Page 68 of First Blood
She knew it was her own sadness she saw reflected there; sadness that this young woman’s life had been taken, but more because they hadn’t been able to find her in time.
In truth, she had wondered if Hayley had been responsible for the murder of Luke Fenton, though her mind had been unable to link her to the murder at Redland Hall. But now she didn’t have to find that link. Because clearly someone had hated both Hayley and Luke.
‘Who found her?’ Kim asked.
Keats nodded towards a male in his seventies sitting on the pavement with a Jack Russell on his left and a small black bag to his right.
Kim glanced at Bryant who got the message and headed over.
‘Same as before?’ she asked Keats.
‘Similar,’ he said. ‘But the knife wound to the throat that killed her looks proportionately shorter than the first. Decapitated post mortem. And with a lot less finesse.’
‘Go on,’ Kim said, stepping closer. Every action of the killer told her something.
He pointed to different spots across the opening. ‘Clumsier, than the first. More hacks.’
‘In a hurry?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘Not for me to say.’
If their killer had been in a rush, why bother with the beheading at all? The girl was dead from the cut throat.
What the hell was the message in cutting off the head?
‘And you’ll have noticed the absence of—’
‘The genital mutilation,’ she finished for him. Her jeans were intact and there was no obvious staining to the fabric.
‘Bang to the head?’ she asked.
‘Haven’t moved her properly to look yet,’ he answered, as Bryant appeared beside her.
‘Albert Thomas,’ he said of the man being helped to his feet by a PC. ‘Seventy-six years of age. Walks his dog this way every day and approached the bin to dispose of Buster’s poo bag.’
Kim glanced over at the tiny dog.
‘Buster?’ she asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Aspirational, guv,’ he answered. ‘Got all his details but I don’t think he’s our guy. With the arthritis in that guy’s hands he’d struggle to cut a loaf of bread, never mind someone’s throat.’
Yeah, but they’d still check him out anyway.
She turned her attention back to Keats, as Roy approached with evidence bags.
‘Time?’
‘Almost eleven o’clock, Inspector,’ he said, looking at his watch.
‘Of death,’ she clarified.
‘Some time before ten fifteen, which was the time I got here.’
She said nothing and waited.
He shook his head at her lack of humour. ‘I’d say between seven and twelve last night.’
‘Thank you. And when will you be?…’
