The Courier & Advertiser (Fife Edition)
Her back was twisted well past snapping point and her head was ground into the coarse gravel
Big Andy pushed his way through the crowd, closely followed by Emma Baird and her camera. Both of them jumped down from the platform and picked their way across the tracks. “Andy, can we get a tent over her or something,” McLean said, as camera-phone flashes flickered around him.
“I’m not happy with the ghouls on the platform.” “Already on it, sir.”
Big Andy pointed to where a couple of ScotRail employees struggled with a maintenance shelter.
They seemed reluctant to approach, so in the end McLean and the sergeant had to wrestle it into position themselves.
Baird began to photograph the scene and McLean had a sudden, nasty thought.
She was the official SOC photographer. Who else would have easy access to scene-of-crime photographs from Barnaby Smythe’s murder?
Just about any of the hundred or so officers Duguid had drafted in to the case, and any of the admin staff who’d had a reason to go into the incident room during the short duration of the investigation.
Witnesses
He shook the thought from his head. “What’s the story?” he asked. “Not much to tell, sir. Happened about half an hour ago, apparently.
“I’ve two constables up on the bridge getting names of witnesses, but there’s not many people prepared to admit they were watching.
“Looks like she climbed up on the parapet and jumped. Bad luck that she hit a pane square on and broke through, worse luck that the train was coming into the station at the time.
“What’re the chances of that, eh?”
“Pretty damn small, I’d say. What about witnesses down here?”
“Well, there’s the train driver for one. A few people were on the platform, but it’s chaos in here.
“As many would’ve run away as come forward to get a better look.”
“Yeah, I know. Well, do the best you can, OK? “See if you can’t get a room somewhere to conduct interviews. I don’t think there’s much we’ll glean from the witnesses, but we’ve got to go by the book.”
“The station manager’s clearing us an office right now, sir. I could do with a couple more constables if that’s all right.”
“Call the station and have them send anyone who’s stupid enough to be hanging around.
“I’ll sanction the time. We need to get her moved before the whole city grinds to a halt.”
Broken Mess
McLean knelt by the broken mess that had once been a human being.
She was wearing what appeared to be office clothes: knee-length skirt in sensible beige cotton; once-white blouse, its lace exposing the edge of her bra beneath; sharp-edged jacket with heavy shoulderpadding, some of which had torn loose in great long synthetic hairs.
Her legs were bare, snapped and cut, but recently shaved. She wore a pair of high-heeled black leather ankle boots of the type that had been fashionable in the late eighties and were no doubt making a comeback.
It was impossible to tell what her face might have looked like; her back was twisted well past snapping point and her head was ground into the coarse gravel between the sleepers. Blood matted her long auburn hair; her hands smeared with it.
“Christ but I hate jumpers.”
McLean looked up as Cadwallader knelt down beside him. The pathologist looked tired as he peered at the dead body, examining her exposed skin with gloved fingers.
He stooped low and peered under the arch of her twisted spine.
“OK to move her?” he asked. Cadwallader stood, stretching his back like a cat.
“Sure. I can’t tell you anything from here except that she died before getting most of these injuries.
“There’s not enough blood loss. Some people are dead before they even hit the ground.”
He looked up. “Or in this case the roof. With any luck she was one of them.”
Body bag
McLean turned and nodded to the waiting ambulance driver. He jumped down, bringing his stretcher and an assistant. Together they lifted the dead woman away from her little pit.
He was relieved to see that nothing fell off as they put her in a black body bag and zipped it up.
Emma Baird zoomed in on the indentation in the gravel, the flash on her camera bleaching it with light.
The pathologist was right; there was no blood staining the ground, only oil. A scrubby weed with a single yellow flower rose up in the middle.
“Where’s the train?” he asked of no one in particular.
A short man bustled up, his thinning hair lifted in a greasy comb-over and his moustache just millimetres away from being Hitler. He wore a bright orange safety jacket and clutched a walkie-talkie.
“Bryan Alexander.” He offered a fat hand for McLean to shake. “I’m the operations manager. Is this going to take long, inspector?”
“A woman’s dead, Mr Alexander.”
“Aye, I know.” He had the decency to look a little ashamed.
“But I’ve ten thousand others alive an’ waiting on their trains.”
“Well show me the one that hit her, will you?” “You’re just here, inspector.” Mr Alexander pointed down the track towards England.
About twenty yards away a sleek, red intercity train leant slightly to one side, the bulk of its carriages curving away around a bend. From this angle it looked absurdly like it had a flat tyre.
“We had to back her up. Lucky she was almost at a stop anyway. I’ve worked the railways for near on thirty years now, and I can tell you a moving train doesn’t leave much of a body it hits.”
Pictures
McLean walked up to the locomotive. He’d never realised just how big they were. It towered over him close up, smelling of heat and diesel oil. A thin bloodstain smear on the pointed glass front marked where the woman had hit the windscreen full on.
Most likely she had bounced on to the rails and then been pushed to her final resting place. He turned around and shouted, “Miss Baird!”
She came trotting up.
“Pictures, please.” He pointed to the front of the train. “Try and get one showing the point of impact.”
As the SOC photographer got to work, McLean noticed Mr Alexander glance at his wristwatch. Cadwallader approached at the same time, appraising the train.
“Not much blood here either.” He looked up to the glass ceiling and the one broken pane. “Can we get up there?”
“Aye, if you’ll follow me.” The operations manager led them to the end of the platform, back towards the central building.
Emma Baird took a couple more photographs and then scurried to join them as they entered through a side door marked Authorised Personnel Only.
They climbed a narrow flight of stairs and then stopped at the top by another locked door whilst Mr Alexander searched for the right key.
More on Monday