Funeral in Blue - Anne Perry [16]
Monk bent and looked at the very slight indentations on the smooth flesh, barely discolored.
“Dead too quickly for it to mark much,” Runcorn explained unnecessarily.
“I know that,” Monk said. “Looks as if she fought a bit.” He picked up one of the limp hands and looked to see if she might have scratched her killer, but none of the nails were broken, nor was there any skin or blood underneath them. He put it down and looked at the other, finding nothing there either.
Runcorn watched him silently, and when he had finished, pulled up the sheet again and walked over to the next table. He lifted the sheet from the face and shoulders of the woman there.
Monk’s first reaction was to be angry that Runcorn had made such a disturbing mistake. Why couldn’t he have been careful enough to have got the right body? This could not be Kristian Beck’s wife. She was very slender, and must have been almost as tall as Kristian. Her cloud of dark hair was untouched by gray, and her face, even without the spark of life in it, was beautiful. Her features were delicate, almost ethereal, and yet haunted by an element of passion that remained even now in this soulless place with its damp air and smells of carbolic and death.
He did not care in the slightest what Runcorn thought of her, yet he had to look up at him to see.
Runcorn was watching him. Through the trouble and the uncertainty in his eyes there was a sudden spark of triumph. “You didn’t know her, did you? You were expecting someone else. Don’t lie to me, Monk!”
“I didn’t say I knew her,” Monk replied. “I know her husband.”
The momentary satisfaction died from Runcorn’s face. “He’s still too shocked to make any sense, but we’ll have to question him again. You know that?”
“Of course!”
“That’s why you’re really here, isn’t it? You’re afraid he did it. Found her with Allardyce and killed her. . . .” His voice was harsh, as if he were angry with his own vulnerability, and deliberately hurting himself by saying something before anyone else could.
But she had the kind of face that affected people in such a way. It was that of a dreamer, an idealist, someone intensely alive, and it twisted some secret place inside to see her broken. He looked up and met Runcorn’s angry gaze with an equal anger of his own. “Yes, of course I’m afraid he did it! Are you saying you’ve only just realized that?”
Now Runcorn had to say yes, and look stupid, or no, and leave himself no reason to change his mind about seeking Monk’s help. He chose the latter, and without a struggle, betraying just how worried he was, how far beyond his depth. “She died of a broken neck also,” he said flatly. “And two of her fingernails are torn. She put up more of a fight. I’ll bet someone has a few bruises and maybe a scratch or two . . . and . . .” He indicated her right ear and pulled back the hair to show the torn flesh where an earring must have been ripped from her. “And this.”
“Did you find it?” Monk asked.
“No. Searched the place, even the cracks between the floorboards, but no sign of it.”
“And you’ve searched Allardyce?” Monk said quickly. He found himself shaking with anger that this woman had been destroyed, and confused by how different she was from anything he had imagined.
“Of course we have. Nothing. At least nothing that counts. He’s got the odd cut and scratch on his hands, but he says he has them all the time, from palette knives, blades to cut canvas, nails and things to stretch them, that kind of thing. He said to ask any artist and they’d say the same. He swears he never even saw her that night, much less killed her. He looks shattered by it, and if he’s acting, then he should be on the stage.”
The chill of the morgue began to eat into Monk and the smell of it churned his stomach. He reminded himself he had known men before who had killed—in rage, jealousy or wounded pride—and then been as horrified as anyone else afterwards. And a woman as hauntingly beautiful as Kristian’s wife might have woken all kinds of passions in Allardyce, or anyone else,