Page 20 of No Safe Place
Field frowned. ‘And how many times did you say he was stabbed? As in – how many wounds total?’
‘Nine,’ Young said. ‘If he was found even a few minutes later, I’d say it’s unlikely he’d still be here.
‘What I find interesting—’ Young continued, as she replaced the sheet; Field noted the care and respect in the gentle actions as she repositioned the many tubes and wires covering David’s chest ‘—is that the first wound, that one to the ribs – it’s an injury typical of males. Face to face, close contact. But the downward stabbing motions when he’s on the ground – that’s much more typical in acts committed by a female.’
Field hadn’t considered that.
She tuned back in to Young’s commentary.
‘I’ve drawn blood, although he’s had transfusions, so the blood alcohol level won’t be accurate. Scrapings from his fingernails will probably take a week, and your team are sending over his clothes, right?’
‘They’re on their way to your office,’ Field said. ‘Order whatever tests we need.’
‘Great. I’ll have an interim report with you by tomorrow, with a list of outstanding bits, and a timeline.’
Dr Wheatley appeared at the door, and he and Young exchanged a few words, before she snapped her gloves off, grabbed her coffee and followed Field out of the room.
There was no respite from the smell of hospital and sickness in the corridor.
Field checked her phone and found a text from Wilson.
Simon Dawes will be at King’s by half two.
She’d just locked her phone when the screen lit up with a call from the super. Field pushed it back into her pocket. ‘Got twenty minutes until David Moore’s mentor arrives.’
‘Do you want me to stay? To talk to him?’ Young took a gulp of the cooled coffee.
Field shook her head. ‘It’ll be fine. Shoot off if you need to.’
Young shrugged. ‘I always have ten minutes for you.’
They ducked into the family room, which was both mercifully empty and air-conditioned. Unlike the rest of the hospital, there were no posters in here. Nothing declaring the importance of handwashing or the dangers of smoking.
Field took a battered brown leather armchair and Young sank into a coral-pink sofa.
Young had trained as a pathologist, but her expertise was the still-living. Across South East London and beyond, it was Young people called when their victim survived their injuries. She had a formidable reputation in court, her scientific rigour and the clarity of her reports leaving little room for defence lawyers to discredit her.
Field asked her once, when they were halfway through their third bottle of Merlot at Young’s kitchen table, why she’d taken that route. She thought maybe her friend would say it was about making an impact to living victims, or the scientific complexity of wounds that have been treated, or partially healed.
‘It was just because no one was giving me interesting murder cases.’ She’d shrugged. Field knew the feeling.
Now Young put her coffee down and started rummaging in her handbag. She pulled out her purse, a novel and two water bottles – leaving them on the coffee table. ‘So, you were first on scene?’
‘Yep. Just happened to be round the corner. My lucky night, I guess.’
‘I mean, you were in Plumstead. If it’s going to happen anywhere—’ Young said, still excavating items from her bag. ‘I’m from there, so I can say that.’
Field was unfazed by the chaos. ‘Do you know Ancona Road?’
Young rolled her eyes, scooping items back into her bag.‘Yeah, of course. I lived on Mineral Street until I was about ten. Aha—’ She pulled out an oversized pair of sunglasses, and jammed them on her head. ‘Can’t see a bloody thing when I’m driving in the sun.’
‘I forgot about your encyclopaedic memory for road names,’ Field said, swallowing a yawn.
Young narrowed her eyes. ‘You look done in.’
‘Charming.’
‘Have you slept?’
