The pathologist has concluded that Lucy Simmons died from asphyxiation

After a few minutes, DI Chisolm raised his head. “That’s a turn-up. Well,” he addressed the constable, “off you go.” Head bowed, the uniform scuttled out of the room. “What’s Pathology saying, sir?” Brian ventured. “Well, it’s not good news, I have to tell you.” Chisolm leaned back in his chair.

“Gourlay’s conclusions are that the girl collapsed, possibly due to her underlying medical condition: the heart valve defect that was identified at birth,” the DI looked down.

“Pulmonary Valve Stenosis is what it says here. Or maybe a blood clot on the brain.”

George Duffy broke in. “When Gourlay says ‘collapsed’ is he inferring the victim died of natural causes?”

“Sudden Death Syndrome. It’s not unheard of.” Duffy sat back. “No sir, but…”

“If you’ll allow me to continue?” Chisolm’s voice was testy. “She hit her head on a gravestone. In Gourlay’s view, the blow to the head wasn’t enough to kill Lucy, but may have exacerbated the pre-existing condition.

“However, it would have rendered her insensible for a time and, after that, confused and disorientated. Forensics managed to find an exact match to the injury with a memorial over by the dividing wall between St Machar kirkyard and Seaton Park.

Distressed

“Then Lucy crawled. There are no indications that she dragged herself – or was dragged – close to where she was found.”

“That still doesn’t explain how she got onto that tombstone,” Susan volunteered.

“She might have pulled herself up onto it,” Wood suggested. “For comfort, if she was distressed, to get off the damp ground.”

“Some bloody comfort, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Douglas scoffed. “Sir.” He corrected himself hastily.

“And how do you explain the arms splayed over the head, the legs spread?”

“Going back to the report,” Chisolm shuffled the pages in his hands, “the pathologist also states that…” the DI paused for dramatic effect, “he found no evidence of ligature marks or manual choke holds on Lucy’s neck, nor any enlargement of the tongue. Nor the bloodshot eyes one might associate with smothering.

“He did, however, find minute red spots in Lucy’s eyes. Petechiae, he calls them: pinpoint traces, caused when capillaries near the surface burst.

“That’s not something he would have expected to see, given the other evidence at the scene. There was also evidence of minor bruising around the nose and mouth.”

“Bruising?” Brian pounced. “So Lucy Simmons was mugged after all?”

“Not according to Gourlay. In his view, the pattern could only have come from a woman.” Chisolm’s tone was reflective. “Or even a child.”

“A woman?” Duffy echoed.

“Yes, Sergeant. Doesn’t seem likely, does it?” “No, sir.”

“To summarise,” Chisolm held the report in front of his face, “the pathologist has concluded that Lucy Simmons died from asphyxiation.”

“But if Lucy was asphyxiated,” Douglas interjected, “why wasn’t Gourlay able to pick up on it earlier?”

“Petechial haemorrhages are tiny, Dunn. I’ve come across them before.

“Takes a good eye and a strong light source to spot the blighters.

Far-fetched

“Anyhow, in short, someone – not necessarily the same someone who lifted Lucy onto that tombstone – also obstructed the girl’s airways, albeit without undue force.”

“But, sir…” Duffy scratched his head in consternation. “A woman?”

“It’s not beyond the realms of possibilities,” Douglas pontificated. “Lucy might have swung both ways.”

“Oh, come on,” Susan moved to silence him. “She’d just ended a long heterosexual relationship, and Melissa said…”

“There you are,” Douglas smirked. “Maybe we should be having another chat with Melissa, or the other flatmate. What was her name again?” Brian stifled a yawn. “Sally Hay.”

“Seems pretty far-fetched to me.” Duffy again. “Let me throw this into this into the mix…” Brian felt it prudent to contribute.

“If, as Gourlay predicates, the pattern may have been caused by a woman, couldn’t it equally have been made by a teenage boy?”

“Now, there’s a thing.” Dave Wood came suddenly to life.

“Any progress with the young lad?” Chisolm’s gaze focused on Brian.

“No, sir.” He felt like a rabbit caught in headlights. Wished fervently that he hadn’t opened his mouth.

“And the cross?” Susan chipped in. “We’ve still no idea…”

“Ah, yes,” Chisolm interrupted. “The cross.” For some moments, the assembled company sat in contemplation, their thoughts on the young girl who’d been found lying in the morbid shadow of St Machar.

The inspector leaned across the desk and fixed his team with a hard stare. He was a hardened copper and yet he never ceased to be amazed at the darkness of the human mind.

“We have to find that person. Or persons. The person who found Lucy Simmons dead – or dying – in that graveyard. The person who violated her body.

“The person who stole her mobile phone. One thing’s clear. At the end of this protracted delay, we finally have confirmation that we’re investigating a murder.”

Diversion

Fatboy shouldered open the door of the close. He’d got the address off his phone: one of several listed, but this was the handiest by far.

He wrinkled his nose, the smell around here would knock you out. He was tempted to call it quits, turn round and try somewhere else.

But he didn’t want to waste time on this wee diversion. He made for the stairs and carried on upwards to the first floor.

It had been a lark to him at first, horsing about with children entrusted into Kymberley Ewen’s care: a means of passing the time whilst he was stuck in that dump of a high-rise flat waiting for Willie Meston to finish his business.

But as the weeks went by, Fatboy had developed something of a proprietorial interest. Now, he considered the youngsters “his” kids as much as Kym’s.

Notionally, she might be in charge. But once she was gone – out on one of her sorties – the children morphed into Fatboy’s own little family.

With the exception of Kym’s own children and his favourite, wee Kyle, the charges entrusted to the childminder’s care turned over at a steady rate.

This was due in part to the turnover in tenants of the tower block. Other times the mothers would be too skint – or too out of it – to make it as far as Kym’s door.

The downside to this was that the boys in particular, with their baldy heads and grey faces, were beginning to look all the same to him.

More tomorrow.

Cross Purpose (£8.99) is the first in Claire MacLeary’s Harcus & Laird crime trilogy, featuring an unlikely pair of middle aged female private investigators. The second, Burn Out, and the third, Runaway, are available now. All published by Saraband Publishing https:// saraband.net