‘Why am I not surprised?’
Kelly was having a hard time getting used to her new rank, and not having Drake around to lean on weighed heavily. She knew she had to get past it.
‘Forensics are already going over the carriage, but the clock is ticking. They have to get the line running again. It’s causing all kinds of hell.’
‘Welcome to London. We climb over dead people to get you to work on time.’
‘Do I detect a note of cynicism there, chief?’ Milo grinned.
‘No, that’s just my natural cheery demeanour.’
They came to a halt as they were buttonholed by an irate station manager.
‘Who’s in charge here?’ Broad Yorkshire accent. Fifties, overweight, his shirt collar grubby and frayed, hair thinning.
‘That would be Detective Sergeant Marsh.’
‘Right, and where’s he when he’s needed?’
‘You’re looking at her.’ Kelly enjoyed the look of confusion on his bloated face.
‘Fair enough.’ He took a moment to size her up. ‘Do you have any idea how many people are affected by the fact that we have no service in either direction?’
‘We’re working as fast as we can.’ Marsh didn’t wait for the man to answer. Milo had to jog to keep up with her. ‘Try to keep him happy,’ she said without turning. ‘We don’t want him ringing up the chain of command.’
‘Gotcha, chief.’
Kelly and Milo were struggling to recalibrate their relationship to accommodate this change in their status. References to Drake notwithstanding, on the whole it was going well. Kelly hadn’t changed her style. She still dressed in dark, off-the-peg suits that provided anonymity and some degree of androgynous authority. She never wore make-up and her hair was still dyed jet black and cut in a clumsy, punkish style that recalled the sixteen-year-old anarchist she had once been.
Around the entrance to the carriage high-powered klieg lights had been set up. Cables and generators ran this way and that. Cases of equipment. Cooler boxes. High aluminium tool chests. Another burst of flash guns went off as the SOCO photographer circled, trying to cover all the angles. In the middle of this circus was a large man with greying hair held down by a blue cap that did its best to cut down the level of dandruff scattered on his shoulders. Archie Narayan was the Home Office chief pathologist. He glanced up as Marsh leaned in the doorway of the carriage.
‘Nice to see you, Archie.’
‘Try to restrain yourself,’ muttered the pathologist. ‘You know I can’t stand emotion.’ Archie had known Drake since he was a DC, stumbling around his first crime scene like a drunk in a glass factory. It was taking time for him to adjust to Kelly Marsh.
‘Where is she, then, our Lady of the Northern Line?’
‘Step this way, DS Marsh.’
From where she was standing Kelly could still not see the object in question. It was fenced in by shields and technicians.
‘Give us a little room here.’
When Archie gave an order, people jumped. The forensics team generally gave him a wide berth. The pathologist was not someone you wanted to get on the wrong side of. Many of them had felt the wrath of his tongue. On the scale of PC etiquette, Archie was about as off the charts as you could hope to get.
‘Not a lot to work with, eh, doc?’
Archie shot her a glance. Oddly, he found he was developing a soft spot for Marsh and so he held his tongue.
‘There’s enough. Dental records. Earrings. They look old, could be valuable, or second-hand. That’s a diamond stud in her right ear. New. Might yield something. Traces of make-up, also shampoo. We can run DNA tests, see if that throws up a match. One thing I would lay a small wager on …’
‘What’s that, then?’ Archie had a twinkle in his eye.
‘Eastern European.’
‘I’m impressed. How can you deduce that?’
‘Pink teeth. It’s the result of a type of amalgam used by dentists in the Eastern Bloc countries.’
‘A veritable wiki-feast,’ Marsh muttered to herself. Archie disappeared as she bent down for a better look.
Alongside the head was a portable refrigerator unit to keep it cool and try to delay the process of decomposition. The temperature inside the train was high enough for Kelly to feel sweat beads popping on her forehead. The head was lying on its left side. The eyes were half closed. The woman, and it was clearly a woman, still wore faint traces of green eyeshade. The head was distorted in shape. Marsh turned to the crime scene officer, who was bagging and tagging the pile of rags and newspaper that the head had been wrapped in.
‘Anything in there that might tell us who she was?’
The CSO shook his head.
‘How much longer do you need?’
‘As soon as we can get things bagged, we’ll get the carriage moved somewhere we can work.’
‘Sounds good.’
Milo tapped her on the shoulder and jerked a thumb towards the platform. ‘Chief.’
Marsh leaned out through the doors and saw Superintendent Wheeler making his way along, accompanied by an entourage that included DCI Pryce and the stationmaster.
‘Christ, that’s all we need! And he’s brought his pet poodle with him.’
‘Now, now,’ chided Archie, who was just within earshot.
Wheeler took up a position outside the carriage, arms folded.
‘Okay, DS Marsh, what have we got?’
‘One severed head, sir. Female. IC1. Age somewhere between thirty-five and fifty. No distinguishing marks. No signs of identity.’
‘Where was she?’
‘In a bag, sir.’ Kelly indicated the bright blue bag that was being folded by two SOCOs before being packed away in a sealed evidence envelope. ‘A blue nylon IKEA bag.’
‘A what?’ Wheeler’s face clouded.
‘It’s a furniture chain, sir.’
‘Good grief! Does nobody care about raising the alarm? A bag left on a crowded tube?’
‘You know what commuters are like, sir. Everyone’s minding their own business.’ Kelly glanced over at Pryce and saw the familiar cold, flat look in his eyes. She knew what he was thinking. He was trying to decide if he wanted the case for himself.
‘What about witnesses?’ Wheeler asked.
Milo tapped his notebook. ‘A carriage full. Uniforms are processing them, but so far it’s slim pickings. The person who found her was a nine-year-old boy. He and his mother are being treated for shock. I’ll be going over the CCTV footage as soon as we get back.’
‘I can’t believe nobody thought to raise the alarm.’
‘No, sir,’ Marsh sympathised. There was nothing to understand. Most commuters were dead on their feet and wouldn’t notice a bomb if it had cartoon wires and a Mickey Mouse clock attached.
Milo cleared his throat. ‘A couple of passengers said they assumed it belonged to them, sir, to the woman with the children, I mean.’
‘DC Kowalski, is it?’
‘That’s correct, sir.’ Milo looked pleased to be noticed.
‘Right, well, you know the drill. We need to identify the victim