Jim Keenan, true to his word, had faxed not only the pathologist’s report on Joanne Patston’s death, but also the scene-of-crime report. ‘For your evening’s entertainment,’ Shipley muttered. She wiped her greasy hands and picked up the new report, having pretty much committed Dr Patel’s to memory. Reading did little to boost her spirits, not that she’d expected anything glaringly useful. A mention of the skin that had been found beneath Joanne Patston’s fingernails having been her own, which Shipley knew must have dashed a few hopes in Theydon Bois. And more differences than similarities between the two killings. Joanne Patston had been full of tranquillizers, but toxicology on Lynne Bolsover had shown no drugs in her system. Lynne’s body had shown signs of past beatings; no such indications on Joanne Patston. If the rock and rag found by young Kylie Bolsover in their garage had, as she’d always personally believed, been planted – presumably by the killer – they hadn’t, at least as yet, delivered the same blow to Tony Patston.
