Rose was always pleased to see Carmen Brown. There were only forty or so Home Office pathologists in the country, of whom just a handful were women, and Rose knew that, just like her, Carmen always felt under pressure to do a better job than the men.
The DCI made no attempt to step within the crime scene. She was not yet suitably clad. But as she stood, taking it all in for a moment, the biggest and burliest of the white suits inside the cordon spotted her and called out to her in greeting.
‘Evening boss,’ said a strong male voice.
It was Rose’s sergeant, Peter Mellor, and she was relieved that he was there before her. She had assumed he would be as, unlike her, Sergeant Mellor had been on duty that evening. Mellor was a graduate entrant to the force, a big man physically and mentally, black, just twenty-five, married and a father already. He had a strong sense of morality and was a high achiever with little time for those who did not share his capabilities or his ideals. But even if he was sometimes just a little too unbending for Rose’s taste, he was a top-class copper and having him there already would speed things up no end for her, she knew that. Mellor was every bit as clever as she was, she suspected, and considerably more methodical. He had an incisive brain and an ability quickly to gather and sift information. He would already have learned all that was so far possible, she was quite sure of that.
Indeed, without waiting to be asked, the sergeant stepped outside the hastily erected tape fencing and began to brief her.
The victim was a young black male, he told Rose. And even Carmen Brown — who continued to examine the corpse without acknowledging Rose’s arrival, if indeed the thoroughly engrossed doctor had even noticed it — was not prevaricating about the cause of death on this one, said Mellor. It seemed the young man had been stabbed in the back. Just once.
‘Murder weapon?’ asked Rose briskly.
‘No sign, boss. There’s a couple of good footprints in the mud though. Very distinctive. Big size. I’m pretty sure they’re Timberlands actually — got a pair myself.’
Rose nodded. In that case it was a pity Timberland boots were as popular as she knew them to be, she thought.
‘Time of death?’
‘The doctor’s hedging her bets on that one like they always do,’ replied Sergeant Mellor. ‘But she’s prepared to speculate that it was around twenty-four hours ago.’
‘Was the body moved here after death, then?’
Peter Mellor shook his head. ‘They don’t think so, boss. No sign of that.’
‘So a body has been lying here undetected all this time, right through the day? In a hotel garden in the middle of Clifton?’
Sergeant Mellor shrugged. ‘Apparently nobody uses the gardens at this time of year. You can see how overgrown it is around here. This path leads to a gate in the wall back there, but you can drive right up to the main entrance and there’s a car park at the front too. Visitors all go in that way and the staff use the tradesman’s entrance which is also round the front.’
Rose nodded. ‘Do we know who the victim is?’
‘We think we know his name. We found a wallet on the ground beside him which looked as if it had fallen from his jacket pocket. Not much in it, about £30 in cash, a couple of photographs, no credit cards. But there was a membership card to the Riverside Health and Fitness Club, in the name of Marty J. Morris.’
Rose nodded again. She knew the Riverside, it had a gymnasium which specialised in body building and was particularly popular with the gay community.
‘Is he known at the hotel?’ she asked. ‘Has anybody interviewed the management or staff yet?’
‘No boss. We were waiting for you. But the whole area has been secured. Staff and guests all know that nobody leaves the premises until we say so.’
‘Good. OK. I’d better have a closer look, I suppose. Where can I get kitted up?’
Rose looked around her without much enthusiasm. The rain which seemed to have been falling intermittently for days had mercifully stopped while she and Sergeant Mellor had been talking. But drops of water were still showering from the trees and shrubs above her head and the ground around the scene of crime, including the path, had been turned into a bog by tramping feet, although tarpaulin sheets had been laid down in the immediate vicinity of the body.
‘They’ve given us a couple of chalets — there are some suits in room nine over there,’ said Peter Mellor, pointing vaguely through the undergrowth.
Rose picked her way further along the muddy path, aware that the care she was taking was really a lost cause as her shoes were definitely already history. There was a police constable in the room brewing tea with the kettle provided for the hotel’s guests. Unceremoniously Rose turfed him out. She removed her black overcoat, exposing a bright orange velvet suit with a plunging neckline and a short straight skirt, its hemline several inches above her knees. She had bought it at vast expense especially for her husband’s birthday party because she had known Simon would adore it — ironic in the circumstances. Although he was a man disinterested in his own clothing, he loved to see Rose in stylishly sexy clothes, particularly in bright colours — the kind of clothes she would never normally wear to work, which was undoubtedly part of their attraction because he considered that she wore them especially for him, as indeed she did. Certainly she hadn’t wanted to reveal the undoubtedly provocative little orange number to Somerset’s finest and she hadn’t wanted to ruin it in all the muck out there, either.
Hesitating only for a moment she removed her skirt, wrapping it in her black coat and placing the bundle carefully on the bed, and pulled on the paper overalls on top of her suit jacket. Sighing resignedly, she yanked plastic galoshes over her spoiled shoes, hoping that the sharp heels wouldn’t break through them.
When she was ready she took a few deep breaths before entering the fray. She had wanted a juicy murder and it looked like she had got one. But, paradoxically, Rose could never quite get over the initial shock she experienced each time she was confronted with a dead body. She had lost count of the number she had seen now. In her earlier uniformed days there had been the usual mix of road-accident victims and other incidental deaths. Once she had had to break into an old man’s house and had found him lying dead on his kitchen floor. She could still remember the stench which had greeted her. He had died of a stroke, it turned out, several days earlier.
This would be only the second murder enquiry she had headed, although it already looked as if it might be the most interesting she had ever worked on, but she had assisted on many more. Bristol was a tough city. Domestics and gang fights might not make a detective’s reputation, but they still counted.
Nonetheless she had to steel herself. She certainly knew better than to show any sign of weakness. She had learned that a long time ago, she thought to herself, as she ducked under the tape fence and approached her city’s latest victim of violent crime.
Carmen Brown was now standing up and this time she turned around at once as Rose approached. The doctor was a youngish woman, even smaller and more slight of build than Rose, with intelligent eyes and, although so young, already a permanent somewhat world-weary expression which detracted from her natural prettiness.
‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ said the pathologist, by way of greeting.
‘And good evening to you, too, Dr Brown,’ responded Rose.
They were two women in jobs which remained predominantly male territory. They liked and respected each other, understood each other even. They both knew how hard each had had to work to achieve the success that they had so far attained. There was never any need to articulate their mutual respect.