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  ‘Inglewood Hall. I insisted. It’s the best.’ A glaze of pride descended onto Mr Tate’s face, but quickly disappeared, when he remembered that Moira wouldn’t be staying at the Inglewood anymore, and neither would he.

  Kelly glanced at Rob, to make sure he was getting everything down, onto his pad. He was diligent, and scribbled away.

  ‘What is your mother-in-Law’s name, Mr Tate? I presume she’s in the Penrith and Lakes Hospital?’ asked Kelly.

  ‘Catherine Tring, yes she is,’ he replied. Kelly noted that, like many people in shock, he was glad to be useful, because answering their questions kept him occupied.

  ‘Do you have any children?’ She carried on.

  ‘Not together. She had Warren from her previous marriage. I have Sarah and Colin from my previous marriage,’ he said. Rob wrote this down.

  ‘I’ll need names and addresses, please.’

  ‘I’ll go and get my diary. Moira’s ex-partner died of cancer. Mine, sadly, is still alive. If you’ll excuse me.’ He left the room and Kelly looked at Rob, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘Complicated family, some animosity there. If there’s tension between him and the ex, then my guess is the children wouldn’t take well to Moira, waltzing in and enjoying the fruits of their father’s labour. Classic wicked stepmother,’ said Kelly. Rob jotted some notes.

  Mr Tate came back into the room with a book, found the relevant pages, and reeled off names and addresses. He had no idea where Warren lived, or if he’d seen his mother recently, his surname was Downs.

  ‘They had an acrimonious relationship, and Warren was closer to his grandmother,’ said Mr Tate.

  More family dramas, thought Kelly. It certainly suited the circumstances of Moira’s state that she had a relationship with her killer: the nakedness, the intimacy of throttling, and the care taken over her arrangement – as well as the pleasure gained from her shame at being found naked and exposed in a public place.

  Their list of persons of interest was growing.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Moira, Mr Tate?’ Kelly asked.

  ‘She left here on Sunday, after the hospice called. They said Catherine didn’t have long to live, and for Moira to come quickly. They said she’d been admitted to The Penrith and Lakes. I spoke to Moira on Monday afternoon,’ he said. The story struck a chord with Kelly, who also found herself journeying back and forth, to and from The Penrith and Lakes, visiting her sickly mother.

  ‘It would be very helpful if you could remember what items of clothing she’d packed for her stay.’

  Mr Tate nodded, deep in thought. His eyes glazed over again, and he wiped them with his hands.

  ‘How did she seem, when you spoke to her?’

  Mr Tate took some time to think about his answer. ‘She was upset. She’d argued with her mother but she didn’t elaborate,’ he said.

  ‘Did that happen a lot?’

  ‘If I’m honest, yes. Catherine isn’t the easiest of people, detective.’

  ‘Did she say she’d be visiting anyone else whilst in the Penrith area?’ Kelly asked.

  ‘No. She was just going to see her mother.’ Mr Tate seemed sure of this.

  ‘Could we take a look around, Mr Tate? Perhaps Moira’s room? To get an impression of her personality? It can help immensely with our enquiries,’ Kelly asked. ‘Perhaps you could show us her wardrobe and think about what she took with her?’

  ‘Of course.’ Mr Tate led them upstairs, which was just as grand as the ground floor. The stair carpet was thick and lush, the soft furnishings oozed femininity, and art work adorned the walls. The place was immaculate. Mr Tate led them to a bedroom and indicated for them to go inside. Like the rest of the house, the room was opulently decorated and expensive.

  ‘She didn’t have much luggage. She had her cashmere coat, and the scarf which I bought for her last winter.’ He faltered. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘We understand, Mr Tate. Perhaps it’s too much for now?’ Kelly asked.

  ‘I’ll be downstairs. Unless you need me?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ll be fine, thank you,’ said Kelly. Mr Tate disappeared.

  ‘You take that half, I’ll take this. We’re looking for photos, keepsakes, letters, diaries etc.’ Kelly moved quickly, but left virtually no mess, and Rob tried to do the same. Mr Tate had invited them into the room and indicated that they could help themselves: that amounted to owner’s permission.

  By the time they’d finished, they had three photos, a diary, and some snapshots on Kelly’s phone. As they thought, Moira wore a lot of jewellery, fine clothes and accessories, and owned countless designer handbags. She wouldn’t go anywhere without her baubles and so, wherever she’d been prior to her demise (or during it), she’d left a lot behind. They went back downstairs, and found Mr Tate sat in an armchair, staring out of a window. It was time to go. The family liaison officer would be here soon.

  Kelly was careful to show Mr Tate the items, for his approval, and he nodded simply.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Tate. I think that’s all for now. I’ll leave you my personal number, if you think of anything else, anything at all, please call me. And if Warren gets in touch, I’d like to speak to him.’

  ‘When can I see her?’ he asked. His face was heavy, and his eyes had stopped twinkling.

  Kelly knew he’d get round to this eventually, like they all did, but it was important to leave it to him, as next of kin, to decide. Moira wouldn’t look that bad, once the mud was removed from her nose, mouth and ears. The blood vessels in her eyes had ruptured, but the eyes themselves were intact, and Mr Tate wouldn’t need to see the rest of her; the undertaker could be instructed to tuck her hands underneath her body to hide the damaged fingers.

  ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I can. We have professional officers, specially trained in bereavement as a result of violent crime, Mr Tate, should you wish to take advantage of it; they’ll be calling on you as well. Or we can arrange for a friend to come for you.’

  Kelly hated this bit: the housekeeping end of death, but it was mandatory. Mr Tate insisted that he wanted to be left alone, and it wasn’t unusual, for his age and gender, to request exactly that. The liaison officers would deal with that when they arrived. For her, it was time to hand over.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Tate. Please be assured that we’re working all leads, and finding Moira’s killer is the constabulary’s absolute priority.’ She wanted to give him a cuddle; her dad would be about the same age now. He looked lost, and she didn’t want to leave.

  They left in silence. It was the worst part: walking away from the fallout of the nuclear bomb that she’d just dropped.

  ‘So what d’you think, Rob?’

  ‘I think he really loved her,’ was all he said.

  They walked to the car and Kelly’s phone rang. It was her sister, Nikki.

  ‘Kelly.’

  ‘Nikki.’

  ‘Mum’s got cancer.’

  Chapter 9

  Coroner Ted Wallis washed his hands. It was a force of habit, rather than a necessity; the next patient was unlikely to catch any diseases as a result of her surgeon’s hygiene.

  She’d been called Moira, the notes read.

  He could see, straightaway, that she’d suffered a horrid end. Ted was more used to performing autopsies on eighty-year-olds for the purposes of medical science, but this was different. Every now and again, a body would land on his slab that took the wind from him. Moira Tate fell into this category.

  Ted spoke into his microphone, as he walked around the body, and his photographer clicked away, at his behest. She’d already been weighed, and now he measured her for the record. He also took her temperature. It had been taken at the scene, and taking it again would give him an idea of how quickly Moira had cooled after death.

  He carefully scraped away the dirt from her nostrils and bagged it; he did the same with her ears and mouth, and checked her throat. The dirt was pretty superficial, and the thing that came to Ted’s mind firs
t, was a vision of a young child tidying up a misdemeanour, so he wouldn’t get scalded by his mummy. He dismissed the idea, but it stuck. He’d read about it: a killer plugging orifices in an attempt to tidy up his mess, and it sprung from guilt.

  The victim’s eyes showed clear signs of trauma: it was as if the vessels had exploded, and Ted expected to find further evidence of asphyxiation. Sure enough, ligature marks tracked all the way around her neck, and Ted knew from experience that Moira had been throttled, and from the front: a bold move; the killer wanted to behold the moment of death. And it would take great strength to do so.

  Ted was taken back to Med School, to a lecture on Criminal Psychology. If he hadn’t gone into pathology, forensic psychology would’ve been his second choice, but he couldn’t stand all the feathery pirouetting around people’s feelings: they were murderers, plain and simple. He was better cut out for communing with dead bodies, not the tortured souls of live ones.

  But one case stood out: the American serial killer, Michael Bruce Ross, who used to stop, mid-kill, to massage his fingers whilst strangulating his victims; because the effort was too great to achieve in one go. Ted had a vision of an all American kid, sat over a body that he’d just abused, because he ‘couldn’t help his urges’, casually massaging his fingers, ready for the next go, all the while, his terrified young victim wondering when, and if, she would meet her end. Ted knew that he’d entered the right profession; he couldn’t have counselled a monster like that.

  His mind came back to his current killer, who’d managed manual strangulation, albeit with a strap of some kind, but he was still clearly a man of incredible strength. Moira was a lady of generous proportions; and dead, she’d have been even more cumbersome. The ligature marks looked as though they came from a belt, to Ted, but the lab would confirm that. He measured the marks and had them photographed.

  Ted noted swelling around Moira’s shoulders and more marks around her wrists and ankles, indicating restraint. He concluded she’d been killed somewhere else other than the dump site, but the detective would work that one out. Kelly Porter had been assigned the case, and with her record, they all counted on her to bring the killer to justice, and fast.

  Ted turned to the mutilated fingers, and satisfied himself that, due to the way the blood had coagulated, it was done post-mortem. Be thankful for small mercies, he thought. The cuts were clean and precise, this wouldn’t be the case if it had been done to a live victim in the throes of agony and terror. The procedure was performed so well that Moira’s red nail polish had been sliced clean through. Ted was impressed. Perhaps the killer had experience.

  Unmoving clumps of little white eggs clung to the wounds: they’d been rendered soporific by the fridge in which Moira had been kept overnight. He collected a few specimens and placed them carefully into pre-prepared plastic tubes, each containing amounts of formalin. They’d be sent off to entomology. Blow fly eggs generally hatched into flesh hungry maggots within a day, so Ted knew straight away that Moira had been dumped recently, probably the previous evening. It was a brazen act of daring, and Ted shook his head. He’d examined many bodies laden with third generation fat maggots that had liquefied their meal to almost nothing. Moira, by comparison, was in good shape. The smell of ammonia wasn’t that bad either: another indication that the critters hadn’t been at their buffet for long.

  Next, he turned to her toes, and scraped beneath the nails. A small stiff fibre adhered to a tiny residue of dead skin cells, and he looked through a magnifying glass. He held the specimen between tweezers and held his hand steady. The fibre looked synthetic, not human, and it was grey. He wouldn’t know for sure until it’d been examined properly. He bagged and labelled it.

  Then, he turned to the money between Moira’s legs. He swabbed the area and removed the bank notes, one by one. They were neatly rolled up, side by side, as if stored. ‘Likely sexual assault,’ he said into his mic. In all, there were seven ten-pound notes. Finally, what he thought was number eight, looked different. It was a piece of paper, covered with plastic, and it too was rolled up. Ted unrolled it and saw that something was written on it. The writing was clear and precise, and it could easily have been printed from a writing font. Whoever put it there had taken care over it to preserve it. Ted held it up to the light. It was barely two lines.

  ‘Whilst yet the calm hours creep,

  Dream thou – and from thy sleep,

  Then wake to weep.’

  Ted bagged it, but his hands began to shake gently. He decided to call the detective as soon as he finished up. But first, he placed a chainmail glove over his left hand to protect himself from the saw, and began eviscerating Moira’s body. He had a hunch that Moira’s internal organs were completely irrelevant in this homicide. The killer had damaged her from the outside for a reason.

  Ted was keen to look at the victim’s cervical vertebrae and larynx: none of the superficial wounds had killed this woman, and Ted reckoned that the actual cause of death would be strangulation, but he had to find solid evidence first.

  Once inside her body, Ted knew that he might find an enlarged liver, due to a few too many red wines; he might find a cancerous tumour; and he might even find the beginning of heart disease, but he knew that these wouldn’t be related to Moira’s demise. She’d been blotted out and used as a vessel: a message; and he had the note to prove it. He took samples of various bodily fluids for the lab, but he’d already arrived at his conclusion. He wondered what Moira had done to deserve such a demise, or, more specifically, what someone thought she’d done.

  Chapter 10

  The Female Medical Ward was quiet.

  Kelly waited at the nurses’ station and, after about five minutes, a junior nurse padded down the hall, carrying a jug of juice. Kelly had instructed Rob to get back to Eden House and check with DS Umshaw about the progress at Watermillock. Meanwhile, she would talk to Catherine Tring. Kelly needed time to process the news that her sister had given her. Nikki had driven Mum home. There was no solid prognosis, only that her mother would have to be subjected to more invasive tests. All they could do was wait. Kelly had spoken to her mother on the phone and she was adamant that she wanted no fuss.

  ‘I’ve known for months, Kelly.’

  It was the most vicious sentence Kelly thought she’d ever heard. Kelly considered going against her mother’s wishes and driving straight home, but Wendy Porter was firm. She’d see her mother later, once her sister had gone home. Kelly wondered if she could perhaps find someone to have a beer with after work, so she could avoid Nikki. The last thing her mum would want to listen to was her daughters bickering.

  ‘Afternoon,’ the nurse said, brightly.

  Behind her, the ward sister appeared, along with a man Kelly presumed was a doctor: he wore a stethoscope around his neck and he carried a clipboard, although he couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. But it was the ward sister who was firmly in charge.

  Kelly spoke to the junior nurse loudly – making sure the sister’s ears pricked up – and sure enough, they did, as soon as the word ‘detective’ was mentioned.

  The sister stopped what she was doing and took over. She reminded Kelly of an old style matron.

  ‘Can I help? I’m Sister Grey, did I hear you say you’d like to see Mrs Tring?’ Sister Grey asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m Detective Porter, and I’d like to ask Mrs Tring a few questions about her daughter,’ Kelly said.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ the sister said, with finality.

  ‘I’m sorry, why not?’ asked Kelly.

  ‘She’s very poorly, detective. I doubt you’ll get any sense out of her at all. She’s terminally ill and beyond even palliative care. We’re just keeping her comfortable. She’s a non-resuscitation case too.’

  ‘On whose authority?’

  ‘Her own. Excuse me.’

  A bell interrupted them, and Sister Grey, plus two others, including the young doctor, rushed away. Kelly followed, her interest piqued. She st
ood outside the room they’d rushed to, and the bell fell silent. A white plastic board was screwed to the wall next to the door at eye height, as they were outside every room. Three names were written in green washable ink. The last one was Tring. Kelly waited.

  When they emerged, the sister dished out instructions, and nurses scurried off in different directions. Kelly was frustrated, and used to getting what she wanted. She followed Sister Grey, who stopped and turned around.

  ‘You definitely won’t be getting to talk to her now, Detective,’ said Sister Grey. ‘That was Mrs Tring’s respirator. I’m afraid she’s passed away.’

  ‘What? Just now?’

  ‘Yes. I told you she was gravely ill. It’s such a shame her daughter wasn’t here. But she wasn’t alone. One of our staff was with her to the end.’

  Kelly was bitterly disappointed. But then, she supposed, the old lady had been spared hearing the news of her daughter’s brutal murder. But, nonetheless, Kelly had lost a witness: someone who might have been the last person to see Moira alive.

  ‘Sister?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes?’ The sister was striding away from Kelly, barking instructions, but Kelly persevered.

  ‘May I ask you a few questions?’ Kelly asked. Sister Grey tutted and thought for a moment.

  ‘You have five minutes. I’ve got paperwork to do.’ It was non-negotiable.

  ‘You obviously know Mrs Tring’s daughter?’

  ‘Of course. She was here a lot. She hadn’t been for a couple of days though, which we all thought odd. But she obviously had other things to do, I need to call her, she was Catherine’s next of kin.’

  ‘That was why I wanted to speak to Mrs Tring actually, Sister. Moira was found dead this morning.’

  Now it was the nurse’s turn to stop in her tracks, and she shook her head. ‘Really? How on earth…?’

  ‘She was murdered.’ Kelly let the news settle in, and she watched. It was vital to build a picture of her victim, and by questioning and watching those who’d had contact with her, she could do just that.