Free Deadly Deceit by Mari Hannah

fire; a motorcyclist who’d failed to take a sharp bend. And now, an old man who’d keeled over in the street
on his way home from a family visit – probably a heart attack, aneurism, or some other catastrophic condition.
    Promising himself he
would
get home in time to kiss his son goodnight at least, Stanton looked down at the examination table where Ivy Kerr’s body was laid out.
    ‘Turn her over please, Sally.’
    Bright, and with a Scottish accent, his assistant was in the final stages of a postgraduate course in forensic medicine at the University of Edinburgh. Stanton had taken his own qualifications
there and was now an Honorary Lecturer. Sally had been working with him for the past three months and had proven she was capable and committed to her job. He registered her reaction almost before
it had formed fully on her face, alerting his curiosity, bringing with it a sinking feeling as reality dawned.
    There was little chance his kids, Edward and Maddie, would see their Daddy tonight.
    His eyes followed Sally’s, homing in on her concern immediately. Something was very wrong here. At that moment, his duty of care to the dead woman became his one and only priority.
    ‘Tell me what you see,’ he said.
    Sally pulled a magnifying lamp towards the body, angling it slightly. She leaned in, peering at the mess of matted blood and hair at the back of Ivy’s head, taking her time before
answering. ‘Acute haematoma caused by penetrating trauma to the back of the head, cerebral contusions and brain matter—’
    ‘Which are?’ Stanton said, interrupting.
    ‘Inconsistent with injuries in any road traffic accident victim
I’ve
ever seen.’
    ‘How can you be so sure?’ Stanton was playing Devil’s Advocate now. He wanted her to justify her statement. ‘We have no way of knowing what heavy items she might’ve
been carrying unsecured in the back seat of her vehicle. Maybe something shot forward at the point of impact, striking this lady, entering the brain and causing her death.’
    ‘No . . .’ Sally shook her head confidently, her eyes showing no doubt. ‘These injuries suggest repeated bludgeoning with a heavy object, something with a rounded edge. Looks
to me like a ball-peen hammer or suchlike. This unfortunate soul didn’t die of injuries sustained in the crash. She was murdered.’

24
    B ack at the MIR, the seven o’clock briefing was already underway. Detectives ate at their desks, conscious that home-time was a long way off. The first twenty-four hours
of any murder enquiry often produced the best results. If you found a perpetrator within ten minutes, likely as not they would still be wearing the same clothes. Ten hours, they might not have got
round to washing the clothes. Ten days, trace evidence may well have been lost for ever.
    The squad had been tossing around a number of scenarios in an effort to find what in police terms was called
motive to victim
. Why was this particular house set on fire? And who was the
intended victim? Discounting the child as the target, they were left with only three possibilities: Mark Reid, Maggie Reid, or the person who lived in the house before them.
    ‘There is a fourth,’ Daniels chipped in.
    ‘You think they got the wrong house?’ Maxwell asked. He was sitting on a desk directly in front of her, a can of Coke in one hand, a half-eaten bacon stottie in the other.
    ‘It’s not the first thing that springs to mind,’ Daniels said. ‘But it
is
a consideration. Without forensics, we start with the victim and go from
there.’
    Questions came thick and fast from the floor. What was Maggie not telling them? Gormley was convinced she was hiding something. Who knew Mark Reid was in the house? Whose clothes were hanging in
his wardrobe? Who was Judy, the woman on the phone? Mark Reid’s professional success had unwittingly upset people: the Albrights, their staff, maybe his ex. According to Carmichael, several
Albright employees had lost their jobs.