‘Faeces,’ she said. ‘He voided his bowels when he died.’
Poe shook his head. ‘He’s been dead a few days, why doesn’t he smell gamey?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s because he was on an electricity meter and the money’s run out. That’s why it’s so cold in here.’
‘You’re right,’ she said.
‘He obviously never left his bedsit so he’d have needed his heating on permanently. Coupled with his electricity-heavy entertainment choices, he’d have been putting coins into it like a fruit machine.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘All this took time. Hours probably. The killer had to secure Teasdale then wait to make sure he hadn’t been overheard. Cutting through his fingers with those scissors will have taken an hour at least. Although the actual killing wouldn’t have taken long, he’d have been covered in blood. No way did he leave Teasdale’s bedsit without cleaning himself up.’
‘You think we need to check the shower?’
‘I think you need to check the electricity meter,’ Poe said. ‘Unless the killer did all this and then cleaned himself in the dark, it’s entirely possible he’d had to put some money in just to see what he was doing.’
‘And we might get a fingerprint.’
‘Why not?’
‘Do electricity meters even use coins any more?’
Her phone buzzed.
‘We’ll check it out, Poe,’ she said before answering. ‘Superintendent Nightingale.’
She frowned as she listened.
‘OK, thanks.’
She turned to Poe.
‘We may have identified another victim.’
Chapter 12
Not found. Identified.
A man called Andrew Pridmore had called 101, the police non-emergency number, and said he couldn’t get in touch with his ex-wife. He was supposed to arrange a drop-off time for their kids and he was worried she’d done something stupid. The family court judge had given her less access than she’d wanted and she’d taken it hard. He lived in Reading and wanted uniform to go round to her house in Carlisle to check she was OK.
The woman i
n the control room at Carleton Hall had been briefed on Estelle Doyle’s findings and knew that one of the victims had had a finger tattoo removed. She asked Pridmore if his ex-wife had any distinguishing features.
‘She had our wedding date tattooed on, then lasered off her finger,’ she’d been told. Pridmore then added that she still wore her ring when she was with their children as it upset them when she didn’t.
Nightingale had to stay with the dead man – a corpse at a crime scene required her attention more than what might just be an unrelated missing person’s case – so she asked Flynn if she and Poe could attend. Uniform had already secured the woman’s house and CSI were processing it.
Poe was pleased when Flynn readily agreed. He rarely got to see fresh crime scenes these days. It wasn’t what SCAS did.
Rebecca Pridmore lived in Dalston, six miles west of Carlisle. It was an affluent village with a population of two and a half thousand. The inappropriately named ‘The Square’, which was actually a triangle lined with shops, pubs and a church, was the beating heart of the village.
Her bungalow was on The Green, Dalston’s main thoroughfare. It was three hundred yards from The Square. Opposite was a field and the River Caldew. To the rear was another field. The bungalow was set back from the road and had a large gravel drive. The front was bordered by a chest-high stone wall.
Dalston rarely saw serious crime and the presence of so many police vehicles was causing a commotion. Villagers had lined up to stare. A uniformed cop kept them from getting too close. He was wearing gloves, had red ears and was stamping his feet against the pavement. Sentry duty in the cold sucked.