Free Skin by Mo Hayder

important.’ She turned Lucy’s left hand over and studied the inside of the arm. ‘Incised wounds to the right wrist. On the left wrist one wound has partially incised the radial artery. A second has incised the ulnar artery.’
    Lucy’s arm hadn’t been transected but sliced longitudinally from top to bottom, the sides like dried meat now, opened to show the intricate network of blood vessel and nerve. Not from side to side. Caffery had seen that before: it was the most effective way to end your life. He bent over, hands on his knees, and peered into the hair again.
    ‘So she was serious about what she was doing,’ Beatrice said. ‘At least on this wrist. Not so hot on the right side – which is what you’d expect. This second wound is gaping. It’s transacted the volar carpal ligament and exposed the transverse carpal ligament and the flexor digitorum.’
    ‘There was a bottle of pills next to the body,’ the DI said. ‘Temazepan. And a Stanley knife.’
    ‘Stanley sounds about right. It would have to’ve been a mounted blade that made these – there’s enough pressure associated here that it would’ve left cuts on the fingers if it was just a razor . . .’
    It took Caffery a moment or two to notice she’d stopped talking. He looked up to find her staring at him. Frowning. She put Lucy Mahoney’s hand down, came round the table to him and stopped quite close so she could speak without being heard by the others.
    ‘Jack,’ she murmured, ‘I’ve been polite to you, haven’t asked you any questions, haven’t made a fuss about you crowding my room, but if you’re looking for something why don’t you just tell me?’
    He glanced at the DI, straightened and put his face close to Beatrice’s, then spoke in a low voice: ‘Comb her hair, will you, Beatrice? Give it a comb and a wash. See if it’s been cut.’
    ‘Cut? What sort of cut? Trevor Sorbie cut?’
    ‘Hacked. Clipped, shaved. Anything that looks odd.’
    She gave him a long, curious look, then turned to the mortician. ‘Fester? Comb her hair through, my love. Rinse it out for me.’
    The mortician did as he was told. He drew a comb through Lucy Mahoney’s hair and inspected the tiny bits of debris that fell on to the paper he held underneath. Then he placed the paper on the exhibits trolley, and rinsed the hair with the small hose attached to the examination table.
    Beatrice and Caffery bent over the head. Cleaned up, Lucy Mahoney’s hair was reddish brown. It straggled out in long, damp curls. There were no cuts or shaved areas.
    ‘Not what you were expecting?’ she asked.
    ‘Thank you, Beatrice.’ Caffery pulled off the gloves and turned towards the door. ‘I’ll try not to darken your day again.’
    11
    Small though Flea was, she knew how to use her body. Dressed in her force combats, a neat white T-shirt and dark glasses over her red-rimmed eyes, she was a force to be reckoned with as she stood blocking the entrance to the driveway. The moment he saw her the taxi driver pulled up short. She held up a hand and swung straight into the back seat. No one, she thought darkly, was going to take a car to the front of her house for a while.
    It was a warm afternoon and the taxi driver had the air-conditioner on, but they’d only gone a few hundred yards before he began to sniff. Flea, sitting stonily in the back, her arms crossed, her feet planted solidly on the floor, raised her eyes and found him looking at her in the rear-view mirror. He sniffed again, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, trying to look down at her clothing in the reflection. ‘Off somewhere nice?’ he said steadily. ‘Going somewhere nice on this nice day?’
    ‘No.’ She opened the window to let the air in. ‘I’m not going anywhere nice. I’m going to see my brother.’
    She pulled out the phone. She’d called Thom six times already. Each time he’d dumped her straight into his mailbox. There was no point in calling him again. She could call her dad’s