Where Memories Lie by Deborah Crombie Read Free Book Online Page B

light had turned up no trace of a murder weapon or any of the victim’s possessions, nor had nearby neighbors admitted to knowing the man or to seeing anything unusual.
    Rainey turned up the victim’s palms. “No defense wounds, so I’d say he knew his killer, or was approached in some way that enabledthe killer to take him completely by surprise.” With a gloved finger, he traced the wound on the left side of the chest, just beneath the breast. “I’d say this was the first blow, and the killing blow. It was an upward thrust to the heart, and more than likely made by someone who knew what he was doing. These others”—his finger skimmed four more dark slashes in the white skin—“might have been done to mask the deliberateness of the first blow, or perhaps rage got the better of our killer.”
    “You said ‘someone who knew what he was doing.’ You’re assuming the killer was male?”
    “Merely being grammatical,” Rainey answered, shaking his head. “A woman could have wielded that knife, if she had knowledge and upper-body strength. That might account for the element of surprise. Still…” Rainey studied the wounds. “I’d put my money on a man, probably ex-service. That would account for the knowledge, and the knife.”
    Hoxley waited, eyebrow raised, knowing Rainey liked the drama of his revelations.
    “I assume you’ll want to know what sort of weapon was used?”
    “So tell me about the knife,” said Hoxley, giving in.
    Rainey smiled, showing even white teeth. “A wide, double-edged blade, with a definitive hilt. If you look carefully, you can see the faint indentation it left on the skin.”
    Following the pathologist’s pointing finger, Hoxley saw nothing, and decided Rainey’s eyes must be better than his. He nodded agreement, however, not wanting to stop the flow of information.
    “My guess would be a hunting knife, or more likely, considering the location of the crime, a combat knife.”
    “Ah. Near the Royal Hospital. That’s why you think the killer might have been ex-service.” Hoxley frowned. “Very neat, but then, I don’t trust neat.”
    “A wager?”
    “I’ll buy you a pint if you’re right,” replied Hoxley. “That’s aboutall my salary will cover. Anything else you can tell me from the external exam?” He wouldn’t stay for the dissection—Rainey could send him a report on the state of his victim’s internal organs.
    “The hands are soft, but he has a callus on the side of his right index finger, probably from holding a pen. And his teeth. The dental work’s not English. Maybe Eastern European.”
    “So I have a middle-aged, moderately well-nourished, literate, possibly European, possibly Jewish, white male. Thanks, Doc.”
    “Do I detect a note of sarcasm, Inspector?” Rainey looked hurt. “What did you expect, the poor man’s name tattooed on his privates?”
    “More to the point,” said Hoxley, “there’s no tattoo on his forearm. This man was never in the camps.”
     
    The morning dawned clear and fine, but brought Erika no peace. She had slept fitfully—shivering beneath the duvet and an extra woolen blanket, even though the night was mild—and had slipped in and out of vague dreams that left her with only an ache under her breastbone.
    She lay in bed, thinking, until the sun coming in the garden window crept across the counterpane, then she rose and forced herself to bathe and dress as if it were any ordinary Sunday. Sweeping up the white hair she still wore long and fastening it with pins, she gazed at her shadowed eyes in the dressing table mirror. Already she regretted speaking to Gemma. The confidence had left her feeling violated, and she had a sudden desire to undo it, to forget the whole matter, push it back into the recesses of her life like a wayward jack-in-the-box.
    After a meager breakfast, she made coffee—the real thing, to combat her weariness, doctor’s orders be damned—and took it out into the garden. Setting the