The Soul Collector Read Free Page A

his weak stomach from erupting.
    “And also rather unusual,” Redrose said, his normally languid tone replaced by one that suggested a fascination bordering on the unhealthy. “Severe lacerations and heavy blows to the face.” He extended an arm. “And the left ear has been removed.”
    “Jesus,” Turner said, averting his eyes from the sight. Oaten looked at the carpet around the body and the nearest wall. There was no blood spatter. “I take it the injuries were inflicted after death.”
    Redrose nodded. “I’ve examined the skull. There’s a serious depressed fracture, probably from a fall.” He shook his head and then smiled. “But that wasn’t what killed her.”
    Oaten was irritated by the pathologist’s ability to take pleasure from his work, but she didn’t show it. That would only have encouraged him. She looked back at the dead woman. It was impossible to tell if any other trauma had been inflicted. Apart from the face and head there was no blood, and her clothing didn’t appear to have been disturbed.
    “Let me help you, Chief Inspector,” Redrose said. He turned the victim’s head to the right and put his forefinger close to an area of the neck. “You see the ligature mark?”
    Oaten nodded. The dull red line was narrow. “Any sign of what was used?”
    “Not in the immediate vicinity, ma’am,” a uniformed officer said.
    The pathologist laughed. “Careful, laddie. The chief 22
    Paul Johnston
    inspector’s one of those female officers who prefers to be called ‘guv.’”
    Oaten gave Redrose a tight smile. “So she was strangled.”
    “Correct. The marks suggest by something pretty narrow, like a shoelace. I’ll see if there are any fibers later.”
    “And the time of death, Doctor?” Oaten asked. The pathologist looked affronted. “Surely you realize it’s too early to say.”
    She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Would you care to hazard a guess?”
    “Oh, very well,” Redrose said, with a brief smile.
    “Given the body temperature, I’d say no more than two hours ago.”
    Oaten looked at her watch. It was nearly ten. DI Neville appeared at her side. “The neighbor called about the noise at 8:43 p.m. So that gives us a pretty tight window of eight to around eight-thirty. I’ve just been talking to the guy next door. He isn’t sure, but he reckons that the music started about a quarter of an hour before he made the call.”
    “Did he see anyone leave the house?” Turner asked, his notebook and pen out.
    Neville shook his head.
    Karen Oaten stood up and took in the room. The back door was ajar and on the carpet near it were some small bloodstains. “What happened there?”
    Neville stepped up. “The CSIs have already taken them away.”
    “Them?”
    “The severed head and body of a black cat,” the detective inspector said. “There’s more blood on the paving The Soul Collector
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    stones out back. It looks like it was slaughtered there.”
    The bottom lip went between his teeth again.
    “Do we know if it was the victim’s?” Oaten asked. Neville nodded. “The neighbor confirmed she had one like that. It, or rather he, was called Noir.”
    Black, thought Oaten. The victim must have liked black humor. Or was she into old crime movies? She turned to Neville. “Do we know who she was?”
    “No formal identification yet. The neighbor declined, but we’ll work on him once she’s been cleaned up in the mortuary. There are bank and credit cards in a purse in the hall. The name’s Shirley Higginbottom. There’s a nameplate on the front doorframe that says S. Higginbottom, so there isn’t much doubt that was her.”
    “Any cash?” Turner asked.
    Neville looked at his notebook. “Sixty-four pounds and eight pence. And there are two laptops, a plasma TV
    and a load of jewelry upstairs.”
    Oaten was looking at the body again. “Well, clearly we’re not looking for a burglar who was interrupted—”
    “Inspector?”
    They all turned to the back door. A