Trust Me - T.M. Logan Page 0,62
retirement had caught up with you by now.’
‘Still a few months off my thirty, Fiona,’ Gilbourne said with a smile.
‘Feels like you’ve been saying that for the last three or four years,’ she said. He indicated the white crime scene tent behind her. ‘How are we doing?’
‘Well, we’ve got a female victim, early twenties, looks like at least two stab wounds to the back, possibly others. Fully clothed.’
‘Weapon?’
‘Nothing yet. The size of the wounds suggest we may be talking about a broad-bladed kitchen knife, something like that. Something big.’
‘Defensive injuries?’
‘Not that I can see on an initial examination.’
‘Was she killed here, or somewhere else?’
Whyler shrugged, eyeing his lit cigarette with something like hunger. ‘Ask me again in a couple of hours’ time.’
‘I don’t suppose you’re going to help me out with an approx. time of death, are you?’
She shook her head. ‘Not yet, we need to do more work. I’d be guessing.’
‘So what’s your best guess?’
‘I don’t guess, Stu, I’m a scientist. That’s why they give me this nice white suit.’
Gilbourne clasped his hands together in front of him. ‘Just for me?’
She stared at him for a moment, then blew out a breath. ‘The body’s been lying half-in, half-out of that stream for an unknown number of hours which will have accelerated bodily cooling rates and messed with various other things.’
Gilbourne nodded, waiting.
‘OK,’ she said finally. ‘OK. If I had to guess, I’d say more than twenty-four hours, less than forty-eight. And probably leaning towards the higher end. But don’t quote me on that.’
‘You’re a star, Fiona.’
‘When the PM’s done, you’ll be the first to know. But for right now, that’s the best I can do.’
She glanced back at the scene to where one of her white-suited colleagues was securing clear plastic bags over the victim’s hands to preserve any forensic evidence under her fingernails.
‘I’d best get back to it.’
‘Thanks, Fiona. I appreciate it.’
Gilbourne watched her go, taking a last drag on his cigarette before nipping off the burning end with his thumb and forefinger and putting the butt into his jacket pocket. He stood for a minute, taking in the scene.
*
Holt waited, saying nothing. They had only been partnered up for a few months but he knew this was Gilbourne’s thing and that he was not to be interrupted. One of his quirks, trying to get his head into the mindset of an offender so that he could visualise the time of the offence, see the problems they might have encountered and where mistakes might have been made. He had told Holt to imagine committing the crime himself – to imagine the details, the practicalities, the specifics – if he wanted to pinpoint the most likely sources of evidence. Holt had listened politely, nodded, agreed. But it sounded more like superstition and old school Columbo bullshit to him. In modern policing, securing a conviction was much more likely to hinge on DNA, maybe above everything else. DNA to move from arrest to charge, DNA to get a case to court, DNA to convince juries who had spent half their lives watching Prime Suspect and Dexter and CSI Miami.
DNA was the key. Holt knew that better than anyone.
Finally, Gilbourne nodded and turned to his partner. ‘So, Nathan. You think this is the primary scene?’
‘Too early to be definitive,’ Holt said, ‘but my gut instinct would be no. Not sure how you’d get the victim to come down here voluntarily. There’s nothing really to see, it’s not on the way to anywhere, it’s not a short cut. Kind of a dead end.’
‘They could have been forced to come down here, against their will.’
‘Maybe,’ Holt chose his words carefully, knowing he was being tested. ‘But I don’t know. I just can’t see it. The primary scene is more likely to be a vehicle, a property, where the injuries were inflicted. This is the secondary, the disposal site.’
Gilbourne nodded. ‘I’m inclined to agree with you. And what do you deduce from the choice of this place as a secondary crime scene?’
‘Well, they’d need to know the area,’ Holt said. ‘I mean you wouldn’t lug a body up here from the road without knowing it in advance. From back there, you can’t tell what it’s like in terms of visibility, foot traffic, options for concealment. Could be the boundary to someone’s back garden or the ninth hole of a golf course, for all you can tell. You wouldn’t know it’s a good spot to dump a body unless you’d already been here.’
‘Maybe our killer