The Mermaids Singing

‘This is the one the papers said was covered up with bin bags?’

Carol nodded. ‘Same variety as the scraps found under Adam’s body.’

They moved on to Gareth Finnegan. ‘I’m going to have to give some serious thought to this one,’ he said. ‘He’s changed his pattern in at least two significant ways. First, the dumping ground moves from Temple Fields to Carlton Park. It’s still a gay cruising area, but it’s an aberration.’ He stopped himself short and gave a hollow laugh. ‘Listen to me. As if his whole behaviour isn’t wildly aberrant. The second thing is his letter and video to the Sentinel Times. Why did he decide to announce this body and none of the others?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ Carol said. ‘And I wondered if it had something to do with the fact that it could have lain there for days, even weeks, otherwise.’

Tony made a note on his pad and gave her the thumbs-up sign with the other hand. ‘These wounds to the hands and feet. I know it sounds off the wall, but it almost looks like he was crucified.’

‘The pathologist wasn’t crazy about going on the record with that one either. But the hand wounds, coupled with the dislocation of both shoulders, makes crucifixion a conclusion that’s hard to resist, especially when you remember this probably happened on Christmas Day.’ Carol got to her feet, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She couldn’t manage to stifle a jaw-cracking yawn. She paced round the small office, shrugging her shoulders to loosen the taut muscles. ‘Sick bastard,’ she muttered.

‘The genital mutilations are getting more severe,’ Tony observed. ‘He’s virtually castrated this one. And the fatal wounds, the cutting of the throat. That’s getting deeper too.’

‘Does that tell us anything?’ Carol asked, almost unintelligible through another yawn.

‘Like your pathologist, I’m reluctant to speculate just yet,’ Tony said. He moved on to the final set of pictures. For the first time, Carol saw his professional mask slip. Horror swept across Tony’s face, widening his eyes, drawing his lips back in a hissed intake of breath. She wasn’t surprised. When they’d turned Damien Connolly over, a six-foot rugby-playing detective had keeled over in a dead faint. Even the experienced police pathologist had turned away momentarily, visibly struggling not to be sick.