‘But... Karen?’ interjected Vogel eagerly.
‘But,’ Dr Crow went on, ‘there may also be indications of manual strangulation. The deceased’s hyoid bone, that’s the U-shaped bone which supports the tongue, is also fractured. Now, according to what is generally regarded as probably the most authoritative study, in the States in 1990 something, thirty-four per cent of victims of manual strangulation suffer a fractured hyoid bone, but only eight per cent of victims of hanging. So, we have something of a conundrum here.’
‘I see,’ mused Vogel. ‘But couldn’t both these kinds of fracture occur in a suicidal hanging? Is that not possible?’
‘I suppose it must be,’ responded the pathologist. ‘Although I personally have never encountered it. There is another explanation, of course, which at the very least would be equally likely.’
‘That an unknown assailant manually strangled Mrs Ferguson and then staged a hanging so that her death would look like suicide, and she would sustain injuries consistent with suicidal hanging?’ queried Vogel quickly.
‘You’re keeping up, Vogel. Well done. And yes, that has to be a possibility.’
‘But can we prove it?’ asked Vogel, who was too intrigued by what was being suggested to indulge in any banter.
‘Well, I do think there is enough forensic evidence to strongly indicate that Mrs Ferguson has been murdered. And there’s something else, Vogel. If you look closely... ’
She glanced up at the DCI in invitation. Trying not to wince, Vogel obediently leaned forward in order to give himself a better view.
‘If you look closely you can see certain indentations in the flesh around the victim’s neck and throat which may not be directly related to the effects of the rope when she fell,’ Karen Crow continued.
‘So, are you saying that you think these indentations might be caused by fingers pressing into the flesh?’ asked Saslow.
The pathologist nodded absently.
‘You’re keeping up too, Saslow,’ she remarked. ‘Yes. I do think these marks could have been made by fingers. And the victim suffered a quite severe blow to the head, probably around the time of her death. Difficult to be sure which. Do you see? There’s a small but distinct dent in the cranium. Now, assuming for a moment that this is suicide, that injury could obviously have been caused by the deceased knocking her head against the bannisters, or perhaps a wall, when she fell. But it does also arouse suspicions that it was caused by a third party, perhaps using some sort of blunt instrument, and that it actually contributed to her death.’
‘Well, in that case, and this time assuming Jane Ferguson was murdered, if the killer knocked her unconscious why did he need to manually strangle her?’ asked Vogel. ‘I can understand the difficulty in staging a hanging with a fit conscious young woman to deal with. But not too difficult if she’s unconscious, surely.’
‘Maybe not,’ replied Dr Crow. ‘But I am unsure if this particular blow to the head would have been sufficient to render the victim unconscious, or not for a long enough period of time, anyway. The assailant would almost certainly have known, or at least suspected, that there were children sleeping in the house too. He would have wanted to be able to move with maximum speed and minimum noise—’
‘OK,’ interrupted Vogel, who could not quite control his eagerness to grasp every possible option. ‘But neither can you rule out the possibility of the blow to the head having been sustained when the victim fell from the upper landing with a rope around her neck — either of her own volition or at the hand of her killer, can you?’
‘No, I can’t,’ agreed Karen Crow.
‘What about the old bruising?’ continued Vogel.
‘Well, it’s quite extensive. You know what I am going to say, don’t you?’
‘I think you are going to say that the pattern of the bruising is in keeping with domestic violence, as we have all suspected from the beginning. Not least because the bruising is primarily in areas which would probably normally be covered by clothing and therefore not seen.’
‘I am indeed.’
‘And so, the finger points even more at the husband. As usual.’
‘That’s your territory, Vogel.’
‘Yes. And my enquiries so far have revealed that whatever personal suspicions I may have, the husband, our principle person of interest, appears to have a cast-iron alibi. In addition, your evidence is not conclusive, is it?’
‘Well, no.’
‘Therefore, whilst there may well be reasons to suspect otherwise, Mrs Ferguson could still have taken her own life, as was initially suspected. Is that not so?’
‘I’m afraid it is,’ agreed the pathologist. ‘Yes.’
‘Yes,’ echoed Vogel. ‘Nonetheless, I think we have enough here for me to get the brass to agree to stepping up this operation to a murder investigation. Nobby Clarke is halfway there anyway. But I’m going to have to do a lot more digging before I take any action against Felix Ferguson, that’s for sure.’
Vogel turned to Saslow.
‘Come on, Dawn. Let’s leave Karen to get on with her work and head for Exeter.’
He glanced at his watch. It was just noon. He had agreed to meet Nobby Clarke at one p.m., and he had no idea whether they would get to the restaurant on time. If not Nobby would have to wait. Knowing her, she wouldn’t mind as long as she had a drink in her hand.
‘First, lunch with the boss, then we’ll see what Dr Miriam Thorpe has to say for herself,’ he told Saslow as they headed for the hospital car park.
Nobby Clarke was already sitting at a window table at the restaurant, overlooking the city’s lovely old Cathedral Yard, when Saslow and Vogel arrived. As usual Vogel barely noticed his surroundings.
‘So,’ Nobby said by way of greeting, ‘I’ve just more or less got booted out of the Met because I took a moral stand on a contentious issue, or I thought that’s what I was doing, anyway, and within days of arriving here I’m stuck with the son of a local bigwig as number one suspect in the murder of his wife... ’
‘I’ve just been telling Mr Ferguson junior that he isn’t the number one suspect,’ muttered Vogel, as he sat down.
‘Of course, you have, Vogel, and we both know what a load of bollocks that is.’
‘Whatever you say, boss, I mean Nobby. And it’s not a murder enquiry yet, is it? Not officially anyway. But I think it should be.’
‘Ummm. From one pile of horseshit to another. Apparently, Mr Ferguson senior, the mayor of Bideford, is a bloody tin god around here. More than likely I’m about to wreck yet another career move. Particularly with you on board, Vogel.’
‘You asked for me, Nobby.’
‘Yeah, I did, didn’t I? I must be barking mad. What any intelligent copper in my position would try to do is brush this shit into a very dark corner, not heap it into a bloody great pile and sift through it.’
‘Very lyrical,’ said Vogel. ‘When did you start worrying about career moves, anyway?’
‘About the time I began to wonder what I’d do when they ran out,’ growled Nobby.
‘Ah.’
Vogel thought for a moment.
‘So you didn’t exactly choose to move to this very beautiful part of the world then?’
‘Like you hadn’t bloody guessed that, Vogel,’ muttered Clarke.
‘The thought did cross my mind.’
‘I bet it did. The alternative seemed to be a demotion and back to uniform. I only hung on to my rank by the skin of my teeth as it was. The top brass at the Met were so desperate to get shot of me that when the MCT job down here became vacant they pushed like hell for me to be drafted in. God knows what lies got told. But, I didn’t bring you here to talk about my career prospects, or lack of them.’