Page 5 of The Unforgiven

“...skin maceration moderate, consistent with submersion for approximately forty-eight hours in water. Hands and feet display epidermal slippage. No insect activity present. Early bloating of face and torso. No evidence of decomposition inconsistent with the estimated time since death...”

My brain kicked in, ignoring the tag of my stomach as I tried not to watch what Dr Miz was doing. The body hadn’t been in the water that long, but long enough to change her. I tapped my fingers against my shoulders, my arms hugging my body.

Dr Miz looked up, pulling down her mask. “You okay?”

“As well as I can be while I’m in here. Just ignore me.”

She continued, drawing gloved fingers along the map of bruises and cuts already photographed in high resolution.

“Primary fatal wound is here,” she said, indicating the gaping stab to the woman’s upper left abdomen. “I’ll be able to confirm when I’ve opened her up. She would have bled out rapidly. Death within minutes. But not instantly.”

My stomach clenched. Ferociously this time.

“There are seventeen other wounds,” Dr Miz went on, her voice almost serene. “All consistent with the same blade. Blade width approximately two and a half centimetres, single-edged. Serrated section did extra tearing on re-entry.”

“Re-entry?” Nick asked. It was as if he was watching a thriller at the cinema.

“Some of the wounds show repeated penetration of the same spot. Frenzied in the end. But controlled, initially. Whoever did this knew how to kill with a blade. That first wound—that was deliberate and meant to kill. The rest?” She tipped her head to one side. “Someone had big feelings.”

I moved closer towards the screen displaying the full-body overlay. “No defensive injuries? I know you said that last night, but it wasn’t the best conditions.”

“None. Which suggests surprise, or that she was restrained, unconscious, or trusting.”

“Or high.”

Dr Miz shook her head. “Toxicology so far says no - I put the first round of tests in last night. Slight alcohol trace, but nothing else. And no sexual assault, at least nothing that suggests it. Her being submerged in water will have cleared anything left behind but there’s no bruising to her thighs or wrists, and no tearing. He didn’t linger. He didn’t touch her afterward. Just moved her into the canal.”

I tried not to watch as the Y-incision was made by Saira’s careful hands. This was her language now, created to help dead bodies speak.

“If he moved her straight after killing her,” I said, “he’d have blood transfer. Lots of it.”

“Unless he was covered. Prepared. He took her clothes, remember. Could’ve used them to wrap her.” Nick folded his arms, watching intently. “There’s a patch of trees not far from where her body turned up – he must’ve killed her close to where he dumped her in the canal.”

I nodded, already thinking: a trailer. A tarp. Gloves. But still—risk. Visibility. A woman’s body in broad daylight—or just afterdusk. And no one saw? “This is either someone who’s gotten very lucky – an opportunist – or this has been planned.”

Dr Miz looked over to us. “Or the Manchester Pusher’s back and targeting women now. Maybe he’s become an incel.”

“The Manchester Pusher was a myth.” Nick didn’t look impressed at this. “That was the media joining dots where there were none.”

“The Manchester Pusher, whether he existed or not, didn’t stab his victims first, which is definitely what’s happened here. I’ve counted seventeen stab wounds apart from the one that would’ve been fatal, which is to the left upper quadrant of the abdomen, measuring eight point three centimetres horizontally, with a depth of approximately eleven centimetres, penetrating the peritoneal cavity, lacerating the spleen and descending abdominal aorta. She would’ve exsanguinated due to rapid internal bleeding and died between one and three minutes after that particular incision.” Dr Miz carried on, describing the last few minutes of our Jane Doe’s life in acute detail according to what her body told us.

Nick took notes. I tried to focus on the words, almost closing my eyes to picture what was happening in an illustrated, less realist way, hoping my stomach would stop feeling as if I was in the middle of the Irish Sea in a storm.

I managed to make it to my car before I vomited on the ground next to, checking around to make sure no one had seen me. I already got enough stick, just like every other female copper did in what was still a man’s world, so I didn’t need another story ofMia loses her breakfastgoing round the canteen. Taking a swig of water from the bottle in my car, I turned on the engine and pulled myself together. With any luck, Wrigley would take pity on me and that would be my last trip to the morgue for a while.

Chapter Three

Pastries in the office was always a bad sign. It should’ve spelled out that our managers took our well-being seriously, that they wanted to increase morale and show their appreciation for their team.

We knew that was bullshit wrapped up in cinnamon rolls and pain au chocolate and other things that Vinny couldn’t pronounce – or maybe he could and just played the idiot.

Pastries in the office meant we were in for a long shift, and no one had any idea when it’d be over. Later this evening we’d be eating the remnants of them, waiting for someone to suggest we order take-out pizza, or if we have no respect for our tastebuds and digestive tract, a kebab from Gez two doors down, who would still be serving the late-night community of Manchester City Centre.

I ignored the cinnamon roll at first, then went back for it, wrapping it in a piece of kitchen roll for later, then headed to the back of the briefing room, a wide anonymous space that had all the soul of a vampire. Off white walls, mass produced prints, desks and chairs that could’ve been found anywhere inthe country. It wasn’t where we were that mattered; it was who we were.

Wrigley stood at the front; the DCI, Andy Cattrick, next to him. Technically, it should’ve been Wrigley who was DCI. Wrigley had the experience, the management skills, and the nose of a cop seasoned in decades of Manchester’s finest, but he’d stopped at detective inspector. He’d never told me why, but then I’d only asked twice.

Cattrick was decent too. I knew there were worse people to have in that position, and when it came to it, he had shoulders broad enough to protect us from the shit dressed up as politics so we could crack on with the policing.