Malice Aforethought Read Free

proof —but at least you knew where to look.
    ‘There was no identification in his pockets,’ said Bert Hook. ‘No money; no wallet; no credit cards; nothing but a stub of pencil and a soiled handkerchief.’ The three men stood in Lambert’s office, digesting the little they had, each too experienced a CID man to voice the obvious. This might be theft, a mugging that had got out of hand when the victim resisted and the attacker panicked. Deaths or serious injuries in such circumstances were becoming increasingly common. But they were still largely con-fined to urban areas, and not many muggers were well enough organised to remove the body when violence overspilled into death. Mugging was a cowardly but opportunist crime; when it went wrong, the perpetrators usually took to their heels and left their victims where they had fallen.
    ‘We’ve had three missing persons reported this morning, but they were all teenage girls,’ said Rushton. ‘I’ve put out a national alert for any men around forty who’ve gone missing in the last seventy-two hours. I’ll add a more accurate description later in the day.’
    When forensic had been able to add some details, that meant, and all of them knew it. As if answering a cue, the phone on Lambert’s desk shrilled urgently. ‘This is Dr Saunders, Home Office Pathology Lab at Chepstow,’ said a thin, rather querulous voice. ‘Do I have Detective Superintendent John Lambert?’ Lambert affirmed his identity and motioned his companions to stay put. He could picture Dr Saunders, behind the desk where he had once clashed with him on a previous case, a thin man with a tightly trimmed beard, an academic more at home with things than people. Dr Saunders was a scientist who had chosen pathology because it was a more exact science than surgery, where you dealt with live flesh and pulsing blood.
    ‘I have your man on the table now, but I haven’t begun the investigation proper. You’ll have my full report by tomorrow morning, but I thought you might like a few preliminary facts,’ said the reedy voice. It sounded as if it was already regretting this voluntary stepping beyond the bounds of protocol.
    Lambert hastily reassured him. ‘That is very thoughtful, Dr Saunders. It will also be most useful. We haven’t yet identified our victim, you see. Until we do, it’s difficult to begin a proper attempt to establish the facts of his death.’
    ‘I see.’ Saunders sounded encouraged. ‘Well, I can confirm what you already knew fairly certainly. Your man was murdered. People do cut their own throats still, and it’s not unknown for suicides to choose churchyards for the act, but this man didn’t. His throat wasn’t cut, in fact. He was garrotted, probably taken from behind with a thin wire.’
    Lambert, scribbling furiously upon the pad in front of him, gave an involuntary sigh. ‘Any great strength involved?’
    ‘No. With the implement used, this could easily have been done by a woman — even a child, if the victim was taken by surprise.’ Saunders’ voice carried a curious satisfaction, as though the notion cheered him up. Then, as if to dispel any such impression, he moved hastily into routine facts. ‘Your man was five feet eleven inches tall and weighed sixty-seven kilograms — twelve stones and three pounds if you prefer it. I would compute his age as late thirties. He had fair hair, recently cut and styled, and the body was in good condition.’
    ‘Any evidence of a struggle?’
    ‘At first glance, no. There is no sign of skin or fibres under the fingernails, but that is as far as I can go. I haven’t examined the body skin in any detail yet.’
    They knew what he meant. It was routine now to check the inner thighs and buttocks of men as well as women for any signs of sexual assault, any traces of semen.
    Lambert said, ‘Thank you for taking the trouble to ring me, Dr Saunders. We look forward to your full report in due course.’
    In truth, the pathologist’s