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“Not likely to be, if she’s what we think she is.”
Gardener left the kitchen and headed for the living room. No TV, DVD, or Sky. He didn’t see a laptop, either. None of the machines children liked.
Gardener scanned the room. Besides very little furniture, there were no photos, no personal belongings of any kind.
“What are you after?”
“There’s no evidence to suggest even she lives here, never mind anyone else. She doesn’t even have a magazine rack.”
Gardener spotted a small pile of CDs next to the only armchair. He picked them up and leafed through. They were mostly female singers: Toni Braxton, Celine Dion, and Gabrielle. So it was highly unlikely that the CD in the other room was hers.
Reilly went back into the kitchen. “Maybe there’s a letter rack in here, or something in the drawers.” He drew a blank with his search: no letters, no bills, no documents of any kind to give them a clue as to who she was or how she lived her life.
The sound of vehicles pulling up outside, along with raised voices at the front of the house told them the cavalry had arrived. As they stepped out onto the front porch, Gardener saw his own team of DCs: Colin Sharp, Frank Thornton, and Bob Anderson, with support officers in tow.
Gardener greeted and addressed his men, telling them what he knew – which was very little. He requested each of them to head a small team and start the house-to-house process. He ordered DC Paul Benson to go back to the station, contact HOLMES, and pick a couple of rooms they could use. As they dispersed, George Fitzgerald, the Home Office Pathologist, strolled casually down the path as the SOCOs arrived.
“Why is it always me that gets called out after midnight, and always you that calls me?”
“Because you’re the best, Fitz.”
“And we love you,” said Reilly. He turned to Gardener. “You forgot that. You know how sensitive he is.”
“I thought that went without saying.” Gardener smiled. “We’ve always shown him the greatest of respect.”
“Especially at Christmas,” said Reilly.
“That’s enough,” replied Fitz. “Show me the corpse so I can get back to bed.”
“See?” said Gardener. “I told you he was the best, no sooner through the door, and he wants to start work.”
The SIO pointed to the kitchen. The crime scene manager, Steve Fenton, led his team in. Gardener briefed them and asked if they would start upstairs while the body was checked and removed. That left Constable Edwards at the front door.
Gardener popped his head around and saw that the lady wrapped in the blanket had stopped mumbling. Perhaps she was ready to make a statement.
“Patrick, can you escort this lady back next door, and I’ll be with you in a few minutes? We can brush up your interview technique.”
Edwards nodded and did as he was asked.
Gardener entered the kitchen as Fitz was rising from the body, checking a thermometer.
“Pretty straightforward. I suspect the bayonet killed her.”
“Don’t recognize what type of bayonet, do you?”
“Sorry,” said Fitz. “Definitely not my area.”
“Do you think it’s responsible for the rest of the wounds?”
Fitz leaned in closer. “Hard to say. Can’t see the blade, but if it’s serrated, I’d say yes. Anyway, there’s nothing more I can do here, so let’s have her down to the morgue and we can start finding some answers.”
“Any idea how long she’s been dead?”
“Two, maybe three hours.”
Gardener asked for the undertaker to come in. Between the four of them – with Fitz over
seeing the operation – they managed to carefully prize the bayonet free. The blade was serrated.
