‘What was used? A chainsaw or something?’
‘Certainly something.’ Glendenning nodded towards his assistant. ‘But probably not a chainsaw. At least not an ordinary one. There would be much more tearing. Karen over there has a theory. Tell DCI Banks your theory, my dear.’
Karen gave Dr Glendenning a daggers-drawn look at the sexist endearment. Not that it would do any good, Banks thought. Glendenning loved to tease and play the politically incorrect male chauvinist pig, and he was too old to change now. ‘Taking everything together,’ Karen said, ‘it very much looks to me as if this body was dressed in a working abattoir.’
‘An abattoir?’ Banks repeated.
‘Yes.’ Karen glanced at the remains, then back at Banks. She was a petite, serious brunette, most of her hair hidden under the surgeon’s cap, and she looked far too young and innocent to know such things. ‘That’s my opinion, DCI Banks. Your victim was shot first, and then taken and cut up in a slaughterhouse.’
‘Of course.’ Banks scratched his head. ‘Goes without saying. And the gunshot wound, the cause of death?’
‘I just said shot,’ Karen explained. ‘I did not say gunshot.’
‘Christ,’ said Banks. ‘They use bolt guns, don’t they? No Country for Old Men.’
Dr Glendenning gave him a surprised glance. ‘It certainly isn’t,’ he agreed, ‘but this is hardly the time or place for a discussion of age and society.’
‘It’s a movie,’ said Banks. ‘The killer uses a bolt gun.’
‘Give the man a cigar. I’ll bet you a grand to a bucket of slops that when I go inside I’ll find the frontal lobes scrambled, and no stray bullet. It’s rare in human murder cases, but as you can see it does the job. The way it usually works is a gas cylinder is used to power the bolt, which enters the skull to a certain point, causing massive and irreversible brain damage, then the bolt retracts back into the gun. Used on a cow or a pig, you couldn’t guarantee that death would ensue – the animal may just be stunned – so you’d probably have to be prepared for exsanguination on the spot, but with a human being… well, our skulls aren’t as thick, no matter what some of us might think. This man was shot with a penetrating bolt gun, the kind that a professional slaughterman would use.’
‘So he would have died on the spot?’
‘Most likely,’ said Glendenning. ‘Though he might have survived for a short while as his system was shutting down. Death is not always immediate from such wounds. Though he would most certainly have been incapacitated.’
‘And the loss of blood?’
‘Apart from the amount he lost at the scene – there’s usually a lot of blood with head wounds – the rest was drained later. Judging by the straps and the split carcass, I’d suggest that he was hung upside down and his throat was slit. All you need to bleed out then is gravity’s help. It doesn’t even matter if your heart’s stopped. After that, he was cut up, disjointed, eviscerated, and from what I can gather, packaged up like a stillborn lamb and shipped off for incineration. No one would be any the wiser.’
Banks looked at the gruesome remains of Morgan Spencer on the steel table and felt the taste of hot, acid bile in his throat. Christ, he wondered, what, and who, were they dealing with here?
Annie felt disoriented when she woke early on Wednesday morning, and for a moment she experienced that terrifying sensation of not knowing where she was or how she had got there. It didn’t last long, thank the Lord, until the dry mouth and the throbbing headache told her she was on Alex Preston’s let-down sofa and she had a bloody hangover. It was the strangest sensation, she reflected as she sat up and stretched, that split second when you don’t recognise the place you’re in. Maybe that’s what you felt when you woke up dead, she thought, then chided herself for being so stupid as to think you could wake up dead. It must be the hangover thinking.
It was just starting to get light outside, and nobody else in the flat was up yet. Then she heard an alarm ring and stop suddenly. A few moments later, Alex padded down the hall in her dressing gown and, without stopping to check on Annie, went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Annie lay on her back and pulled the blanket up to her chin. When Alex came back, she stopped in the half-light by the sofa and looked down at Annie.
‘You’re awake,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure. Mind if I switch the light on?’
Annie rubbed her eyes. ‘Not at all.’
‘The kettle will come to the boil in a minute. Stay where you are, if you like, and I’ll bring you a cup of tea. Right now I have to go and get Ian up. Believe me, it can be quite a job.’
She seemed far too brisk and chirpy for so early in the morning, thought Annie, who was not at all a morning person herself. Especially a morning after the boozy night they’d had. At least it was quiet in the flat. No kids screaming next door. No domestics from upstairs. Maybe Ian would be quiet. And a cup of tea in bed. Now, that was a rare treat.
She checked her watch. Half past seven. She had better get a move on; there was a lot to do today. Banks would already be at the post-mortem. Then she remembered last night’s conversation, the card with the number on it. She still had it in an envelope in her bag. She would have to get it fingerprinted as soon as possible. And Banks would want to know everything Alex had told her. She reached for her handbag and checked her notebook. Thank God she had written it all down. Then she realised another thing. From this moment on, she couldn’t leave Alex and Ian alone. Until she could organise a shift of watchers, she would have to stick with them herself, or get someone else to do it. Her unexpected visitor didn’t sound the sort who would stop at a broken finger.
When Alex came back, Annie asked if she could use the bathroom.
‘Of course,’ said Alex. ‘It’ll take Ian half an hour to get out of bed, and I’ve got breakfast to make. Take your time.’
Annie luxuriated in a hot shower and then brushed her teeth so long that she probably wore off most of the enamel. She had forgotten to do it last night, so she was making up for it now. Luxury. When she looked for some paracetamol in the bathroom cabinet, she noticed a strip of contraceptive pills. So there were to be no more children, at least not for the time being. It was none of her business, and she felt vaguely guilty about even finding them. But it was her nature to pry, and when she did, she found nothing more of interest. No prescription drugs. No illegal drugs. No guns.
She hated dressing in yesterday’s clothes, but she had no choice. She thought of asking Alex for a loan of clean underwear but felt too embarrassed. The best she could do was turn her knickers inside out and pretend they were fresh. The bra was fine, and her jeans, but she could do with a different top, and she had no time to go home before she went to the station.
Things progressed slowly through tea, cornflakes and toast and marmalade, and eventually they were all ready for the off. Though she felt she was perhaps being paranoid, Annie went out of the door first and glanced up and down the landing. Nobody around. She held her breath as they went down in the lift, half expecting the doors to open at six or four and for some heavies to get in. But they had it to themselves the whole way down.
She had been a bit anxious the previous evening about leaving her car parked in the street, expecting the wheels to be gone, or worse, but Alex had told her not to worry, and it was just as she had left it. Though Ian’s school was hardly more than a couple of hundred yards away, they dropped him off there first and made sure he was through the doors before driving to the station.