The Marks of Cain Read Online Free PDF

hanging loose.
    ‘How old is the victim?’
    The policeman didn’t move his arm.
    ‘Old. From southern France. Very old.’
    Looking up at the stucco frontage of the house, Simon glanced left and right.
    ‘Nice place for an old lady.’
    ‘ Tak . Must have been wealthy.’
    ‘Andrew, can I go in now?’
    DS Tomasky half-smiled.
    ‘OK. The DC is in the room on the left. I was just trying to…prepare you.’
    The detective sergeant gestured Simon through the door. The journalist walked down the hallway, which smelled of beeswax and old flowers – and the gases and gels of forensic investigation.
    A voice halted him.
    ‘Name of Françoise Gahets. Never married.’
    It was Sanderson. His lined and lively face was peering around the door of the room at the end of the hallway.
    ‘DCI! Hello.’
    ‘Got your notebook?’
    ‘Yes.’ Simon fished the pad from his pocket.
    ‘Like I said, name of Françoise Gahets. She never married.She was rich, lived alone…We know she’s been in Britain sixty years, no close relatives. And that’s all we’ve got so far. You wanna see the SOC?’
    ‘Unless you want to get, ah, pizza.’
    Sanderson managed a very faint smile.
    They crossed the doorway. As they did Sanderson continued:
    ‘Body was found by the cleaner yesterday. Estonian girl called Lara. She’s still downing the vodkas.’
    They stepped to the end of the sitting room. A white-overalled, white-masked forensic officer swerved out of the way, so the two men could see.
    ‘This is where we found her. Right here. The body was moved this morning. She was…sitting right there. You ready to see the photos?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Sanderson reached to a sidetable. He picked up a folder, opened it, and revealed a sheaf of photographs.
    The first photo showed the murdered old woman, fully clothed, kneeling on the floor with her back to them. She was wearing gloves, oddly enough. Simon checked the photo against the reality in front of him.
    Then he looked back at the photo. From this angle the victim looked alive, as if she was kneeling down to search for something under the TV or the sofa. At least she looked alive – if you regarded her up to the neck only.
    It was the head that made Simon flinch: what the murderer, or murderers, had done to the head.
    ‘What the…’
    Sanderson offered another photograph:
    ‘We got a close-up. Look.’
    The second photo was taken from a few inches away: it showed that the entire top of the victim’s scalp had been wrenched away, exposing the white and bloody bone of her skull.
    ‘And check this one.’
    Sanderson was proffering a third image.
    This photo showed the detached scalp itself, a bloody clogged mess of wrinkled skin and long grey hair, lying in the carpet; rammed through the hair was a thick stick – some kind of broom handle maybe. The grey hair was tightly wound around this stick, many many times, all twisted and broken. Knotted.
    Simon exhaled, very slowly.
    ‘Thanks. I think.’
    He gazed around the room: the bloodstains on the carpet were still very visible. It was fairly obvious how the killing must have been done: bizarre – but obvious. Someone had made the old woman kneel down, by the TV, then they had forced the stick through her long grey hair, then they had turned the stick around and around, winding the hair ever tighter on the stick, chewing all her hair into one great painful knot of blood and pain, tearing at the roots of the hair on her scalp, until the pulling pressure must have snapped, tearing off the entire scalp.
    He picked out one of the last photos. It was taken from the front, showing the woman’s expression. His next words were instant – and reflexive.
    ‘Oh my God . ’
    The old woman’s mouth was torqued into a loud yet silent scream, the last frozen expression of her suffering, as the top of her head was twisted off, and popped away.
    It was too much. Simon stiffened, and dropped the folder of photos on the sidetable; he turned and walked to the