Sycamore Gap: A DCI Ryan Mystery(9)

“You too, Jeff. Thanks for taking time out of your weekend.”

“Them’s the breaks, or so they say. I’ve been looking at the lady you sent me,” Pinter clasped the lapels of his lab coat in a habitual gesture. “There are a few interesting things to note.”

“Such as?”

“Probably best to show you. Follow me, I’ve put her in Examination Room B.”

The bones had been laid out on a metal gurney like a jigsaw puzzle, to form a complete skeleton. Thin strands of wispy hair fell from the skull and crusted skin remained on parts of the bone. The three men stood above it, faces covered by surgical masks and hair protected by paper caps, so that only their eyes were visible.

“As you can see, there is a complete skeleton, which is remarkable,” Pinter said. “I think we can assume that she was enclosed inside the wall fairly soon after she died, otherwise I would have expected to see much more interference from local wildlife. Foxes have an excellent sense of smell.”

Phillips pulled a face. He had seen a few of those bodies before; men and women whose limbs had been ravaged by hungry animals.

“Aye, well, that’s something,” he said shortly, then cleared his throat. “How do you reckon she died?”

Pinter furrowed his brow so that the cap shifted on his head like a theatrical wig.

“Here,” he indicated a spot at the side of the skull. “You can see there has been some serious impact, judging from the fracture just above her left ear.”

Phillips leaned forward and saw the crack at the side of the skull, which was now more of an empty hole following concentrated decomposition in that area.

“Someone gave her a good bash.”

“You could say that,” Pinter agreed, with a chuckle that grated on Ryan’s nerves. “That seems to be the most obvious sign of trauma, from a blunt instrument or a hard impact with something solid, in my view. Probably suffered multiple whacks. Having said that, we can’t say one hundred per cent for sure that’s how she died; the remains are mostly bone, as you can see, so there’s no way for me to examine her internal organs for evidence of other trauma there.” He sucked in a breath and carried on. “Other than the fact that her bones have separated through the expected deterioration, there is a minor break in this bone in the wrist which might have occurred around the time of death. I also note a couple of healed breakages, probably from her childhood.” He pointed to the left forearm.

“I’m waiting for the histology report to come back – that should be in the next forty-eight hours, unless you need me to put a rush on it? I’ve taken samples from the bone and remaining tissue, though there wasn’t much of that.”

“Technically, this one’s non-urgent. What about identity?”

“Faulkner couldn’t find any identifying markers on the body or around the site; no handy bank cards or anything like that. We’re looking up dental records now. In the meantime, we’ll run a DNA test on the samples and compare them with the database to see if there’s a match. Otherwise, it’ll be a question of Missing Persons and good luck.”

Ryan merely nodded.

“How old is the body, do you think?”

“Well, as to that, I was going to introduce you to our new forensic anthropologist. She’s the one you really need to talk to. She’s been working with Doctor Ambrose and myself to come up with an accurate timescale. Shall I fetch her?”

With a spring in his step, Pinter skipped out of the room and down the corridor. In his wake, Ryan and Phillips exchanged a surprised glance and eagerly awaited the woman who seemed to have awakened a new joie de vivre in at least one member of the mortuary staff.



Doctor Ann Millington was a methodical woman in her late twenties. She wore her long, ash blonde hair in a tail down her back and slim designer spectacles perched on her straight nose. Where Pinter had bounced out of the examination room like a character from Winnie the Pooh, she re-entered it more sedately, a slim blue folder clutched in one hand and a mug of steaming coffee in the other. Ryan eyed the mug covetously as she set it on the desktop in the corner.

“Doctor Millington?”

“My friends call me Millie,” she corrected them, offering a pale hand in greeting.

Younger than he had anticipated, Ryan thought, but she was still their go-to person for all things forensic anthropological. That meant she had made good use of her time. He took the hand that she offered and gave it a firm shake.

“DCI Ryan, sergeant. Doctor Pinter told me that you would like to discuss what we’ve been able to find out so far. He’ll join us in a few minutes because he’s had a last minute delivery.”