not to quote you, when would you say she died?â
He chuckled good-naturedly. âThen Iâd say she was killed around midnight on Friday, and that she lay for about twenty-four hours before she was put in the canal. But those are only guidelines, and if anyone asks about this conversation I shall deny it ever took place.â
Liz liked Crowe, liked most of the pathologists she met, found them on the whole more approachable than GPs, and thought it a pity that their patients were in no state to appreciate them. âThe secret of your competence is safe with me,â she assured him solemnly.
âAnd I was right about her killer standing behind her, I think. Itâd be an awkward movement to make a wound like that from in front. From the angle the blade was held at, he was several inches taller than her.â
âGood,â said Liz, thinking this was a bonus. âHow tall?â
Crowe sounded apologetic. âWell, itâs not going to be that much help. She was only five-foot-one. You could say he was probably five six or more, but most men are.â
âAt least we can rule out midgets,â Liz said philosophically. âAll right. Apart from the neck wound, was she injured in any other way? Was she raped?â
The pathologist was slow to answer. âShe hadnât been raped violently.â
Lizâs eyebrows climbed. âThereâs a gentle way?â
Reproof came down the phone at her. âThatâs not what I meant. Look, this was a girl who spent her working life with her legs apart. She had sex the way you use a typewriter, battering away at it whenever the need and opportunity arise. Of course she was bruised. Of course there were abrasions. And yes, she had sex on the day of her death. But it could have been earlier and not with the man who killed her. It may have had nothing to do with her death.â
âSo whatâs he saying?â scowled Shapiro when Liz brought him up to date. âThat she was a prostitute but she wasnât killed for sex?â
Liz shrugged. âIf a girlâs a prostitute, you donât have to kill her for it. You pay her for it.â
âThen why did he kill her?â
âFor pleasure? We should consider the possibility, Frank. There are men who get a kick out of killing women: the ultimate domination. Prostitutes are more accessible than most women, theyâre more likely to meet such men. Then thereâs the fact that they wonât be missed as quickly and the feeling that less effort may be put into finding their killers.â
âThe hell for that!â Shapiroâs eyes were fierce. âRound here, nobodyâs life is that cheap.â
âWeâll tell him that when we find him,â Liz promised.
For a time Shapiro said nothing more. But the air around him remained charged with his thinking so Liz stayed where she was. At length he said, âTwenty-four hours?â
âSorry?â
âIsnât that what Crowe said â that sheâd been dead twenty-four hours when she went into the water?â
âIt was a guess, but yes, something like that.â
âShe lay under that tarpaulin all Saturday and nobody found her. I know the tow-path isnât Piccadilly but itâs not Outer Mongolia either. Particularly at weekends there are boats passing up and down, people walking dogs, kids out for a bit of fun. And nobody found her. Nobody thought it worth examining a girl-sized hump under a tarpaulin? Somebodyâs dog must have smelled her and wanted to investigate. What did they do â pull it away, complain it was making them late for dinner? What kind of a town is this?â
âAn ordinary town,â Liz said quietly, âfull of ordinary people who donât expect to be confronted with dead bodies on public paths. If your dog barks at a bit of tarpaulin you think thereâs a rat in it and hurry away. Hindsightâs a fine thing, Frank.
Learning to Kill: Stories