Page 87 of Glasshouses

He enlarged one of the autopsy images, bruising deep within the tissues of the neck.

“There’s significant haemorrhaging in the strap muscles here.” He pointed to what he was referring to, which was useful as I still hadn’t acquired much medical terminology. “And bruising along the anterolateral neck structures which are mostly left-sided. That tells me there was force applied while his heart was still beating.”

“So he was alive when pressure was applied,” Wrigley said, sounding fatigued.

“Exactly. But I’m not convinced suspension caused all of it.” Nate swiped to another image. “There’s additional compression beneath the jawline and behind the neck that fits more with ligature tightening from behind rather than body-weight suspension alone.”

I folded my arms, tightening them across my chest. “Like Amanda.”

Nate glanced up briefly. “Yeah. Like Amanda.”

I felt cold, more facts starting to slot into place.

“There are petechial haemorrhages in the eyelids and conjunctiva.” He spoke clinically, in full flow now. My brother played Cluedo and watched true crime documentaries. He read detective novels and went to more conferences than he needed to. “Facial congestion too. You can get that in hangings but combined with the rest -” He let the sentence trail.

“What about the rope?” I said, studying the marks on Smith’s skin.

“Kernmantle rescue rope leaves a fairly clean furrow because the sheath’s smooth. There’s not much abrasion patterning. But there are effectively two pressure events here.” He zoomed in again. “Initial constriction, then suspension afterwards.”

“You’re sure?”

“As sure as I can be before histology comes back.” Nate stepped away from the table. “My working opinion is that Smith was strangled from behind using the rope, likely rendered unconscious very quickly, then suspended post-mortem or peri-mortem to stage the scene.”

“Meaning?” Wrigley needed it spelling out before his hopes died.

“He was either already dead when they hung him from the tree,” Nate said, picking up a scalpel, “or so close to death that the suspension made very little difference.”

We stayed for the next hour, watching and listening to Nate as he went through the process of examining the centre of our crime scene, trying to understand as he analysed Andrew Smith’s body, finding out what he could about the man’s final hours.

“He ate approximately seven hours before he died, judging where the digestion process was up to,” Nate said, looking at contents that scored another item off my will-not-eat list.

“What time did you leave his house?” Wrigley asked me.

“Seven-thirty,” I said, looking away from the screen and turning my back to the viewing window. “So he could’ve eaten half an hour after, or later. It definitely didn’t smell like he’d just eaten when we got there.”

“Any idea of time of death, Doctor?” Wrigley said too loudly.

“I won’t be as specific in my report, but I’d say in the early hours of the morning, looking at rigor, stomach contents and overnight conditions. Between two am and five am.” That was about as specific as we could’ve hoped for, even if it wasn’t in his report.

Wrigley leaned back against the window, next to me. “The body could’ve been there for longer if it wasn’t for school kids pissing about. It was well hidden in the copse of trees – chances are a dog walker would’ve found it later. It was someone who knew the area.”

“Lily. There was a set of women’s footprints. But I don’t know why. What would be her motive for killing Andrew Smith?” That didn’t tie up.

“Then we’re back to Smith’s son. Lachlan and Verity were speaking to members of The Holding this afternoon; they’re devastated and couldn’t speak highly enough of Smith. No one had any detail about his son and only a couple of people remembered anything about him. They did know who Graham Mercer was though.” Wrigley studied me, watching for a reaction.

“Why would they mention him?”

“Someone said they’d need to let him know, as he was due to meet with Smith on Friday.”

“I thought he was living abroad?”

“He still has his house in the area. I’ll speak with him.” He looked away from me, not expecting a response.

He should’ve known me well enough by now. “He’s a bent cop, isn’t he?”

Wrigley turned back to me, holding a pause that almost made me lose my breath.

“Mia, there’s no such thing as an unbent cop. We all have our thresholds; it’s just some are lower than others. But yes, there were always rumours about Mercer, and I’ve been told to look the other way before now.” He carried on watching me. “I retire with this case. I don’t have a career to worry about, and I know I’ve nothing that could ruin my pension. Let me fight this one.” He headed towards the way out. “Someone showed you the redacted files, didn’t they?”