one wasn’t quite as powerful, but it struck the top of her head, the occipital. Mrs Striker must have been nearing unconsciousness now and probably kneeling when the final blow was delivered. This one was the most powerful of all, probably two-handed, and it came from directly above, shattering the top of the skull. There was a hole about two centimetres in diameter. I couldn’t reassemble the bits, they’re too fragmented, scattered in the hair. That clinched, it, of course. You don’t get up again after a smack like that.’
‘Would there have been a lot of blood?’
‘Oh yes. The head bleeds like buggery, of course. Our man would be fairly covered in it.’
‘And the attack didn’t happen in the store cupboard where she was found?’
‘Lord, no.’ Anderson blew again on his coffee. ‘No room. I’d say she was battered in the corridor and dragged there. Your boys will be able to pinpoint that forensically.’
‘Time of death?’
‘Ah, now that’s not easy.’ Anderson rose to attend to the toast slowly smouldering in his toaster. ‘Fucking thing!’ he snapped and hit it to retrieve his burnt offering. ‘Laymen think a thermometer up the bum says it all. It doesn’t. My guess – and that’s all it is at this stage – is that she died sometime during Thursday afternoon. I can’t be more accurate than that.’
‘That’ll do me,’ McBride said, swigging back the last of his coffee. ‘Thank you, doctor.’
‘Going so soon?’ Anderson had sat back to wrestle with another pack of butter. ‘You’ve only just got here.’
‘Needs must,’ McBride winked, ‘when Mr Warren drives.’
Anderson snorted. ‘Man’s got a fucking clock for a heart,’ he said. ‘Can you find your own way?’
‘Of course. Thank you, sir. I appreciate your time.’
Anderson scowled. ‘Time, young man, is my least precious commodity. Years of experience, pearls of wisdom, keenness of eye, steadiness of hand – these things I’m paid for and you should be grateful for. Now, off you fuck. I’ve got to try to spread this fucking butter.’
Breakfast at the Carnforth Centre took place a little later than it had at Dr Anderson’s. Maxwell got there a fraction after eight and felt his eyebrows singeing as he leaned over to point to a particularly delicious-looking fried egg. The floozy behind the brightly lit counter then ruined it all by slapping it down on the fried bread and breaking the yolk. The sausages looked palatable, but even Maxwell’s constitution rebelled at the black pudding and he wandered with his tray into the Hadleigh Suite.
There was an edge to the hubbub he hadn’t noticed yesterday. But that was then. Before they’d found her body. Now, between the enforced bonhomie, there were little darting glances; small, almost imperceptible swivels of the eye. And when there was a lull, it seemed to Maxwell to be full of sound – the sound of everybody watching everybody else. So much for the team-building exercises planned for later. If anybody intended to ruin a conference like this, a murder was the best way to do it. For a moment, Maxwell thought he might have killed Liz Striker himself.
An arm was waving to him from the window side of the room. Rachel King sat with Michael Wynn, drinking coffee. Maxwell nodded and shuffled his way past the knot of plain-clothes policemen who sat apart at a table of their own, apparently eating breakfast; actually observing the Carnforth clientele.
‘Morning,’ Maxwell said, sitting opposite the pair from St Bede’s. ‘Doesn’t this remind you of an old George Raft movie? With the guards over there and us cons in our striped suits. It’s about now that some ox tips his slop over somebody, and in the confusion, Raft slips Cagney a file. Then somebody says, “Give me a break, warden,” and the young Elisha Cook goes over the top in all sorts of ways.’
‘Good morning, Max,’ Rachel said, leaning forward and smiling at him over her coffee.
He paused
‘Would there have been a lot of blood?’
‘Oh yes. The head bleeds like buggery, of course. Our man would be fairly covered in it.’
‘And the attack didn’t happen in the store cupboard where she was found?’
‘Lord, no.’ Anderson blew again on his coffee. ‘No room. I’d say she was battered in the corridor and dragged there. Your boys will be able to pinpoint that forensically.’
‘Time of death?’
‘Ah, now that’s not easy.’ Anderson rose to attend to the toast slowly smouldering in his toaster. ‘Fucking thing!’ he snapped and hit it to retrieve his burnt offering. ‘Laymen think a thermometer up the bum says it all. It doesn’t. My guess – and that’s all it is at this stage – is that she died sometime during Thursday afternoon. I can’t be more accurate than that.’
‘That’ll do me,’ McBride said, swigging back the last of his coffee. ‘Thank you, doctor.’
‘Going so soon?’ Anderson had sat back to wrestle with another pack of butter. ‘You’ve only just got here.’
‘Needs must,’ McBride winked, ‘when Mr Warren drives.’
Anderson snorted. ‘Man’s got a fucking clock for a heart,’ he said. ‘Can you find your own way?’
‘Of course. Thank you, sir. I appreciate your time.’
Anderson scowled. ‘Time, young man, is my least precious commodity. Years of experience, pearls of wisdom, keenness of eye, steadiness of hand – these things I’m paid for and you should be grateful for. Now, off you fuck. I’ve got to try to spread this fucking butter.’
Breakfast at the Carnforth Centre took place a little later than it had at Dr Anderson’s. Maxwell got there a fraction after eight and felt his eyebrows singeing as he leaned over to point to a particularly delicious-looking fried egg. The floozy behind the brightly lit counter then ruined it all by slapping it down on the fried bread and breaking the yolk. The sausages looked palatable, but even Maxwell’s constitution rebelled at the black pudding and he wandered with his tray into the Hadleigh Suite.
There was an edge to the hubbub he hadn’t noticed yesterday. But that was then. Before they’d found her body. Now, between the enforced bonhomie, there were little darting glances; small, almost imperceptible swivels of the eye. And when there was a lull, it seemed to Maxwell to be full of sound – the sound of everybody watching everybody else. So much for the team-building exercises planned for later. If anybody intended to ruin a conference like this, a murder was the best way to do it. For a moment, Maxwell thought he might have killed Liz Striker himself.
An arm was waving to him from the window side of the room. Rachel King sat with Michael Wynn, drinking coffee. Maxwell nodded and shuffled his way past the knot of plain-clothes policemen who sat apart at a table of their own, apparently eating breakfast; actually observing the Carnforth clientele.
‘Morning,’ Maxwell said, sitting opposite the pair from St Bede’s. ‘Doesn’t this remind you of an old George Raft movie? With the guards over there and us cons in our striped suits. It’s about now that some ox tips his slop over somebody, and in the confusion, Raft slips Cagney a file. Then somebody says, “Give me a break, warden,” and the young Elisha Cook goes over the top in all sorts of ways.’
‘Good morning, Max,’ Rachel said, leaning forward and smiling at him over her coffee.
He paused
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