Page 11 of No Safe Place

Wednesday | Afternoon

Field

As Wilson swung into the King’s College car park, Field checked the time on the dash. With lunchtime traffic and blue lights, they’d made it from Plumstead to Denmark Hill in thirty-five minutes. Wilson stopped the car just short of a cross-hatch yellow box, so Field could jump out.

‘So you’re okay to get back and go over all the CCTV?’ Field checked her appearance in the sun visor, and rubbed at a smudge of mascara with a dry finger.

‘Yep, no worries. Will you be back to the station today?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ Field flicked the visor up. ‘Either way, keep in touch.’

Field didn’t stop to watch Wilson pull away. She jogged into the building and went straight to ICU, taking the stairs instead of waiting for a lift.

The clean, medical smell got stronger on the intensive care ward, and Field stopped at the desk. There were no nurses, and it was eerily quiet.

‘Detective Field?’

She turned to see a tall, dark-haired man in scrubs walking towards her.

‘Dr Wheatley,’ he said by way of introduction, holding his hand out.

Field shook it, briefly wondering how many lives it’d saved.

‘David Moore?’ she asked, but Wheatley was already nodding his head. She was glad he wasn’t one of those doctors who liked to leave a long pause for dramatic effect.

‘He’s stable, but critical,’ he said bluntly, crossing his arms. ‘The blood loss was severe. We’ve put him in an induced coma and he’s on a ventilator. The medical examiner is in with him now.’

Still alive.

After a detour to the vending machine on the corridor outside, Field opened the door to David’s hospital room with her back. She had to be careful to avoid spilling scalding instant coffee from the lidless polystyrene cups.

‘It’ll have to be black coffee, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘The machine doesn’t do bloody oat milk.’

Dr Debra Young looked up. ‘You know you sound like a proper boomer when you say stuff like that?’

In spite of everything, and where they were, Field cracked a smile.

Field and Young had worked a case together over twenty years ago, and been friends ever since.

Their boys were the same age, and Young’s divorce had come a year or two after Field’s. Now they were both single empty-nesters in their early fifties. It was always good to have someone to split a bottle of Pinot with on a Friday night, even if Young’s vegan phase was dragging on.

Young nodded at her gloved hands and then at the bedside table, and Field put the coffee down on it.

‘Right,’ Young said. ‘Let me talk you through what I’m thinking.’

Young lifted the covers away from David Moore, folding them over the end of the bed. ‘We have nine wounds in total.’

Field looked solemnly down at his injuries.

She was sure that David was a healthy, active ordinary bloke, but in the bed, against the sterile blue sheets, his legs looked thin and pale and vulnerable. The machines he was hooked up to were breathing for him, and the rise and fall of his chest was exaggerated.

‘I think I have a reasonably good idea of the order they were inflicted. The tearing of the skin on these makes me think we’re looking for a kitchen knife. Incredibly sharp, with a serrated blade.’

‘So, someone with access to a kitchen,’ Field said softly. ‘Great.’

She didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. At least Young got straight to the point.

Most forensic examiners described how they reached conclusions in excruciating detail, while loading their findings up with arse-covering caveats.

Field was impatient at the best of times and, as a trainee detective, would physically bite her tongue to stop herself from snapping at them.

‘I think this is the first wound.’ Young pointed to his abdomen, just below the ribs, the slash now neatly stitched together.

‘It’s on the right, which suggests a left-handed attacker.

It’s hard to tell, because of the treatment he’s received but, from the bruising, I think the knife was angled slightly upwards. A shorter attacker, perhaps.’

Young mimed the action. Fist raised, a sharp jab upwards.

‘Then the wound pattern becomes – unusual.’

‘Unusual how?’ Field prompted.

Young frowned. ‘Well, with this number of injuries I’d expect to sense that it was frenzied, uncontrolled.

I think the second injury was the neck.’ She mimed a slashing motion.

‘The perpetrator wanted to do maximum damage, but the victim took a step backwards, perhaps, and the wound wasn’t as deep as they expected. ’

Field looked at the man’s face. Under all the tubes he looked older than forty-nine, his features sunken and withered compared to the photos on Penny’s mantelpiece.

Young straightened up. ‘Then he collapses to the ground. There are slashes to his left arm, which he raises to defend himself.’ Young pointed to David’s bandaged hands with a gloved finger.

‘And here to the hand. I think he grabbed the blade with his left hand. The skin between his thumb and index finger is cut down to the bone.’

Field felt a little sick.

‘So our victim is on the ground, hands over his head. Probably twisted over onto his right side, trying to protect the wound he’d already sustained.

‘That’s when the attacker uses a sweeping downward motion—’ Young mimed ‘—to stab him four more times on the left side, where his leg was raised.’

‘So, he stabs him below the ribs, then goes for the neck as David stumbles backwards,’ Field said slowly. ‘David falls, raises a hand up to protect himself – gets those injuries. Then four more, in quick succession.’

‘That’s right. The bruising on those four is particularly bad. They must have been standing over him. That would allow a lot of room to swing their arm back and bring it down hard.’

Field frowned. ‘And how many times did you say he was stabbed? As in – how many wounds total?’

‘Nine,’ Young said. ‘If he was found even a few minutes later, I’d say it’s unlikely he’d still be here.

‘What I find interesting—’ Young continued, as she replaced the sheet; Field noted the care and respect in the gentle actions as she repositioned the many tubes and wires covering David’s chest ‘—is that the first wound, that one to the ribs – it’s an injury typical of males.

Face to face, close contact. But the downward stabbing motions when he’s on the ground – that’s much more typical in acts committed by a female. ’

Field hadn’t considered that.

She tuned back in to Young’s commentary.

‘I’ve drawn blood, although he’s had transfusions, so the blood alcohol level won’t be accurate. Scrapings from his fingernails will probably take a week, and your team are sending over his clothes, right?’

‘They’re on their way to your office,’ Field said. ‘Order whatever tests we need.’

‘Great. I’ll have an interim report with you by tomorrow, with a list of outstanding bits, and a timeline.’

Dr Wheatley appeared at the door, and he and Young exchanged a few words, before she snapped her gloves off, grabbed her coffee and followed Field out of the room.

There was no respite from the smell of hospital and sickness in the corridor.

Field checked her phone and found a text from Wilson.

Simon Dawes will be at King’s by half two.

She’d just locked her phone when the screen lit up with a call from the super. Field pushed it back into her pocket. ‘Got twenty minutes until David Moore’s mentor arrives.’

‘Do you want me to stay? To talk to him?’ Young took a gulp of the cooled coffee.

Field shook her head. ‘It’ll be fine. Shoot off if you need to.’

Young shrugged. ‘I always have ten minutes for you.’

They ducked into the family room, which was both mercifully empty and air-conditioned. Unlike the rest of the hospital, there were no posters in here. Nothing declaring the importance of handwashing or the dangers of smoking.

Field took a battered brown leather armchair and Young sank into a coral-pink sofa.

Young had trained as a pathologist, but her expertise was the still-living.

Across South East London and beyond, it was Young people called when their victim survived their injuries.

She had a formidable reputation in court, her scientific rigour and the clarity of her reports leaving little room for defence lawyers to discredit her.

Field asked her once, when they were halfway through their third bottle of Merlot at Young’s kitchen table, why she’d taken that route.

She thought maybe her friend would say it was about making an impact to living victims, or the scientific complexity of wounds that have been treated, or partially healed.

‘It was just because no one was giving me interesting murder cases.’ She’d shrugged. Field knew the feeling.

Now Young put her coffee down and started rummaging in her handbag. She pulled out her purse, a novel and two water bottles – leaving them on the coffee table. ‘So, you were first on scene?’

‘Yep. Just happened to be round the corner. My lucky night, I guess.’

‘I mean, you were in Plumstead. If it’s going to happen anywhere—’ Young said, still excavating items from her bag. ‘I’m from there, so I can say that.’

Field was unfazed by the chaos. ‘Do you know Ancona Road?’

Young rolled her eyes, scooping items back into her bag. ‘Yeah, of course. I lived on Mineral Street until I was about ten. Aha—’ She pulled out an oversized pair of sunglasses, and jammed them on her head. ‘Can’t see a bloody thing when I’m driving in the sun.’

‘I forgot about your encyclopaedic memory for road names,’ Field said, swallowing a yawn.

Young narrowed her eyes. ‘You look done in.’

‘Charming.’

‘Have you slept?’

Field just looked at her.

‘You’re getting too old for this, you know,’ Young chided. ‘But if you insist on working these stupid hours, then I’ve got just the thing for you, somewhere in here.’ She thrust a hand deep into her bag, and Field rolled her eyes.

‘You work as late as I do—’

‘Yes, but I work in a lab, and labs are civilised.’

Field snorted. She’d heard too many of Young’s stories about ruined experiments and petty vendettas to buy into that.

Young pulled out an Yves Saint Laurent under-eye concealer with a flourish.

‘I hate you,’ Field said. ‘But I actually am going to borrow that.’

Young grinned. ‘Gotta dash.’ She downed her coffee, put the empty cup in Field’s other hand, and aimed an air kiss near her cheek. ‘Will get all the David Moore stuff to you ASAP.’

‘All right. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

Young aimed a stern look over her shoulder as she hoisted her handbag up. ‘Don’t forget to sleep.’