The Soul Collector Read Online Free PDF

asked.
    “Yes. I’ve half a mind to take the case from Homicide West just to teach him a lesson.”
    “We’ve got plenty on our hands as it is,” Turner said, in a long-suffering voice.
    “I know that, Taff. But the AC’s got the hots for the Ifield Road murder and I reckon he’ll be even more excited when he finds out the victim was a big-name writer.”
    Turner put a heap of files on her desk. “I’ll leave these ongoing case reports with you then,” he said, with a tight smile.
    Oaten stood up quickly. “Oh, no you don’t. We’re going through them together.” She raised a finger. “I’ve got a better idea. Get Pavlou and Browning in here.”
    Turner returned with the detectives a minute later.
    “Guv,” they both said tentatively.
    “Don’t worry, I’ve got something delightful for you.”
    Oaten grinned. “See this pile of case files?”
    They both nodded. Detective Sergeant Paul Pavlou, of Greek Cypriot parents, in his midthirties and with a permanent shadow of beard on his face, looked unenthusiastic. Detective Sergeant Amelia Browning was a newcomer to the team, a short woman in her late twenties with bobbed brown hair.
    “Split them up between you and go through them. I want you to make lists of all the leads that haven’t been followed up and rank them according to potential effectiveness.”
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    “Em, isn’t that your job, guv?” Pavlou said, his eyes down.
    “We’re a team, aren’t we, Paul?” Oaten riposted. “I’m giving you the chance to show your mettle. We’ll be needing another inspector soon.”
    The detectives left with the files, Pavlou now with a spring in his step.
    “Paul’s got what it takes,” Turner said. “Far too early to say about Browning.”
    Oaten nodded. “How are the rest of them treating her?”
    The Welshman shrugged. “Okay. They took her down the pub last Friday and tried to get her pissed. Apparently she was the last person standing—and she was drinking some brain-damaging real ale.”
    Oaten laughed. “I thought there was more to her than meets the eye when I interviewed her. Right, let’s see if Neville’s sent the reports over.” She opened up the internal mail program on her computer. “Looks like he’s jumped to attention. They’re here.” She clicked on the attachments and printed out two copies. They both read for several minutes.
    “Okay,” Oaten said. “Redrose’s postmortem. He was right about strangulation by ligature being the cause of death. He found traces of what he expects tests will show is leather—so, maybe a decent-quality shoelace.”
    “Or a cord from a pendant.”
    Oaten nodded. “Could be. The fracture on the side of the skull was probably caused when her head hit the floor.” She looked up. “So, if the victim was lucky, she was unconscious when she was throttled. The face was pounded by a blunt object, dimensions approximately three by two centimeters, consistent with the haft of a knife or similar. The blade—sharp and with a smooth edge—was used to slash her face and to sever the left ear. 38
    Paul Johnston
    No fingerprints found on the body. Same serrated blade probably did for the cat. The time-of-death window is between eight and eight-thirty.”
    “Listen to this, guv,” Turner said, his eyes farther down the page. “‘Likelihood that victim’s finger and toenails were cut by her assailant. Several are uneven, with minor cuts in the surrounding skin. No clippings found at locus.’” The inspector stopped abruptly and let out a groan. “God, I hate murders done by crazies.”
    Oaten continued reading. “‘Also, a section of pubic hair approximately four by four centimeters has been cut recently, some hairs remaining in situ. Ends suggest single blade rather than scissors, so reasonable assumption that killer removed hairs. Victim’s underwear has been repositioned with some care. So far, CSIs report no cut hairs found in house. A lock of hair was also cut from