“Looks like I’m not your Cinderella. Hate to disappoint.”
“It’s too small,” Anne muttered. William tried not to be too disappointed with her tone. She’d clearly believed that William had been involved in this murder somehow.
“So what? He could’ve gained weight,” Jeffers said.
“Excuse you. Rude,” William objected.
“No, he hasn’t,” Anne argued. “He lost weight in prison. An alarming amount.”
William’s brows shot up. She looked at him and shrugged, as if to say, “You obviously did. You could slice me in half with your cheekbones.”
“That’s settled then. It’s not even circumstantial evidence,” Anne said. “It’s just a ring that looked like your ring.”
“A ring that looks a lot like my ring.” William handed it back to Anne. “Honestly, mine’s probably slipped off in my hotel room somewhere. I reckon I could give you the name of the jeweler who made mine, but we’re talking about a shop in 1970s London. Might not exist anymore. People buy everything online these days though so it could’ve come from anywhere.”
“I don’t think it could possibly be a coincidence that it looks exactly like yours.” Anne sealed the ring in the evidence bag. “I’ll have to think about it more. For now, though, you’re coming with us, right?”
She looked at Jeffers, who had a fairly constipated look about him, but he nodded anyway. What could the man do? William’s alibi checked out. The ring didn’t fit. That last part seemed a good bit of luck since William had been genuinely concerned seeing the picture of it. Up close though, he could tell that the engraving of the fleur-de-lis wasn’t as intricate as his own, and it was too newly made. William had been rubbing his thumb over that pattern since he was nineteen years old.
William felt three feet taller, though he already towered over his little Anne and her lapdog Jeffers. He didn’t know how the latter would be able to explain how he’d dragged a local entrepreneur through the station in handcuffs and then escorted him down to look at evidence. William was just disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to see the fallout.
Once there, Jeffers led the way inside. There were several people in the morgue, including a dusky skinned man with a thick beard, thick hair on top of his head, large eyes, and an easy grin. He talked to the others in attendance around a table littered with takeout.
“Hey, Sutton. Thought you got lost,” he said easily. William raised a brow, but he approved, in general. The man sounded English, possibly from Essex.
“Or dead,” one of the young women joked.
“Cute.” Anne pointed to William. “This is William Spencer. He’s working with us on the investigation. This is Dr. Dev Shaw. He’s the head of this department.”
“And these are my minions!” he said cheerfully and gave William a wave. Then, to Anne and Jeffers, “You got the report, yes?”
“We got it, but we wanted to do a second check over the body, if you don’t mind. Testing out a theory,” Anne said.
Dr. Shaw didn’t seem offended. He shrugged and led the way into the morgue. It was unnervingly cold in there but, of course, it would be.
“Kayla did the actual autopsy on this one, so you’ll have to let me know what tipped you off on this one. The department is saving money by offering internships instead of getting me a proper second in command,” Shaw offered.
“Always the bottom line, isn’t it?” William said.
“Unfortunately, yes. But if you can find anything that will help, by all means.” Shaw pulled on one blue latex glove, then grabbed a handle to one of the drawers and pulled hard. There Pigg lay, pale and slightly yellow. William wrinkled his nose at the chemical odor that pervaded the air.
“Smell takes some getting used to, doesn’t it?” Shaw made a face and snapped on his second glove. “What are we looking for?”
“Some kind of mark on the body. Like it was left there on purpose,” Jeffers said almost dismissively.
“I, um. Okay.” Shaw looked slightly uncomfortable as he bent over the corpse.
“Look between the ring finger and the middle finger on the left hand,” William instructed.
Shaw looked up, then glanced between William and Jeffers, who was now glaring at William with all his impotent might.
“Definitely more specific.” Shaw’s cheer seemed to have bounced back. “Ah, right. Exactly there. Looks like…” He splayed the fingers apart, then reached into his pocket for a mini-recorder. “Yes, there’s clearly a cut here on the middle finger of the left hand. The cut is positioned under the second knuckle on the interior side of the finger, with two shorter cuts crossing over it. Likely made at the time of the murder, or right after. The precision suggests a razor… or a scalpel.”