Cut Dead by Mark Sennen

said. ‘Can’t we?’
    Nesbit didn’t answer. Hope, Savage thought, probably didn’t play much of a part in his professional life because invariably there was none for the people who appeared before him. Hope was an emotion for the living, those left behind, those praying for some sort of resolution.
    Nesbit was poring over the cuts, making measurements and counting the number. The way he moved the spatula, the tape measure, was ordered, done with care . The killer had done the same, Savage realised. She was wrong earlier, Nesbit right as usual. There was no frenzy here, only purpose. The killer wasn’t driven by a homicidal rage, they were driven by their craft . Was it possible the art angle which Dr Wilson, the psychologist, had suggested at the time of the earlier disappearances was correct? Unlike an artist though they didn’t worry about whether anyone would see their endeavours. Their work displayed the pleasure they took in the task at hand, but to do it was all they needed.
    Savage wondered what sort of person could kill in such a way? Maybe a better question was what sort of thing ? Surely not anyone with a scrap of humanity. For a moment she looked heavenward, an almost involuntary action, and the harsh overhead lights made her blink. What had this woman and the other victims done which could merit such violence being done to them?
    ‘Charlotte?’ Nesbit walked across to her. ‘We’ll open her up now. See what else we can find. Are you OK?’
    ‘Sure, Andrew,’ Savage said, not feeling at all sure. ‘Never been better.’
    Towards the end of the PM Savage took a call from Calter. She muttered her apologies to Nesbit and headed from the room, glad of a breather. After the cool of the autopsy suite the heat of the summer evening outside the building hit her like a wave.
    ‘Phil Glastone, ma’am,’ Calter said. ‘The first victim’s husband. I’ve just spoken to him. To say he sounded aggrieved that we want to talk to him about the latest developments would be an understatement. He was bloody livid.’
    ‘Abusive?’ Savage said.
    ‘Yes, although I’ve heard worse. The gist of it, once the swearing was over, is that he can see no reason to cooperate with us this time round. I told him he had no choice. Made an appointment for tomorrow morning, OK?’
    Savage said it was fine, congratulated Calter on dealing with Glastone and hung up. She found a nearby bench and sat down. She’d go back in a bit, but the PM room, self-evidently, was a place of death. Out under the sky with the late sun on her skin and a gentle breeze flicking through the trees, she could think of nicer things for a few minutes.
    Inevitably though, having been in the mortuary, her mind turned to Clarissa, Samantha’s deceased twin. Clarissa had died as a result of a hit and run accident on Dartmoor. A dreamy summer picnic beside a stream had turned into a nightmare from which Savage and her husband had never fully recovered. Partly this was because the driver of the car which had killed Clarissa had never been traced. But earlier in the year, having done a favour for Kenny Fallon, Plymouth’s crime boss, she’d received a promise. He’d get her a name, he’d said. A name, she thought, could change everything, bring closure. So far though, Fallon had been silent and other than a couple of texts to tell her he was still working on identifying the culprit, there’d been nothing.
    Come on, Kenny, get your act together, she thought. Perhaps, when the first few frenetic days of the case had passed, she’d call him. A dangerous business considering Fallon’s status, but she couldn’t wait on him forever.
    Half an hour later and she was back inside, but the body had gone, Hardin too, a mortuary technician sluicing away the only sign the woman had been there at all: grey sludge and body juices.
    Nesbit came out of the mortuary office wielding a set of notes and shaking his head.
    ‘I’ll not be able to give a cause of death, but