The Dead (The Saxon & Fitzgerald Mysteries Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

turned and led me back to the tape, close as she could – obviously, I wouldn’t be allowed in. Beyond there were a few trees, and a path heading down to tuck under a low bridge. It was one of the last bridges before the narrow canal broadened out into the dock on its last stop before the sea. Prostitutes often took their clients there, if the clients weren’t fussy – and they wouldn’t be in this part of town if they were.
    Looking through, eyes adjusting to the shadows, I could make out a lonely shape sprawled in the dark – a foot, twisted, a stiletto heel, perhaps an arm outstretched, ghost-white flesh – before the screen went up to keep her out of sight. Out of sight of the spectators who were beginning to gather on the other side of the road, and out of sight especially of the cameramen and reporters who surely wouldn’t be too far behind.
    ‘She was found about half an hour ago by a man out walking his dog,’ Fitzgerald began. ‘It’s always a man out walking his dog, have you noticed that? If there weren’t dogs to be walked, I sometimes wonder if we’d ever find any bodies.’
    ‘Strange time to walk a dog.’
    ‘Tell me about it. I’m going to ask him about that myself later, once he’s given a statement. It’s probably nothing. Some people get a kick out of hanging round places like this.’
    ‘Was she strangled?’
    ‘It looks like it. Some sort of ligature. You can see the mark it’s left round her neck. But she’s still face down so who knows what we’ll find when we turn her? Looks like she’s been dragged down some way towards the water too, like maybe he wanted to throw her in but couldn’t manage it. Why didn’t he just wait till they were down there before strangling her? Why strangle her here where he’d still be in sight of the road? Risky.’
    ‘Maybe the fact that he was still visible from the road was part of the thrill for him,’ I suggested. ‘Maybe he got too excited and couldn’t wait. Maybe he got frightened she might stop him somehow, that she might get away? Who knows? Any sign of a note?’
    ‘Not yet.’
    ‘She’s a prostitute, though?’
    Fitzgerald nodded.
    ‘No ID on her yet, but I’d say so. She has about ten condoms in her bag, about seventy in cash, a little hash. Obviously no robbery motive. Doesn’t seem as if she’s been raped either. We’ll know more when Lynch gets here.’ She meant Ambrose Lynch, the city pathologist. ‘If he ever gets here. Where is the old walrus?’
    A sudden burst of light made her look up, blinking. As if on cue, a car was making its way down the road towards us, diving into the dark from the city at its back. Lynch’s black Mercedes, headlights on full. Everyone’s head turned as he slowed to a halt and shifted his considerable frame out of the door.
    Lynch had been city pathologist here in Dublin for almost twenty years, and he looked as if each one had only made him more weary, more melancholy. He drank too much, which didn’t help, but then pathologists always drank too much. It came with the job, it was part of the act, like the gruesome humour and eccentric air of abstraction; world over, they were all the same. I think they must make them in a factory somewhere.
    Lynch’s own trademark was misanthropy. ‘I am free of all prejudice, I hate everyone equally’ was how he’d put it to me the first time we met, and since I recognised it as one of WC Field’s better one-liners I’d decided to give this sucker at least an even break.
    Right now his unkempt hair spoke of a man who’d been dragged reluctantly out of bed, though the dress suit, bow tie and expensive shoes told another story. He nodded at me in greeting as he came to the tape. He’d obviously been drinking. Even at a distance, I could smell whiskey, faintly. It was a wonder he was never pulled over and breathalysed when he was driving to crime scenes, or maybe not such a wonder. He was the only pathologist they had, after all; they couldn’t