Free Death Bed by Leigh Russell

meeting dragged on, seeming to focus more on concerns about public perception of the police than the case itself. Geraldine read out her report on the post-mortem findings, but that only led back to a discussion about the press release.
    ‘We’re still no closer to knowing who she is then?’ the Safer Neighbourhood Inspector asked. ‘You know what the media are going to make of that.’
    He nodded at the press officer, the woman the detective chief inspector had been talking to when Geraldine arrived.
    ‘Was there nothing on the body to give us any sort of clue as to her identity?’ she enquired.
    ‘Her prints and DNA have been sent off, but there was nothing else to tell us anything. She had nothing on her but her clothes – totally nondescript, jeans and a t-shirt, common cheap High Street brands. No shoes. No watch,’ Geraldine said. She refrained from adding, ‘No right index finger and no name.’
    As if on cue, a constable came in with a message for the detective chief inspector.
    ‘We had a call this morning, sir, from a woman who thinks she might know the identity of the Tufnell Park woman. Her flatmate’s gone missing and matches the description of the deceased. She’s about the same age, and - ’
    ‘How long has this woman been missing?’ the borough commander interrupted impatiently.
    ‘We’re not sure yet, sir. A constable’s gone round to question the woman who reported it.’
    ‘What’s the missing woman’s name?’ the borough commander demanded. ‘Has the body been positively identified yet?’
    ‘We’re following that up, sir. The call’s only just come through. The missing woman’s name is Donna Henry and we’re trying to contact her mother, who only lives at Baker Street so we’re hoping we’ll get her in soon to view the body.’
    The commander nodded and the constable withdrew. Geraldine thought it was going to be difficult for anyone to identify the dead woman, her face was so bruised and swollen, but she kept her concerns to herself.
    After the meeting she went straight to the morgue. Mrs Henry arrived soon after, expensively dressed in a clingy grey cashmere suit and real pearls. Well-spoken and surprisingly calm about the coming ordeal, she was convinced the dead girl couldn’t possibly be her daughter. Geraldine wondered if her own mother had felt the same confidence about her daughter when she had given Geraldine up for adoption at birth. She remembered every word of the short letter her mother had written to the adoption agency: ‘I know she’ll have a better life without me.’ But the young mother couldn’t have known .
    She led Mrs Henry into the viewing room. The body had been cleaned up, and there was no whiff of putrefaction in the room to taint Mrs Henry’s delicate perfume. The dead girl’s face had been smoothed down, her nose and cheek roughly reconstructed, her split lip covered so that it was clearly visible only if you looked closely, and with her eyes closed it wasn’t immediately noticeable that one eyelid was puffy. Despite her obvious injuries, it was now possible to see that the dead girl must have been quite beautiful when she was alive.
    Mrs Henry glanced down at the dead girl’s face, winced, and shook her head just once before stepping back.
    ‘That’s not Donna.’
    She turned away dismissively, seemingly unconcerned about her daughter’s disappearance.
    ‘No, that’s not my daughter. Donna will turn up. She always does. I never know where she is from one week to the next, but I’ve brought her up to make sure she has enough money on her to get a taxi if she’s out late, so she can always get home safely.’
    She spoke as though having money for a taxi was a cast iron guarantee against misfortune. Geraldine hoped for her sake she was right as she showed Mrs Henry out.
    Meanwhile they were back to square one with the investigation. If the anonymity of the victim was worrying for those concerned about the public image of the police