin, who protected his own fiefdom and field of expertise against all comers with the ferocity of a junkyard dog.

“I noticed last night that Shawcross must have put up quite a struggle when the attack began. At the back of the property there is damage to undergrowth and bushes. Then, of course, as his throat was cut, he lost his strength, but possibly his initial defence took the assailant by surprise — he's a very small man — and whoever it was took off when Mr. Shawcross started to make a racket, not staying around to see if he had completed the job.”

“And —?” The head of forensics interrupted. “That's stating the obvious, isn't it?”

Al Brown gave Jimmy one of his charming smiles. “So it would seem, and it's also stating the obvious that there may be evidence at the spot, apart from blood. Clothing fragments, a button. Among the leaves, chestnuts, that kind of shit. Just thought I'd say.”

Jimmy Le Poidevin went red in the face. “Are you suggesting —?”

Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by the arrival of Liz Falla and Irene Edwards.

Moretti rarely noticed the effects of strain or lack of sleep on his partner's face, but this time he did. She looked at him and smiled, and he wanted to go over and say something about the events of the night that were personal rather than professional. But even as he registered his unfamiliar reaction, Falla had started to introduce Irene Edwards to the chief officer. And by the time introductions had been made, Hanley had moved the discussion on to Dr. Edwards's report, and Irene Edwards's silvery voice was filling the incident room.

Dr. Edwards would have had their undivided attention even if she had not been dressed in a well-cut suit in a pearl-grey shade that followed the contours of her figure, but it didn't hurt to look at her, Moretti thought. Clearly, Al Brown, PC Mauger, PC Le Marchant and the chief officer felt the same way. Difficult to say with Jimmy, who had closed his eyes, as if to resist the siren's song and remain his usual confrontational self.

“First of all, Hugo Shawcross is doing quite well.” Dr. Edwards looked at Moretti. “He is out of surgery, heavily sedated, and will not be able to talk for a while, but he has already asked for pencil and paper. However, he has not written down whodunit, I'm afraid; rather, he's asked for someone to look after his cat. That seems to be his main concern at the moment, and Liz has already taken care of that.”

“Yes.” Liz Falla grinned at the assembled officers, and Moretti felt himself smiling back, relieved at his partner's return to her usual easy-going self. “I stayed overnight with my aunt and let him — Stoker — in to Mr. Shawcross's house this morning. There was a key near the back door and I fed him and locked the house. It had been unlocked all night.” Liz turned to the head of forensics. “No signs of a disturbance of any kind, but might be best to take a look. I left the key with the desk sergeant. I'll be needing it again for the cat.”

“Will do.” After opening his eyes and looking at Hanley's face, Jimmy restrained himself from further comment, and Irene Edwards continued.

“I imagine I'm not the first to say that Mr. Shawcross was lucky, but he was. First of all, the attacker did not quite cut the carotid artery, and second of all, Ms. Ashton kept her cool. Forgive me if you already know —” quick glance at the forensics chief, “but the common carotid artery carries blood from the heart to the brain, and divides into internal and external branches. Mr. Shawcross's right external carotid artery was partially severed. If it had been completely cut, surgery would have been far more difficult, because it would have recessed into the neck by the time we got him into the operating room. Any questions so far?”

“Was that why he was able to crawl as far as he did?” Hanley asked.

“Yes. Also, he may be a small man, but he is very fit. Quite muscular, which will have helped him when he was forced to defend himself. And there, at the end of his trail, was Ms. Ashton, waiting to apply a tourniquet.” Irene Edwards looked at Liz, and smiled, and then at Moretti.

“You had a question, Detective Inspector?”

“Yes. If Mr. Shawcross had the misfortune to be a cadaver at this point in time, I would be asking this question of our head of forensics.” Jimmy Le Poidevin looked sceptical. “From the wound on Shawcross's neck, did you get any idea of what might have been used?”

“I know what was
not
used, and I'm fairly certain of this. A knife. It looks like a ligature of some kind, and not something soft, like a scarf. Obviously, we were working fast, but it also seemed to me that it was some sort of a double loop. There were two parallel lines. And there's something else.”

Irene Edwards looked again at Liz Falla, but this time she was not smiling.

“I've already mentioned this to DS Falla. Mr. Shawcross's neck is a mess, but it seemed to me there was evidence of — bite marks.”

“
Bite marks
?” Hanley, PCs Le Marchant and Mauger, and Jimmy Le Poidevin spoke in unison.

Moretti looked at Liz Falla and Al Brown, then at Chief Officer Hanley.

“Well, well, well,” he said.

“Why did you mention so specifically the damage to the undergrowth and bushes?” Moretti asked Al Brown. “Seems to me you had a reason.”

Moretti, Liz Falla, Al Brown and Irene Edwards were in a booth at Emidio's eating pizza and salad. Not much of substance had been added after the doctor's dramatic statement, and Moretti had gone over his plan of attack with his MI Team. It seemed to soothe the chief officer when he used the term, and gave the impression he was using Al Brown's expertise, thus taking both himself and Al off the hook.

“I did.” Al refilled his coffee cup from the vacuum flask Deb had put on the table, and did the same for Irene Edwards who was sitting opposite him. “But it may be too late. Jimmy had put up tapes, et cetera, last night, but I watched a fair number of boots stomping around the area. Is he always so confrontational?”

“Always,” said Liz.

Moretti watched her pick at her salad, leaving the pizza untouched.
Not like her
.
Must still be in shock,
he thought. He turned to Irene Edwards.

“Bite marks?” It was said as a question. “I didn't want to appear to be doubting your judgment in the incident room, but …”

“You wonder if I am off my rocker? It's okay, so did I, but I've seen bite marks before, and these are bite marks. No doubt about it. Whoever tried to kill Shawcross took the time to bite the back of his neck as he was holding the — whatever it was.”

“Which suggests the ligature was held and force used, but no stick, for instance, to twist it at the back. Do you think a woman would be strong enough to do this? I'm assuming not.”

“If she was built like me, possibly. I am about a head taller than Shawcross, and that would give me an advantage, pulling whatever it was around his neck. May I make a suggestion?” It was directed as a query at Moretti, but it was made assertively, the higher register of the doctor's voice intriguingly at odds with her physical presence.

“Please do.”

“Perhaps Hugo Shawcross was not an unwilling victim. Perhaps this was a game that got out of control. After what Liz told me about the play, I wondered.”

“Possibly,” said Moretti. “Pity he can only write his answers, because it will be easier for him to conceal clues from facial expression, body language. I've got PC Le Marchant on guard duty at the hospital, and no one else is allowed near him. I'm going to leave seeing him another day, because I'm hoping time for reflection will make him see sense and confess. If there's anything to confess, that is.”

“Can't bite marks be identified?” Liz asked. “Mind you, we'd have to narrow the field a bit before trying to do that.”

“They can, but there are a high number of false positives,” said Al. “And something else I remember from one of my courses. About game-playing and fantasy. The modus operandi may differ, but the fantasy is always the same. Whoever did this will not be able to resist trying again.”

He took a slice of pizza off the serving-plate and put it on Liz's plate. “Eat up,” he said, “It's going to be a long day, DS Falla, and when it's all over you'll still have to feed the —
what
did you say he's called?”

“Stoker. Bram Stoker.”

No one laughed.