Dead at First Sight

33 Tuesday 2 October

‘It’s not pretty, sir,’ Crime Scene Manager Alex Call said. Roy Grace, accompanied by DI Glenn Branson, both gowned up in protective suits, overshoes and gloves, signed the scene guard’s log outside the substantial, detached Victorian house.

A row of police vehicles, including a Crime Scene Investigation van, were parked along the residential street.

‘What do we have, Alex?’

The CSM was a slightly built, intensely serious man, with a sharp eye for detail that had earned him rapid promotion. ‘The home owner — who we believe is the victim — is Susan — Suzy — Adele Driver, widowed four years ago, sir,’ Call said. ‘Her late husband was an antiques dealer who moved into jewellery after the market in brown furniture collapsed. Apparent suicide by hanging, but the Coroner’s Officer who attended agrees with DI Warner.’

‘Who was that?’

‘Michelle Websdale. She’s gone to attend a fatal — RTC — but she’s coming back.’

Michelle Websdale was someone Grace trusted. As he did DI Bill Warner. ‘Where’s Bill now?’

‘He’s just left on a shout — a woman holding a baby threatening to jump from a fourth-floor balcony.’

‘So, what are your initial findings?’

‘The height of the noose is one thing — which I agree with. Her feet are a good six inches above the chair she stood on. There’s a bruise on the back of her head. My CSIs have already found hairs on the floor a short distance away, which could be evidence she’d fallen or been pushed backwards, prior to hanging.’

‘Are you aware of anything missing in the house? Any sign of it being burgled or ransacked?’

‘No, sir, everything looks orderly. Nothing immediately obvious missing — there’s what seems like some quality art on the walls and a lot of antiques, statuettes and stuff. Difficult to know if anything has been taken at this stage, but my impression is this is not a burglary.’

‘She’s still in situ?’

‘Yes, I spoke to the Home Office pathologist, who should be here in an hour or so.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Your good mate, Dr Frazer Theobald.’

Grace rolled his eyes and said, ‘Great, that’s my evening gone.’ He thanked Call, then both detectives ducked under the taped barrier.

As they entered the front door into a large, handsomely furnished hall, they wrinkled their noses at the reek of human decay. They walked up the stairs, the smell becoming more distinct, and the heat rising; the central heating had been left on full blast. On the first-floor landing a gowned-up Crime Scene Investigator stood outside a closed door. Recognizing Roy Grace, she said, ‘You’ll have to push hard, sir, it’s a heavy fire door.’

Entering the stiflingly warm room, pushing hard as he was told, Grace saw two Crime Scene Investigators on the floor, with gloved hands, doing a fingertip search, one of whom, Chris Gee, he recognized, and CSI photographer James Gartrell, videoing the scene. Above them was a woman in her mid-fifties, with dark hair, dressed in a loose sweater and jeans, hanging from what looked like a bathrobe cord looped round a massive, gilded chandelier. All around the fixing the ceiling was badly cracked, with some chunks of plaster fallen away. Among the debris on the floor was a black velvet slipper embossed with a gold crest. The other was still on her foot.

Her neck looked elongated. Her contorted tongue, dark blue and pink, protruded from her mouth. Her eyes were bloodshot and flat. Her face was blotchy, mottled with green, and there were several early bluebottles gathered around her eyes. Her hands were purple and there was dried foam around her mouth.

Grace held the door, to stop it swinging back, as his colleague entered.

Glenn Branson looked up. Despite recoiling with the shock and horror of what he saw, and the smell, he felt a twist of sadness inside his heart. The same he’d felt each time in his career when he’d attended a suicide. Wondering about the victim’s life, what had led to them taking this terrible step — and who might have been able to talk to them and convince them there were other choices.

Grace was feeling many of the same emotions. He looked at the woman’s eyes, wide open as most hanging victims he’d ever encountered were. Staring. Windows of the soul, he thought.

Unless you fell through a hangman’s trap, breaking your neck, death by hanging was not an instant process. He’d learned this from numerous pathologists’ reports. You would still have some air coming through and could dangle there for a long while, struggling for breath.

Thinking about what you had done? Maybe regretting it?

Where is your soul now, Suzy Driver? he wondered, deeply saddened.

He looked down at the gap between her feet and the chair beneath. Then looked back at her. Thinking. This scene was telling him one thing, but in his mind he was seeing something else. Something not quite right. As if in some meagre form of compensation, he pulled out his phone and took several photographs of her. He knew that Gartrell would cover everything thoroughly, but he still liked to have some photographs of his own to study before the CSI ones were distributed.

Looking up at her again, he thought, This wasn’t your choice, was it? I’m sorry. I know it’s not much comfort, but I promise you one thing: I will do everything I can to find out who did this to you and make sure they never do this to anyone again, ever. Probably not what you want to hear. He shrugged his shoulders and looked, apologetically, into her eyes. They stared, accusingly, back at him. Like they were saying: Do something!