Written in Blood by Chris Collett Read Free Book Online Page B

Mariner. According to the initial findings, there were pressure point bruises to the oesophagus, damage to the thyroid cartilage and cricoid cartilage, and x-rays clearly showed the hyoid bone in the throat to be broken, all consistent with the application of extreme pressure with the thumbs. Conclusion: the woman had been strangled with somebody’s bare hands. She was five feet three and slightly built so most men would be physically capable. The facial photograph was not a pretty sight. She had been dead for at least a couple of weeks when she was found, in which time rats had chewed through the bin liner, before attacking her face and torso. They’d need a digital mock-up before they could think of releasing anything to the press. Something else Glover had highlighted: the girl was a mother. She’d given birth around two months earlier.
    The likely scenario, Glover concluded, was that she had been strangled, taped into the bin liners and dumped down the sewer, and their strongest lead on a suspect came in the form of the latent prints found on the tape and the bin bags. These were currently being processed by forensics, though, with the holiday, Charlie wasn’t sure how long that would take. He’d begun a house to house in the area, though as Glover said in his note, with no photograph and only one spare WPC to help him, it was going to be a slow job. It was probably where he was now.
    Mariner looked at the ravaged face. Hard to tell if the girl had been pretty, dead eyes staring up at him. Suddenly they were transposed by another pair of eyes, their life draining away even as he watched. His mouth went dry and he felt a slight queasiness. Pushing the picture away, he went and got some water from the cooler.
     
    Returning to his desk, Mariner switched on his PC to check his email, but his mind wandered and it was hard to concentrate. Everything he did seemed to take longer than usual.
    The extensive list of new messages in his in-box mainly originated from people he’d never heard of; an invitation to a New Year’s bash in a different department, notification of minor changes in procedures, and forthcoming training opportunities. Each one absurdly banal.
    An open air memorial service was to be held for the victims of the explosion, in St Philip’s Square in the city centre. A circular gave details of the times and the security arrangements, bordering on the paranoid, and information about the collection for the victims and their families. A memorial book was also available for messages at the museum and art gallery. In other words, it was standard stuff. Only one other message stood out to Mariner as being of any interest. It was addressed to Walking Man.
    That was the tag inflicted on Mariner by Detective Inspector Dave Flynn when the two of them had been thrown together four years ago at a conference week in Peterborough. Two DIs in a hotel full of Superintendents, they had stuck together, more so on discovering a mutual liking for proper beer in a hotel that specialised in extortionately priced lager. It was when Mariner had first discovered Woodforde’s, something that he would forever associate with Dave Flynn. Every evening after the presentations they’d gone out on a quest for real ale, Mariner insisting they walk rather than take taxis, restless for the exercise he was missing during the day; hence the nickname. Flynn had a weird taste in naff music; anything that wasn’t cool, but it was only in subsequent years that Mariner had realised that James Taylor featured on his playlist.
    Flynn was ambitious. He was probably a Super himself by now. No clue about that in the note, which was characteristically brief and to the point.
     
    In Brum tomorrow (28th). Fancy a pint?
    Dave
    Mariner wondered idly whether Flynn’s visit had anything to do with the explosion. He couldn’t see how, but either way it would be good to see him again; a welcome distraction, and the chance for a good piss up. Mariner tapped