Blood On the Wall Read Online Free PDF

to give her the satisfaction of losing his temper with her.
    ‘Is there a point to this conversation, Ms McAndrew?’ heasked. ‘Only I am very busy. There was a murder yesterday and we’re doing our best to investigate it.’
    ‘The second one using the same method,’ said McAndrew. ‘But that’s not why I’m calling. I’m asking if you have any comment to the statement that Mrs Parks, Ian’s mother, has given to the press today.’
    ‘As I haven’t heard Mrs Parks’s statement, I’m afraid I can’t comment on it, ‘replied Georgiou.
    ‘I’ll read it to you,’ said McAndrew; and before Georgiou could tell her not to bother, she had started: ‘“This is an absolute disgrace. This man beats up my poor innocent son and gets let off, just because he’s a copper. He’s done this before. He’s a violent man and he ought to be in jail. There is a cover-up going on here. I am demanding a public enquiry. I want justice done.”’ There was the rustle of a piece of paper being put to one side, then McAndrew asked: ‘What do you have to say to that?’
    A lot, thought Georgiou. Like if your son is so innocent, Mrs Parks, how come he has a reputation for beating up and robbing old ladies on your estate? The only reason Ian Parks had never been charged was because his victims were too frightened to give evidence against him. Instead Georgiou said: ‘At this moment I have no comment to make.’
    ‘But you would support a public enquiry in order to clear your name?’ persisted McAndrew.
    ‘As I said, at this moment I have no comment to make. Thank you for your call, Ms McAndrew.’
    With that Georgiou hung up.
    He turned to see Tennyson smiling.
    ‘Well done, boss,’ his DS said, with a wink. ‘I bet she was hoping to make you lose your rag. You Greeks are supposed to have a fiery temper, after all.’
    I’m not Greek, Georgiou groaned inwardly. I’m English.
    He headed for the door one more time and said, ‘Come on, Mac. Let’s go find out what they’ve learnt from the body.’

FIVE
    T he path lab had a smell to it like no other place that Georgiou knew. It was like a surgical ward, a butcher’s shop and a funeral parlour, all mixed up in the smell of formaldehyde. The headless remains of Tamara Armstrong lay on a metal tray, the skin marble white. The pathologist, Dr Mary Kirtle, indicated the gaping open wound that was the neck.
    ‘A large, very sharp knife was used,’ she said. ‘Broad bladed. Not serrated. He even cut through the spinal cord and the trachea with it, straight cuts. No sawing.’
    ‘You think he knew what he was doing?’ asked Georgiou. ‘Someone in the trade? A butcher?’
    ‘Maybe,’ said Kirtle. ‘But then, you can get instructions from the internet for everything these days. How to carry out your own brain surgery.’
    ‘Would he need to be strong?’ asked Georgiou.
    Tennyson remained near the door. It wasn’t that he was upset by the sight of dead bodies, it was the smell of the place he hated.
    ‘Strong enough in the wrists,’ said Kirtle. ‘Like I say, nosawing, so the blade went straight through when pressed. And he was cutting horizontally, not vertically. He cut the head off while the body was hanging upside-down. That takes strength and skill. No chance of being able to use downward pressure to cut through the bone. Mind, it was a very, very sharp blade. Look at the surface of the cut.’
    Georgiou examined the cut on the neck: like a joint of meat.
    ‘Whoever it was keeps their knives in very good condition,’ said Kirtle. ‘Fastidious. We’re talking someone who looks after things very carefully.’
    ‘What about the rest?’ asked Georgiou, indicating the body laid out on the table. Even in death, you could see that the body was young. Thin, long legs, long arms, hardly a blemish on her, except for the bruised ruts in the skin of her wrists and her ankles.
    Kirtle gestured towards the marks on the dead girl’s wrists.
    ‘She struggled after she