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Authors: Sinéad Crowley
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flared and she swallowed. She didnât think the current occupant cared much about high speed broadband.
A huge window dominated one side of the room and Claire walked over to it. It had been left slightly ajar and she breathed in deeply, aware that the stench of decay would only get stronger the further she moved into the apartment. Claire knew the odour well. It was unmistakable, and for most people would have been nauseating. But Claire knew she was in no danger of having her stomach turned. The inconsistencies of pregnancy hormones meant that, although a bag of curried chips brought home by Matt could send her running to the loo, she was still able to visit a crime scene without fear of contaminating it. It was a mental thing, she was in work mode now. The pregnancy just wasnât part of it. But that didnât mean she was going to enjoy it, and she treated herself to one more lungful of air before she turned, and walked slowly and carefully across the floor.
The full force of the smell hit her nostrils as soon as she opened the door. Instinctively, she took shallower breaths, opening her lungs only as much as was necessary. The curtains in the room were partially closed and she blinked for a moment as her eyes got used to the gloom. And then looked at the figure that was lying on the bed.
âJesus.â
It was an expression of horror. Maybe a prayer. This person certainly needed someone to pray for her. There had been no dignity in this death. Claire moved closer to the bed. The womanâs body was sprawled awkwardly on top of the covers, the cream duvet and sheet rumpled beneath her. She lay on her side, her body twisted almost in an S-shape, as if she had been flung there, discarded. One hand was trapped under her cheek, the other draped loosely across her stomach. She was wearing jeans and a white vest top, which had been torn off one shoulder, leaving her bra exposed. Claire moved closer. The underwear looked expensive, in contrast to the thin T-shirt and â the angle of the body meant that Claire could see the label at the waist â the high-street jeans. The same label could be seen on a thin blue cardigan that was lying on the ground beside the bed. Already Claire felt she was starting to get a feel for this woman. A supermarket T-shirt and a designer bra. A woman who didnât have much money, but spent what she had on the things she considered important. Sometimes a decent bra could make you feel more feminine, remind you of who you were no matter what outer clothes you were wearing. Even a Garda uniform. Claire looked at the body again. The woman had been a size 12â14, she reckoned. An average size. An ordinary size. But this was no ordinary way to die.
Claire noted flashes of colour against the cream bedclothes and greying mottled skin. Ruby-red nails on the fingers and toes. A scab of brown blood high on the right cheekbone. Brown and green bruising at the top of each arm. A large purple mark on the left shin.
âYouâll want a look at this.â
âJââ
Her heart thumping in her chest, Claire just about managed not to swear out loud. Helen Sheehy was standing in the bedroom door, a plastic evidence bag in her hand.
âWe found her wallet in her jeans. Probably confirms the identity, but then again you might have guessed that already?â
âYeah.â
Her heart rate returning to normal, Claire took the bag and scanned its contents. Bank cards, a social welfare ID, a library ticket from Dolphins Barn library. The name Miriam Twohy written on each item. But Dr Sheehy was right, Claire had already guessed who theyâd found. There werenât that many missing women in Dublin and it was all too much of a coincidence: her age, the area, the stage of decomposition. She stared at the body again. She wasnât a pathology expert, but she had seen enough dead bodies to know that Miriam had been lying there for at least a week, if not
A huge window dominated one side of the room and Claire walked over to it. It had been left slightly ajar and she breathed in deeply, aware that the stench of decay would only get stronger the further she moved into the apartment. Claire knew the odour well. It was unmistakable, and for most people would have been nauseating. But Claire knew she was in no danger of having her stomach turned. The inconsistencies of pregnancy hormones meant that, although a bag of curried chips brought home by Matt could send her running to the loo, she was still able to visit a crime scene without fear of contaminating it. It was a mental thing, she was in work mode now. The pregnancy just wasnât part of it. But that didnât mean she was going to enjoy it, and she treated herself to one more lungful of air before she turned, and walked slowly and carefully across the floor.
The full force of the smell hit her nostrils as soon as she opened the door. Instinctively, she took shallower breaths, opening her lungs only as much as was necessary. The curtains in the room were partially closed and she blinked for a moment as her eyes got used to the gloom. And then looked at the figure that was lying on the bed.
âJesus.â
It was an expression of horror. Maybe a prayer. This person certainly needed someone to pray for her. There had been no dignity in this death. Claire moved closer to the bed. The womanâs body was sprawled awkwardly on top of the covers, the cream duvet and sheet rumpled beneath her. She lay on her side, her body twisted almost in an S-shape, as if she had been flung there, discarded. One hand was trapped under her cheek, the other draped loosely across her stomach. She was wearing jeans and a white vest top, which had been torn off one shoulder, leaving her bra exposed. Claire moved closer. The underwear looked expensive, in contrast to the thin T-shirt and â the angle of the body meant that Claire could see the label at the waist â the high-street jeans. The same label could be seen on a thin blue cardigan that was lying on the ground beside the bed. Already Claire felt she was starting to get a feel for this woman. A supermarket T-shirt and a designer bra. A woman who didnât have much money, but spent what she had on the things she considered important. Sometimes a decent bra could make you feel more feminine, remind you of who you were no matter what outer clothes you were wearing. Even a Garda uniform. Claire looked at the body again. The woman had been a size 12â14, she reckoned. An average size. An ordinary size. But this was no ordinary way to die.
Claire noted flashes of colour against the cream bedclothes and greying mottled skin. Ruby-red nails on the fingers and toes. A scab of brown blood high on the right cheekbone. Brown and green bruising at the top of each arm. A large purple mark on the left shin.
âYouâll want a look at this.â
âJââ
Her heart thumping in her chest, Claire just about managed not to swear out loud. Helen Sheehy was standing in the bedroom door, a plastic evidence bag in her hand.
âWe found her wallet in her jeans. Probably confirms the identity, but then again you might have guessed that already?â
âYeah.â
Her heart rate returning to normal, Claire took the bag and scanned its contents. Bank cards, a social welfare ID, a library ticket from Dolphins Barn library. The name Miriam Twohy written on each item. But Dr Sheehy was right, Claire had already guessed who theyâd found. There werenât that many missing women in Dublin and it was all too much of a coincidence: her age, the area, the stage of decomposition. She stared at the body again. She wasnât a pathology expert, but she had seen enough dead bodies to know that Miriam had been lying there for at least a week, if not
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