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‘Can’t you be more precise?’
Dr Pointer looked up, and this time there was irritation in her voice. ‘No, I can’t.’
‘Oh!’ came the graceless reply.
Lawson, conscious of the tension between the two women, forced herself to focus on the body, and to imagine, without emotion, what it must have been like. Lying on the slab, stripped of clothes, and bereft of dignity, it presented a very different picture from the image imprinted in her head, of the twisted blood-spattered, brutalized person she had seen on that kitchen floor. What sort of person could do that?
‘At least,’ Pointer said suddenly, ‘it would be hard to tie the time down with absolute certainty. But maybe nearer two o’clock than one.’
‘Right,’ Holden grunted. Then, almost as an afterthought: ‘Thank you.’
‘That’s unofficial, you understand.’
‘Of course.’
Again there was silence, and into this Lawson now gently tossed the question which had been growing in her mind. ‘Dr Pointer,’ she said, before remembering the pathologist’s preference for first names. ‘Karen, there was a lot of blood. Do you think the killer could have avoided getting it on his – or her – clothes?’
‘It’s hard to be certain. The knife cut the carotid artery in the neck, so that might have sprayed, but the heart was already in crisis by then, so there would have been less pressure, and.…’ She drifted to a stop.
‘Thank you, Karen,’ Holden broke in, apparently deciding that they had got all they could from the visit. ‘You’ve been very helpful. If you could email your full report over when it’s done, I would be most grateful.’
‘Not at all,’ came the reply. Formal politeness was suddenly back in vogue in the pathology lab. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. His possessions are over there.’ Pointer pointed to a large grey high-sided tray sitting on one of the work benches. Lawson, looking at it, felt a sudden surge of queasiness. The tray was just like the ones in airport security, the ones into which you have to place everything you are carrying and half of what you’re wearing. She had only flown abroad twice in her life, which made her something of an oddball amongst her friends. The first had been with friends to Ibiza, and the second had been less than a year ago. It had started with a five-hour delay at Gatwick. This had been followed, on night number two, by her developing a horrendous bout of gastroenteritis. Three days later, when she could finally risk venturing out on to the beach, she overdid it, fell asleep on her towel, and got horribly sunburnt. And alongside and during all of this, her relationship with her boyfriend Tom had been deteriorating via angry outbursts (hers) and surly exits (his) until there was no part of it that was not in ruins. She hated flying.
Holden, oblivious to her constable’s interior musing, had walked over to the tray and cast a brief eye over it, before turning away. ‘That’s your job, Lawson. Get it into the car, and while you’re waiting for me, check out the mobile for recent calls, and all his contacts. Karen and I have one or two things to discuss.’
Lawson got the message, and hurried to collect Jack Smith’s personal possessions and get out of the room. She was no mug, and had already wondered about her boss and Dr Pointer. Not that she had voiced her suspicions to anyone. But she was human enough – and nosy enough – to wonder what things Holden still had to discuss with the pathologist, and in private. Her guess was that it wasn’t police procedures or new developments in post-mortem techniques.
However, by the time Holden had joined her in the car several minutes later, her idle speculation on her boss’s private life had long since gone out the window. For all her attention had been hijacked by what she had seen on Jack Smith’s mobile.
‘We’ve got another one, Guv!’
Holden wrenched her mind away from the conversation she had just had with Karen Pointer. ‘What was that?’
‘There’s a photo on this mobile too, Guv!’
‘What? Of a naked Jack Smith?’
‘No, Guv. It’s a painting. You know, like an oil painting.’
Holden’s interest shot up several points. ‘Well, let me have a look then!’
It is not easy to appreciate the quality, or even the subject matter, of a painting on a screen approximately three centimetres square. Holden had to squint, and then to move the mobile’s face around before she could get a decent grasp of what it was. Lawson’s estimate that it was an oil painting seemed to be a good one. There were two figures. In the centre was a woman, lying back against a rock. She appeared, as far as Holden could see, to be in distress. Although clothed, her diaphanous dress was dishevelled, and her left breast uncovered. To the viewer’s right, a male figure could be seen, moving away from the woman, but casting a glance behind him, though whether the expression on his face was mischievous or triumphant, evil or embarrassed, Holden could not divine.
‘What do you think, Guv? Do you think it’s the picture that he found?’
‘No,’ Holden said flatly. ‘That one had two women and a prone man, according to Jack.’
‘Maybe he was lying.’ The words shot out of Lawson’s mouth. Quite why she uttered them, she wasn’t sure. It wasn’t as if she had mulled the idea over for even a second.
‘Why on earth should he be lying about the subject of the painting?’
Lawson pursed her lips, and said nothing. She felt foolish for not having remembered Jack Smith’s description of the painting. She hadn’t been there – Fox had been with Holden – but she had seen the notes of the meeting, and she really should have remembered.
‘Well, come on, Lawson.’ Holden was not going to let her off. ‘Why? Give me a possible reason why Jack Smith might have lied. You’re on my team, so I want you thinking, not playing the village idiot. Why might he have lied?’
‘To mislead us, Guv.’ Lawson’s idea was only half-formed, and maybe only half-baked, but if Holden wanted ideas, she’d ruddy well give her one.
