‘What are you crying for? You didn’t know her. This is all part of the job — you need to pull yourself together. He’s getting dressed, but she’s in the bathroom and I think she’s wet herself, so go and see what you can do.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Jane hurried from the room as he opened the envelope and took out the Polaroid crime scene pictures. Finding a close-up of the victim’s face he moved to the piano and held it against the silver-framed photograph. There was little doubt it was their daughter.
Mary Collins could not face attending the mortuary to identify the body, so Bradfield spoke with a female neighbour who was a close friend, and she agreed to stay with Mary and look after her. The drive to the mortuary was solemn and silent with Mr Collins sitting in the back seat staring out of the car window. Out of respect Bradfield drove at a steady pace, without using the police bell this time.
He broke the silence asking Mr Collins if he drove, and he said that he did, but mostly at weekends as he used the Underground to and from work. He was a chartered surveyor and owned his own company.
‘I will organize a police car to take you home after the identification.’
‘Thank you, that is very kind.’
‘What car do you drive?’ Bradfield asked casually.
‘A Bristol. It’s rather old now, but it used to belong to my father.’
Remembering Eddie mention that he’d seen Julie Ann getting into a red Jaguar, Jane noted the DCI’s subtle way of handling such an important question.
Hackney Mortuary, a dank building constructed in the late nineteenth century, was situated across the church square from the station. The head mortician, who lived in a flat above the premises, unlocked the reception doors and they were instructed to wait whilst he finished preparing the body for viewing. They sat on hard-backed chairs, under ghostly strip lighting that flickered and gave the corridor a yellowish hue.
Bradfield checked his watch and Jane could see he was getting impatient, which in turn made her apprehensive about asking any questions or speaking to the distraught Mr Collins. Bradfield stood up and, excusing himself, went off to find out what was causing the delay, striding through the swing doors into the examination area of the mortuary. She noticed that although he was a big man he moved with agility and was obviously very fit. For all his brashness and impatience with her she’d been surprised by how gently he’d handled the wretched disclosure of Julie Ann’s death.
Jane didn’t know what to say to Mr Collins. She had never been to a mortuary before, and at nearly eleven o’clock at night there was an empty, chilling feel to it. Mr Collins sat with his bony hands clenched together, the whites of his knuckles showing as he pressed his hands tighter. Jane asked if he would like a glass of water, but he shook his head and surprised her by breaking his silence.
‘She was the most beautiful little girl, never any trouble when she was younger. Clever, and she could dance, very light on her feet, spinning like a top. She wanted to be a ballet dancer one day... I have some cine film of her dancing.’
Suddenly the swing doors opened and Bradfield gestured for them to follow him through to the examination area and the numbered refrigerated storage drawers. The room smelt of disinfectant and the young mortician was waiting by drawer 6. When he opened it Jane felt the cold air waft around the room and up her nostrils. The sliding tray was slowly pulled out and the body was covered in a white shroud. The mortician gently pulled it down to enable Mr Collins to see the face of his daughter. Jane could see red indented welt marks around Julie Ann’s neck. The swollen bitten tongue had been pushed back in her mouth, but it caused her lips to bulge slightly, and her eyelids had been closed.
‘Is this your daughter, Mr Collins?’ Bradfield asked.
There was hardly any pause as he looked down.
‘Yes, this is my daughter,’ he whispered.
It was over quickly and the drawer slid back into position. They returned to the reception area and Jane radioed the station asking for a panda car, on the instructions of the DCI, to take Mr Collins home.
As they waited in the corridor a terrible grief-stricken rage erupted from Mr Collins. He let out a howl like a wounded animal and gripped a chair. He then picked it up and hurled it towards the glass windows.
‘YES, THAT IS MY DAUGHTER!’ His voice rasped as he turned his fury towards Bradfield, swearing and gesticulating at him with his bony finger.
‘She was the light of our lives and you tell me she was murdered. What caused those marks on her neck? Who killed her? Who is to blame? This isn’t OUR fault! We loved her, gave her everything a young girl could want, and she rejected us, rejected all we had done for her. WHY? I need to know WHY.’
It looked as if Mr Collins was about to throw another chair, so Jane stepped back, but he crumpled and fell to his knees sobbing.
Surprised, Jane watched as Bradfield knelt down beside the broken, weeping man, speaking softly to him whilst gently rubbing his hunched shoulders. He told Mr Collins that they had arrested a suspect who was still in custody and would keep him informed of the progress of the investigation, and that detectives would visit his home in the morning to take a statement from him and his wife. Eventually Mr Collins was calm enough to be helped outside to the waiting police car.
‘I didn’t expect that,’ Bradfield said as Jane followed him back inside.
‘Thank you for taking me with you, sir. It was a good learning experience for me.’
‘You can show a couple of hours’ overtime and I’ll sign it off. Have you ever been to a post-mortem?’
‘No, sir, not yet,’ she said, not relishing the thought but excited at what she hoped he was about to say.
‘It’s arranged for midday tomorrow, so meet me here.’
‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir.’
‘One word of advice though.’ Jane listened intently. ‘Always carry a spare pair of tights in your locker or handbag,’ he said and winked.
As it was well after midnight, and public transport sparse, a uniform night-duty patrol car gave Jane a lift home to the flat in Maida Vale. She was relieved neither her parents nor her sister were up so that she could sneak into her bedroom and crash out. She looked round the familiar room. Above her bed was a large poster of Janis Joplin which she’d bought after the concert as a reminder of how much she had admired her. She was pleased to be home after the experience in the mortuary and had just changed into her nightdress when her sister, Pam, walked in.
‘You know you should ring Mum and Dad if you are going to be so late. They were worried about you and you should have more respect. Have you tried it on?’
‘What?’
Pam turned and pointed to the large black-plastic zip bag hanging on the back of the door.
‘You can hardly miss it, but you have to make sure all the alterations have been done; she’s finished all the dresses now, and done lovely puffed sleeves. You know she used to make dresses for Alma Cogan?’
‘Sorry, I’ll try it on in the morning.’
‘Make sure you do. You seem to forget I’m getting married in a few days and you’d better not forget the rehearsal at the church either.’
‘Pam, I’m really tired out,’ Jane said as she got into bed.
Pam started to walk out and then stopped and did a childish little twirl, flapping her hands. ‘Wait till you see my wedding gown — it’s amazing; and I’ve got a long veil edged with lace — it’s so beautiful.’
‘Goodnight, Pam.’
As soon as the door closed Jane shut her eyes. Pam’s dance reminded her of Mr Collins’ memory of his daughter. She could see the pale white face of Julie Ann in the mortuary and suddenly her mind was filled with images from the crime scene pictures. The hot pants, the platform boots and the way her bra had been tied in a knot around her slender throat. Julie Ann wasn’t beautiful any more. Her face was bloated and her purple swollen tongue made it look as though she was wearing a grotesque mask.