Cut Dead by Mark Sennen Page A

we can hypothesise it was from the torture. Either blood loss or maybe a heart attack. Not much else, I’m afraid. The body was remarkably well-preserved considering, but no way of knowing much about the weapon from the cuts. Not after this length of time. The head was removed with something like an axe. I can see the crushing of one of the vertebrae. In the woman’s pelvic region a great deal of flesh has been cut away – genitals, everything. It’s not much comfort but I believe the removal happened after death.’
    ‘Any useful forensic?’
    ‘Apart from the material at the base of her throat?’ Nesbit reached for a plastic container. ‘I’ll wager it’s the same as found in Mandy Glastone’s oesophagus.’
    Earlier Nesbit had cut up from the stomach – or what remained of it – and found a cylindrical lump of clay. He’d hypothesised the clay must have been forced down the throat of the victim before the head had been removed.
    ‘Apart from the clay.’
    ‘Yes, although I’m not sure it’s relevant.’ Nesbit smiled at Savage and then patted his stomach. ‘She’s had a baby, Charlotte.’
    ‘What?’ Savage was hearing Nesbit’s words but not understanding.
    ‘A child. Amongst all the cuts there’s the faint sign of a Caesarean scar. At some point this woman has given birth. I expect there’ll be medical records you can check should you be of a doubting nature.’
    ‘No, Andrew,’ Savage smiled. ‘I’ll take your word.’
    ‘We’ll be doing the other two tomorrow. They’re in a bad way, but we’ll try to tease out what we can.’
    Savage thought of the grey forms which had lain in the bottom of the trench alongside the first body. Wondered what story they might be able to tell, the secrets they might give up, the secrets they would hold on to forever.

Chapter Eight
    Bere Ferrers, Devon. Tuesday 17th June. 9.11 a.m.
    Savage got hold of her old boss first thing Tuesday; Walsh’s soft burr as he answered her call hinting at a modicum of surprise. He was, as she expected, keen to be involved, keen to see the scene out at the farm. The experience, he admitted, would provide some sort of closure. He’d meet her there within the hour.
    Savage was waiting in the farmyard when Walsh drove in and tucked his little Fiat between Layton’s Volvo and the big tractor.
    ‘Morning, sir,’ she said as Walsh got out and retrieved a pair of wellies from the boot.
    ‘You don’t have to call me sir, remember?’ Walsh pulled on the boots, steadying himself on the car. He was only in his early sixties, but with his hair long gone grey, if anything, he looked older. Retirement could be cruel to some people, Savage thought. Shorn of the excitement of the job ex-officers searched around for something to replace the adrenaline rush, but nothing could. A sort of mental deflation often followed. It was sad to think of Walsh going that way.
    ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, smiling to try and deflect her mood. ‘I mean, of course. It’s easy to forget.’
    ‘You know, Charlotte?’ Walsh made a half glance towards the edge of the farmyard where a white-suited figure struggled with a wheelbarrow, atop which sat two plastic boxes filled with mud. ‘Sometimes I wish it was.’
    ‘This time we’ll get him.’
    ‘We?’ Walsh chuckled. ‘Hands up, last time I failed, but this time catching the bastard isn’t down to me, is it?’
    ‘No.’ Savage shook her head and they began to walk out of the farmyard, following the aluminium track down across the field. Away in the distance, up close to the boundary hedge, the white tent stood in the centre of the muddy patch, like some sad remnant of a festival. Only nobody had partied here.
    ‘Odd,’ Walsh said. ‘The location, I mean. Far easier places to dispose of a body or three. Risky too. Does the farmer have dogs?’
    ‘Yes, she does, but they’re shut up at night. If they bark it’s usually at foxes or cars in the lane.’
    ‘She?’
    ‘Women have got the