‘What are you crying for? You didn’t know her. This is all part of the job – you need to pull yourself together. He’s getting dressed, but she’s in the bathroom and I think she’s wet herself, so go and see what you can do.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Jane hurried from the room as he opened the envelope and took out the Polaroid crime scene pictures. Finding a close-up of the victim’s face he moved to the piano and held it against the silver-framed photograph. There was little doubt it was their daughter.
Mary Collins could not face attending the mortuary to identify the body, so Bradfield spoke with a female neighbour who was a close friend, and she agreed to stay with Mary and look after her. The drive to the mortuary was solemn and silent with Mr Collins sitting in the back seat staring out of the car window. Out of respect Bradfield drove at a steady pace, without using the police bell this time.
He broke the silence asking Mr Collins if he drove, and he said that he did, but mostly at weekends as he used the Underground to and from work. He was a chartered surveyor and owned his own company.
‘I will organize a police car to take you home after the identification.’
‘Thank you, that is very kind.’
‘What car do you drive?’ Bradfield asked casually.
‘A Bristol. It’s rather old now, but it used to belong to my father.’
Remembering Eddie mention that he’d seen Julie Ann getting into a red Jaguar, Jane noted the DCI’s subtle way of handling such an important question.
Hackney Mortuary, a dank building constructed in the late nineteenth century, was situated across the church square from the station. The head mortician, who lived in a flat above the premises, unlocked the reception doors and they were instructed to wait whilst he finished preparing the body for viewing. They sat on hard-backed chairs, under ghostly strip lighting that flickered and gave the corridor a yellowish hue.
Bradfield checked his watch and Jane could see he was getting impatient, which in turn made her apprehensive about asking any questions or speaking to the distraught Mr Collins. Bradfield stood up and, excusing himself, went off to find out what was causing the delay, striding through the swing doors into the examination area of the mortuary. She noticed that although he was a big man he moved with agility and was obviously very fit. For all his brashness and impatience with her she’d been surprised by how gently he’d handled the wretched disclosure of Julie Ann’s death.
Jane didn’t know what to say to Mr Collins. She had never been to a mortuary before, and at nearly eleven o’clock at night there was an empty, chilling feel to it. Mr Collins sat with his bony hands clenched together, the whites of his knuckles showing as he pressed his hands tighter. Jane asked if he would like a glass of water, but he shook his head and surprised her by breaking his silence.
‘She was the most beautiful little girl, never any trouble when she was younger. Clever, and she could dance, very light on her feet, spinning like a top. She wanted to be a ballet dancer one day… I have some cine film of her dancing.’
Suddenly the swing doors opened and Bradfield gestured for them to follow him through to the examination area and the numbered refrigerated storage drawers. The room smelt of disinfectant and the young mortician was waiting by drawer 6. When he opened it Jane felt the cold air waft around the room and up her nostrils. The sliding tray was slowly pulled out and the body was covered in a white shroud. The mortician gently pulled it down to enable Mr Collins to see the face of his daughter. Jane could see red indented welt marks around Julie Ann’s neck. The swollen bitten tongue had been pushed back in her mouth, but it caused her lips to bulge slightly, and her eyelids had been closed.
‘Is this your daughter, Mr Collins?’ Bradfield asked.
There was hardly any pause as he looked down.
‘Yes, this is my daughter,’ he whispered.
It was over quickly and the drawer slid back into position. They returned to the reception area and Jane radioed the station asking for a panda car, on the instructions of the DCI, to take Mr Collins home.
As they waited in the corridor a terrible grief-stricken rage erupted from Mr Collins. He let out a howl like a wounded animal and gripped a chair. He then picked it up and hurled it towards the glass windows.
‘YES, THAT IS MY DAUGHTER!’ His voice rasped as he turned his fury towards Bradfield, swearing and gesticulating at him with his bony finger.
‘She was the light of our lives and you tell me she was murdered. What caused those marks on her neck? Who killed her? Who is to blame? This isn’t OUR fault! We loved her, gave her everything a young girl could want, and she rejected us, rejected all we had done for her. WHY? I need to know WHY.’
It looked as if Mr Collins was about to throw another chair, so Jane stepped back, but he crumpled and fell to his knees sobbing.
